Just a little over two hours left before we can officially flip the calendar and bid 2005 a hearty GOOD RIDDANCE! once and for all. I'm happy. I'm ready for a fresh start, new hope and the promise of better things. Or, at the very least, the promise of nothing as bad as what happened in 2005 happening in 2006.
In some ways I mourn the passing of the year that brought us our sweet boy because it feels like the turn of a new year means we're racing farther and farther away from him - from the first moments we saw him and the last moment we touched him - but I'm ready for this year to be over. Thomas will always be in my heart and I have to move on. I have no choice - time is taking me farther away from our time together whether I like it or not. I can choose to embrace the hope of a new year or stay mired in the sorrow of the old year.
It just feels like this is my chance for a clean break. Not from my sorrow - I'll carry that forever - but from the bad karma, pain, and sense of doom that 2005 holds for me. A million good things happened to me this year, but they have all been overshadowed by the death of our baby.
I can't have that continue. I need to focus on the good things that I hope 2006 will bring. And not just another baby, although of course that's on the top of my list. I need to find a balance between remembering my Thomas and celebrating the life I still have, even though he's no longer part of it.
I hope 2006 will bring joy to my family. I hope happiness will slowly replace some of the sorrow we're still all feeling so acutely. I hope 2006 will bring my family continued good health so that they can make the dreams they're dreaming, no matter how big or how small, come true. I hope those who are lonely find love. I hope those who are haunted find peace. I hope those who are angry find contentment. I hope those who are frustrated find release. I hope those who work hard are rewarded. I hope those who struggle find simplicity.
I hope our shitbox of a car holds out so we don't have to resort to having just one car. I hope I can finally completely clean out the spare room which has been turned into dumping ground for things we don't know what else to do with. I hope Freddie the vole and his friends will take up residence in someone else's garden. I hope we can get a new BBQ because I'm tired of eating everything blackened. I hope I can stay committed to Weight Watchers for longer than a week. I hope I can channel some of the energy I use to mourn into something positive and happy.
I am going to ask my Mom to re-teach me to knit. I am going to plant a kick-ass vegetable garden that will make this year's effort look pitiful. I am going to stuff my pudgy self into a bathing suit and take a water aerobics class with my best friend. I am going to tell my best friend that she and I are taking a water aerobics class. I am going to read more and write more. I am going to make a beautiful cake for my parent's 40th anniversary in April.
There are a thousand things I can do. I'm going to focus on those as much as possible because there are too many things in life that I have no control over.
All I can do, is what I can do.
And that will be my 2006.
Saturday, December 31, 2005
Thursday, December 29, 2005
You got me good
We got Thomas' birth certificate in the mail today. Well, actually it was couriered to us (as an official document it got special treatment).
We were both quite excited since it's not everyday that I get letters couriered to me. We both figured, stupidly, that I'd won some fantabulous prize. I was thinking hundreds of thousands of dollars, of course, since the notice came the way it did.
My Beloved hovered over me while I excitedly ripped open the envelope - and found Thomas' birth certificate inside instead.
Kind of a cruel trick for a rainy Thursday four days after Christmas.
I think my favourite part was the large black type at the top that said DEATH CERTIFICATE ON FILE just so we wouldn't miss it.
See? What did I tell you about those sneaky little gods and their nasty little tricks.
Uncle! Uncle! I give up.
We were both quite excited since it's not everyday that I get letters couriered to me. We both figured, stupidly, that I'd won some fantabulous prize. I was thinking hundreds of thousands of dollars, of course, since the notice came the way it did.
My Beloved hovered over me while I excitedly ripped open the envelope - and found Thomas' birth certificate inside instead.
Kind of a cruel trick for a rainy Thursday four days after Christmas.
I think my favourite part was the large black type at the top that said DEATH CERTIFICATE ON FILE just so we wouldn't miss it.
See? What did I tell you about those sneaky little gods and their nasty little tricks.
Uncle! Uncle! I give up.
Wednesday, December 28, 2005
Wishing for innocence
It occurred to me today that I'll never again feel comfortable saying, "when the baby's born" or "when the baby comes home" - or any one of those optimistic, hopeful and completely normal phrases.
How can all that innocence be gone?
I can barely even remember a time when I was that innocent. I don't want to be that hard-edged, crusty old curmudgeon who people can't stand to be around. I don't want to grow into that woman. But sometimes I feel I'm on the fast-track to just that. I've bought a one-way, completely non-refundable ticket to Old Biddysville. Correction - I was handed the ticket.
I wish I was the girl I used to be. She wasn't perfect by any means, but she didn't have the sense that a black cloud was following her through life and that the gods were lurking in every dark corner just waiting for the right moment to jump out and yell "boo!".
I wish I had that glorious feeling that anything was possible if I just put my mind to it. I wish I still believed that good things happened all the time just because that's the way life should be.
I wish gangs didn't gun down innocent boxing day shoppers. I wish children weren't abused. I wish people didn't live on the streets because it was the only place they felt comfortable enough to exist. I wish babies didn't die when they were 20 hours old.
I wish I still believed that everything was going to be okay.
How can all that innocence be gone?
I can barely even remember a time when I was that innocent. I don't want to be that hard-edged, crusty old curmudgeon who people can't stand to be around. I don't want to grow into that woman. But sometimes I feel I'm on the fast-track to just that. I've bought a one-way, completely non-refundable ticket to Old Biddysville. Correction - I was handed the ticket.
I wish I was the girl I used to be. She wasn't perfect by any means, but she didn't have the sense that a black cloud was following her through life and that the gods were lurking in every dark corner just waiting for the right moment to jump out and yell "boo!".
I wish I had that glorious feeling that anything was possible if I just put my mind to it. I wish I still believed that good things happened all the time just because that's the way life should be.
I wish gangs didn't gun down innocent boxing day shoppers. I wish children weren't abused. I wish people didn't live on the streets because it was the only place they felt comfortable enough to exist. I wish babies didn't die when they were 20 hours old.
I wish I still believed that everything was going to be okay.
Tuesday, December 27, 2005
At least they bought us dinner
We love our next door neighbours - they're the friendly, down to earth kind of people you always hope you'll somehow be lucky enough to live next door to. We've been to each others houses for dinner, we've played with their dog in the middle of a snowstorm while pretending to shovel the snow, we've stood for hours on the driveway talking - the wife and I even went to an open house next to theirs to scope the place out. No one we know is thinking of moving into the neighbourhood - she and I were just too nosy to let the opportunity of seeing the inside of a neighbour's house pass. We swap movies, gossip, cookies and butter tarts. And when Thomas died we found a tiny bouquet of flowers and a very sweet little note leaning up against our front door.
We're friends. Good friends.
Tonight we all went out for dinner. It was sort of an after-the-holidays get together in celebration of nothing. Or so we thought. Mid way through the dinner they nervously blurted out that they're 17 weeks pregnant.
And that's the moment I clicked onto autopilot, a stupid grin plastered on my much-too-happy looking face. I wanted to get up and leave - cry, scream, SOMETHING - but I smiled my stupid smile, congratulated them and asked all the right questions instead.
I truly love these people and, as My Beloved said, I can't think of nicer people for this to happen to. Except maybe us.
When we got home I told him how sad it made me that they were so nervous about telling us. I'm sure this has been preying on their minds - wondering how to tell the sad, childless couple next door that they'll be bringing home a tiny bundle in June. I'm sure they were afraid of our immediate reactions and, perhaps, even more afraid of the long-term implications of their joy living so close to our sorrow.
But everything will be fine. I'll watch her belly grow and feel the sting of my loss with each glance, but I will never let her know. Neither of us will. This is the way it is for us now, and it's the way it always will be. It can't be any other way.
We are happy for them - just as we're happy for all our friends who have conceived and, in some cases, given birth since Thomas died. But it doesn't change the fact that every announcement feels like a knife to the heart. It doesn't change the fact that our boy is dead while their dreams live and grow.
It doesn't change a thing for us.
But at least they bought us dinner.
We're friends. Good friends.
Tonight we all went out for dinner. It was sort of an after-the-holidays get together in celebration of nothing. Or so we thought. Mid way through the dinner they nervously blurted out that they're 17 weeks pregnant.
And that's the moment I clicked onto autopilot, a stupid grin plastered on my much-too-happy looking face. I wanted to get up and leave - cry, scream, SOMETHING - but I smiled my stupid smile, congratulated them and asked all the right questions instead.
I truly love these people and, as My Beloved said, I can't think of nicer people for this to happen to. Except maybe us.
When we got home I told him how sad it made me that they were so nervous about telling us. I'm sure this has been preying on their minds - wondering how to tell the sad, childless couple next door that they'll be bringing home a tiny bundle in June. I'm sure they were afraid of our immediate reactions and, perhaps, even more afraid of the long-term implications of their joy living so close to our sorrow.
But everything will be fine. I'll watch her belly grow and feel the sting of my loss with each glance, but I will never let her know. Neither of us will. This is the way it is for us now, and it's the way it always will be. It can't be any other way.
We are happy for them - just as we're happy for all our friends who have conceived and, in some cases, given birth since Thomas died. But it doesn't change the fact that every announcement feels like a knife to the heart. It doesn't change the fact that our boy is dead while their dreams live and grow.
It doesn't change a thing for us.
But at least they bought us dinner.
Monday, December 26, 2005
This makes me smile...
This is a picture of My Beloved sitting behind Thomas' Christmas candle. I sent the arrangement to my Mom and Dad's because I knew that it would be important to all of us to remember Thomas in a special way on Christmas Day. We lit the candle just after we unwrapped our presents late in the afternoon, and it burned brightly all through dinner and into the night.
My Mom said she's going to use it every single year, for our Thomas.
I also lit a second candle that night, a small blue one in memory of all the little souls who didn't quite make it to earth - or who left it far to soon.
I hope our angels saw all the tiny flickering lights that I know were burning in their memory on Christmas night.
Breathing again
I feel such a huge sense of relief. I actually made it all the way through Christmas and I'm still relatively sane - or at least no crazier than I normally am. Usually Boxing Day finds me a little melancholy and reflective, but today I'm just letting out a huge sigh of relief. It's over.
I will never, ever have to have another first Christmas without Thomas again.
Dreading Christmas goes against every fibre of my being. I have alwaysloved Christmas and all it's sparkly, cinnamon-scented glory. But this year I looked at it through new eyes and all I could see was the Santa Suit my Mom knitted for Thomas and gave to me last Christmas. I saw what should have been - a 9 1/2 month old crawling amongst the boxes under the tree and giggling with delight at Santas, snowmen and a bunch of loving aunts, uncles and Grandparents all vying for his undivided attention.
I saw what I'll never have. My son.
So it was hard to get in the spirit. I hope it returns a little each year, but I know I'll always feel an emptiness where Thomas should have been. At Christmas and always.
Always.
I naturally tend to think of Thomas' death as the loss of my baby. I mean, he died at 20 hours old - I did lose a baby. But last week for some reason it dawned on me (in a way it hadn't before) that I lost a whole lot of people. I lost my baby, yes, but I also lost the boy I longed to see grow and man he would become.
I lost so much more than just that tiny child. I lost an entire lifetime of Thomas.
We all did.
But I'm learning to live with it. One massive hurdle at a time.
Christmas is over. Thank God.
I will never, ever have to have another first Christmas without Thomas again.
Dreading Christmas goes against every fibre of my being. I have alwaysloved Christmas and all it's sparkly, cinnamon-scented glory. But this year I looked at it through new eyes and all I could see was the Santa Suit my Mom knitted for Thomas and gave to me last Christmas. I saw what should have been - a 9 1/2 month old crawling amongst the boxes under the tree and giggling with delight at Santas, snowmen and a bunch of loving aunts, uncles and Grandparents all vying for his undivided attention.
I saw what I'll never have. My son.
So it was hard to get in the spirit. I hope it returns a little each year, but I know I'll always feel an emptiness where Thomas should have been. At Christmas and always.
Always.
I naturally tend to think of Thomas' death as the loss of my baby. I mean, he died at 20 hours old - I did lose a baby. But last week for some reason it dawned on me (in a way it hadn't before) that I lost a whole lot of people. I lost my baby, yes, but I also lost the boy I longed to see grow and man he would become.
I lost so much more than just that tiny child. I lost an entire lifetime of Thomas.
We all did.
But I'm learning to live with it. One massive hurdle at a time.
Christmas is over. Thank God.
Sunday, December 25, 2005
I made it.
After a completely wretched Christmas Eve day (during which I moped, grumped and held back the wall of tears that had been threatening to burst the dam until I couldn't stand it any longer and dissolved into a sobbing puddle while trying to distract myself by cleaning the bathroom) I made it all the way through dinner at the in-laws on Christmas Eve night, complete with children.
As always, the dread I felt was far worse than the event. I felt the emptiness in the space around me that I knew Thomas should have been occupying, but I also felt him there, filling up the living room while I watched my sweet 17-month old nephew play. He wasn't there with us, but he was there just the same.
I wish someone had spoken his name - let me know that they remembered and missed him too - but I have to respect the fact that everyone grieves differently and some are more private and quiet about it than others. Such is the case with my in-laws. My sister-in-law did comment on the bracelet I was wearing - the one Catherine, another sister in sorrow, so kindly made for me using tiny silver blocks that spell THOMAS. A--- said she liked it and smiled. That was recognition enough - it's all she could do, and I understand.
We ate, we laughed, we opened presents and then we came home and collapsed in our Christmas pajamas and promptly fell asleep in front of the TV watching A Christmas Story. It was a very comforting end to a sad and stressful day.
I'm endlessly glad it's over.
If I had to do it all over again (and oh my God I hope I never do) I would let the tears come before the first Christmas Eve. I would un-cork the bottle and just let myself grieve freely in the days and weeks before. I knew the meltdown would come, and I'm just lucky it did while I was here alone with My Beloved instead of at his parents' house last night.
I'm so much better today because of it. I miss Thomas today, so much, but I feel at peace too. I know he's near and I know he'll stay by my side.
I can't wait for Christmas dinner at my Mom and Dad's. There's nothing like going home, and I'm so happy that I feel my little angel is coming with me, just like he did yesterday - just like he always does.
Merry Christmas Thomas.
As always, the dread I felt was far worse than the event. I felt the emptiness in the space around me that I knew Thomas should have been occupying, but I also felt him there, filling up the living room while I watched my sweet 17-month old nephew play. He wasn't there with us, but he was there just the same.
I wish someone had spoken his name - let me know that they remembered and missed him too - but I have to respect the fact that everyone grieves differently and some are more private and quiet about it than others. Such is the case with my in-laws. My sister-in-law did comment on the bracelet I was wearing - the one Catherine, another sister in sorrow, so kindly made for me using tiny silver blocks that spell THOMAS. A--- said she liked it and smiled. That was recognition enough - it's all she could do, and I understand.
We ate, we laughed, we opened presents and then we came home and collapsed in our Christmas pajamas and promptly fell asleep in front of the TV watching A Christmas Story. It was a very comforting end to a sad and stressful day.
I'm endlessly glad it's over.
If I had to do it all over again (and oh my God I hope I never do) I would let the tears come before the first Christmas Eve. I would un-cork the bottle and just let myself grieve freely in the days and weeks before. I knew the meltdown would come, and I'm just lucky it did while I was here alone with My Beloved instead of at his parents' house last night.
I'm so much better today because of it. I miss Thomas today, so much, but I feel at peace too. I know he's near and I know he'll stay by my side.
I can't wait for Christmas dinner at my Mom and Dad's. There's nothing like going home, and I'm so happy that I feel my little angel is coming with me, just like he did yesterday - just like he always does.
Merry Christmas Thomas.
Saturday, December 24, 2005
Friday, December 23, 2005
Thank you, my friends, and Merry Christmas
An open letter to all my friends, both real and virtual, at Christmas
My friends,
First of all, I wish you peace and the comfort of having the kind of friends in your lives that you have been to me since my Thomas died. You stood back when I needed space and you came rushing in with hugs and prayers and the kindest words I've ever heard when I needed you near.
You tried to shield me from pain, even when that "pain" was the birth of your own children, or the day to day joys of the children you already had. You didn't hide your little ones from me, but you also didn't push them at me. You were tentative, but you were there, just waiting for me to be ready. You let me live vicariously through you as you cared for your babies and experienced all their magical firsts. Thank you for letting me hold your babies and feel the weight of a tiny new life in my arms again.
Somehow you just knew what the right balance was. You knew I needed you - and your little ones - and you knew exactly how much.
Thank you for writing sweet messages on your Christmas cards to us - thank you for knowing that I needed to hear that our Thomas has not been forgotten and never will be.
Thank you for sharing your pain, my sisters in sorrow. Thank you for opening up your hearts and your lives and helping me realize that the unending sorrow I feel is normal. Thank you for ranting when I'm too afraid to, for crying when I'm bottling it up and for expressing joy and peace when I can't seem to find it. Thank you for letting me get to know your tiny angels and for giving me the opportunity to let you know mine.
Thank you, my friends, for the phone calls, the distractions, the day trips and the offers to just be there for me. Thank you for caring so much that you're willing to interrupt the happiness of your own lives to deal with the sorrow of mine. I know it hasn't been easy. I'm sure it's been scary and I bet you're exhausted when your time with me is done, but thank you for giving it to me anyway. Your time and your love have been the greatest gifts I've received since the gift of my son.
Thank you for speaking his name. Thank you for knowing, somehow, that I want to hear it from lips other than my own. Thank you for making him a part of your lives and for telling me that his life has changed yours. Thank you for hugging your children a little tighter when you think of him.
When the sun sets on Christmas Day and you gather to spend precious time with the people you love most in the world, I want you to know I'll be smiling, because I can't think of anything you deserve more than that.
Happiness and love always,
Kristin
My friends,
First of all, I wish you peace and the comfort of having the kind of friends in your lives that you have been to me since my Thomas died. You stood back when I needed space and you came rushing in with hugs and prayers and the kindest words I've ever heard when I needed you near.
You tried to shield me from pain, even when that "pain" was the birth of your own children, or the day to day joys of the children you already had. You didn't hide your little ones from me, but you also didn't push them at me. You were tentative, but you were there, just waiting for me to be ready. You let me live vicariously through you as you cared for your babies and experienced all their magical firsts. Thank you for letting me hold your babies and feel the weight of a tiny new life in my arms again.
Somehow you just knew what the right balance was. You knew I needed you - and your little ones - and you knew exactly how much.
Thank you for writing sweet messages on your Christmas cards to us - thank you for knowing that I needed to hear that our Thomas has not been forgotten and never will be.
Thank you for sharing your pain, my sisters in sorrow. Thank you for opening up your hearts and your lives and helping me realize that the unending sorrow I feel is normal. Thank you for ranting when I'm too afraid to, for crying when I'm bottling it up and for expressing joy and peace when I can't seem to find it. Thank you for letting me get to know your tiny angels and for giving me the opportunity to let you know mine.
Thank you, my friends, for the phone calls, the distractions, the day trips and the offers to just be there for me. Thank you for caring so much that you're willing to interrupt the happiness of your own lives to deal with the sorrow of mine. I know it hasn't been easy. I'm sure it's been scary and I bet you're exhausted when your time with me is done, but thank you for giving it to me anyway. Your time and your love have been the greatest gifts I've received since the gift of my son.
Thank you for speaking his name. Thank you for knowing, somehow, that I want to hear it from lips other than my own. Thank you for making him a part of your lives and for telling me that his life has changed yours. Thank you for hugging your children a little tighter when you think of him.
When the sun sets on Christmas Day and you gather to spend precious time with the people you love most in the world, I want you to know I'll be smiling, because I can't think of anything you deserve more than that.
Happiness and love always,
Kristin
Thursday, December 22, 2005
I think it's coming...
I'm so afraid of the Christmas meltdown. I've been keeping it together - pushing down all the worst, saddest thoughts - and doing a pretty good job, if I do say so myself. But I think I feel it coming.
I was cleaning up the wrapping paper, bows and tags this afternoon - sorting, tossing, re-rolling and packing away - while listening to Christmas carols on the radio. It was fine, because I was pretending. But then a very sweet carol came on and just about did me in. I was ignoring it - paying attention to the sound, not the words as I scurried around picking up bits of paper and putting the leftover bows in a box - but something made me stop. I heard the words, looked at the tree...
And started to cry.
Fortunately the song was ending and some stupid boxing day sale commercial came on - either that or Rockin' Around the Christmas Tree. Anyway, something inane snapped me out of my descent into Christmas hell.
It all came on so suddenly. Ugh, I just don't know how much longer I can be strong - I know it's only a few more days and it'll all be over, but I'm not sure I can make it.
And oh my God I don't want to face the meltdown.
I know it would be better (healthier, I mean) if I just let go - sobbed, screamed, yelled, swore - but it would be as painful as reopening the scar on my tummy and pouring salt in the wound. I know it would. And I can't do it - I don't want to do it.
But I think it's coming whether I like it or not...
I was cleaning up the wrapping paper, bows and tags this afternoon - sorting, tossing, re-rolling and packing away - while listening to Christmas carols on the radio. It was fine, because I was pretending. But then a very sweet carol came on and just about did me in. I was ignoring it - paying attention to the sound, not the words as I scurried around picking up bits of paper and putting the leftover bows in a box - but something made me stop. I heard the words, looked at the tree...
And started to cry.
Fortunately the song was ending and some stupid boxing day sale commercial came on - either that or Rockin' Around the Christmas Tree. Anyway, something inane snapped me out of my descent into Christmas hell.
It all came on so suddenly. Ugh, I just don't know how much longer I can be strong - I know it's only a few more days and it'll all be over, but I'm not sure I can make it.
And oh my God I don't want to face the meltdown.
I know it would be better (healthier, I mean) if I just let go - sobbed, screamed, yelled, swore - but it would be as painful as reopening the scar on my tummy and pouring salt in the wound. I know it would. And I can't do it - I don't want to do it.
But I think it's coming whether I like it or not...
Wednesday, December 21, 2005
Luck of the draw
I just read about Siamese twins who were successfully separated in France last week. They were boys born at just 26 weeks, their spines fused at the base. They were kept in hospital until they were old enough for the surgery to be safely attempted. All went well and they're expected to have healthy, normal childhoods.
And my perfectly healthy, full term baby died because there was only one OB on staff and he was in surgery when I needed him. He was too busy to assess me at the two-hour pushing mark. Too busy to determine that Thomas was face up and not likely to be born vaginally until three hours of pushing had passed. Just too busy to be able save my son's life.
Fuck.
I will be a force to be reckoned with if I ever get pregnant again. I will refuse to be ignored and heaven help the first person in white who tries.
I'm sorry Thomas. I didn't know then what I know now and I'm so sorry, my little one.
And my perfectly healthy, full term baby died because there was only one OB on staff and he was in surgery when I needed him. He was too busy to assess me at the two-hour pushing mark. Too busy to determine that Thomas was face up and not likely to be born vaginally until three hours of pushing had passed. Just too busy to be able save my son's life.
Fuck.
I will be a force to be reckoned with if I ever get pregnant again. I will refuse to be ignored and heaven help the first person in white who tries.
I'm sorry Thomas. I didn't know then what I know now and I'm so sorry, my little one.
Tuesday, December 20, 2005
The tick
December 2001 and January 2002 were really huge months for us. We got engaged on the 22nd of December, bought a house within the first weeks of January and started planning our wedding (booking the church, the hall, etc.).
And then I got laid off.
All's well that ends well. I had a really productive year freelancing before finding a four day per week contract a few months before the wedding (which is where I stayed until Thomas was born).
But those few heady weeks - big decisions, big purchases, big shock - wore on both of us. My Beloved found the joy of the panic attack (something I remember all too well from my university days) and I developed a weird little tick. I used to wake up in the night and frantically feel for my engagement ring with my thumb to make sure it was there. I have no idea why. It was sized and fit like a glove (to this day it has never accidentally slipped off) but I just needed to make sure it was there. It was always during the night, my frantic ring-checking.
The first night it happened was the night we got engaged. I put it down to not actually believing that wonderful question had actually been asked - to thinking it was all a dream. Feeling the ring made it real.
But I continued to wake myself up feeling for the ring long after I stopped worrying that the proposal was a figment of my imagination. I suppose the stress of that year - seeing the money literally flying out of our wallets as we put downpayments on everything from our house to the twinkle lights they used at our reception, and knowing that I was leaving my old life behind - wore on me more than I realized. The little tick was just my way of releasing that nervous energy, I suppose.
Eventually it went away. We got married and happily settled into our lives and the peace I found made the tick a thing of the past.
Until recently.
My little tick is back with a vengeance. Every night I wake myself up feeling for my rings. It's such a strange feeling. I wake up in a panic fearing that I've lost my rings and then sigh with relief and immediately fall back to sleep when I realize that they're still there. I barely remember it in the morning.
I can't quite remember when it started up again, but I think it was a few months ago. If I had to hazard a guess I'd say it was around Thanksgiving - the first big celebration without our boy.
I've been trying not to get upset - not to let myself think too hard about what's missing from Christmas this year. I've done my baking, my entertaining, my shopping and my wrapping - and I've done it all without giving deep thought to the tiny boy who should have been with me during it all.
Don't get me wrong, I think about him every day. Sometimes it feels like it's every second of every day. But I haven't really let myself mourn for him, for the Christmas that should have been, I mean. I can't deal with it - I don't want that dam to burst because I don't know how on earth I'd ever repair it.
I know it's not healthy. I know because the tick is back. But I'd far rather wake myself up grasping for my rings every night than stand in front of the tree Thomas will never see sobbing every day.
You do what you have to do.
And then I got laid off.
All's well that ends well. I had a really productive year freelancing before finding a four day per week contract a few months before the wedding (which is where I stayed until Thomas was born).
But those few heady weeks - big decisions, big purchases, big shock - wore on both of us. My Beloved found the joy of the panic attack (something I remember all too well from my university days) and I developed a weird little tick. I used to wake up in the night and frantically feel for my engagement ring with my thumb to make sure it was there. I have no idea why. It was sized and fit like a glove (to this day it has never accidentally slipped off) but I just needed to make sure it was there. It was always during the night, my frantic ring-checking.
The first night it happened was the night we got engaged. I put it down to not actually believing that wonderful question had actually been asked - to thinking it was all a dream. Feeling the ring made it real.
But I continued to wake myself up feeling for the ring long after I stopped worrying that the proposal was a figment of my imagination. I suppose the stress of that year - seeing the money literally flying out of our wallets as we put downpayments on everything from our house to the twinkle lights they used at our reception, and knowing that I was leaving my old life behind - wore on me more than I realized. The little tick was just my way of releasing that nervous energy, I suppose.
Eventually it went away. We got married and happily settled into our lives and the peace I found made the tick a thing of the past.
Until recently.
My little tick is back with a vengeance. Every night I wake myself up feeling for my rings. It's such a strange feeling. I wake up in a panic fearing that I've lost my rings and then sigh with relief and immediately fall back to sleep when I realize that they're still there. I barely remember it in the morning.
I can't quite remember when it started up again, but I think it was a few months ago. If I had to hazard a guess I'd say it was around Thanksgiving - the first big celebration without our boy.
I've been trying not to get upset - not to let myself think too hard about what's missing from Christmas this year. I've done my baking, my entertaining, my shopping and my wrapping - and I've done it all without giving deep thought to the tiny boy who should have been with me during it all.
Don't get me wrong, I think about him every day. Sometimes it feels like it's every second of every day. But I haven't really let myself mourn for him, for the Christmas that should have been, I mean. I can't deal with it - I don't want that dam to burst because I don't know how on earth I'd ever repair it.
I know it's not healthy. I know because the tick is back. But I'd far rather wake myself up grasping for my rings every night than stand in front of the tree Thomas will never see sobbing every day.
You do what you have to do.
Monday, December 19, 2005
Last Christmas
It's funny the things you remember.
Like most young(ish) married couples split between two families who both live within an hour of us, our Christmases are always really frenetic. We go to My Beloved's Mom and Dad's house for presents and dinner on Christmas Eve, immediately head to my church for midnight Mass (I used to, but no longer, sing in the choir there), come home, sleep, open our presents in the morning, then go over to my Mom and Dad's in the afternoon to open more presents and have a second Christmas dinner.
Busy to say the least.
Last year, being 6 months pregnant, I was ordered by My Beloved to have a nap in the afternoon on Christmas Eve to ensure that I could make it through the long evening in good humour and good health.
I agreed (who, at 6 months pregnant DOESN'T agree to naps???) but told him he'd have to read me and Peanut a story first. I chose How the Grinch Stole Christmas and we all snuggled up in bed to enjoy a blissfully quiet few minutes all to ourselves. Just the three of us.
I can remember it like it was yesterday. I listened to the story as though I'd never heard it before, all the while dreaming of the time when My Beloved and I would be reading to our little Peanut "for real". It was the most magical moment of last Christmas for me, and it had nothing to do with presents or trees or turkey. It was the three of us - a family - being close, safe and loved. That was Christmas.
I told My Beloved that we would make that a tradition. Every year on Christmas Eve he would read The Grinch to Peanut and me. How wonderful, I remember thinking, that we'd started the tradition before he was even born.
I imagine the pages of the book will stay closed on Saturday. So much of the magic of my life died with Thomas, I'm afraid to say. At least for now. But thank God we had that sweetest of moments with him last year. I'll never forget what it was like to feel that everything was right with the world and that we, my son and I, were so safe.
It's funny the things you remember.
Like most young(ish) married couples split between two families who both live within an hour of us, our Christmases are always really frenetic. We go to My Beloved's Mom and Dad's house for presents and dinner on Christmas Eve, immediately head to my church for midnight Mass (I used to, but no longer, sing in the choir there), come home, sleep, open our presents in the morning, then go over to my Mom and Dad's in the afternoon to open more presents and have a second Christmas dinner.
Busy to say the least.
Last year, being 6 months pregnant, I was ordered by My Beloved to have a nap in the afternoon on Christmas Eve to ensure that I could make it through the long evening in good humour and good health.
I agreed (who, at 6 months pregnant DOESN'T agree to naps???) but told him he'd have to read me and Peanut a story first. I chose How the Grinch Stole Christmas and we all snuggled up in bed to enjoy a blissfully quiet few minutes all to ourselves. Just the three of us.
I can remember it like it was yesterday. I listened to the story as though I'd never heard it before, all the while dreaming of the time when My Beloved and I would be reading to our little Peanut "for real". It was the most magical moment of last Christmas for me, and it had nothing to do with presents or trees or turkey. It was the three of us - a family - being close, safe and loved. That was Christmas.
I told My Beloved that we would make that a tradition. Every year on Christmas Eve he would read The Grinch to Peanut and me. How wonderful, I remember thinking, that we'd started the tradition before he was even born.
I imagine the pages of the book will stay closed on Saturday. So much of the magic of my life died with Thomas, I'm afraid to say. At least for now. But thank God we had that sweetest of moments with him last year. I'll never forget what it was like to feel that everything was right with the world and that we, my son and I, were so safe.
It's funny the things you remember.
Sunday, December 18, 2005
My week-before-Christmas plan for the bereaved
As I was making dinner tonight I thought how nice it would be for us to have whatever we wanted for dinner this week - the week before Christmas. I thought it might be nice to treat ourselves to our favourite meals, no matter how rich, fattening or expensive.
I think we're owed that at least, given what we know is coming...
But then I thought, "Why stop at food?"
So my plan for this week is for My Beloved and I to do whatever we want, whenever possible. Obviously we both have responsibilities we can't shirk, but in our off hours we can spoil ourselves silly. And that's the plan.
I don't have anything lavish in mind, just indulging ourselves in simple pleasures like our favourite food and movies - and whatever else happens to tickle our fancies.
I'm thinking buttered popcorn and cozy movies, bubble baths and trashy magazines, spaghetti and meatballs, getting into our PJs at 6:00pm, not shoveling the snow, re-reading favourite books, giving each other back rubs - that kind of thing.
I kind of think of it as fortifying ourselves for the coming holiday celebrations, but I also think of it as our way of celebrating Christmas. It's different, but that was always my plan for this year anyway. So why not?
Let the games begin!
I think we're owed that at least, given what we know is coming...
But then I thought, "Why stop at food?"
So my plan for this week is for My Beloved and I to do whatever we want, whenever possible. Obviously we both have responsibilities we can't shirk, but in our off hours we can spoil ourselves silly. And that's the plan.
I don't have anything lavish in mind, just indulging ourselves in simple pleasures like our favourite food and movies - and whatever else happens to tickle our fancies.
I'm thinking buttered popcorn and cozy movies, bubble baths and trashy magazines, spaghetti and meatballs, getting into our PJs at 6:00pm, not shoveling the snow, re-reading favourite books, giving each other back rubs - that kind of thing.
I kind of think of it as fortifying ourselves for the coming holiday celebrations, but I also think of it as our way of celebrating Christmas. It's different, but that was always my plan for this year anyway. So why not?
Let the games begin!
Friday, December 16, 2005
Because of Thomas
Today we received notice that two more donations had been made in Thomas' name. One was to the Phoenix Children's Hospital Foundation and the other to World Vision (the proceeds of which went towards care packs for needy children).
I can't quite explain how I feel when I open those notices. I guess with everything that's gone on in the world over the last few years I've slowly lost faith in mankind - in its ability to demonstrate selflessness and love. War, gang violence, dirty politics, terrorism - all that will really make you question the human capacity for goodness.
But there is so much goodness in my little world, and I'm truly blessed that Thomas has helped me see that in a way I never would have had he not come and gone. I'm in awe of the people - most of them people I've only met online - who have opened their hearts and taken me in without hesitation. They have befriended me, prayed for me, celebrated my small victories and mourned my greatest loss. And so many have donated to worthy causes in my beautiful son's name.
It takes my breath away. It makes me so proud of Thomas to think that in just 20 hours he has been able to inspire people the way he has - including me. Without question, I am a better person for having had my son. I didn't realize someone so small, who came and went so fast, could teach me so much.
It also humbles me to think that I've been lucky enough to somehow, with all the millions of people online, connect with people I genuinely hope I will stay friends with for the rest of my life.
All because of Thomas.
I would still give my left arm to be sitting here, on this snowy Friday night a week before Christmas, rocking my sweet baby boy to sleep. But even though he's not here, I still feel his presence and see the impact he is making on the world.
And for that I am truly blessed and eternally grateful.
I love you, little one.
I can't quite explain how I feel when I open those notices. I guess with everything that's gone on in the world over the last few years I've slowly lost faith in mankind - in its ability to demonstrate selflessness and love. War, gang violence, dirty politics, terrorism - all that will really make you question the human capacity for goodness.
But there is so much goodness in my little world, and I'm truly blessed that Thomas has helped me see that in a way I never would have had he not come and gone. I'm in awe of the people - most of them people I've only met online - who have opened their hearts and taken me in without hesitation. They have befriended me, prayed for me, celebrated my small victories and mourned my greatest loss. And so many have donated to worthy causes in my beautiful son's name.
It takes my breath away. It makes me so proud of Thomas to think that in just 20 hours he has been able to inspire people the way he has - including me. Without question, I am a better person for having had my son. I didn't realize someone so small, who came and went so fast, could teach me so much.
It also humbles me to think that I've been lucky enough to somehow, with all the millions of people online, connect with people I genuinely hope I will stay friends with for the rest of my life.
All because of Thomas.
I would still give my left arm to be sitting here, on this snowy Friday night a week before Christmas, rocking my sweet baby boy to sleep. But even though he's not here, I still feel his presence and see the impact he is making on the world.
And for that I am truly blessed and eternally grateful.
I love you, little one.
Thursday, December 15, 2005
Heavenly peace
It's snowing today. It's been snowing since about 11:00am and it's expected to keep going right through the night. I generally feel a little claustrophobic when we get school-closing kind of storms, but today it's oddly comforting. I baked bread and kind of lazed around the house, writing a few Christmas cards I forgot, e-mailing friends and watching the snow every now and then.
I went outside to shovel around 3:00pm and came back in to the smell of baking bread - it was wonderful.
My Beloved is home safe and sound, we had homemade soup for dinner, we chatted with the neighbours and played with their dog Jasper after My Beloved went out to shovel a second time, and then we came in to play ping pong (he beat me two games to one).
And now it's just about time for a hot shower and bed.
Today was a comforting day. I thought of Thomas, of course, but overall I was content.
It's a Christmas miracle.
I went outside to shovel around 3:00pm and came back in to the smell of baking bread - it was wonderful.
My Beloved is home safe and sound, we had homemade soup for dinner, we chatted with the neighbours and played with their dog Jasper after My Beloved went out to shovel a second time, and then we came in to play ping pong (he beat me two games to one).
And now it's just about time for a hot shower and bed.
Today was a comforting day. I thought of Thomas, of course, but overall I was content.
It's a Christmas miracle.
Wednesday, December 14, 2005
Ka-BOOM!!!
I just stepped on a land mine.
I was wrapping Christmas presents and, in need of a bow, I opened up a box of used bows and ribbons from last year's presents (yes, I save ribbons and bows - I can't bear to throw out perfectly good ribbons and bows).
Mixed in with the glittery selections were a few tags from gifts we were given last year. I picked one up to untangle it from the clutches of a particularly stubborn piece of ribbon - it was from my sister to me. The next one I picked up was tangled in some beautiful blue and white star ribbon. It was tied to a sparkly little twig with shiny blue berries and frosted white leaves. On the tag was a little deer surrounded by birds.
I opened it and read To Peanut with love from Auntie Kathy.
I froze.
I stared at the tag.
I remembered the adorable little blue cowboy jacket, onesie and suede mittens that were in the box which that ribbon and tag were snuggly wrapped around last Christmas.
They were for Thomas, those gifts my sister picked out so lovingly at the One of a Kind Craft Show in Toronto last year. She could hardly wait for me to see them, and I loved them. I couldn't wait to see Thomas in the little blue jacket with the soft suede fringe. It would have fit him now - he would be wearing it now.
I finally forced my fingers to separate the tag from its ribbon and I wrapped up a present for Kathy using the ribbon that was on her gift to Thomas last year. It felt like the right thing to do. When I finished, I put the present under our tree, sat down, picked up the tag again and started to cry.
I miss him more than I'll ever be able to express. If I started writing now and didn't stop until the day I died I could never explain the pain of losing that sweet little boy we loved and wanted so much.
But what I can do is send a hearty FUCK YOU to the ghost of Christmas past. I didn't need that today. I didn't need it this week or this year. Don't you know everything about Christmas is agonizing? Was it absolutely necessary to dig the knife in just *that* much deeper?
My consolation is that using the ribbon on Kathy's gift made me feel really good. It's like a little hug from Thomas wrapped around her gift.
One day I'll tell her that.
But not today. Today I just need to get through the rest of my wrapping. That will be accomplishment enough.
I was wrapping Christmas presents and, in need of a bow, I opened up a box of used bows and ribbons from last year's presents (yes, I save ribbons and bows - I can't bear to throw out perfectly good ribbons and bows).
Mixed in with the glittery selections were a few tags from gifts we were given last year. I picked one up to untangle it from the clutches of a particularly stubborn piece of ribbon - it was from my sister to me. The next one I picked up was tangled in some beautiful blue and white star ribbon. It was tied to a sparkly little twig with shiny blue berries and frosted white leaves. On the tag was a little deer surrounded by birds.
I opened it and read To Peanut with love from Auntie Kathy.
I froze.
I stared at the tag.
I remembered the adorable little blue cowboy jacket, onesie and suede mittens that were in the box which that ribbon and tag were snuggly wrapped around last Christmas.
They were for Thomas, those gifts my sister picked out so lovingly at the One of a Kind Craft Show in Toronto last year. She could hardly wait for me to see them, and I loved them. I couldn't wait to see Thomas in the little blue jacket with the soft suede fringe. It would have fit him now - he would be wearing it now.
I finally forced my fingers to separate the tag from its ribbon and I wrapped up a present for Kathy using the ribbon that was on her gift to Thomas last year. It felt like the right thing to do. When I finished, I put the present under our tree, sat down, picked up the tag again and started to cry.
I miss him more than I'll ever be able to express. If I started writing now and didn't stop until the day I died I could never explain the pain of losing that sweet little boy we loved and wanted so much.
But what I can do is send a hearty FUCK YOU to the ghost of Christmas past. I didn't need that today. I didn't need it this week or this year. Don't you know everything about Christmas is agonizing? Was it absolutely necessary to dig the knife in just *that* much deeper?
My consolation is that using the ribbon on Kathy's gift made me feel really good. It's like a little hug from Thomas wrapped around her gift.
One day I'll tell her that.
But not today. Today I just need to get through the rest of my wrapping. That will be accomplishment enough.
Tuesday, December 13, 2005
I'll have a blue Christmas...
This year I decided I wanted to change the outside Christmas lights. You know, part of my "everything must be just slightly different this year" strategy. We've always done red and green outside and on our tree in the front window, so this year I chose white and blue instead. My Beloved calls it the Hanukkah house.
Whatever floats your boat.
Anyway, the tree inside is white and there are white snowflake lights hanging from the porch roof. The rest - the roofline and the little tree in our front yard - is done in blue. I bought those cool LED lights - the ones that use a fraction of the energy of regular lights and have a beautiful deep royal blue glow at night.
I was happy with the effort. It's understated but enough for this year, under the circumstances.
I've always loved the coziness and cheer of Christmas lights, so I've been leaving them on all night since, with the exception of the white snowflakes, the lights use so little energy.
But all that changed yesterday. My Beloved got a notice in the mail that the blue LED lights are faulty, and as such are also considered a fire hazard.
Well of course they are.
The gods are laughing at me again. If you listen closely you can hear the snickers.
Whatever floats your boat.
Anyway, the tree inside is white and there are white snowflake lights hanging from the porch roof. The rest - the roofline and the little tree in our front yard - is done in blue. I bought those cool LED lights - the ones that use a fraction of the energy of regular lights and have a beautiful deep royal blue glow at night.
I was happy with the effort. It's understated but enough for this year, under the circumstances.
I've always loved the coziness and cheer of Christmas lights, so I've been leaving them on all night since, with the exception of the white snowflakes, the lights use so little energy.
But all that changed yesterday. My Beloved got a notice in the mail that the blue LED lights are faulty, and as such are also considered a fire hazard.
Well of course they are.
The gods are laughing at me again. If you listen closely you can hear the snickers.
Monday, December 12, 2005
The real me, whoever that is
I often wonder what people see when they look at me. Not strangers - I know that if they even bother looking they see a lumpy, 30-something woman with the ever-so-attractive beginnings of middle age starting to set in (wrinkles, dark circles, gray hair - all the lovely bits of old age). I'm like a million other women my age.
I mean the people who know me. What do they see.
I could be very wrong (maybe it's just paranoia - something I'm quite good at cultivating) but I have a feeling they just see the mother of a dead baby. I don't think they can see past that, at least not yet. I still catch people staring at me with looks of sadness, pity and curiosity on their faces. I see them watching me when I'm around children and their pity is so palpable I can almost grab it out of the air (and sometimes I wish I could so I could slam it in a drawer or lock it in a closet).
I'm tired of being looked at as though I'm not who I used to be, even though I fully realize I'm not that girl anymore. It's exhausting. I'm trying so hard to muddle my way through the unbearable grief I still feel and it's getting increasingly difficult to do that while swimming circles around the fishbowl I seem to be living in.
And don't even get me started on the eggshells that are apparently laying at my feet.
I understand. I do. I'm sure I'd have exactly the same reactions to a grieving parent had the gods decided to play Russian roulette with someone else's child instead of mine. But understanding it doesn't necessarily make it easier. It just makes me forgive the people who are doing it. It doesn't change how they perceive me at all.
I wonder how long it takes before they'll be able to see me instead of my sorrow. Is it a year? Is it two years? Will it be when we have another child? Will they ever look at me and just see me again?
Will I?
When Thomas died I knew we had a long, long road ahead of us. I just didn't realize it would be like this. I knew there would be the crushingly dreadful sorrow that would slowly become something we would figure out how to live with, but I guess I just never gave any thought to what the world around me would be doing - how they would be coping with the loss. I didn't realize, foolishly, that there would be so much focus on me. On how I'm doing, on what I'm thinking, on how I'm reacting to every single little thing.
I love that people care so much - I'd be devastated if they left us alone in our grief - I guess I just wish they could shelve the sad-eyed glances every once in a while and just treat me like they would anyone else.
I'm also afraid of getting too used to the sympathy, the kindness and the excusing me for everything just because I'm sad.
It's wonderful to have such a supportive cushion, I just don't want to be one of those people who ceases to need the cushion but keeps their bum planted firmly on it anyway. I'll have to be extremely careful of that. There's nothing worse than someone who is so absorbed with their own woes that they can't see anything but.
I'm sure it would appear that I am that person, given that this blog is probably 99.9% about my sorrow, but this is my safe haven - my place to dump all my sorrow, anger, fear, neurosis and paranoia. I am not this person all the time. Okay, maybe I am in some ways, but I don't show this side all the time. I can have an entire conversation without mentioning Thomas - I swear it, I can.
I can't wait for the day when I start to feel normal - more comfortable with who I am. I can't wait for the time when the two parts of me (pre Thomas and post Thomas) reconcile and cohabitate happily inside my brain instead of warring with each other the way they so often do now. I've felt hints of that normalcy, and if it weren't for Christmas I think I'd be feeling it even more.
So hopefully when the holidays are over and the new buds of spring begin to appear on Thomas' tree, I'll be feeling more like the person I'm still struggling to get to know.
And maybe once I figure her out, everyone else will start to see her too.
I mean the people who know me. What do they see.
I could be very wrong (maybe it's just paranoia - something I'm quite good at cultivating) but I have a feeling they just see the mother of a dead baby. I don't think they can see past that, at least not yet. I still catch people staring at me with looks of sadness, pity and curiosity on their faces. I see them watching me when I'm around children and their pity is so palpable I can almost grab it out of the air (and sometimes I wish I could so I could slam it in a drawer or lock it in a closet).
I'm tired of being looked at as though I'm not who I used to be, even though I fully realize I'm not that girl anymore. It's exhausting. I'm trying so hard to muddle my way through the unbearable grief I still feel and it's getting increasingly difficult to do that while swimming circles around the fishbowl I seem to be living in.
And don't even get me started on the eggshells that are apparently laying at my feet.
I understand. I do. I'm sure I'd have exactly the same reactions to a grieving parent had the gods decided to play Russian roulette with someone else's child instead of mine. But understanding it doesn't necessarily make it easier. It just makes me forgive the people who are doing it. It doesn't change how they perceive me at all.
I wonder how long it takes before they'll be able to see me instead of my sorrow. Is it a year? Is it two years? Will it be when we have another child? Will they ever look at me and just see me again?
Will I?
When Thomas died I knew we had a long, long road ahead of us. I just didn't realize it would be like this. I knew there would be the crushingly dreadful sorrow that would slowly become something we would figure out how to live with, but I guess I just never gave any thought to what the world around me would be doing - how they would be coping with the loss. I didn't realize, foolishly, that there would be so much focus on me. On how I'm doing, on what I'm thinking, on how I'm reacting to every single little thing.
I love that people care so much - I'd be devastated if they left us alone in our grief - I guess I just wish they could shelve the sad-eyed glances every once in a while and just treat me like they would anyone else.
I'm also afraid of getting too used to the sympathy, the kindness and the excusing me for everything just because I'm sad.
It's wonderful to have such a supportive cushion, I just don't want to be one of those people who ceases to need the cushion but keeps their bum planted firmly on it anyway. I'll have to be extremely careful of that. There's nothing worse than someone who is so absorbed with their own woes that they can't see anything but.
I'm sure it would appear that I am that person, given that this blog is probably 99.9% about my sorrow, but this is my safe haven - my place to dump all my sorrow, anger, fear, neurosis and paranoia. I am not this person all the time. Okay, maybe I am in some ways, but I don't show this side all the time. I can have an entire conversation without mentioning Thomas - I swear it, I can.
I can't wait for the day when I start to feel normal - more comfortable with who I am. I can't wait for the time when the two parts of me (pre Thomas and post Thomas) reconcile and cohabitate happily inside my brain instead of warring with each other the way they so often do now. I've felt hints of that normalcy, and if it weren't for Christmas I think I'd be feeling it even more.
So hopefully when the holidays are over and the new buds of spring begin to appear on Thomas' tree, I'll be feeling more like the person I'm still struggling to get to know.
And maybe once I figure her out, everyone else will start to see her too.
Sunday, December 11, 2005
Re-thinking the Grinch
My Beloved wanted to put on How the Grinch Stole Christmas tonight when the TV refused to give us anything better to watch no matter how much we flipped. I agreed, partly because I was doing Christmas cards (which I finally finished, by the way!) and partly because I keep thinking that the more I immerse myself in Christmas (when I can), the easier it will be to deal with when the big day arrives. I'm not sure that's actually going to be the case, but I do feel that for me it's wise not to avoid the festivities altogether. The shock of Christmas day and all the trimmings would be too much for me to bear without warming up a little first. It's all a delicate little balancing act, this grieving during the holidays thing.
Anyway, the opening lines of The Grinch, as I'm sure everyone knows, discuss what a hateful soul he is and reveal that he despises Christmas. The narrator goes on to say that no one knows why.
I looked up from my Christmas cards, glanced at the snarling green face on the TV screen and said to My Beloved, "Maybe his son died too - did they ever thing of that? DID THEY??"
I've ruined The Grinch forever. I used to delight in his nastiness and marvel at his remarkable transformation. Now I just wonder what the hell happened to the poor guy to make him so miserable in the first place. Why doesn't anyone tell THAT story? It's marvelous that the show ends with his heart growing four sizes that day, but I'd really like to know what horrible blow crushed it in the first place.
Misery loves company. Even in the cartoons.
God help me, I just can't hate the Grinch anymore.
Anyway, the opening lines of The Grinch, as I'm sure everyone knows, discuss what a hateful soul he is and reveal that he despises Christmas. The narrator goes on to say that no one knows why.
I looked up from my Christmas cards, glanced at the snarling green face on the TV screen and said to My Beloved, "Maybe his son died too - did they ever thing of that? DID THEY??"
I've ruined The Grinch forever. I used to delight in his nastiness and marvel at his remarkable transformation. Now I just wonder what the hell happened to the poor guy to make him so miserable in the first place. Why doesn't anyone tell THAT story? It's marvelous that the show ends with his heart growing four sizes that day, but I'd really like to know what horrible blow crushed it in the first place.
Misery loves company. Even in the cartoons.
God help me, I just can't hate the Grinch anymore.
Friday, December 09, 2005
Nine months
Thomas has now been gone for one day shy of the same amount of time as he lived.
Nine months.
Nine months inside me. Twenty hours in the world. Nine long months without him.
March 9th. December 9th.
Nine.
Nine months.
Nine months inside me. Twenty hours in the world. Nine long months without him.
March 9th. December 9th.
Nine.
Thursday, December 08, 2005
Just say NO!!!
NO to putting up two trees. What the hell was I thinking? It was bad enough putting up one knowing Thomas would never get to stare at the twinkly fairy lights in childlike awe. Putting up two would be utter torture.
NO to dragging out every single last one of my Christmas decorations. I can't bear it. I'm sorry - some of you will just have to sit in your boxes until next year when I'm a little more sane and not so damned sad.
NO to cleaning every nook and cranny of my house for company this Saturday. The doors that are shut are hiding catastrophes that I don't have the time or energy to deal with. Just don't open the doors.
NO to singing at midnight Mass with the choir this year. I'm sorry, I can't do it. It will take me screaming back to last year when Thomas was happily nesting beneath my Christmas-y maternity top while I secretly sang Silent Night to him, not the congregation.
NO to sending Christmas cards to people who haven't bothered to send them to us for the last few years. I've cried while writing the cards I HAVE managed to write and I can't put myself through additional pain for people whose only policy is to receive.
NO! NO! NO!
And NO again, just for good measure.
NO to dragging out every single last one of my Christmas decorations. I can't bear it. I'm sorry - some of you will just have to sit in your boxes until next year when I'm a little more sane and not so damned sad.
NO to cleaning every nook and cranny of my house for company this Saturday. The doors that are shut are hiding catastrophes that I don't have the time or energy to deal with. Just don't open the doors.
NO to singing at midnight Mass with the choir this year. I'm sorry, I can't do it. It will take me screaming back to last year when Thomas was happily nesting beneath my Christmas-y maternity top while I secretly sang Silent Night to him, not the congregation.
NO to sending Christmas cards to people who haven't bothered to send them to us for the last few years. I've cried while writing the cards I HAVE managed to write and I can't put myself through additional pain for people whose only policy is to receive.
NO! NO! NO!
And NO again, just for good measure.
Wednesday, December 07, 2005
Get a move on
I went Christmas shopping today.
I didn't enjoy it.
I should probably just accept the fact that there's not much of this Christmas that I am going to enjoy and be done with it, but I'm too stubborn to give in.
I'm also too afraid to just be still. I know what's waiting for me there. If I sit down quietly to listen to Christmas carols in the soft glow of the tree with a glass of wine or a cup of hot chocolate in my hand, I'll think too much about what should have been.
Every single day I think of what should have been, but being still makes it worse. Especially now.
I'm so tired, but I can't stop moving. Not until January.
Tomorrow, I clean.
I didn't enjoy it.
I should probably just accept the fact that there's not much of this Christmas that I am going to enjoy and be done with it, but I'm too stubborn to give in.
I'm also too afraid to just be still. I know what's waiting for me there. If I sit down quietly to listen to Christmas carols in the soft glow of the tree with a glass of wine or a cup of hot chocolate in my hand, I'll think too much about what should have been.
Every single day I think of what should have been, but being still makes it worse. Especially now.
I'm so tired, but I can't stop moving. Not until January.
Tomorrow, I clean.
Tuesday, December 06, 2005
Cookies, Charlie Brown and the meaning of life
I dropped two batches of cookies on the floor today. This has not been a good week for baking.
However, the cookies survived since they were in a sealed Tupperware container. I gingerly opened up the lid and, although there were an awful lot of crumbs, there only seemed to be one cracked cookie.
Whew. No need for panic today.
On a completely different topic, I had an interesting experience watching A Charlie Brown Christmas. It's becoming clear to me that I'll look for messages and meaning virtually anywhere and everywhere, because I found myself looking hard to find them in a 40-year old cartoon tonight. I was excited about seeing it because I love Christmas cartoons (almost as much as I did when I was a kid), but it had a whole different feeling this year. I wasn't just watching it because it's what I do every year - I was watching it with new eyes; I was looking for something, anything that might help me make sense of this too often cruel world. It was almost like seeing it for the first time in some strange way.
Everything is so different this year. Even Charlie Brown. Sometimes I lament the fact that nothing is simple anymore - a Charlie Brown special can't just be a fun distraction - but that's what happens when your world is turned inside out and upside down. Nothing is simple anymore.
I know I'm making a lot out of a half hour cartoon, I just think it's really interesting that my mind is working so differently - it's desperate to find comfort and it takes me on the most interesting voyages in its quest to find meaning in life.
Other than echoing my own thoughts on the commercialisation of Christmas, I'm not sure what else Charlie Brown had to offer tonight, but the search still felt good and worthwhile.
But quite apart from that, sometimes a half hour of cartoons is just what the soul needs. And it did mine good tonight.
However, the cookies survived since they were in a sealed Tupperware container. I gingerly opened up the lid and, although there were an awful lot of crumbs, there only seemed to be one cracked cookie.
Whew. No need for panic today.
On a completely different topic, I had an interesting experience watching A Charlie Brown Christmas. It's becoming clear to me that I'll look for messages and meaning virtually anywhere and everywhere, because I found myself looking hard to find them in a 40-year old cartoon tonight. I was excited about seeing it because I love Christmas cartoons (almost as much as I did when I was a kid), but it had a whole different feeling this year. I wasn't just watching it because it's what I do every year - I was watching it with new eyes; I was looking for something, anything that might help me make sense of this too often cruel world. It was almost like seeing it for the first time in some strange way.
Everything is so different this year. Even Charlie Brown. Sometimes I lament the fact that nothing is simple anymore - a Charlie Brown special can't just be a fun distraction - but that's what happens when your world is turned inside out and upside down. Nothing is simple anymore.
I know I'm making a lot out of a half hour cartoon, I just think it's really interesting that my mind is working so differently - it's desperate to find comfort and it takes me on the most interesting voyages in its quest to find meaning in life.
Other than echoing my own thoughts on the commercialisation of Christmas, I'm not sure what else Charlie Brown had to offer tonight, but the search still felt good and worthwhile.
But quite apart from that, sometimes a half hour of cartoons is just what the soul needs. And it did mine good tonight.
Monday, December 05, 2005
It was just a cake
I've been baking for the past two weeks trying to get ready for a little family gathering we're having on the weekend. Up until today I'd been making cookies - something I'm generally pretty good at - but today I ventured out of my realm of comfort and made a cake.
I can't tell you the number of cake disasters I've had. There was the lemon birthday cake I made for my beloved two times before giving up and buying a mix (which I baked and then accidentally frosted with icing made from rancid cream), there was the horrific lumpy mess of a birthday cake for my Mother-in-law (I hid its grotesqueness under a gallon of pink icing I piped over the mess) and then there was the Irish whisky cake for a St. Patrick's Day dinner party that can really only be described as an Irish Whiskey cake shaped disc. It was flat and crunchy. Cake should never, ever be crunchy.
Anyway, I wanted to include some cakes and loafs (I'm a good loaf maker) on my dessert table this weekend, so today I made an orange poppy seed cake. Sounds innocuous enough, I know, but I used my special bunt pan - the one shaped like a cathedral. The one shaped like a cathedral with a million little places in which orange poppy seed cake can get stuck.
And get stuck it did.
As I stood there looking and the steaming pile of delectable smelling cake I felt panic rising up into my throat from that horrible pit where all fears seem to lie in waiting for just the right moment to attack. It was just a cake, but for some reason seeing its complete destruction just devastated me. I'd wanted it to work so badly - I'd imagined it sitting so regally on my table as my guests gazed at it in complete awe. I wanted vindication - proof that I can actually bake a decent cake - but mostly I just wanted it to work.
And I was totally freaked out that it wouldn't work - that I couldn't make it work. That I tried so hard, did everything right and it was a disaster anyway.
I quelled the panic by telling myself that I'd just bake a second one using my plain bunt pan (which I did tonight - it's now glazed, wrapped and sitting quite peacefully on the bottom of my freezer), but it was really interesting to me how upsetting the failed cake was.
It was just a cake.
Welcome to my Christmas madness.
I can't tell you the number of cake disasters I've had. There was the lemon birthday cake I made for my beloved two times before giving up and buying a mix (which I baked and then accidentally frosted with icing made from rancid cream), there was the horrific lumpy mess of a birthday cake for my Mother-in-law (I hid its grotesqueness under a gallon of pink icing I piped over the mess) and then there was the Irish whisky cake for a St. Patrick's Day dinner party that can really only be described as an Irish Whiskey cake shaped disc. It was flat and crunchy. Cake should never, ever be crunchy.
Anyway, I wanted to include some cakes and loafs (I'm a good loaf maker) on my dessert table this weekend, so today I made an orange poppy seed cake. Sounds innocuous enough, I know, but I used my special bunt pan - the one shaped like a cathedral. The one shaped like a cathedral with a million little places in which orange poppy seed cake can get stuck.
And get stuck it did.
As I stood there looking and the steaming pile of delectable smelling cake I felt panic rising up into my throat from that horrible pit where all fears seem to lie in waiting for just the right moment to attack. It was just a cake, but for some reason seeing its complete destruction just devastated me. I'd wanted it to work so badly - I'd imagined it sitting so regally on my table as my guests gazed at it in complete awe. I wanted vindication - proof that I can actually bake a decent cake - but mostly I just wanted it to work.
And I was totally freaked out that it wouldn't work - that I couldn't make it work. That I tried so hard, did everything right and it was a disaster anyway.
I quelled the panic by telling myself that I'd just bake a second one using my plain bunt pan (which I did tonight - it's now glazed, wrapped and sitting quite peacefully on the bottom of my freezer), but it was really interesting to me how upsetting the failed cake was.
It was just a cake.
Welcome to my Christmas madness.
Sunday, December 04, 2005
The real Santa Claus
My Beloved and I went out to do some Christmas shopping at our local mall yesterday and that's where we saw him - the real Santa Claus.
I've been successfully doing most of my shopping online and in the big box stores, so I haven't been in a mall since the Santas began to take up residence a few weeks ago. In fact, I forgot all about the possibility of running into the man in red yesterday until we were descending the escalator right beside the big guy's castle.
Admittedly, I caught my breath and had the incredible urge to flee when I caught site of the jingle bell-bearing elf with the camera and realized what we'd stumbled upon, but I didn't. I sucked it up and even had a peek at Santa on my way by.
I'm not kidding, I think it really WAS Santa Claus. Knowing that this is where we would have brought Thomas for his very first pictures with Santa, I was hoping for a crappy imitation - a young guy with fake fat and pathetic store-bought whiskers - but this guy was the real deal. His beard was home-grown and totally white, and he bowl full of jelly belly on him looked pretty real too. I commend this guy for being as authentic as he possibly could - I was mesmerized.
Yes, I'm a 35-year old, world-weary woman who was completely mesmerized by a mall Santa Claus.
I have no idea why, but the fact that he looked so real was kind of comforting. Maybe it restored some of the Christmas magic I've lost and have been looking so hard to find. I don't know. I do hope he plans to return next year just in case we have a new little someone to sit in his lap.
But even if we don't, I kind of hope I'll see him again next year anyway.
I've been successfully doing most of my shopping online and in the big box stores, so I haven't been in a mall since the Santas began to take up residence a few weeks ago. In fact, I forgot all about the possibility of running into the man in red yesterday until we were descending the escalator right beside the big guy's castle.
Admittedly, I caught my breath and had the incredible urge to flee when I caught site of the jingle bell-bearing elf with the camera and realized what we'd stumbled upon, but I didn't. I sucked it up and even had a peek at Santa on my way by.
I'm not kidding, I think it really WAS Santa Claus. Knowing that this is where we would have brought Thomas for his very first pictures with Santa, I was hoping for a crappy imitation - a young guy with fake fat and pathetic store-bought whiskers - but this guy was the real deal. His beard was home-grown and totally white, and he bowl full of jelly belly on him looked pretty real too. I commend this guy for being as authentic as he possibly could - I was mesmerized.
Yes, I'm a 35-year old, world-weary woman who was completely mesmerized by a mall Santa Claus.
I have no idea why, but the fact that he looked so real was kind of comforting. Maybe it restored some of the Christmas magic I've lost and have been looking so hard to find. I don't know. I do hope he plans to return next year just in case we have a new little someone to sit in his lap.
But even if we don't, I kind of hope I'll see him again next year anyway.
Friday, December 02, 2005
*This* close
Denise, your comment meant the world to me. I can't even begin to tell you how much. I was on a high all day because of it and I'm so glad you told me how special Thomas has been to you. As I said, I'll spend the rest of my life searching for reasons why, and I'm incredibly thankful to you for giving me a huge one to put on my list.
I'm particularly thankful right now because I'm having a very blue moment.
Do you know how close we were to having our dream come true? I don't think the agony of we were *this* close will ever leave me. I was so close I could taste it. I must have walked into Thomas nursery a million times, touching all the little things I couldn't wait for him to see and use. I opened up his closet just as many times, running my fingers across all the little outfits, sometimes taking them out and putting them on my belly or holding them as though he was in them. I diapered the teddy my sister bought for Thomas in London just for practice - and swaddled him for practice too.
I was ready. We were ready.
And our baby didn't come home.
We were *this* close.
I remember telling My Beloved that it felt like I'd fallen off Mount Everest and was now standing back at its base staring up, knowing I'd just climbed almostall the way to the top. Almost.
I'm losing hope that we'll ever make it up that mountain again.
It seems to come so easily to so many and it's getting so hard to bear it all - to keep smiling while the dreams we had come true for everyone around us.
It sounds selfish when I put it that way. Why shouldn't dreams come true for other people? Why should they have to know any of the pain we do? They shouldn't. So why is it that we have to know it?
Oh crap. I'm back to asking why. I thought I put that to bed last night, but evidently not.
My last few entries have been so scattered - but so are my thoughts these days. I think it's probably Christmas that has me so discombobulated. I generally have it all under control, but the holidays are throwing me off - forcing me to think about what we don't have in a way I don't really want to have to.
I just hate that for the rest of our lives we'll have live with the fact that we were *this* close.
I still sometimes catch myself shaking my head in utter disbelief.
I'm particularly thankful right now because I'm having a very blue moment.
Do you know how close we were to having our dream come true? I don't think the agony of we were *this* close will ever leave me. I was so close I could taste it. I must have walked into Thomas nursery a million times, touching all the little things I couldn't wait for him to see and use. I opened up his closet just as many times, running my fingers across all the little outfits, sometimes taking them out and putting them on my belly or holding them as though he was in them. I diapered the teddy my sister bought for Thomas in London just for practice - and swaddled him for practice too.
I was ready. We were ready.
And our baby didn't come home.
We were *this* close.
I remember telling My Beloved that it felt like I'd fallen off Mount Everest and was now standing back at its base staring up, knowing I'd just climbed almostall the way to the top. Almost.
I'm losing hope that we'll ever make it up that mountain again.
It seems to come so easily to so many and it's getting so hard to bear it all - to keep smiling while the dreams we had come true for everyone around us.
It sounds selfish when I put it that way. Why shouldn't dreams come true for other people? Why should they have to know any of the pain we do? They shouldn't. So why is it that we have to know it?
Oh crap. I'm back to asking why. I thought I put that to bed last night, but evidently not.
My last few entries have been so scattered - but so are my thoughts these days. I think it's probably Christmas that has me so discombobulated. I generally have it all under control, but the holidays are throwing me off - forcing me to think about what we don't have in a way I don't really want to have to.
I just hate that for the rest of our lives we'll have live with the fact that we were *this* close.
I still sometimes catch myself shaking my head in utter disbelief.
Thursday, December 01, 2005
Why me?
I've been wondering that a lot lately. Why me? Why exactly did my baby die? I just don't get it.
I'm not saying that in the "oh woe is me" sense either (well, not tonight, anyway). I'm just posing the question to the gods - to the cosmic powers that be; why? Is it one big reason? Is it a million small ones? Will I ever really know or will I spend the rest of my life speculating?
I tend to believe that things happen for a reason, mostly because randomness is too frightening a concept to me. I hate the idea that Thomas died for a reason (what reason could possibly be good enough?), but the thought of him dying for no reason at all is immensely more disturbing to me. So I have to assume that the reason was a good one, or maybe a zillion good ones, most of which I'll never know about.
But is that fair? Is it fair for me not to know why my baby died? Fine, he died for a really good reason (or millions of them) but it doesn't seem right that his mother shouldn't know why - shouldn't at least have the comfort of knowing the good that has come (or will come) from such a horrific loss.
I've seen wonderful things since Thomas died - I've seen people change, I've witnessed hearts open, I've watched walls fall down - but couldn't there have been a way for all those wonderful things to happen without him dying?
I keep hoping the one reason or the million and one small ones will somehow be big enough to make up for his loss, but I just don't see how they possibly can.
Then I think maybe that kind of thinking devalues his life. Just because it was only 20 hours long doesn't necessarily mean it wasn't a full life. It was his entire life, and maybe that's all it was supposed to be, just like some people live to be 94. His time was measured in hours, not years, but that doesn't mean his life wasn't important.
The thing is, I figured all that out a long time ago. I know his life was important - it was incredibly important to me, to My Beloved and to everyone who loved our Thomas.
It's not a matter of me convincing myself that his life was important. It's a matter of me trying to understand why it was important for his life to be just 20 hours long. Why him?
I think of all the hopes and dreams I had for him - all the things I thought I'd see him do and achieve - and he couldn't even take his own breaths, except for the tiny gasps right before he died (gasps I can still here - those are the only sounds I ever heard him make). Why was that his life? Why couldn't God have figured out a way for him to make an impact on this world and still be alive today?
I'm dangerously close to blasphemy here, I believe. I shouldn't question God. I shouldn't, but why not? He can't possibly expect me to understand any of this or accept it without question, can he? What human could possibly do that - accept the loss of one so loved without question? Even Jesus questioned his fate - or at the very least begged for a different one - if God would allow it.
But he didn't. If he couldn't or wouldn't spare his own son, I suppose it makes sense that he wouldn't spare mine either.
Look at me! I'm running on the world's most horrifying hamster wheel lugging my bag of sorrow and trunk of questions around with me! Around and around and around we go. No answers, just endless turning and more questions.
I'm grateful I've been able to see so many beautiful things come from Thomas' death. I will always be grateful for that, and for everyone who shows me (whether they know it or not) how they've been changed by my son.
But I also know I'll spend the rest of my life searching for more reasons to add to my list. I just don't see how I'll ever be able to stop. I couldn't do that to Thomas.
And so I'll keep asking why until I die.
I'm not saying that in the "oh woe is me" sense either (well, not tonight, anyway). I'm just posing the question to the gods - to the cosmic powers that be; why? Is it one big reason? Is it a million small ones? Will I ever really know or will I spend the rest of my life speculating?
I tend to believe that things happen for a reason, mostly because randomness is too frightening a concept to me. I hate the idea that Thomas died for a reason (what reason could possibly be good enough?), but the thought of him dying for no reason at all is immensely more disturbing to me. So I have to assume that the reason was a good one, or maybe a zillion good ones, most of which I'll never know about.
But is that fair? Is it fair for me not to know why my baby died? Fine, he died for a really good reason (or millions of them) but it doesn't seem right that his mother shouldn't know why - shouldn't at least have the comfort of knowing the good that has come (or will come) from such a horrific loss.
I've seen wonderful things since Thomas died - I've seen people change, I've witnessed hearts open, I've watched walls fall down - but couldn't there have been a way for all those wonderful things to happen without him dying?
I keep hoping the one reason or the million and one small ones will somehow be big enough to make up for his loss, but I just don't see how they possibly can.
Then I think maybe that kind of thinking devalues his life. Just because it was only 20 hours long doesn't necessarily mean it wasn't a full life. It was his entire life, and maybe that's all it was supposed to be, just like some people live to be 94. His time was measured in hours, not years, but that doesn't mean his life wasn't important.
The thing is, I figured all that out a long time ago. I know his life was important - it was incredibly important to me, to My Beloved and to everyone who loved our Thomas.
It's not a matter of me convincing myself that his life was important. It's a matter of me trying to understand why it was important for his life to be just 20 hours long. Why him?
I think of all the hopes and dreams I had for him - all the things I thought I'd see him do and achieve - and he couldn't even take his own breaths, except for the tiny gasps right before he died (gasps I can still here - those are the only sounds I ever heard him make). Why was that his life? Why couldn't God have figured out a way for him to make an impact on this world and still be alive today?
I'm dangerously close to blasphemy here, I believe. I shouldn't question God. I shouldn't, but why not? He can't possibly expect me to understand any of this or accept it without question, can he? What human could possibly do that - accept the loss of one so loved without question? Even Jesus questioned his fate - or at the very least begged for a different one - if God would allow it.
But he didn't. If he couldn't or wouldn't spare his own son, I suppose it makes sense that he wouldn't spare mine either.
Look at me! I'm running on the world's most horrifying hamster wheel lugging my bag of sorrow and trunk of questions around with me! Around and around and around we go. No answers, just endless turning and more questions.
I'm grateful I've been able to see so many beautiful things come from Thomas' death. I will always be grateful for that, and for everyone who shows me (whether they know it or not) how they've been changed by my son.
But I also know I'll spend the rest of my life searching for more reasons to add to my list. I just don't see how I'll ever be able to stop. I couldn't do that to Thomas.
And so I'll keep asking why until I die.
Wednesday, November 30, 2005
A Christmas miracle
I put up the Christmas tree this morning and I'm still alive and relatively sane.
Will wonders never cease?
Will wonders never cease?
Monday, November 28, 2005
The sounds of Christmas - LISTEN UP!!
Today I made more Christmas cookies for our little family Christmas tea on the 10th. I put on Christmas carols and forced myself to listen to them while I made the first batch of cookies (Pecan Sandies, which I've never made before. They're incredibly delicious and addictive, in case you're wondering).
Having to force myself to listen to carols made me incredibly sad. I used to love this time of year. I wonder if it will always be this way now or if, like all the firsts, this one will be the hardest and I will return to the Christmas loving nut I've always been when the holiday season rolls around again next year.
There are so many I wonders in my life these days.
Have I mentioned how much I hate this? I hate not having any idea how I'll react to situations I once never gave a second thought to. Now so many things that used to be joyful pleasures are incredibly hard work - and it almost always catches me off guard. It's exhausting - every single day is just so exhausting in it's own special way.
I didn't really want to listen to carols today, but I thought I should make myself - just do it and be done with it. Bah hum-bug.
I don't like wishing time away - not when I've been made so acutely aware of how precious it is - but I really can't wait until April. I need all the firsts to be done with and I need every single thing to stop reminding me of what I was doing last year at this time - of how big Thomas was getting and how big I was getting right along with him.
I feel like I'm looking back at a dream that didn't really happen, and that I'm lost in a nightmare right now.
I just remember how much hope I had last year at this time - how much I was looking forward to the future. And now not only can I not look to the future with the hope and optimism I once had, but the past is too painful to remember too.
So I'm stuck here in the present, forcing myself to listen to Christmas carols I don't want to hear.
Great.
Having to force myself to listen to carols made me incredibly sad. I used to love this time of year. I wonder if it will always be this way now or if, like all the firsts, this one will be the hardest and I will return to the Christmas loving nut I've always been when the holiday season rolls around again next year.
There are so many I wonders in my life these days.
Have I mentioned how much I hate this? I hate not having any idea how I'll react to situations I once never gave a second thought to. Now so many things that used to be joyful pleasures are incredibly hard work - and it almost always catches me off guard. It's exhausting - every single day is just so exhausting in it's own special way.
I didn't really want to listen to carols today, but I thought I should make myself - just do it and be done with it. Bah hum-bug.
I don't like wishing time away - not when I've been made so acutely aware of how precious it is - but I really can't wait until April. I need all the firsts to be done with and I need every single thing to stop reminding me of what I was doing last year at this time - of how big Thomas was getting and how big I was getting right along with him.
I feel like I'm looking back at a dream that didn't really happen, and that I'm lost in a nightmare right now.
I just remember how much hope I had last year at this time - how much I was looking forward to the future. And now not only can I not look to the future with the hope and optimism I once had, but the past is too painful to remember too.
So I'm stuck here in the present, forcing myself to listen to Christmas carols I don't want to hear.
Great.
Sunday, November 27, 2005
Angels among us
If you stop to look, you'll find angels all around you. Here are a few I've been blessed enough to have in my life these last few days.
Sherry: When she heard I was visiting Thomas' grave to see his marker for the first time on Friday, Sherry asked her own little angel Ryan, who joined Thomas in heaven just a little over three months ago, to be with me and bring me comfort because she knew how hard it was going to be for me.
R: Disillusioned by the commercialism and greed she witnessed on "Black Friday", R donated $100 to her local hospital's "Tree of Life" program in Thomas' name. This year the lights shining on the Christmas tree outside the hospital will represent donations made to the Special Care Level II Nursery which serves newborns needing special or critical care in a fully equipped neonatal nursery. Because of the size of her donation, Thomas' light will shine each and every year and his name will be inscribed on the Permanent Tree of Life Board.
L: Another "virtual" friend I've met and will hopefully know for the rest of my life, L told me that every single night she and her beautiful little boy pray for baby Thomas. It's been almost nine months since he came and went and she still prays for him every day.
I am indeed blessed. And with more than just these three angels. There are many more, and they are truly all around me. Their hugs, encouragement, comfort and humour help pull me through the dark days, and they are right there with their smiles and laughter to help me celebrate the good ones.
That old saying is so true - it is during hard times that you discover what kind of friends you really have.
I know mine are angels in disguise.
Sherry: When she heard I was visiting Thomas' grave to see his marker for the first time on Friday, Sherry asked her own little angel Ryan, who joined Thomas in heaven just a little over three months ago, to be with me and bring me comfort because she knew how hard it was going to be for me.
R: Disillusioned by the commercialism and greed she witnessed on "Black Friday", R donated $100 to her local hospital's "Tree of Life" program in Thomas' name. This year the lights shining on the Christmas tree outside the hospital will represent donations made to the Special Care Level II Nursery which serves newborns needing special or critical care in a fully equipped neonatal nursery. Because of the size of her donation, Thomas' light will shine each and every year and his name will be inscribed on the Permanent Tree of Life Board.
L: Another "virtual" friend I've met and will hopefully know for the rest of my life, L told me that every single night she and her beautiful little boy pray for baby Thomas. It's been almost nine months since he came and went and she still prays for him every day.
I am indeed blessed. And with more than just these three angels. There are many more, and they are truly all around me. Their hugs, encouragement, comfort and humour help pull me through the dark days, and they are right there with their smiles and laughter to help me celebrate the good ones.
That old saying is so true - it is during hard times that you discover what kind of friends you really have.
I know mine are angels in disguise.
Friday, November 25, 2005
Written in stone
They laid Thomas' stone this week. I went to see it today.
I feel a little like I'm made of something as thin as an eggshell right now. I mean that quite literally. Delicate, fragile and hollow.
Today I knelt in the snow on a plastic bag and scraped the snow and ice off my baby's grave marker so I could see it. I chipped away at the ice with a window squeegee and, when that failed, tried to melt it with the heat of my hands. In the end I couldn't get it all off, no matter how hard I tried. And my knees were starting to freeze.
So I stood up to say goodbye, kissed my fingers, pressed them to the frozen granite and started to cry.
Before I left I whispered into the wind the words, this is so wrong. I don't know where the words went or who might have heard them, but I hope someone did. I hope there are no more mothers found kneeling in the snow scraping ice of the graves of their children.
This is what my life is now. Oh my God.
I feel a little like I'm made of something as thin as an eggshell right now. I mean that quite literally. Delicate, fragile and hollow.
Today I knelt in the snow on a plastic bag and scraped the snow and ice off my baby's grave marker so I could see it. I chipped away at the ice with a window squeegee and, when that failed, tried to melt it with the heat of my hands. In the end I couldn't get it all off, no matter how hard I tried. And my knees were starting to freeze.
So I stood up to say goodbye, kissed my fingers, pressed them to the frozen granite and started to cry.
Before I left I whispered into the wind the words, this is so wrong. I don't know where the words went or who might have heard them, but I hope someone did. I hope there are no more mothers found kneeling in the snow scraping ice of the graves of their children.
This is what my life is now. Oh my God.
Thursday, November 24, 2005
Another attempt at the Christmas cards
Thank you so much to everyone who wrote suggestions for how to deal with my Christmas cards. I decided I really do want to send them out. Even though I know I'm well within my rights to shut the curtains, turn off all the lights and hibernate from now until New Year, I want to celebrate as much of the season as I can in a way that brings me whatever joy I can find.
So after reading all your suggestions and an article a friend sent to me, I hit upon an idea. I have some angel Christmas stickers leftover from a few years ago. They're really small, which is part of the reason I didn't use too many of them, but they're just the perfect size to slip beneath our names on the inside of our cards in memory of Thomas.
So that's what I'm doing. In fact, I gave it a try this morning. I wrote six more cards and only cried one. I think that's pretty good! It felt wonderful to feel that Thomas wasn't being left out. That's what was bothering me so much and why I had to stop before.
I don't know how many people will figure out why there's a tiny angel underneath our names on their Christmas card, but it doesn't matter. I know why they're there. I know they represent the most beautiful little boy I've ever seen, who came and went far too fast, but who I'll never, ever stop loving or stop remembering.
So after reading all your suggestions and an article a friend sent to me, I hit upon an idea. I have some angel Christmas stickers leftover from a few years ago. They're really small, which is part of the reason I didn't use too many of them, but they're just the perfect size to slip beneath our names on the inside of our cards in memory of Thomas.
So that's what I'm doing. In fact, I gave it a try this morning. I wrote six more cards and only cried one. I think that's pretty good! It felt wonderful to feel that Thomas wasn't being left out. That's what was bothering me so much and why I had to stop before.
I don't know how many people will figure out why there's a tiny angel underneath our names on their Christmas card, but it doesn't matter. I know why they're there. I know they represent the most beautiful little boy I've ever seen, who came and went far too fast, but who I'll never, ever stop loving or stop remembering.
Wednesday, November 23, 2005
Love, Grandma
Today I went out shopping with my Mom and Dad. Our intent was to go to the little country store we all love (they have really good cookies, jams and fudge!) but first we took a detour to a nursery to look at poinsettia and find a wreath for my Mom and Dad's front door.
They didn't find a wreath they wanted, but my Mom did find one for Thomas. It had little old fashion sleds and tiny dolls made out of buttons on it. It was the only one there and it was clearly a child's wreath. My Mom called me over and asked if I liked it. When I said yes, she said she was going to buy it for Thomas.
I didn't want to cry - I wanted to lay down and die. It was the oddest sensation. I figured my Mom would buy a lot of things for Thomas this Christmas - well, once upon a time - but a wreath for his grave wasn't one of them.
It was a very surreal moment, standing there in front of that wall of wreaths. We were all so pleasant about it - smiling, oooing and ahhing - when I know we all wanted to stand there and scream and then rip all the wreaths off the wall, topple the Christmas trees and break every single twinkling ornament and smiling Santa Claus in sight.
But of course we didn't. Instead I turned and walked away - back to the ornaments I had been looking at before my Mom called me over. That's where I spotted a rustic looking teddy bear angel blowing a trumpet that I decided it had to go on the wreath too. I showed it to my Mom and she agreed. I'll tie it into the bow so that it hangs down in the centre of the wreath. An angel for my angel.
I held the bear as I wandered through the nursery and out into the green house brimming full of poinsettias. The bear and I went up and down the aisles while I searched for just the right plant - and all the while I felt so utterly alone, lost in a sea of beauty. I always miss my Thomas, but some days it feels like I'm missing an arm or a leg. Or my heart.
If I live to be 100, I know I'll never be able to describe the pain of seeing my Mother - Thomas' Grandmother - hold up the wreath she wanted to buy for his grave. There was her smile, forced and yet still somehow sincere; the tears in her eyes that I tried hard not to see, and the naked desperation in her need to please me; to do something to somehow make it better for her child. It was agony.
This is one of those days that leaves me marveling at the human spirit. How do we keep going on in the face of such immense sorrow? How do we find the strength to get up each morning and live our ordinary lives anyway? How do we find the energy to keep trying to make sense of it all day in and day out?
How do we smile while buying a wreath for a baby's grave?
They didn't find a wreath they wanted, but my Mom did find one for Thomas. It had little old fashion sleds and tiny dolls made out of buttons on it. It was the only one there and it was clearly a child's wreath. My Mom called me over and asked if I liked it. When I said yes, she said she was going to buy it for Thomas.
I didn't want to cry - I wanted to lay down and die. It was the oddest sensation. I figured my Mom would buy a lot of things for Thomas this Christmas - well, once upon a time - but a wreath for his grave wasn't one of them.
It was a very surreal moment, standing there in front of that wall of wreaths. We were all so pleasant about it - smiling, oooing and ahhing - when I know we all wanted to stand there and scream and then rip all the wreaths off the wall, topple the Christmas trees and break every single twinkling ornament and smiling Santa Claus in sight.
But of course we didn't. Instead I turned and walked away - back to the ornaments I had been looking at before my Mom called me over. That's where I spotted a rustic looking teddy bear angel blowing a trumpet that I decided it had to go on the wreath too. I showed it to my Mom and she agreed. I'll tie it into the bow so that it hangs down in the centre of the wreath. An angel for my angel.
I held the bear as I wandered through the nursery and out into the green house brimming full of poinsettias. The bear and I went up and down the aisles while I searched for just the right plant - and all the while I felt so utterly alone, lost in a sea of beauty. I always miss my Thomas, but some days it feels like I'm missing an arm or a leg. Or my heart.
If I live to be 100, I know I'll never be able to describe the pain of seeing my Mother - Thomas' Grandmother - hold up the wreath she wanted to buy for his grave. There was her smile, forced and yet still somehow sincere; the tears in her eyes that I tried hard not to see, and the naked desperation in her need to please me; to do something to somehow make it better for her child. It was agony.
This is one of those days that leaves me marveling at the human spirit. How do we keep going on in the face of such immense sorrow? How do we find the strength to get up each morning and live our ordinary lives anyway? How do we find the energy to keep trying to make sense of it all day in and day out?
How do we smile while buying a wreath for a baby's grave?
Tuesday, November 22, 2005
Hold Mommy's hand
My Beloved and I just went for a very chilly walk. It's a beautiful night though - it was definitely worth the cold cheeks, chin and partly frozen thighs. There's a light snow falling and it looks so beautiful against the smattering of Christmas lights that are already up and lit for the season.
I can't believe It's November. It seems like yesterday that we were sweltering and suffering through smog day after smog day. I know I've said this before, but really and truly I have no idea where the time is going. It feels like at this rate I'll be 80 before we have dinner tomorrow night.
Anyway, as I always do when we're out walking at night, I looked at the empty space between my shadow and My Beloved's. It's Thomas' spot and I always imagine him there, snug between the two of us. I know it's nuts, but I keep thinking one day I might catch a glimpse of his little shadow too - just a whisper of it, maybe out of the corner of my eye.
It wasn't there today, but I held out my hand anyway. I saw the shadow of my mittened hand fill part of the space between us and I said in my head, "Hold mommy's hand". Then I closed mine.
And I kept on walking.
It's a stupid little ritual that only a crazy lady in mourning would do, but it keeps him close. And I don't think there's anything crazy about wanting that.
I can't believe It's November. It seems like yesterday that we were sweltering and suffering through smog day after smog day. I know I've said this before, but really and truly I have no idea where the time is going. It feels like at this rate I'll be 80 before we have dinner tomorrow night.
Anyway, as I always do when we're out walking at night, I looked at the empty space between my shadow and My Beloved's. It's Thomas' spot and I always imagine him there, snug between the two of us. I know it's nuts, but I keep thinking one day I might catch a glimpse of his little shadow too - just a whisper of it, maybe out of the corner of my eye.
It wasn't there today, but I held out my hand anyway. I saw the shadow of my mittened hand fill part of the space between us and I said in my head, "Hold mommy's hand". Then I closed mine.
And I kept on walking.
It's a stupid little ritual that only a crazy lady in mourning would do, but it keeps him close. And I don't think there's anything crazy about wanting that.
Monday, November 21, 2005
Through new eyes
I was sitting in what used to be Thomas' nursery (which is now a really cozy sitting room we love to hang out in) watching the 3D episode of Medium(not worth the hype - a good episode, but the 3D was an unnecessary gimmick) when I had a little epiphany.
It was during a commercial for an electronics store. The spot showed shiny happy people getting shiny, expensive gifts on Christmas morning - a whole family of them. They were just beaming, these lucky present-getters, at all the things they'd gotten. Each of them held up their special gift - a CD player here, a computer there - while all around them lay a frenzied mess of torn paper.
It was a typical Christmas morning scene, but it just seemed so wrong for some reason. After 35 years I think I finally get it. I mean, not that Christmas gift-giving is wrong, but the obnoxious gifting hype that pushes people into the kind of over buying that throws them into debt is wrong. It's so wrong. It has nothing whatsoever to do with Christmas.
I realize I'm not reinventing the wheel here - and I'm sure everyone who reads this will be puzzled by how slow on the uptake I am. The thing is, I knew all this, but only in theory. I've always happily gone along with the PC "it's the thought that counts" notion, but I didn't really understand it or perhaps appreciate it until now. I thought I understood it, but it took losing my son for it to truly sink in.
He was a gift. His life - all 9 months and 20 hours - was the most precious gift I could ever hope to get. Life and love - those are gifts that mean something. Life is what happened on that very first Christmas and love is the reason why.
I'm running the risk of getting extremely religious on myself. Me, of all people, the girl who still struggles almost daily with God and his strange way of giving and taking.
I'm not about to whip out my bible and start thumping away. I promise. It's just that I'm suddenly saddened by what Christmas has turned into - by the fact that so many people have forgotten what it means or why it's celebrated at all.
And I'm just as guilty as anyone else.
This year my sister-in-law suggested that instead of all the kids getting each other gifts, we do something for charity. My Beloved and I were very excited by this since we're almost pathological in our desire to find ways to do good in Thomas' honour. Today I fulfilled that promise to his family and did what she suggested. I can't talk about it just in case any of his family actually read this, but the point is it felt good. We're still buying presents for the children and for My Beloved's parents as well as for my family - it's not that I'm suggesting anyone outlaw gift giving. In fact, to be honest, I'm pretty damn excited by the fact that I suspect my Mom and Dad are getting me a KitchenAid Mixer for Christmas. It's just that shifting the focus and finding ways to do things for other people just feels really, really right now, especially at Christmas. More right than it ever has before.
I'm not asking for pats on the back. It took losing my son for me to open my eyes, but I'm so glad I am seeing things in such a different way. It's a whole new world.
As all these thoughts were rolling around in my head, I started thinking about how much I want to have another child. I mean, I've wanted that for a long time, but I really want to be able to share the gifts that Thomas has given to My Beloved and me with another child. I wonder how different his/her life might be than Thomas'. He/she will, after all, have very different parents than Thomas would have had he lived. We would have been loving parents - and good ones too - but everything is so different now and we have even more to offer another baby. I'm sure of it.
All because of Thomas.
My God, he was magic.
I hope this post doesn't sound completely obnoxious. I'm not saying giving or getting material gifts is wrong - it's right and good and special, and a tradition I will hopefully be able to pass along to our children one day. I guess I'm just saying that somehow the true meaning of Christmas snuck into my head and my heart in a way it never has before. And I'm glad.
It was during a commercial for an electronics store. The spot showed shiny happy people getting shiny, expensive gifts on Christmas morning - a whole family of them. They were just beaming, these lucky present-getters, at all the things they'd gotten. Each of them held up their special gift - a CD player here, a computer there - while all around them lay a frenzied mess of torn paper.
It was a typical Christmas morning scene, but it just seemed so wrong for some reason. After 35 years I think I finally get it. I mean, not that Christmas gift-giving is wrong, but the obnoxious gifting hype that pushes people into the kind of over buying that throws them into debt is wrong. It's so wrong. It has nothing whatsoever to do with Christmas.
I realize I'm not reinventing the wheel here - and I'm sure everyone who reads this will be puzzled by how slow on the uptake I am. The thing is, I knew all this, but only in theory. I've always happily gone along with the PC "it's the thought that counts" notion, but I didn't really understand it or perhaps appreciate it until now. I thought I understood it, but it took losing my son for it to truly sink in.
He was a gift. His life - all 9 months and 20 hours - was the most precious gift I could ever hope to get. Life and love - those are gifts that mean something. Life is what happened on that very first Christmas and love is the reason why.
I'm running the risk of getting extremely religious on myself. Me, of all people, the girl who still struggles almost daily with God and his strange way of giving and taking.
I'm not about to whip out my bible and start thumping away. I promise. It's just that I'm suddenly saddened by what Christmas has turned into - by the fact that so many people have forgotten what it means or why it's celebrated at all.
And I'm just as guilty as anyone else.
This year my sister-in-law suggested that instead of all the kids getting each other gifts, we do something for charity. My Beloved and I were very excited by this since we're almost pathological in our desire to find ways to do good in Thomas' honour. Today I fulfilled that promise to his family and did what she suggested. I can't talk about it just in case any of his family actually read this, but the point is it felt good. We're still buying presents for the children and for My Beloved's parents as well as for my family - it's not that I'm suggesting anyone outlaw gift giving. In fact, to be honest, I'm pretty damn excited by the fact that I suspect my Mom and Dad are getting me a KitchenAid Mixer for Christmas. It's just that shifting the focus and finding ways to do things for other people just feels really, really right now, especially at Christmas. More right than it ever has before.
I'm not asking for pats on the back. It took losing my son for me to open my eyes, but I'm so glad I am seeing things in such a different way. It's a whole new world.
As all these thoughts were rolling around in my head, I started thinking about how much I want to have another child. I mean, I've wanted that for a long time, but I really want to be able to share the gifts that Thomas has given to My Beloved and me with another child. I wonder how different his/her life might be than Thomas'. He/she will, after all, have very different parents than Thomas would have had he lived. We would have been loving parents - and good ones too - but everything is so different now and we have even more to offer another baby. I'm sure of it.
All because of Thomas.
My God, he was magic.
I hope this post doesn't sound completely obnoxious. I'm not saying giving or getting material gifts is wrong - it's right and good and special, and a tradition I will hopefully be able to pass along to our children one day. I guess I'm just saying that somehow the true meaning of Christmas snuck into my head and my heart in a way it never has before. And I'm glad.
Sunday, November 20, 2005
A name I'll never write
I thought I could start writing my Christmas cards, but I can't. I did two and had to quit. It's early, I know, but I like to get them all ready to go so I can drop them in the mail for the beginning of December. I've always liked to wish people a Merry Christmas while there's still time for them to actually enjoy the season before the mad rush of shopping, parties and preparation sets in.
So I got all my supplies out and ready to go - and only made it through two.
It just feels so sad. Lead weight crushing the air out of your chest, sad. Last year when I wrote our Christmas cards Thomas was just a few months away from being born and I had all the hope in the world. He was with me as I sat and wrote each card. Now he's just a memory.
Do I write about him in the cards? Do I include his picture? Do I use the cards as an opportunity to tell our dearest friends and family how much their unending support has meant to us since Thomas died?
I have no idea.
All I can think of is that his name should be on the cards. They should end with "Love K, S and Thomas". But, of course, they can't.
So I can't write them yet. Not today, anyway.
So I got all my supplies out and ready to go - and only made it through two.
It just feels so sad. Lead weight crushing the air out of your chest, sad. Last year when I wrote our Christmas cards Thomas was just a few months away from being born and I had all the hope in the world. He was with me as I sat and wrote each card. Now he's just a memory.
Do I write about him in the cards? Do I include his picture? Do I use the cards as an opportunity to tell our dearest friends and family how much their unending support has meant to us since Thomas died?
I have no idea.
All I can think of is that his name should be on the cards. They should end with "Love K, S and Thomas". But, of course, they can't.
So I can't write them yet. Not today, anyway.
Saturday, November 19, 2005
The Legacy
When I die, give what is left of me to children.
If you need to cry, cry for your brothers walking beside you.
Put your arms around anyone and give them what you need to give to me.
I want to leave you with something, something better than words or sounds.
Look for me in the people I have known and loved.
And if you cannot live without me, then let me live on in your eyes, your mind and your acts of kindness.
You can love me most by letting hands touch hands
and letting go of children that need to be free.
Love does not die, people do.
So when all that is left of me is love...
Give me away...
~ John Wayne Schlatter
If you need to cry, cry for your brothers walking beside you.
Put your arms around anyone and give them what you need to give to me.
I want to leave you with something, something better than words or sounds.
Look for me in the people I have known and loved.
And if you cannot live without me, then let me live on in your eyes, your mind and your acts of kindness.
You can love me most by letting hands touch hands
and letting go of children that need to be free.
Love does not die, people do.
So when all that is left of me is love...
Give me away...
~ John Wayne Schlatter
Thursday, November 17, 2005
Love, sorrow and goat cheese
I'm in love.
Yes, yes, I'm in love with my wonderful husband of three years, but I'm also in love with the restaurant we went to last night for our anniversary dinner. Really, I would marry it. You know, if it wasn't for my actual husband and the fact that you can't marry a place. At least not legally.
Maybe it's just because we were long overdue for a romantic night out together, or maybe it was the heady excitement of actually getting out of the house after being sick as a dog most of last week. I don't know, but whatever the case I swear I could have sat there all night being served plate after plate of rich food, each dish more fattening and decadent than the last. The wine didn't hurt either. Neither did being able to look across the table into the face of the man I love. God, it doesn't get any better than that.
I didn't want the night to end. It was blissful, and being in a state of utter bliss is now something I treasure more than gold.
Sorrow gives you that gift. It opens your eyes to the smallest pleasures that you once took for granted. Like being happy.
I'm not for a second saying that I wouldn't quite happily exchange that gift for my Thomas in a heartbeat, but since I know that's not possible, I'm glad that at least sorrow has left me something besides the scars that I know are never going to fully heal. It has given me new eyes and a softer heart. And I have no choice but to be grateful for that.
I'm also immensely grateful for Oliver's goat cheese fondue in rosemary phyllo cups with pan-seared smoked bacon bits.
OOooooooh yes, I'm VERY grateful for that.
Yes, yes, I'm in love with my wonderful husband of three years, but I'm also in love with the restaurant we went to last night for our anniversary dinner. Really, I would marry it. You know, if it wasn't for my actual husband and the fact that you can't marry a place. At least not legally.
Maybe it's just because we were long overdue for a romantic night out together, or maybe it was the heady excitement of actually getting out of the house after being sick as a dog most of last week. I don't know, but whatever the case I swear I could have sat there all night being served plate after plate of rich food, each dish more fattening and decadent than the last. The wine didn't hurt either. Neither did being able to look across the table into the face of the man I love. God, it doesn't get any better than that.
I didn't want the night to end. It was blissful, and being in a state of utter bliss is now something I treasure more than gold.
Sorrow gives you that gift. It opens your eyes to the smallest pleasures that you once took for granted. Like being happy.
I'm not for a second saying that I wouldn't quite happily exchange that gift for my Thomas in a heartbeat, but since I know that's not possible, I'm glad that at least sorrow has left me something besides the scars that I know are never going to fully heal. It has given me new eyes and a softer heart. And I have no choice but to be grateful for that.
I'm also immensely grateful for Oliver's goat cheese fondue in rosemary phyllo cups with pan-seared smoked bacon bits.
OOooooooh yes, I'm VERY grateful for that.
Wednesday, November 16, 2005
What a difference a year makes
I know people say that all the time, but now it applies in a way I never could have imagined.
It's our third anniversary today. On our first anniversary I was recovering from my first miscarriage and subsequent D&C, last year I was happily pregnant, but sick as a dog with a terrible chest cold, and today - well, today I'm neither sick nor pregnant.
I'm not totally sure what I am or, for that matter, who I am. Some days I'm so sick of me I could scream. I want to run away from this brooding, sorrowful pessimist and find the girl who once believed that if she prayed hard enough God would always answer her prayers. I used to be the girl who believed that dreams would come true just because they should. I miss her. She was an idiot, but I miss her anyway.
And I can remember last year, with that idiot of a girl, like it was yesterday. I thought, way back then, that celebrations of the future would be happy. It was inconceivable to me that they should be any other way - not with Thomas there celebrating each and every milestone right along with us. I had no idea that all future celebrations would be mixed with such extraordinary pain. I had no way of knowing what was to come and how completely it would change both me and My Beloved.
It feels like we've been married for 50 years. Our experiences have somehow accelerated this life we're living together in a way I can barely understand, let alone explain. Days are like seconds and weeks fly by so fast I can hardly keep track. Most parents never bury a child, but if they do it's usually much later in life. We packed a lifetime with our son into the 20 hours before he died. So now we're like old people, wandering aimlessly around in our sorrow while life whips past us at an alarming rate. The only difference is that we're not old and we don't have the gentle salve of memories to help soothe away some of the pain.
Instead we have each other. And sometimes when I'm lying in bed trying to sleep I'll look at My Beloved and whisper tearful thanks to God for at least giving me that. There's not much I feel thankful for these days, but I know God heard my endless prayers for someone to love and I know My Beloved was the answer to those pleas. So I owe him thanks for that at least.
But mostly I owe My Beloved for loving me so completely. For taking care of me, for sharing my burden of sorrow, for always being there, and for opening up when he needs me. He made me a Mother - he gave me my Thomas. What greater gift could I ever ask for?
It takes a great love to lose what we did and yet to still find each other in the midst of the pain. There is no greater sorrow than losing a child, but there's great joy in knowing that beneath the sorrow - and over it, under it and all through it - is a love stronger than I ever thought possible.
I couldn't have known it just a year ago. And that's the difference a year makes.
Happy Anniversary, my love.
oxoxox
It's our third anniversary today. On our first anniversary I was recovering from my first miscarriage and subsequent D&C, last year I was happily pregnant, but sick as a dog with a terrible chest cold, and today - well, today I'm neither sick nor pregnant.
I'm not totally sure what I am or, for that matter, who I am. Some days I'm so sick of me I could scream. I want to run away from this brooding, sorrowful pessimist and find the girl who once believed that if she prayed hard enough God would always answer her prayers. I used to be the girl who believed that dreams would come true just because they should. I miss her. She was an idiot, but I miss her anyway.
And I can remember last year, with that idiot of a girl, like it was yesterday. I thought, way back then, that celebrations of the future would be happy. It was inconceivable to me that they should be any other way - not with Thomas there celebrating each and every milestone right along with us. I had no idea that all future celebrations would be mixed with such extraordinary pain. I had no way of knowing what was to come and how completely it would change both me and My Beloved.
It feels like we've been married for 50 years. Our experiences have somehow accelerated this life we're living together in a way I can barely understand, let alone explain. Days are like seconds and weeks fly by so fast I can hardly keep track. Most parents never bury a child, but if they do it's usually much later in life. We packed a lifetime with our son into the 20 hours before he died. So now we're like old people, wandering aimlessly around in our sorrow while life whips past us at an alarming rate. The only difference is that we're not old and we don't have the gentle salve of memories to help soothe away some of the pain.
Instead we have each other. And sometimes when I'm lying in bed trying to sleep I'll look at My Beloved and whisper tearful thanks to God for at least giving me that. There's not much I feel thankful for these days, but I know God heard my endless prayers for someone to love and I know My Beloved was the answer to those pleas. So I owe him thanks for that at least.
But mostly I owe My Beloved for loving me so completely. For taking care of me, for sharing my burden of sorrow, for always being there, and for opening up when he needs me. He made me a Mother - he gave me my Thomas. What greater gift could I ever ask for?
It takes a great love to lose what we did and yet to still find each other in the midst of the pain. There is no greater sorrow than losing a child, but there's great joy in knowing that beneath the sorrow - and over it, under it and all through it - is a love stronger than I ever thought possible.
I couldn't have known it just a year ago. And that's the difference a year makes.
Happy Anniversary, my love.
oxoxox
Monday, November 14, 2005
My own version of the rules
These last few days I've been thinking a lot about "the rules" of dealing with someone who is grieving a child. I keep reading about what to do and what not to do in bereavement materials and in the blogs of my sisters in sorrow, but then it occurs to me that, for the most part, the only people reading what I'm reading are people in my situation - people who already know what to do - or at least what they hope against hope other people will do.
I don't know if me writing my own version of the rules will help anyone or not, but if I had a penny for every person who said "I don't know what to say" or "I don't know what to do" I'd be a rich woman right now. So I'm going to give it a shot.
I hope this doesn't offend anyone. I would like to state for the record that I know my family and friends have done their best - I know they've tried hard to say and do everything right. I will never, ever fault anyone for doing the only thing they knew how to do, and for doing it with love.
But since I've been asked, it must not always be clear what I need. Or what anyone who has lost a child needs. So maybe this will help...
1. Don't ask me what you can do. Just do something. Some days it takes all the energy I have just to make it through the day, don't ask me to spell out what I need you to do for me. Try really hard to figure it out on your own. Even if you're wrong I'll know you tried and I'll love you for it.
2. Don't worry that Talking about my baby is going to make me sad. NOT talking about my baby is what makes me sad. Having to pretend that he didn't exist makes me sad. As a mother, knowing that his mere existence makes people sad just about kills me, so please acknowledge him when it makes sense to - and maybe even when it doesn't. He isn't here anymore - I don't have those day-to-day joys of seeing my son - so talking about him is what helps me make him part of my life. It makes him real.
3. Don't leave me alone in my sorrow. E-mail me. Call me. Send me a little note. Don't wait for me - I might not be able to reach out to you under the weight of my sorrow. Let me know you're there if I need you, but check in on me now and then too.
4. I will grieve for my son for the rest of my life. Don't tell me time will ease the pain. Maybe it will, but unless you've been in my shoes and you know for sure, your reassurances mean nothing to me. Tell me you hope time will heal, not that you know it will.
5. Don't think that you can't mention his name during the holidays. It's not like I'll forget he isn't here if no one whispers his name. I don't want to think that you've forgotten him, so please talk about him - tell me you miss him too.
6. Don't keep your children from me. Children have a way of healing a wounded heart and seeing them brings me hope and comfort. If I can't be around your children I'll let you know in my own way.
7. Don't tell me that you know someone who had the very same thing happen to them and that they ended up having more children. The same thing didn't happen to them - they didn't lose my son. Stories about happy endings don't necessarily make me happier - they just make me long for something else I don't have.
8. People worry about what to say (particularly immediately after) but trust me, all you need to say is "I'm sorry" and "I'm thinking of you."
10. Donations to a charity in our son's name mean the world to us. We will search for meaning in the loss of our child until we take our own last breaths, and knowing that other people will be helped in some way because of the impact our son had on your life helps more than you know.
11. Ask me about my son, about how I'm feeling, about how things are going - I want to talk. Being asked gives me permission to talk about things that I keep inside for fear of making other people sad.
12. Don't be afraid to cry in front of me. I know this isn't my sorrow alone. I know you're grieving too.
I'm sure more things will come to me, but I think this is a pretty thorough list.
I hope no one ever has to rely on it ever again. For anyone.
I don't know if me writing my own version of the rules will help anyone or not, but if I had a penny for every person who said "I don't know what to say" or "I don't know what to do" I'd be a rich woman right now. So I'm going to give it a shot.
I hope this doesn't offend anyone. I would like to state for the record that I know my family and friends have done their best - I know they've tried hard to say and do everything right. I will never, ever fault anyone for doing the only thing they knew how to do, and for doing it with love.
But since I've been asked, it must not always be clear what I need. Or what anyone who has lost a child needs. So maybe this will help...
1. Don't ask me what you can do. Just do something. Some days it takes all the energy I have just to make it through the day, don't ask me to spell out what I need you to do for me. Try really hard to figure it out on your own. Even if you're wrong I'll know you tried and I'll love you for it.
2. Don't worry that Talking about my baby is going to make me sad. NOT talking about my baby is what makes me sad. Having to pretend that he didn't exist makes me sad. As a mother, knowing that his mere existence makes people sad just about kills me, so please acknowledge him when it makes sense to - and maybe even when it doesn't. He isn't here anymore - I don't have those day-to-day joys of seeing my son - so talking about him is what helps me make him part of my life. It makes him real.
3. Don't leave me alone in my sorrow. E-mail me. Call me. Send me a little note. Don't wait for me - I might not be able to reach out to you under the weight of my sorrow. Let me know you're there if I need you, but check in on me now and then too.
4. I will grieve for my son for the rest of my life. Don't tell me time will ease the pain. Maybe it will, but unless you've been in my shoes and you know for sure, your reassurances mean nothing to me. Tell me you hope time will heal, not that you know it will.
5. Don't think that you can't mention his name during the holidays. It's not like I'll forget he isn't here if no one whispers his name. I don't want to think that you've forgotten him, so please talk about him - tell me you miss him too.
6. Don't keep your children from me. Children have a way of healing a wounded heart and seeing them brings me hope and comfort. If I can't be around your children I'll let you know in my own way.
7. Don't tell me that you know someone who had the very same thing happen to them and that they ended up having more children. The same thing didn't happen to them - they didn't lose my son. Stories about happy endings don't necessarily make me happier - they just make me long for something else I don't have.
8. People worry about what to say (particularly immediately after) but trust me, all you need to say is "I'm sorry" and "I'm thinking of you."
10. Donations to a charity in our son's name mean the world to us. We will search for meaning in the loss of our child until we take our own last breaths, and knowing that other people will be helped in some way because of the impact our son had on your life helps more than you know.
11. Ask me about my son, about how I'm feeling, about how things are going - I want to talk. Being asked gives me permission to talk about things that I keep inside for fear of making other people sad.
12. Don't be afraid to cry in front of me. I know this isn't my sorrow alone. I know you're grieving too.
I'm sure more things will come to me, but I think this is a pretty thorough list.
I hope no one ever has to rely on it ever again. For anyone.
Sunday, November 13, 2005
The open window
My Beloved and I were just out on our deck, surveying our childless kingdom in all its depressing fall glory, when I noticed something. The people behind us - the ones whom we almost never see and know nothing about, the ones who always have their blinds and curtains firmly closed to the outside world - have a crib. Today one window was radiant in its curtainless glory and just beyond that window is the unmistakable end rail of a crib.
Fan-fucking-tastic.
A couple moved into the house two doors down from them a few months ago, and they're having a baby too. I confirmed my suspicion the other day when I saw the mommy and her unmistakable bump wandering around their backyard. It was most certainly not a little extra weight, as I'd been wondering for weeks.
I've had a few months' respite from pregnant bellies and newborn babies since the last of the previous round of pregnant women gave birth in September, but it's starting again. So now I can look forward to a winter of wondering when the next time I'll catch sight of a bulging belly will be.
Fan-fucking-tastic.
I am genuinely happy for both of these women, I really am. A baby is the most precious thing in the whole world.
That's why seeing the crib just about killed me.
Fan-fucking-tastic.
A couple moved into the house two doors down from them a few months ago, and they're having a baby too. I confirmed my suspicion the other day when I saw the mommy and her unmistakable bump wandering around their backyard. It was most certainly not a little extra weight, as I'd been wondering for weeks.
I've had a few months' respite from pregnant bellies and newborn babies since the last of the previous round of pregnant women gave birth in September, but it's starting again. So now I can look forward to a winter of wondering when the next time I'll catch sight of a bulging belly will be.
Fan-fucking-tastic.
I am genuinely happy for both of these women, I really am. A baby is the most precious thing in the whole world.
That's why seeing the crib just about killed me.
Saturday, November 12, 2005
Thomas
This is my Thomas. My Beloved doesn't like to share him - doesn't feel the same need I do to have people see him or know him - but if I could, I'd show the whole world what a beautiful little boy we made. I know in a way he's right; Thomas was just for us. He only lived in me and only My Beloved and I really knew him, but as much as I "get" that, I hate it too. He should be part of this world, and just because he's not doesn't mean he should stay hidden from view. Not my boy.
So here he is. This is my son.
So here he is. This is my son.
Catching up
A co-worker/friend I haven't heard from in 10 years called me yesterday. Well, she called my Mom and Dad's house (where I was living 10 years ago) to try to find me, and my Mom called me with her contact information.
My first reaction was excitement because I always really liked this girl. She was irreverent, sarcastic, funny and very nice, and we used to have a good time hanging out at lunch and on breaks. But then she got laid off and moved away and we lost touch. I tried to track her down once, but never did make contact.
I figured she was lost for good - one of those people you end up thinking about every now and then, hoping they're doing well but assuming you'll never know for sure.
But she's back. She actually lives in my town now, and she wants to get in touch with me.
My first reaction was excitement, but now I'm hesitant. She doesn't know anything about my life - she doesn't even know I'm married - and so she certainly doesn't know about Thomas. I don't know if it's fair to suck this perfectly happy person into my vortex of sorrow. I don't know if I can do that to her.
She'll be getting a lot more than I bet she bargained for if I pick up that phone. At the very least I'll ruin her day. She'll hang up the phone, look at her two beautiful kids (maybe more by now) and feel sick to her stomach. She'll try to put herself in my shoes even though she knows she can't, and she'll feel sorry for me and My Beloved. She'll want to do something but she won't know what and she'll agonize over every word she said after I dropped the bombshell, hoping that all the right things magically came out of her mouth. She'll tell her husband and the two of them will talk about how they don't know what they'd do if it ever happened to them, and they'll agree that they're incredibly lucky. They'll feel blessed, but sad at the same time. They'll have that "feeling" that they won't be able to shake - the one you have when you hear the worst news possible - and it will hang over them like a shroud.
I've done this before. I know.
So is it fair to do this to her? I don't know. I don't want to ignore her, but I don't know if I feel right about bursting back into her life and dragging my trunk full of sorrow with me. I'd love to talk to her again, and it's so great that she lives in my town - we could meet for coffee and really catch up - but I don't know.
I sure ain't the girl I used to be.
My first reaction was excitement because I always really liked this girl. She was irreverent, sarcastic, funny and very nice, and we used to have a good time hanging out at lunch and on breaks. But then she got laid off and moved away and we lost touch. I tried to track her down once, but never did make contact.
I figured she was lost for good - one of those people you end up thinking about every now and then, hoping they're doing well but assuming you'll never know for sure.
But she's back. She actually lives in my town now, and she wants to get in touch with me.
My first reaction was excitement, but now I'm hesitant. She doesn't know anything about my life - she doesn't even know I'm married - and so she certainly doesn't know about Thomas. I don't know if it's fair to suck this perfectly happy person into my vortex of sorrow. I don't know if I can do that to her.
She'll be getting a lot more than I bet she bargained for if I pick up that phone. At the very least I'll ruin her day. She'll hang up the phone, look at her two beautiful kids (maybe more by now) and feel sick to her stomach. She'll try to put herself in my shoes even though she knows she can't, and she'll feel sorry for me and My Beloved. She'll want to do something but she won't know what and she'll agonize over every word she said after I dropped the bombshell, hoping that all the right things magically came out of her mouth. She'll tell her husband and the two of them will talk about how they don't know what they'd do if it ever happened to them, and they'll agree that they're incredibly lucky. They'll feel blessed, but sad at the same time. They'll have that "feeling" that they won't be able to shake - the one you have when you hear the worst news possible - and it will hang over them like a shroud.
I've done this before. I know.
So is it fair to do this to her? I don't know. I don't want to ignore her, but I don't know if I feel right about bursting back into her life and dragging my trunk full of sorrow with me. I'd love to talk to her again, and it's so great that she lives in my town - we could meet for coffee and really catch up - but I don't know.
I sure ain't the girl I used to be.
Friday, November 11, 2005
Christmas is coming...
I'm a little afraid of a meltdown under the mistletoe.
So far Christmas looming on the frosty horizon isn't freaking me out too much, but it's still early. The carols have only just started to play in the stores and there are but a handful of early birds with their outdoor light displays in full electric bloom. There's still lots of time to feel suffocated by the joy of the season.
So I'm trying to make the most of it while I can. Before the rum-laced egg nog induced sobbing I see in my not-so-distant future begins.
I'm trying to do things differently this year too. It started out quite unconsciously with my desire to have two trees and to unwrap presents in the family room instead of the living room where we've done it for three Christmases - ever since we got married and moved into the house. Once I got hold of the idea of doing things a little differently than we would have if Thomas was here, I've been running with it.
So two trees instead of one, different coloured lights outside and a casual little Christmas tea for our immediate families early in December. That's what I've got planned for this year so far.
I don't know if ultimately it's going to be enough to keep the sorrow at bay - and maybe it's not even a good idea to try - but for now it's keeping me humming along on a nice, even keel. And my God, that's a minor miracle at the best of times.
I'm sure that Christmas Eve will be hard. I know I'll ache to tuck Thomas in and read him The Grinch just like My Beloved did last Christmas Eve when Thomas was still safely in my belly, and I know the house will be unbearably quiet on Christmas morning with just the sounds of paper crinkling instead of our sweet baby babbling. I know we'll take far less pictures than we would have and I know the faces of our families will be strained as they deal with their own sorrow while trying to imagine the depth of ours.
I know I'll cry enough tears to keep the tree watered for a week. Maybe more. And I know I'll do it quietly when no one but My Beloved is around to hear.
When I finally lay my head down to sleep on Christmas night, I won't miss my Thomas more than I already do - or more than I have in the 9 months it'll have been since he left us - I'll miss him the same as I always do and hurt as much as I always have.
It'll just seem worse.
So far Christmas looming on the frosty horizon isn't freaking me out too much, but it's still early. The carols have only just started to play in the stores and there are but a handful of early birds with their outdoor light displays in full electric bloom. There's still lots of time to feel suffocated by the joy of the season.
So I'm trying to make the most of it while I can. Before the rum-laced egg nog induced sobbing I see in my not-so-distant future begins.
I'm trying to do things differently this year too. It started out quite unconsciously with my desire to have two trees and to unwrap presents in the family room instead of the living room where we've done it for three Christmases - ever since we got married and moved into the house. Once I got hold of the idea of doing things a little differently than we would have if Thomas was here, I've been running with it.
So two trees instead of one, different coloured lights outside and a casual little Christmas tea for our immediate families early in December. That's what I've got planned for this year so far.
I don't know if ultimately it's going to be enough to keep the sorrow at bay - and maybe it's not even a good idea to try - but for now it's keeping me humming along on a nice, even keel. And my God, that's a minor miracle at the best of times.
I'm sure that Christmas Eve will be hard. I know I'll ache to tuck Thomas in and read him The Grinch just like My Beloved did last Christmas Eve when Thomas was still safely in my belly, and I know the house will be unbearably quiet on Christmas morning with just the sounds of paper crinkling instead of our sweet baby babbling. I know we'll take far less pictures than we would have and I know the faces of our families will be strained as they deal with their own sorrow while trying to imagine the depth of ours.
I know I'll cry enough tears to keep the tree watered for a week. Maybe more. And I know I'll do it quietly when no one but My Beloved is around to hear.
When I finally lay my head down to sleep on Christmas night, I won't miss my Thomas more than I already do - or more than I have in the 9 months it'll have been since he left us - I'll miss him the same as I always do and hurt as much as I always have.
It'll just seem worse.
Thursday, November 10, 2005
A little visitor
I think I've made it to the other side of my cold. My fever broke in the night and the Robitussin has kicked in and is slowly but surely loosening the gunk in my chest. I'm still not feeling all that great, but I feel a lot better than yesterday.
It's funny, I have a vague sense that I had a visit from Thomas in the night. For some reason I feel so close to him - that closeness you have when someone who has gone visits you in a dream.
I had a really odd dream and I don't remember him being in it, but I'm sure he visited me just the same. I was chatting with him last night before bed, telling him to be near me and help me because I was feeling so horrific and, embarrassingly enough, feeling scared. That was the first fever I've had since the blood infection in the hospital, and that, coupled with the chest congestion that was making breathing difficult, was scaring me.
I guess he heard me. I feel such a sweetness and warmth around me right now, and I know it's him. It makes me so happy to feel him the way I do and to know that he's there when I need him.
I should be the one soothing his fears and caring for him when he's sick - but this, well, this is nice too.
It's funny, I have a vague sense that I had a visit from Thomas in the night. For some reason I feel so close to him - that closeness you have when someone who has gone visits you in a dream.
I had a really odd dream and I don't remember him being in it, but I'm sure he visited me just the same. I was chatting with him last night before bed, telling him to be near me and help me because I was feeling so horrific and, embarrassingly enough, feeling scared. That was the first fever I've had since the blood infection in the hospital, and that, coupled with the chest congestion that was making breathing difficult, was scaring me.
I guess he heard me. I feel such a sweetness and warmth around me right now, and I know it's him. It makes me so happy to feel him the way I do and to know that he's there when I need him.
I should be the one soothing his fears and caring for him when he's sick - but this, well, this is nice too.
Tuesday, November 08, 2005
Sick and tired
I'm sick and sad today. I have a cold - a real one this time, not allergies posing as a cold like last time - and I think not feeling well has drained my mental energy reserves.
I'm sad. I miss my boy.
I can't help anyone else today. Don't ask me to. I can't do it. I'm tired and sick and sad and I just don't have anything left in the tank.
Today I'd like to put my fist through a wall. The tenuous peace I can usually find seems to have escaped my grasp and I don't even know where to look for it.
Thomas would have been eight months old tomorrow.
I have absolutely no idea what an 8 month old baby does. I assume he'd be crawling, maybe even standing. I know he'd be smiling and laughing and trying to make the first recognizable words come out of that precious little mouth. He'd have outgrown all the little newborn clothes we had for him and he'd be wearing the little blue baseball outfit I bought last winter. He'd be getting spoiled by his grandparents and particularly by his Auntie K. And he'd be the centre of our world.
This is one of those days when I have absolutely no idea how I keep going on. I get up, I live, I work, I laugh, I love and I do it all without Thomas. I will always do it all without Thomas.
I have no idea how.
I'm sad. I miss my boy.
I can't help anyone else today. Don't ask me to. I can't do it. I'm tired and sick and sad and I just don't have anything left in the tank.
Today I'd like to put my fist through a wall. The tenuous peace I can usually find seems to have escaped my grasp and I don't even know where to look for it.
Thomas would have been eight months old tomorrow.
I have absolutely no idea what an 8 month old baby does. I assume he'd be crawling, maybe even standing. I know he'd be smiling and laughing and trying to make the first recognizable words come out of that precious little mouth. He'd have outgrown all the little newborn clothes we had for him and he'd be wearing the little blue baseball outfit I bought last winter. He'd be getting spoiled by his grandparents and particularly by his Auntie K. And he'd be the centre of our world.
This is one of those days when I have absolutely no idea how I keep going on. I get up, I live, I work, I laugh, I love and I do it all without Thomas. I will always do it all without Thomas.
I have no idea how.
Sunday, November 06, 2005
Horror movies
I think about Thomas every day. He's always sitting there in the back of my mind, and thoughts of him float freely to my consciousness with comforting regularity. Most of the time the thoughts are quick and gentle - they're no longer always desperately sad. But sometimes the thoughts are intense, and not gentle at all.
For some reason my brain takes me back to a particular moment and plays out the memory like a movie - word for word, just as it happened. These movies start playing without any warning - I'll be in the shower and suddenly I'm transported back to the birthing suite, or I'll be washing dishes and the next thing I know I'm at Thomas' funeral. They're always jarring, these daymares of mine.
I usually end up with an ache in my stomach and that empty, gnawing feeling of desperation because I know what's going to happen next and I can't do a thing to change it. No matter how many times I play the movies in my head they always end the same way. And the worst part of these movies is that they're true. They're real. They happened to me, to My Beloved and to our precious little boy.
It's just so frustrating. I can finally think about Thomas without automatically remembering the complete horror of his birth and death, but for some reason I still can't let go of that horror completely. I take myself right back into that terrible darkness and confusion when I let those movies play out in my head.
But I can't stop them from coming.
My last OB appointment, the induction, laying on the couch timing contractions, waiting for the birthing suite, My Beloved plugging the toilet, having my water broken, getting the epidural, the fitful three hours of sleep, being told it was time to push, the increasing pain, three hours of pushing, begging the nurse to let me stop, the OB giving me the option of continuing or having a C-section, being prepped for surgery, falling in and out of sleep during the delivery, waiting for them to show me my son, hearing them bagging him but not knowing what the horrible squeaking sound was, seeing the backs of what felt like a hundred people as they tried desperately to revive him, asking anyone who would listen what was wrong with my baby, praying desperately for God not to take my son, waking up in the recovery room, being told he had a 1% chance of survival, telling a nurse I didn't want to pray with her, not being able to look into My Beloved's eyes, calling my Mother to ask her if she thought taking him off life support was the right thing to do, sobbing, asking My Beloved if he believed Thomas would go to heaven, seeing him for the first time before being taken to my room, marveling at his beauty, feeling the warmth and softness of his tiny head underneath my hand, holding him while we waited for him to die...
I don't think about these things all the time. I couldn't possibly or I'd go insane. I take the good parts - the sweetness of his little face, the weight of him in my arms - and I change them into memories that are somehow not connected to the horror of those two days in March. That's what I do most of the time. And that's how I survive.
I'm startled by the movies when they happen, but I'm just as afraid to have them stop altogether, to be honest. What would I do then? My memories are doctored up as it is, if I lose the real ones I'll have nothing. So right now this is working for me, I suppose. I'll just have to accept the jarring nature of the movies when they start playing and know that once they're over I can go back to the way I've become accustomed to living - with the sweet thoughts of my baby instead of terrifying ones.
I never in a million years would have dreamed I'd have the mental energy for all of this, but somehow you do what you have to do. I want to remember Thomas - I want to remember everything about him - but I don't want to be sad all the time.
So this works. It's a roller coaster, but it works. And since I can't get off this ride anyway there's nothing to be done but make the best of it.
For some reason my brain takes me back to a particular moment and plays out the memory like a movie - word for word, just as it happened. These movies start playing without any warning - I'll be in the shower and suddenly I'm transported back to the birthing suite, or I'll be washing dishes and the next thing I know I'm at Thomas' funeral. They're always jarring, these daymares of mine.
I usually end up with an ache in my stomach and that empty, gnawing feeling of desperation because I know what's going to happen next and I can't do a thing to change it. No matter how many times I play the movies in my head they always end the same way. And the worst part of these movies is that they're true. They're real. They happened to me, to My Beloved and to our precious little boy.
It's just so frustrating. I can finally think about Thomas without automatically remembering the complete horror of his birth and death, but for some reason I still can't let go of that horror completely. I take myself right back into that terrible darkness and confusion when I let those movies play out in my head.
But I can't stop them from coming.
My last OB appointment, the induction, laying on the couch timing contractions, waiting for the birthing suite, My Beloved plugging the toilet, having my water broken, getting the epidural, the fitful three hours of sleep, being told it was time to push, the increasing pain, three hours of pushing, begging the nurse to let me stop, the OB giving me the option of continuing or having a C-section, being prepped for surgery, falling in and out of sleep during the delivery, waiting for them to show me my son, hearing them bagging him but not knowing what the horrible squeaking sound was, seeing the backs of what felt like a hundred people as they tried desperately to revive him, asking anyone who would listen what was wrong with my baby, praying desperately for God not to take my son, waking up in the recovery room, being told he had a 1% chance of survival, telling a nurse I didn't want to pray with her, not being able to look into My Beloved's eyes, calling my Mother to ask her if she thought taking him off life support was the right thing to do, sobbing, asking My Beloved if he believed Thomas would go to heaven, seeing him for the first time before being taken to my room, marveling at his beauty, feeling the warmth and softness of his tiny head underneath my hand, holding him while we waited for him to die...
I don't think about these things all the time. I couldn't possibly or I'd go insane. I take the good parts - the sweetness of his little face, the weight of him in my arms - and I change them into memories that are somehow not connected to the horror of those two days in March. That's what I do most of the time. And that's how I survive.
I'm startled by the movies when they happen, but I'm just as afraid to have them stop altogether, to be honest. What would I do then? My memories are doctored up as it is, if I lose the real ones I'll have nothing. So right now this is working for me, I suppose. I'll just have to accept the jarring nature of the movies when they start playing and know that once they're over I can go back to the way I've become accustomed to living - with the sweet thoughts of my baby instead of terrifying ones.
I never in a million years would have dreamed I'd have the mental energy for all of this, but somehow you do what you have to do. I want to remember Thomas - I want to remember everything about him - but I don't want to be sad all the time.
So this works. It's a roller coaster, but it works. And since I can't get off this ride anyway there's nothing to be done but make the best of it.
Friday, November 04, 2005
Everything happens for a reason
So the hairdresser did a good job. Well, she cut my hair about two inches shorter than I asked her to, but she did a good job dealing with the news about Thomas.
She froze, of course, and then said how sorry she was. What followed was a horrible, awkward silence that rang in my ears like a 15 ton church bell. So I broke it by saying, "But he was very cute - we did a really good job."
Her reply was sweet. She said, "Well, at least you got a chance to meet him." Which sounds trite, but wasn't. Honest. She said it with such feeling, and I know what she meant - we are blessed to have met him and to have had him in our lives for as long as we did.
She did sort of blow it a little when she told me that everything happens for a reason though. I wanted so much to ask her what reason she thought there could possibly be for a baby dying after just 20 hours of machine-assisted life, but I didn't. I know what she meant - and I too believe everything that happens is meant to happen. I just don't know why it does. I told her that a lot of good has come from his death and that My Beloved and I have been changed so much by his presence in our lives - and it's all true, I'm just not at the point where I necessarily believe that his dying had a more positive impact on the world than his living would have.
I don't think I'll ever be there.
Anyway, I feel better. I've avoided telling people in person all this time because My Beloved or our families were always the ones who had to spread the news face to face. I always managed not to be there somehow. So I feel a big sense of relief knowing that I don't have to do it for the first time - it's already done, and I know I can do it again if I have to.
But I hope I don't have to. Seeing my sorrow reflected back in the faces of strangers is something I'll never, ever get used to.
She froze, of course, and then said how sorry she was. What followed was a horrible, awkward silence that rang in my ears like a 15 ton church bell. So I broke it by saying, "But he was very cute - we did a really good job."
Her reply was sweet. She said, "Well, at least you got a chance to meet him." Which sounds trite, but wasn't. Honest. She said it with such feeling, and I know what she meant - we are blessed to have met him and to have had him in our lives for as long as we did.
She did sort of blow it a little when she told me that everything happens for a reason though. I wanted so much to ask her what reason she thought there could possibly be for a baby dying after just 20 hours of machine-assisted life, but I didn't. I know what she meant - and I too believe everything that happens is meant to happen. I just don't know why it does. I told her that a lot of good has come from his death and that My Beloved and I have been changed so much by his presence in our lives - and it's all true, I'm just not at the point where I necessarily believe that his dying had a more positive impact on the world than his living would have.
I don't think I'll ever be there.
Anyway, I feel better. I've avoided telling people in person all this time because My Beloved or our families were always the ones who had to spread the news face to face. I always managed not to be there somehow. So I feel a big sense of relief knowing that I don't have to do it for the first time - it's already done, and I know I can do it again if I have to.
But I hope I don't have to. Seeing my sorrow reflected back in the faces of strangers is something I'll never, ever get used to.
Wednesday, November 02, 2005
"Do you have any little ones at home?"
That was the question I was dreading.
I went to the dentist today - a new one I've only been to once before almost two years ago (yes, I was long overdue) - and I knew somehow the question would get asked.
I thought about it a lot beforehand and already knew that if anyone asked, I'd tell them about my Thomas. Today I just didn't have it in me to deny that he existed. Some days it's much easier to say "no" or "not yet" and leave it at that, but I couldn't do that to either of us today for some reason. Actually right now I'm not sure I'll ever be able to say no again. Talking about Thomas - telling someone that he existed - felt very, very good.
Anyway, typically, the hygienist asked while she had both hands and two tools in my mouth. I have no idea why dentists and hygienists do that. A friend of mine who has a hearing impaired sister-in-law taught me the alphabet in sign language, so if my hygienest happened to be fluent I could have spelled out my answers. But I sagely assumed she wasn't.
Once she removed all the foreign objects from my mouth I spluttered, "Well, we had a baby in March but he died after 20 hours", through a mouthful of bloody spit and tooth debris.
She gasped and whispered an apology while I tried vainly to articulate through body language and hand gestures that I wanted to spit before saying anything more, but before I knew it I had a suction and both her hands in my mouth again.
She filled the awkward silence with nervous blather about how long my eyelashes are. She complimented me on both their length and thickness, and she told me how much she envied me for having such nice eyelashes.
I have a dead son, but damn fine eyelashes. Enviable ones, even.
Yup. I'm a lucky girl.
I know she did her best. I know it's shockingly horrible news to hear and certainly not the answer you expect when you ask if someone has children. She was kind and she didn't ask any prying questions, even though I was prepared to answer them and was almost hoping I'd get a chance to say more - to talk about my Thomas to someone who doesn't know our story and has no idea what a beautiful little thing he was.
But she played it safe, as I'm sure I would have if I was in her shoes, and so all she knows is that he was born and died in less than a day. And, of course, that I have stunning lashes.
That's certainly one for the books. Now I'm kind of interested to hear what my hair dresser will have to say when I see her for the first time tomorrow.
I'll keep you posted.
I went to the dentist today - a new one I've only been to once before almost two years ago (yes, I was long overdue) - and I knew somehow the question would get asked.
I thought about it a lot beforehand and already knew that if anyone asked, I'd tell them about my Thomas. Today I just didn't have it in me to deny that he existed. Some days it's much easier to say "no" or "not yet" and leave it at that, but I couldn't do that to either of us today for some reason. Actually right now I'm not sure I'll ever be able to say no again. Talking about Thomas - telling someone that he existed - felt very, very good.
Anyway, typically, the hygienist asked while she had both hands and two tools in my mouth. I have no idea why dentists and hygienists do that. A friend of mine who has a hearing impaired sister-in-law taught me the alphabet in sign language, so if my hygienest happened to be fluent I could have spelled out my answers. But I sagely assumed she wasn't.
Once she removed all the foreign objects from my mouth I spluttered, "Well, we had a baby in March but he died after 20 hours", through a mouthful of bloody spit and tooth debris.
She gasped and whispered an apology while I tried vainly to articulate through body language and hand gestures that I wanted to spit before saying anything more, but before I knew it I had a suction and both her hands in my mouth again.
She filled the awkward silence with nervous blather about how long my eyelashes are. She complimented me on both their length and thickness, and she told me how much she envied me for having such nice eyelashes.
I have a dead son, but damn fine eyelashes. Enviable ones, even.
Yup. I'm a lucky girl.
I know she did her best. I know it's shockingly horrible news to hear and certainly not the answer you expect when you ask if someone has children. She was kind and she didn't ask any prying questions, even though I was prepared to answer them and was almost hoping I'd get a chance to say more - to talk about my Thomas to someone who doesn't know our story and has no idea what a beautiful little thing he was.
But she played it safe, as I'm sure I would have if I was in her shoes, and so all she knows is that he was born and died in less than a day. And, of course, that I have stunning lashes.
That's certainly one for the books. Now I'm kind of interested to hear what my hair dresser will have to say when I see her for the first time tomorrow.
I'll keep you posted.
Tuesday, November 01, 2005
A slice of life. With a glass of sour milk.
There are just some days better spent in bed, I think. I have yet to do that, but at the end of some of the more miserable days I really do wonder if it might have been happier and safer for all if I'd just pulled the covers up over my head and snoozed the day away.
Take today, for example. My Beloved and I had planned to go to the All Saints' Day Mass at my church tonight, but as the hour drew closer I started feeling claustrophobic about it. On the one hand I thought I might get some answers I've been searching for since Thomas died, and I was also really warmed by the idea of My Beloved and I going together - as Thomas' parents, united in our love and grief.
But on the other hand, I thought it might end up being a sad and depressing way to spend the evening and I wasn't sure I wanted to take that chance. Not tonight, especially not when I saw the sadness on My Beloved's face when he walked in the door.
Today was a hard day for him. I've had a million of those, it seems, so I knew how much he needed the comfort of home and our safe, evening routine. I knew he didn't need to sit in a church and be forced to feel what he doesn't want to feel today.
So we didn't go. I made a nice dinner and then afterwards I told him I thought we needed apple pie. It felt like a really nice, cozy thing to do. I imagined the house smelling all wonderful and cinnamon spiced, and I pictured us eating our steaming apple treat all curled up on the couch in front of the TV.
But it's me. And it's one of those days. So what did I do? I made a big, fat, juicy, rancid apple pie.
Just so you know, shortening does, in fact, go bad.
My Beloved was very kind about it all. He said, "It's okay - I don't need pie. Really, I didn't ask for pie so it's okay." But I knew he was disappointed. He scavenged a few meager treats to satisfy the sweet tooth that had been anticipating apple pie, but I know it wasn't all that satisfying.
Stupid rancid shortening.
Stupid daylight savings that's making the nights come faster.
Stupid life that dealt us this horrible blow.
Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
Ugh, and on top of it all my hair smells like rancid pie. It's baked right in. What a perfect end to a perfectly rotten sort of day.
Take today, for example. My Beloved and I had planned to go to the All Saints' Day Mass at my church tonight, but as the hour drew closer I started feeling claustrophobic about it. On the one hand I thought I might get some answers I've been searching for since Thomas died, and I was also really warmed by the idea of My Beloved and I going together - as Thomas' parents, united in our love and grief.
But on the other hand, I thought it might end up being a sad and depressing way to spend the evening and I wasn't sure I wanted to take that chance. Not tonight, especially not when I saw the sadness on My Beloved's face when he walked in the door.
Today was a hard day for him. I've had a million of those, it seems, so I knew how much he needed the comfort of home and our safe, evening routine. I knew he didn't need to sit in a church and be forced to feel what he doesn't want to feel today.
So we didn't go. I made a nice dinner and then afterwards I told him I thought we needed apple pie. It felt like a really nice, cozy thing to do. I imagined the house smelling all wonderful and cinnamon spiced, and I pictured us eating our steaming apple treat all curled up on the couch in front of the TV.
But it's me. And it's one of those days. So what did I do? I made a big, fat, juicy, rancid apple pie.
Just so you know, shortening does, in fact, go bad.
My Beloved was very kind about it all. He said, "It's okay - I don't need pie. Really, I didn't ask for pie so it's okay." But I knew he was disappointed. He scavenged a few meager treats to satisfy the sweet tooth that had been anticipating apple pie, but I know it wasn't all that satisfying.
Stupid rancid shortening.
Stupid daylight savings that's making the nights come faster.
Stupid life that dealt us this horrible blow.
Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
Ugh, and on top of it all my hair smells like rancid pie. It's baked right in. What a perfect end to a perfectly rotten sort of day.
Monday, October 31, 2005
If he was here
I've been trying very hard not to think about the little Old Navy Halloween sleeper that's tucked away with all of Thomas' things in the basement. It had a little ghost on the front of the long sleeved t-shirt, and brown, orange and black striped velour leggings. He would have worn it today, whenever he wasn't wearing whatever adorable little costume we'd have bought for him.
I've been trying hard not to think about it, but of course it's all I can think about. I guess this is the first day since he died that I know what, out of all of the cute little things we had for him, he would have most certainly been wearing.
It's a hard, strange day because I know what Thomas would have had on today if he was here.
I hate "if".
But at least my Today's Parent subscription has finally ended. I got the notice today, which means we won't be getting any more issues in the mail, thank GOD.
I hate "if" and I'm not really liking today, but I love that that blasted subscription is finally done.
I've been trying hard not to think about it, but of course it's all I can think about. I guess this is the first day since he died that I know what, out of all of the cute little things we had for him, he would have most certainly been wearing.
It's a hard, strange day because I know what Thomas would have had on today if he was here.
I hate "if".
But at least my Today's Parent subscription has finally ended. I got the notice today, which means we won't be getting any more issues in the mail, thank GOD.
I hate "if" and I'm not really liking today, but I love that that blasted subscription is finally done.
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