The journey

Moving, moving, moving. Always moving forward. Which is, of course, the only direction that makes any sense.

Saturday we took two carloads of Thomas' baby things to a maternity home in a neighbouring city. All those precious odds and sods and sweet little things we were lovingly given, and purchased ourselves, with such hope and love and optimism.

Gone.

But it's good. It is.

It started the week before last when I took the crib, a play mat and a bag of smaller items to the church for a needy family who'd just had twins. I cried all the way home. And then I sobbed face-down on the couch for another 20 minutes once I finally reached the safety and comfort of my quiet little house.

Father G. asked if I wanted to have the mother contact me and arrange for pick-up or drop-off, but I just couldn't. I want the things gone - off to homes with living babies to use them - but I can't know specifically where they've gone. I can't bear to see the family whose babies will lie snug in my dead son's crib while I'm sitting at Mass trying not to hate God. And I can't bear for them to see me. And know.

He was, as always, incredibly kind and understanding, engineering a drop off/pick up plan that would ensure that none of us would have to meet.

And that's how it began. The great purge.

The last load, just a small one now, will go off to another maternity home in my old hometown sometime next week.

And it's as it should be.

The most sentimental items I just couldn't part with are safely tucked away. Knitted items lovingly made by my Mom, stuffed toys chosen by my sister, and a few things I bought and just couldn't send away. They're still here.

And now it feels right. Clean. Peaceful.

I'm sure, in time, even the remaining items will be whittled down to just a handful of things - especially if any new nieces or nephews find their way into our family - but for the time being, I'm holding onto those last few dear bits and pieces.

It was hard to get to this point. It has been an unbearably long road. But once I found myself standing at the end of it, it just made sense. One day while My Beloved was dutifully cleaning out the cat boxes, I happened to turn my gaze to the disassembled crib leaning against the opposite basement wall where it's been for the last four years, and just knew.

Just like that. I knew.

It's not beyond the realm of possibility that we'll find ourselves with a magical, healthy pregnancy that blossoms into a living child at the end of it. But I hold out no hope for that now. Not really.

And I'm okay. I am.

I'm slowly embracing this new life in small, quiet ways. And I'm coming to terms with what a childless future will mean to us. And what it will look like. Even all the way at the end of it.

I was talking to a friend who is childless by choice the other day, and it was like what I imagine the first breath of pure oxygen is like for a firefighter in the midst of a smoke-choked room.

My stories? Where will they go?

"Write a book", she said.

And my things? What about my things?

"Donate them to a museum."

And company when I'm old?

"Make very, very good friends with your nieces and nephews. And remember, there's no guarantee that even if you had kids they'd want to visit you in the home."

She then sagely pointed out that there's also no guarantee I'll even get old. Bad shit happens, as we all know. All too well.

There are other ways to live. There is a life out there - even if there are no living children in it - filled with possibilities, and laughter, and hope, and love. And, most importantly, meaning.

There is still worth and meaning to my life. I'm positive of this. I believe raising children is probably one of the most fulfilling and meaningful things a human can do. And one of the most important.

But it's not all there is. And those of us who have no choice but to prove it? Well, I guess that's just what we'll do then.

And in the meantime, there's a new kitten in the house. Filling it with chaos, ungodly early wake-up calls, deafening purrs and endless entertainment.

He's not a substitute for a baby. He wasn't brought into the house for that.

But he is, I realize, part of the process. He is here because I am carrying on. Moving instead of standing still. Looking forward instead of behind. And searching for new joys and new happiness in whatever form they happen to take.

Life takes you where it wants you to be. The secret is being open to whatever newness it holds, and to resist the urge to claw your way back to the past and stay there, mired in the remnants of a phantom life that no longer exists.

I can't bear living like that anymore.

I'm ready for the newness.

Finally.

Dibley, June 26/09 - 9 weeks old

Strange goodbyes

A couple of years ago, I can't specifically remember when now, I gave away my maternity jeans. Donated them to charity along with a motley collection of unloved sweaters, shirts and assorted crap. It was a big deal.

Well, mostly.

I actually hated them. They were never comfortable, always digging into my sides before sliding down and leaving me with a terrible case of saggy ass. But still, giving them away felt like a big step - a monumental shift in my thinking and healing.

The thing is, I'm not entirely sure it was, really.

I was thinking about this the other day, how we donated some of Thomas' things just a few weeks after he died and how it barely bothered me at all. For some reason I was able to very easily separate the sentimental from the disposable in those early, dark days. The diaper bag, boppy pillow, lotions, diapers, books, parenting magazines, and baby bathtub. They all went, and with very little difficulty.

And yet other things I still cling to with a ferocity that startles me. Tubs of clothes, toys, blankies. Little socks. A sunhat. Things. So many small, unused things.

There is no rhyme nor reason for the way I categorize his things; for what I decide can and can't go. I adored my diaper bag, but when I came home from the hospital I couldn't stand the sight of it. But the 9 billion receiving blankets, each a dime a dozen? I can't let them go.

It makes no sense.

I never liked the jeans. I wouldn't have worn them again even if I managed to get (and stay) pregnant long enough to need them. I tricked myself into thinking donating them was an achievement.

When really, it was just common sense.

And I may have done it again. The tricking bit. Because tonight, all the rest of my maternity stuff is packed away in a donation bag waiting for pick-up. All of it. A skirt, a pair of nursing jammies and several tops, including the striped one I loved and wore so much I'm surprised I didn't wear it right out.

I'm proud. I am. I've had that stuff sitting in a neat pile on a shelf in my closet for nearly four years. I couldn't see it very well and didn't look at it often, but I knew it was there. I needed to know it was still there.

But I'm smaller now than I was then. And it's not just the absence of a baby belly. All of me is smaller. I likely couldn't wear any of that stuff anyway even if I did magically find myself pregnant. It would be too big. In fact, it would have been too big if I'd tried to wear it two years ago.

But I couldn't let it go. Until today.

For absolutely no good reason, today was the day I was able to let it all go. Even though I know I never would have worn any of it again anyway.

So yeah, I know I'm kind of tricking myself again. Like the jeans.

But I'm not really sure that matters.

There's a clearer space in my brain just the same. Does it matter that the victory isn't as big as it might appear? Does it matter that I had no intention of wearing the clothes again anyway? Does it matter that the odds are stacked against me and my uterus, making the likelihood of me needing any maternity clothes pretty small?

I don't think so.

I'm crossing my arms, holding my head high, and calling it a victory.

Love

"The love, the love is overwhelming. It's huge, and, at least for now, it's painful. I realized a little bit ago that I love my children exactly the same, exactly the way a mother should-- the same. It's strange to love these two people the same-- one who I have watched grow for five years, and one I only got to hold after he was gone. It took me several weeks to realize that, and for now it hurts. It hurts because there is nothing I can do to show my son this love. I hope it gets better with time."

This comment made me ache.

The desperate love I had for my son and the awful feeling that I had no way to lavish it upon him after he died made me crazy in those early days. I think it's why I spent so much time choosing his grave marker, and why it felt like the most important thing in the world for me to do. I believed it was all I could do. Ever.

Because the love you show to a baby is so physical. We kiss, we hug, we tuck in, we rock, we nurse, we pick up, we swaddle, we cuddle. Our bodies are in almost constant contact with a newborn, as they were when we were carrying them.

So when your child dies and you find yourself with empty arms and too much time, that terrible and confusing feeling of having all that love and no one to give it to is agonizing.

It's probably why I still occasionally find myself tucking in My Beloved - a 37-year old man who is quite capable of pulling the blankets up by himself.

But as time has passed, I've settled in to a comfortable rhythm with Thomas. When I let myself think about it too long and too hard, my arms still find themselves empty and useless, but most of the time they don't. My love for him is about more than what I can physically do for him. It's about so much more than that - as is every mother's love.

I talk to him. A lot, actually. And I remember him and love him with a fierce passion I can't begin to put into words. And I keep his spirit alive by speaking his name - by making him part of conversations with family and friends. And, of course, I write about him here.

My greatest fear has always been that he'll just fade away, eventually becoming something people are too uncomfortable to talk about. By keeping him alive as part of my life, I show my love for him. Every day.

And Julia, you do too. I know you do.

As Thomas' birthday draws near, I've been reminded in a very tangible way that people do remember our beautiful boy, and I'm more grateful than I can adequately express for the comfort and happiness it brings me.

It's not even his birthday yet, and donations have been made to:

United States Fund for Unicef
St. Jude Research Hospital
Children's Wish Foundation of Canada
The Heifer Project (a donation of a flock of geese to a family in the third world)
St. Louis Zoo (a sea lion adoption)
Alex's Lemonade Stand Foundation (for pediatric cancer research)
A hospital's NICU (local to the donor)
Riley Hospital for Children in Indianapolis
S.O.S Children's Village, BC (Family care service for Foster children and Foster families)
B.C. Children's Hospital
Operation Smile
Children's Memorial Hospital, Chicago
Red Cross (Blood donation)
Make A Child Smile
TEARS Foundation (offers financial funeral assistance to bereaved parents)
A donor's Church's school (which aids community youth)
Walk America (March of Dimes)

I don't take any credit for the incredible and overwhelming generosity of the people who have made these donations in Thomas' memory, but I do believe that the love that My Beloved and I show for him is at least a small part of the reason why people are moved to specifically remember him.

So I know that he sees my love - and I know he feels it. It's not your average mother/son relationship, true, but it's every bit as strong, important and real as it would be if he was still here.

And it always will be.