I can't tell who reads this blog; I only know the number of people who read each post (100-150, on average). And I figure that I know most of my readers personally, but that might not be the case. And I have not seen many of you in years, I'm certain. So, here are some things about me that you might not necessarily know from reading my blog:
1. I am a drama queen. Always have been. My entire family is dramatic, actually. I discovered the extent of our dramatic-ness when I told Shannon that something was amazing, and he said, "Oh, there's that Bryant word again." Also when the tire on my car blew out while I was driving. That's a long (but dramatic!) story.
2. Junior Mints = heaven in a box.
3. I am highly extroverted, according to every personality test I have ever taken. Speaking of personality tests...
4. My family loves taking personality tests.
5. I have no trouble expressing my feelings. You probably already knew that.
6. I used to be addicted to Dr. Pepper, but I have not had a soda in over 200 days, thanks to a handy little iPhone app called Habit Maker Habit Breaker. Success, finally!
7. At one point in my childhood, I wanted to be an architect, until I found out how much math would be involved. But I think I wanted to be a lawyer first, so it all worked out just fine.
8. Shannon and I picked out Weston's name when I was pregnant with Caroline, before we found out she was a girl. Weston is NOT named for a hotel chain.
9. I am a perfectionist and a control freak.
10. Weston looks JUST like Caroline did when she was a newborn.
11. My alcoholic beverage of choice is beer. Premium, of course.
12. Until Weston died, I considered my three years in law school as the worst three years of my life. It was just so awful. This is pretty remarkable because...
13. I took (and still take) my parents' divorce very hard. They split up at the end of my freshman year of college.
14. Since Weston died, I have been regularly attending support groups.
15. I am also attending almost-weekly counseling sessions, and I am purposefully building friendships with other parents who have lost children. It helps to talk to people who truly understand what I am going through, and they help me feel less alone.
16. I love being around really smart people.
17. I am snarky and sarcastic. That one was not obvious at all.
18. Although I am pretty open and direct on this blog, there are many issues I do not talk about. One of many is what my counselor and I discuss. My privacy is important to me.
19. I despise cowardice and judgment. And hasty, incomplete reading that ignores context. And people thinking they know better than me what I need. I am the expert on my own grief.
20. Before Weston died, I was a happy, optimistic person who loved to laugh and make others laugh.
21. Weston's death has changed me like nothing else ever will. It has changed my values, my priorities, and even my beliefs, to an extent.
22. However, Weston's death has NOT changed my personality.
23. I have always valued respect, honesty, and directness.
24. I have VERY strict food and media rules for Caroline: no processed food and no TV or other screens (except on long car rides and when we are waiting for a long time in a place where she needs to stay quiet). Many people are rolling their eyes and/or laughing at their computer screens as we speak, I am certain. But she is a happy, healthy girl.
25. I am turning into my mother. See number 24.
26. I am a pretty self-aware person, and I am doing what I need to do to cope with Weston's death. As long as I (1) can be with and communicate with my family and friends, (2) keep blogging, and (3) keep running, I will get by. Let's all pray that I don't get injured and have to cease item three; so far, so good. In addition, I think I have been pretty direct by letting people know what I need.
27. This blog is my therapeutic outlet and my place to vent. Some people have worried about my well-being. Others have told me I seem better in person than I seem on my blog. I am aware that I use highly dramatic language at times. And, obviously I am dealing with the worst tragedy a parent can experience. So I acknowledge my responsibility to give my readers a bigger picture of who I am in the form of this post.
28. Although I don't feel it on a regular basis right now (after all, Weston only died five months and two days ago), there is more to my life than losing Weston. But my blog subject is Weston, so - surprise! - I am going to talk about Weston. A LOT.
29. I think I have made this "tidbit" pretty clear, but it bears repeating: as an extrovert, I gain the support I need from other people. All of the communications I have received from so many of you mean the world to me.
30. As a mother who loves her children infinitely beyond description, I want to be where my children are.
31. READ THIS VERY CAREFULLY: the desire of a mother to be with her children does not change based on the location of her children. That's obvious, right? Therefore, just because one of my children happens to be in heaven does NOT mean that I stop wanting to be with him. (This is a prevalent feeling among bereaved parents.)
32. HOWEVER, wanting to be with one's deceased child is NOT synonymous with wanting to harm oneself. Again, I love my son in heaven just as much as I love my daughter on earth. See my blog title.
33. I cannot respond to every message I receive. However, when someone is concerned for my welfare, I respond immediately. I am going through a terrible time, and I recognize my responsibility to let concerned individuals know the state of my mind and heart.
34. In case you missed it, I AM NOT CONSIDERING HARMING MYSELF. See numbers 30-32.
35. In case I still have not made myself clear, my husband, daughter, and the rest of my family are already going through hell. I would not dream of adding to that hell by harming myself. Besides, I am Weston's mother, and he died; if I am not going to give him a voice, who is?
36. Blogging is my outlet. See number 27. As long as you are still reading blog posts, it means I am getting by.
37. I am long-winded. Who makes a list with 37 items?
Hypothetically speaking, of course, if you are truly concerned for my safety and well-being, here is a novel idea: please contact ME or MY HUSBAND first. If you don't know me personally, use the comment section. DO NOT call Mental Health Services. The reasons why you should not call Mental Health Services are...see all of the above, LISTEN to me, and/or READ MY BLOG.
I (NOT MENTAL HEALTH SERVICES) AM THE EXPERT ON MY OWN GRIEF.
Sunday, December 30, 2012
Thursday, December 27, 2012
First Christmas
Well, we did it. Somehow we got through our first Christmas without Weston. Unlike Thanksgiving, the day actually went better than expected. This time, the anticipation was worse than the actual celebration day. Whew.
Maybe I'm speaking too soon; it is only December 27, so we still have New Year's to contend with. And for those following the Advent calendar, we are only in the beginning of the 12 days of Christmas and have to get through Epiphany on January 6. Truth be told, we halfway observed Advent, but I didn't plan on anything beyond Christmas. Christmas Day starts the true celebration, because baby Jesus has arrived. The following twelve days of Christmas are marked by celebration and unadulterated joy at the babe's arrival. I'm not feeling it. I identified with the darkness of the waiting period much better.
But, I digress already. Caroline is three, so this is the first year she was really excited about Christmas. As another bereaved mother has said, Caroline is my greatest joy; not having Weston here is my greatest sadness. Seeing your child beside herself with excitement on Christmas Day is the height of parental joy. How does one reconcile the two?
The day started interestingly. As previously mentioned, I have not been reading the Bible at all. However, I have a Bible app on my iPhone that shows a verse of the day. I have not checked it in months. Well, somehow, the app got turned on Christmas morning, and here is what popped up as the daily verse:
Not only so, but we also glory in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope. (Romans 5:3-4).
Wow. What's more, this was actually the verse for December 24, but it still showed up Christmas morning. God is definitely trying to get my attention. I think he has it now.
As far as the verse is concerned, I can say that I am persevering daily. I get out of bed, I put on a happy face for Caroline, and I try to be the best mother to her that I can be. We have had our share of struggles this year, but we have also shared some beautiful, priceless moments together, even since Weston died. I pray that it builds character and hope, but it is still too soon to tell in my mind.
It doesn't take much to make Caroline happy. She awoke to a plate of crumbs and an empty glass of milk, indicative that Santa came. Upon her discovery, she grinned ear to ear and kept repeating, "He did it! He did it!" Because she was the only child at Christmas, we didn't have/need much of a game plan for the day. As I have railed about here, we try to de-emphasize the commercialism of the Christmas holiday season. Partly because my and Shannon's family was spread out this year, Caroline only had a few presents to open on Christmas Day. At one point, I asked her if she wanted to open presents, and she said, "No. I want to color" (in her coloring book from her stocking). When she did finally open her presents, watching her do so, and then reading her new books, playing with her new puzzle, etc. was heartwarming.
Just look at this face!
Throughout the day, I was reminded that I am loved and not alone, and more importantly, that Weston was remembered. Family called, and friends sent texts or other messages to remind me of these truths all day.
Nevertheless, things got to me after a while. I got to the point where I knew a breakdown was imminent. It was either going to occur on a run or during Christmas dinner. I opted for a quick run, and I am grateful to my husband and mother who didn't say a word when I disappeared less than two hours before Christmas dinner. (I DID tell them where I was going, and I had cooked everything the day before.).
It was COLD: 27 degrees, to be exact. I ran in the snow, like I had on my previous run, and it was beautiful. Except for the big, happy family out sledding. They stopped for me as I ran up the long trail they were sledding on, and all I could do was glare at them as I ran by.
I stopped and did this:
And then the adventure started. I was going to make it home with about fifteen minutes to spare before Christmas dinner. My mom's house (where I grew up) is at the end of a long, windy dirt road. As I rounded the first curve, I saw a car stuck in the ditch. I happened to be driving Shannon's four-wheel-drive truck. Now, I can't remember if I have ever actually towed someone out of a ditch. We always had four-wheel-drive vehicles, so our family has usually been the tow-er, rather than the tow-ee. But I couldn't remember if I had actually pulled someone out or just watched.
But, I stopped and offered to tow them out. I told them I had no idea what I was doing, but there was a rope in the bed of Shannon's truck, so there you go. There were four of them: they were from Phoenix, driving a Honda sedan, and not dressed for the cold. Amateurs. Just kidding; I am from Phoenix myself, and the only reason I was somewhat dressed for the weather was because I had just spent the better part of an hour running in the snow. But one of the guys was wearing a bright orange t-shirt that said "WASSUP?" How could I not stop??
As we were tying the rope to their car, another car and two men materialized. They had an actual tow strap, and they also actually knew what they were doing. As it turned out, one of the other guys did the driving. I literally provided only the vehicle.
As I discussed here, I had requested that people do random acts of kindness in Weston's name for Christmas. Although I donated to some charities as part of our Advent observance, I had not actually done my own random act. So here it was. I literally drove into it.
And I wasn't even late for dinner, although I don't like the reason why. In addition to the place where the foursome got stuck (which my family has long called Dead Man's Curve), my mom's house is at the top of a long, windy, STEEP driveway. My grandparents tried to drive up, slid on the ice, and got stuck in the ditch. When they tried to call to have someone drive down and pick them up, they couldn't get cell phone reception. My grandparents are 85 years old. It was 27 degrees. My grandma was wearing sky-high heels. THEY WALKED UP THE ICY DRIVEWAY.
I walked up the driveway myself and saw the aftermath:
Contrary to the concerned looks on their faces, they did get the car unstuck.
Dinner went fine. And it was quite tasty. After dinner, the adults opened presents, and we assembled Caroline's big gift (a train set). That's when my emotions got to me. And the big, ugly meltdown happened. I think everyone in the house heard me sobbing, even though I left the room. Weston should have been there, with us. His absence was the single biggest constant presence of the day.
And my grief, the fact that my child is gone, and the fact that so many children are gone, was never far from me. I couldn't even escape with the local newspaper. First day: front page story on CPS issues. I have met the mother of one of the children discussed in the story. He died. Next day: front page story on a hospice-type home for sick kids. I know of a child who died there. But of course I have to keep that news to myself. Who wants to talk about such things on Christmas?
But we did get some random acts of kindness for Weston's stocking. In his honor, people were fed, a homeless woman made it to a shelter, a family was able to make ends meet, a lonely woman received visitors bearing baked goods, cold children were clothed, many lonely and poor children received Christmas presents, and miles were run to raise awareness for prematurity. It was humbling to hear how these opportunities to be kind presented themselves. And I'm probably forgetting some; I'm writing this from memory.
These heartfelt acts - not the shiny presents, not the tasty food, not the beautiful snow - but hearing about these selfless acts was the highlight of my Christmas. I don't know if Weston's card was necessarily used with all of them, but that doesn't even matter (although I LOVE it!). It is what life is about. I hope and pray that Caroline will grow up to value acts of kindness and generosity over presents and all the other stuff at Christmas. And why not think big? I wish EVERYONE with the heart, resources, and capacity to give would do so.
Weston was with us, all day. And, although slips of paper in a stocking and ashes in a necklace around my neck are a poor, poor substitute for my flesh-and-blood son, I am truly grateful and humbled that he has inspired people to do such beautiful things. I am discovering that the tragic ugliness of losing my son can be inextricably intertwined with beauty and goodness. The bad often overshadows the good. I am grateful (and surprised!) that, for much of Christmas Day, the good outshone the bad. But I am equally grateful when the bad is acknowledged and revered, even by God.
In The Brothers Karamazov, Dostoyevsky was being true to the spirit of the New Testament, which likewise seeks to establish God's goodness through a narrative rather than an argument, a revelation of his solidarity with human struggle rather than a philosophical proof of his benevolence.
In the same way, the only thing that my religious tradition has to offer the bereaved [ ] today - besides an appropriately respectful witness to their awful sorrow - is a version of that story, and the realism about suffering that it contains. That realism may be hard to see at Christmastime, when the sentimental side of faith owns the cultural stage. But the Christmas story isn't just the manger and the shepherds and the baby Jesus, meek and mild. The rage of Herod is there as well, and the slaughtered innocents of Bethlehem, and the myrrh that prepares bodies for the grave. The cross looms behind the stable - the shadow of violence, agony and death.
In the leafless hills [ ], this is the only Christmas spirit that could possibly matter now.
~Ross Douthat, The New York Times
Maybe I'm speaking too soon; it is only December 27, so we still have New Year's to contend with. And for those following the Advent calendar, we are only in the beginning of the 12 days of Christmas and have to get through Epiphany on January 6. Truth be told, we halfway observed Advent, but I didn't plan on anything beyond Christmas. Christmas Day starts the true celebration, because baby Jesus has arrived. The following twelve days of Christmas are marked by celebration and unadulterated joy at the babe's arrival. I'm not feeling it. I identified with the darkness of the waiting period much better.
But, I digress already. Caroline is three, so this is the first year she was really excited about Christmas. As another bereaved mother has said, Caroline is my greatest joy; not having Weston here is my greatest sadness. Seeing your child beside herself with excitement on Christmas Day is the height of parental joy. How does one reconcile the two?
The day started interestingly. As previously mentioned, I have not been reading the Bible at all. However, I have a Bible app on my iPhone that shows a verse of the day. I have not checked it in months. Well, somehow, the app got turned on Christmas morning, and here is what popped up as the daily verse:
Not only so, but we also glory in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope. (Romans 5:3-4).
Wow. What's more, this was actually the verse for December 24, but it still showed up Christmas morning. God is definitely trying to get my attention. I think he has it now.
As far as the verse is concerned, I can say that I am persevering daily. I get out of bed, I put on a happy face for Caroline, and I try to be the best mother to her that I can be. We have had our share of struggles this year, but we have also shared some beautiful, priceless moments together, even since Weston died. I pray that it builds character and hope, but it is still too soon to tell in my mind.
It doesn't take much to make Caroline happy. She awoke to a plate of crumbs and an empty glass of milk, indicative that Santa came. Upon her discovery, she grinned ear to ear and kept repeating, "He did it! He did it!" Because she was the only child at Christmas, we didn't have/need much of a game plan for the day. As I have railed about here, we try to de-emphasize the commercialism of the Christmas holiday season. Partly because my and Shannon's family was spread out this year, Caroline only had a few presents to open on Christmas Day. At one point, I asked her if she wanted to open presents, and she said, "No. I want to color" (in her coloring book from her stocking). When she did finally open her presents, watching her do so, and then reading her new books, playing with her new puzzle, etc. was heartwarming.
Just look at this face!
Throughout the day, I was reminded that I am loved and not alone, and more importantly, that Weston was remembered. Family called, and friends sent texts or other messages to remind me of these truths all day.
Nevertheless, things got to me after a while. I got to the point where I knew a breakdown was imminent. It was either going to occur on a run or during Christmas dinner. I opted for a quick run, and I am grateful to my husband and mother who didn't say a word when I disappeared less than two hours before Christmas dinner. (I DID tell them where I was going, and I had cooked everything the day before.).
It was COLD: 27 degrees, to be exact. I ran in the snow, like I had on my previous run, and it was beautiful. Except for the big, happy family out sledding. They stopped for me as I ran up the long trail they were sledding on, and all I could do was glare at them as I ran by.
I stopped and did this:
And then the adventure started. I was going to make it home with about fifteen minutes to spare before Christmas dinner. My mom's house (where I grew up) is at the end of a long, windy dirt road. As I rounded the first curve, I saw a car stuck in the ditch. I happened to be driving Shannon's four-wheel-drive truck. Now, I can't remember if I have ever actually towed someone out of a ditch. We always had four-wheel-drive vehicles, so our family has usually been the tow-er, rather than the tow-ee. But I couldn't remember if I had actually pulled someone out or just watched.
But, I stopped and offered to tow them out. I told them I had no idea what I was doing, but there was a rope in the bed of Shannon's truck, so there you go. There were four of them: they were from Phoenix, driving a Honda sedan, and not dressed for the cold. Amateurs. Just kidding; I am from Phoenix myself, and the only reason I was somewhat dressed for the weather was because I had just spent the better part of an hour running in the snow. But one of the guys was wearing a bright orange t-shirt that said "WASSUP?" How could I not stop??
As we were tying the rope to their car, another car and two men materialized. They had an actual tow strap, and they also actually knew what they were doing. As it turned out, one of the other guys did the driving. I literally provided only the vehicle.
As I discussed here, I had requested that people do random acts of kindness in Weston's name for Christmas. Although I donated to some charities as part of our Advent observance, I had not actually done my own random act. So here it was. I literally drove into it.
And I wasn't even late for dinner, although I don't like the reason why. In addition to the place where the foursome got stuck (which my family has long called Dead Man's Curve), my mom's house is at the top of a long, windy, STEEP driveway. My grandparents tried to drive up, slid on the ice, and got stuck in the ditch. When they tried to call to have someone drive down and pick them up, they couldn't get cell phone reception. My grandparents are 85 years old. It was 27 degrees. My grandma was wearing sky-high heels. THEY WALKED UP THE ICY DRIVEWAY.
I walked up the driveway myself and saw the aftermath:
Contrary to the concerned looks on their faces, they did get the car unstuck.
Dinner went fine. And it was quite tasty. After dinner, the adults opened presents, and we assembled Caroline's big gift (a train set). That's when my emotions got to me. And the big, ugly meltdown happened. I think everyone in the house heard me sobbing, even though I left the room. Weston should have been there, with us. His absence was the single biggest constant presence of the day.
And my grief, the fact that my child is gone, and the fact that so many children are gone, was never far from me. I couldn't even escape with the local newspaper. First day: front page story on CPS issues. I have met the mother of one of the children discussed in the story. He died. Next day: front page story on a hospice-type home for sick kids. I know of a child who died there. But of course I have to keep that news to myself. Who wants to talk about such things on Christmas?
But we did get some random acts of kindness for Weston's stocking. In his honor, people were fed, a homeless woman made it to a shelter, a family was able to make ends meet, a lonely woman received visitors bearing baked goods, cold children were clothed, many lonely and poor children received Christmas presents, and miles were run to raise awareness for prematurity. It was humbling to hear how these opportunities to be kind presented themselves. And I'm probably forgetting some; I'm writing this from memory.
These heartfelt acts - not the shiny presents, not the tasty food, not the beautiful snow - but hearing about these selfless acts was the highlight of my Christmas. I don't know if Weston's card was necessarily used with all of them, but that doesn't even matter (although I LOVE it!). It is what life is about. I hope and pray that Caroline will grow up to value acts of kindness and generosity over presents and all the other stuff at Christmas. And why not think big? I wish EVERYONE with the heart, resources, and capacity to give would do so.
Weston was with us, all day. And, although slips of paper in a stocking and ashes in a necklace around my neck are a poor, poor substitute for my flesh-and-blood son, I am truly grateful and humbled that he has inspired people to do such beautiful things. I am discovering that the tragic ugliness of losing my son can be inextricably intertwined with beauty and goodness. The bad often overshadows the good. I am grateful (and surprised!) that, for much of Christmas Day, the good outshone the bad. But I am equally grateful when the bad is acknowledged and revered, even by God.
In The Brothers Karamazov, Dostoyevsky was being true to the spirit of the New Testament, which likewise seeks to establish God's goodness through a narrative rather than an argument, a revelation of his solidarity with human struggle rather than a philosophical proof of his benevolence.
In the same way, the only thing that my religious tradition has to offer the bereaved [ ] today - besides an appropriately respectful witness to their awful sorrow - is a version of that story, and the realism about suffering that it contains. That realism may be hard to see at Christmastime, when the sentimental side of faith owns the cultural stage. But the Christmas story isn't just the manger and the shepherds and the baby Jesus, meek and mild. The rage of Herod is there as well, and the slaughtered innocents of Bethlehem, and the myrrh that prepares bodies for the grave. The cross looms behind the stable - the shadow of violence, agony and death.
In the leafless hills [ ], this is the only Christmas spirit that could possibly matter now.
~Ross Douthat, The New York Times
Monday, December 24, 2012
Paradox
Dear Weston,
It has been a week of contrasts. Today is Christmas Eve. For the last month, people have been celebrating a lot of things. If you were here with us, we would have been celebrating your first Christmas. You would have been too young to care or remember, but your daddy and I would have always remembered and treasured this time. We will, of course, always remember this Christmas, but instead we will remember a season of great pain and loss. I fervently hope that Christmas will get better, but after meeting so many of your heavenly playmates' parents, I am not sure that next Christmas, and the Christmas after that, etc. will be better.
So, that is a big paradox. We feel your absence every day, but the Christmas season highlights it. On the other hand, I have often felt you with me this past week.
Do you remember that day at Starbucks after I picked up your ashes? One of many intense happenings that day was hearing the song "Hallelujah" after thinking about putting it on your playlist. This may seem like a small thing, but it was a big deal to me. Last week, I was driving around listening to NPR. They were doing an entire story on the meaning of that song. I had to sit in the car and listen to more of the story before I went in to run my errand. I just knew that was you telling me you were near.
Later that day, I was reading a book called Proof of Heaven, about a neurosurgeon who had a near death experience. SPOILER ALERT: this neurosurgeon visited heaven and experienced God. As he was coming back to earth, he began to see faces he recognized. None had much impact, except the last face he saw: a little boy's. His son. His son's face provided the final motivation to return back to earth: this little boy needed his father.
I thought of you when I read about this little boy. It is essentially the opposite situation as ours: you were the sick one, not me, and you didn't come back to me after you died. But I see your face, and it motivates me. To do what, I'm not sure. In the book, the man was about to be reunited with his son in life, not in death. I couldn't help but long for that day when I see your face and know that our reuniting is imminent.
A surprising thing happened last week: I actually went to a party. Even more surprisingly, I had a good time. I crashed my former law firm's holiday party. There were only a handful of people there by the time I arrived, which was good. These are people I spent my days with for almost five years, and I miss them. They care about you.
I feel that my heart is about to burst with gratitude for friends and meaningful, sometimes unexpected, companionship. In addition to the party, over the last week I have spent time with people I have known since childhood. (That's a good thing about Christmas: everyone comes home, so we can see each other.) One I had not seen in about seven years, and I have not been in regular contact with any of them in years. Yet they laughed with me, cried with me, wanted to see pictures of you, and just listened. They have prayed for me and lit candles for you. There are people in my everyday life who would never do this, so to have this kind of love and support from these women from my awkward teenage years just astounds me, in the best possible way. I have also received messages from many people who simply want me to know they are thinking of us during this impossibly difficult time. I know that YOU are behind this. YOU have imprinted people's hearts and inspired them to reach out, sometimes out of their comfort zones. I feel so honored to be the recipient of such kindness.
And I am not the only recipient. I had grand ideas for our family's Christmas card this year. My original plan was to enclose a Random Act of Kindness card for people to do something kind in your honor. But then, I stumbled upon a great idea from another mom who lost a child. She asked people to do a random act of kindness in honor of her son who died and then email her about it. She would print off the emails to put in her son's stocking and read them on Christmas Day. She thought of this when she hung her son's stocking on their first Christmas without him and was overwhelmed with sadness that his stocking would not be filled. I had not yet thought of the pain in the contrast of your empty stocking hanging next to your big sister's full stocking on Christmas morning.
I loved the idea, so I included the same request in our Christmas cards. The only problem is, I didn't send the cards out soon enough: some people literally did not get their cards until today! Although there is always an opportunity to do a random act of kindness, it is impossible to get it done in time to email me about it for Christmas morning.
But that's OK. I sent out A LOT of cards, so there will be so many acts of kindness done in your honor. It won't make any difference to the recipients if they occurred before Christmas or after. A few people have emailed me with their acts of kindness, and they are now in your stocking waiting to be read tomorrow morning.
We are in Flagstaff, at the house where I grew up. There is snow everywhere, and it snowed several inches today, too. Caroline is having so much fun with Oma and Tin-Tin, Uncle Marcus, and GG Ma and GG Pa. When Uncle Marcus got here, she jumped up and down, screamed "I so sighted!" (translation: I'm so excited), and ran over to give him the biggest hug ever.
You would be a tiny, cuddly baby right now; it is very cold here, so we would be keeping each other warm. I can't remember if I thought it to myself or said it out loud as I was unloading everything: "I need to hang up the kids' stockings." As I hung up your and Caroline's stockings, I completely lost it. That surprised me, because I did fine when I hung up our family's stockings at our house. It is just so wrong that you are not here.
So far, our time here has been pretty busy. I have been cooking a lot, running last-minute errands, etc. But yesterday, I went for a run.
I was a little concerned about this run. Flagstaff is at 7,000 feet elevation, so I was concerned that the high elevation would make exercise difficult. I also had no idea where to go, because of all the snow; the places up here where I usually run were buried. I planned to run for about an hour. Up at this elevation, I figured I could cover about six miles.
So I found a spot in the neighborhood adjacent to ours. It has changed and grown a lot since I moved away, so I was not entirely familiar with it. I ended up on a trail where I used to run in high school. It was, of course, covered in fairly deep snow. But I went with it, and my lungs held up just fine. I ended up running seven miles, and I didn't fall once!
The trail is slightly secluded from the houses, so it was very quiet: just me, the trees, the snow, and the San Franscisco Peaks. And my music. Several of my favorite, hauntingly beautiful Christmas songs came on. It made me think of Advent (and yesterday, Sunday, was the final Advent Sunday before Christmas): the dark period of anticipating the arrival of Baby Jesus at the darkest time of the year. It has been a very dark time for me this year, because of losing you. But the arrival of Baby Jesus signifies hope: of redemption, of the darkness lifting, of the experience of joy. It seems like the only time I feel hopeful is when I am out running, and yesterday was no exception. For those few moments - exerting myself in the snow, feeling hot and cold at the same time, seeing beauty everywhere I looked, hearing beautiful music, and watching the sun shining on the snow - I felt some hope. And I felt you with me. I wished it would never end.
I didn't run today. But I want to capture that experience again, and I don't know what to do about tomorrow. Tomorrow is Christmas Day. It will be a full day, with presents to open, meals to prepare, family to see, etc. Caroline is excited. Is it unfair to them, selfish of me, to slip out for an hour for a run, to spend some alone time with you? This is where my divided life, my blog title, is most acute: I do not have you and Caroline with me together, and it is excruciating. I constantly have to choose one, to the detriment of the other. And that will never change. Unlike a firstborn child gradually adjusting to the arrival of a new sibling, we will never adjust to you being gone. If you were here, Caroline would likely still be a little out of sorts with her little rival for my affections. But I would be expecting the day to come where she would love having you around. We could spend time together, all of us in the same room, where I could lavish attention on you equally.
But that will never happen, because my two children are in different realms. I cannot bring you two together or reconcile the distance. So I constantly have to go back and forth.
After dinner tonight, we walked over to Oma's chapel to light candles, read the Christmas story, and sing a few Christmas carols. It was dark, cold, and snowing. Caroline didn't seem to mind the cold, and she thought Baby Jesus would be there, in the chapel. Oma had set out bread for communion. Caroline just wanted to eat the bread. Your daddy took communion, but I couldn't bring myself to do it. I wanted to be able to do it, but talking directly to God still hurts way too much. He was there, silently with me in the candlelit chapel, but that was as far as I could go tonight. Baby steps, I suppose.
Here is our incomplete family picture, taken after we were finished in the chapel. Although incomplete, it is a beautiful picture with smiles. That is an irreconcilable paradox.
I don't know how I'm going to get through tomorrow, and every Christmas for the rest of my life, without you. Living without you is the ultimate paradox.
It has been a week of contrasts. Today is Christmas Eve. For the last month, people have been celebrating a lot of things. If you were here with us, we would have been celebrating your first Christmas. You would have been too young to care or remember, but your daddy and I would have always remembered and treasured this time. We will, of course, always remember this Christmas, but instead we will remember a season of great pain and loss. I fervently hope that Christmas will get better, but after meeting so many of your heavenly playmates' parents, I am not sure that next Christmas, and the Christmas after that, etc. will be better.
So, that is a big paradox. We feel your absence every day, but the Christmas season highlights it. On the other hand, I have often felt you with me this past week.
Do you remember that day at Starbucks after I picked up your ashes? One of many intense happenings that day was hearing the song "Hallelujah" after thinking about putting it on your playlist. This may seem like a small thing, but it was a big deal to me. Last week, I was driving around listening to NPR. They were doing an entire story on the meaning of that song. I had to sit in the car and listen to more of the story before I went in to run my errand. I just knew that was you telling me you were near.
Later that day, I was reading a book called Proof of Heaven, about a neurosurgeon who had a near death experience. SPOILER ALERT: this neurosurgeon visited heaven and experienced God. As he was coming back to earth, he began to see faces he recognized. None had much impact, except the last face he saw: a little boy's. His son. His son's face provided the final motivation to return back to earth: this little boy needed his father.
I thought of you when I read about this little boy. It is essentially the opposite situation as ours: you were the sick one, not me, and you didn't come back to me after you died. But I see your face, and it motivates me. To do what, I'm not sure. In the book, the man was about to be reunited with his son in life, not in death. I couldn't help but long for that day when I see your face and know that our reuniting is imminent.
A surprising thing happened last week: I actually went to a party. Even more surprisingly, I had a good time. I crashed my former law firm's holiday party. There were only a handful of people there by the time I arrived, which was good. These are people I spent my days with for almost five years, and I miss them. They care about you.
I feel that my heart is about to burst with gratitude for friends and meaningful, sometimes unexpected, companionship. In addition to the party, over the last week I have spent time with people I have known since childhood. (That's a good thing about Christmas: everyone comes home, so we can see each other.) One I had not seen in about seven years, and I have not been in regular contact with any of them in years. Yet they laughed with me, cried with me, wanted to see pictures of you, and just listened. They have prayed for me and lit candles for you. There are people in my everyday life who would never do this, so to have this kind of love and support from these women from my awkward teenage years just astounds me, in the best possible way. I have also received messages from many people who simply want me to know they are thinking of us during this impossibly difficult time. I know that YOU are behind this. YOU have imprinted people's hearts and inspired them to reach out, sometimes out of their comfort zones. I feel so honored to be the recipient of such kindness.
And I am not the only recipient. I had grand ideas for our family's Christmas card this year. My original plan was to enclose a Random Act of Kindness card for people to do something kind in your honor. But then, I stumbled upon a great idea from another mom who lost a child. She asked people to do a random act of kindness in honor of her son who died and then email her about it. She would print off the emails to put in her son's stocking and read them on Christmas Day. She thought of this when she hung her son's stocking on their first Christmas without him and was overwhelmed with sadness that his stocking would not be filled. I had not yet thought of the pain in the contrast of your empty stocking hanging next to your big sister's full stocking on Christmas morning.
I loved the idea, so I included the same request in our Christmas cards. The only problem is, I didn't send the cards out soon enough: some people literally did not get their cards until today! Although there is always an opportunity to do a random act of kindness, it is impossible to get it done in time to email me about it for Christmas morning.
But that's OK. I sent out A LOT of cards, so there will be so many acts of kindness done in your honor. It won't make any difference to the recipients if they occurred before Christmas or after. A few people have emailed me with their acts of kindness, and they are now in your stocking waiting to be read tomorrow morning.
We are in Flagstaff, at the house where I grew up. There is snow everywhere, and it snowed several inches today, too. Caroline is having so much fun with Oma and Tin-Tin, Uncle Marcus, and GG Ma and GG Pa. When Uncle Marcus got here, she jumped up and down, screamed "I so sighted!" (translation: I'm so excited), and ran over to give him the biggest hug ever.
You would be a tiny, cuddly baby right now; it is very cold here, so we would be keeping each other warm. I can't remember if I thought it to myself or said it out loud as I was unloading everything: "I need to hang up the kids' stockings." As I hung up your and Caroline's stockings, I completely lost it. That surprised me, because I did fine when I hung up our family's stockings at our house. It is just so wrong that you are not here.
So far, our time here has been pretty busy. I have been cooking a lot, running last-minute errands, etc. But yesterday, I went for a run.
I was a little concerned about this run. Flagstaff is at 7,000 feet elevation, so I was concerned that the high elevation would make exercise difficult. I also had no idea where to go, because of all the snow; the places up here where I usually run were buried. I planned to run for about an hour. Up at this elevation, I figured I could cover about six miles.
So I found a spot in the neighborhood adjacent to ours. It has changed and grown a lot since I moved away, so I was not entirely familiar with it. I ended up on a trail where I used to run in high school. It was, of course, covered in fairly deep snow. But I went with it, and my lungs held up just fine. I ended up running seven miles, and I didn't fall once!
The trail is slightly secluded from the houses, so it was very quiet: just me, the trees, the snow, and the San Franscisco Peaks. And my music. Several of my favorite, hauntingly beautiful Christmas songs came on. It made me think of Advent (and yesterday, Sunday, was the final Advent Sunday before Christmas): the dark period of anticipating the arrival of Baby Jesus at the darkest time of the year. It has been a very dark time for me this year, because of losing you. But the arrival of Baby Jesus signifies hope: of redemption, of the darkness lifting, of the experience of joy. It seems like the only time I feel hopeful is when I am out running, and yesterday was no exception. For those few moments - exerting myself in the snow, feeling hot and cold at the same time, seeing beauty everywhere I looked, hearing beautiful music, and watching the sun shining on the snow - I felt some hope. And I felt you with me. I wished it would never end.
I didn't run today. But I want to capture that experience again, and I don't know what to do about tomorrow. Tomorrow is Christmas Day. It will be a full day, with presents to open, meals to prepare, family to see, etc. Caroline is excited. Is it unfair to them, selfish of me, to slip out for an hour for a run, to spend some alone time with you? This is where my divided life, my blog title, is most acute: I do not have you and Caroline with me together, and it is excruciating. I constantly have to choose one, to the detriment of the other. And that will never change. Unlike a firstborn child gradually adjusting to the arrival of a new sibling, we will never adjust to you being gone. If you were here, Caroline would likely still be a little out of sorts with her little rival for my affections. But I would be expecting the day to come where she would love having you around. We could spend time together, all of us in the same room, where I could lavish attention on you equally.
But that will never happen, because my two children are in different realms. I cannot bring you two together or reconcile the distance. So I constantly have to go back and forth.
After dinner tonight, we walked over to Oma's chapel to light candles, read the Christmas story, and sing a few Christmas carols. It was dark, cold, and snowing. Caroline didn't seem to mind the cold, and she thought Baby Jesus would be there, in the chapel. Oma had set out bread for communion. Caroline just wanted to eat the bread. Your daddy took communion, but I couldn't bring myself to do it. I wanted to be able to do it, but talking directly to God still hurts way too much. He was there, silently with me in the candlelit chapel, but that was as far as I could go tonight. Baby steps, I suppose.
Here is our incomplete family picture, taken after we were finished in the chapel. Although incomplete, it is a beautiful picture with smiles. That is an irreconcilable paradox.
I don't know how I'm going to get through tomorrow, and every Christmas for the rest of my life, without you. Living without you is the ultimate paradox.
Wednesday, December 19, 2012
Mary, Mary
With Christmas upon us, I've been thinking about Mary, the mother of Jesus, lately. In addition, I've generally thought about her more since having Weston. The song "Breath of Heaven", which discusses her fear of carrying, giving birth to, and raising the man who would save humanity from its sins, became my mantra while Weston's lungs were struggling so much those last few days.
We played the song at Weston's memorial service, which was held in the chapel of a funeral home. Caroline now calls it the "chapel song." It has become a routine to sing the refrain to her at naptime now. So, Mary is a daily presence.
There is also a Christmas song called "Mary Did You Know." The lyrics are beautiful...and positive: "Mary...did you know that your baby boy has come to make you new? This child that you delivered will soon deliver you...will give sight to a blind man, calm a storm with his hand, make the blind see, is Lord of all creation," etc.
But think about what the song doesn't ask: Mary, do you know that your baby boy will be mocked and disrespected? Spat upon? Sentenced to death for no reason? Brutally tortured? Slowly crucified like a criminal? And that he will die completely alone, for his own father in heaven will turn his back? Sure, it will be the ultimate sacrifice for humankind, and he will rise again, but DO YOU KNOW WHAT YOUR BABY IS IN FOR?? If so, how do you feel about that? As a mother, will any amount of redemption make it worth the unspeakable agony he is going to experience? The agony YOU are going to experience?
Recently, I read a book called The Testament of Mary that addresses these questions. I can't remember where I initially heard about it, but the New York Times designated it as one of the top books of 2012. I caught the tail end of the author, Colm Toibin's, interview on NPR. Some reviews said that traditional, evangelical Christians would be offended and characterize the book as blasphemous.
But I am not a "traditional" Christian, at least in the way they are generally portrayed in American culture. And, like Mary, I am also a mother whose son died. So I was intrigued.
Mary herself narrates the book and is unable to mention her son's name. She is close to death and is reflecting back on her life, specifically around the time that Jesus died. The resurrection of Jesus is not mentioned in the book, and this could be where the accusations of blasphemy come in. However, whether Jesus revealed himself to his mother Mary after the resurrection is contested among biblical scholars.
In the weeks before Jesus was crucified, he was gaining followers at an exponential rate. However, there was also talk that people wanted him dead. Naturally, Mary was afraid for Jesus; instead of enthusiastically following him and listening to his teachings, she was watching his back and trying to convince him to run away with her to safety.
As someone removed from the situation, and as a Christian, one might gasp, "How dare she interfere with God's plan for the world? Where is her faith?" Well, think back to the birth of Jesus. Mary, a virgin, became pregnant via the Immaculate Conception and carried the pregnancy at a time when out-of-wedlock pregnancy and childbirth was quite scandalous, to say the least. That is the very definition of faith.
Mothers have a primal, biological instinct to protect their children. In humans, this instinct extends to the heart, soul, and spirit. Although Mary gave birth to the Son of God, she was still human, and she was still a mother. I don't care who you are, or who your child is: it would never sit well with a mother to watch her son be tortured and killed, no matter what the reason. Indeed, she says, "And what was strange about the power he exuded was that it made me love him and seek to protect him even more than I did when he had no power." Toibin, Colm, The Testament of Mary at 41.
Try as she may, Mary cannot see the bigger picture. Her son is going to die, of course; she cannot think of anything else, even the "something new [that] would happen which would make such judgments and predictions meaningless, that the world's time had come and [that] these days would be the last days and the days of the beginning." Id. at p. 49. (Sorry for the nerdy citations. Lawyer habits die hard.)
Here is what Mary had to say about her grief: "I did not think that the cursed shadow of what had happened would ever lift. It came like something in my heart that pumped darkness through me at the same rate as it pumped blood. Or it was my companion, my strange friend who woke me in the night and again in the morning and who stayed close all day. It was a heaviness in me that often became a weight which I could not carry. It eased sometimes but it never lifted." Id. at pp. 8-9.
Although I clearly am not Mary, and Weston clearly is not Jesus, I feel like I could have written this book myself. (And the English major in me is impressed that an author could so beautifully and accurately capture something that he will, with certainty, never experience.) If Mary, the MOTHER of Jesus, cannot see beyond her pain at losing her son to the bigger picture of his redemption of humanity, then why should I be expected to see the bigger picture of Weston's death? It is NOT acceptable that Weston is dead. I do NOT feel better knowing he is in a better place. I will NEVER come to terms with Weston's death, and absolutely NOTHING will make his death worth it. It only comforts me very slightly to know that I will see Weston again someday.
Because I am human. And I cannot fathom what is out there. I know that it IS out there and that it's better than what is here, but right now...I DON'T CARE. And honestly, I never will care until it's my time to join Weston again.
Like Mary, I can and do have faith. But I don't have to like it.
We played the song at Weston's memorial service, which was held in the chapel of a funeral home. Caroline now calls it the "chapel song." It has become a routine to sing the refrain to her at naptime now. So, Mary is a daily presence.
There is also a Christmas song called "Mary Did You Know." The lyrics are beautiful...and positive: "Mary...did you know that your baby boy has come to make you new? This child that you delivered will soon deliver you...will give sight to a blind man, calm a storm with his hand, make the blind see, is Lord of all creation," etc.
But think about what the song doesn't ask: Mary, do you know that your baby boy will be mocked and disrespected? Spat upon? Sentenced to death for no reason? Brutally tortured? Slowly crucified like a criminal? And that he will die completely alone, for his own father in heaven will turn his back? Sure, it will be the ultimate sacrifice for humankind, and he will rise again, but DO YOU KNOW WHAT YOUR BABY IS IN FOR?? If so, how do you feel about that? As a mother, will any amount of redemption make it worth the unspeakable agony he is going to experience? The agony YOU are going to experience?
Recently, I read a book called The Testament of Mary that addresses these questions. I can't remember where I initially heard about it, but the New York Times designated it as one of the top books of 2012. I caught the tail end of the author, Colm Toibin's, interview on NPR. Some reviews said that traditional, evangelical Christians would be offended and characterize the book as blasphemous.
But I am not a "traditional" Christian, at least in the way they are generally portrayed in American culture. And, like Mary, I am also a mother whose son died. So I was intrigued.
Mary herself narrates the book and is unable to mention her son's name. She is close to death and is reflecting back on her life, specifically around the time that Jesus died. The resurrection of Jesus is not mentioned in the book, and this could be where the accusations of blasphemy come in. However, whether Jesus revealed himself to his mother Mary after the resurrection is contested among biblical scholars.
In the weeks before Jesus was crucified, he was gaining followers at an exponential rate. However, there was also talk that people wanted him dead. Naturally, Mary was afraid for Jesus; instead of enthusiastically following him and listening to his teachings, she was watching his back and trying to convince him to run away with her to safety.
As someone removed from the situation, and as a Christian, one might gasp, "How dare she interfere with God's plan for the world? Where is her faith?" Well, think back to the birth of Jesus. Mary, a virgin, became pregnant via the Immaculate Conception and carried the pregnancy at a time when out-of-wedlock pregnancy and childbirth was quite scandalous, to say the least. That is the very definition of faith.
Mothers have a primal, biological instinct to protect their children. In humans, this instinct extends to the heart, soul, and spirit. Although Mary gave birth to the Son of God, she was still human, and she was still a mother. I don't care who you are, or who your child is: it would never sit well with a mother to watch her son be tortured and killed, no matter what the reason. Indeed, she says, "And what was strange about the power he exuded was that it made me love him and seek to protect him even more than I did when he had no power." Toibin, Colm, The Testament of Mary at 41.
Try as she may, Mary cannot see the bigger picture. Her son is going to die, of course; she cannot think of anything else, even the "something new [that] would happen which would make such judgments and predictions meaningless, that the world's time had come and [that] these days would be the last days and the days of the beginning." Id. at p. 49. (Sorry for the nerdy citations. Lawyer habits die hard.)
Here is what Mary had to say about her grief: "I did not think that the cursed shadow of what had happened would ever lift. It came like something in my heart that pumped darkness through me at the same rate as it pumped blood. Or it was my companion, my strange friend who woke me in the night and again in the morning and who stayed close all day. It was a heaviness in me that often became a weight which I could not carry. It eased sometimes but it never lifted." Id. at pp. 8-9.
Although I clearly am not Mary, and Weston clearly is not Jesus, I feel like I could have written this book myself. (And the English major in me is impressed that an author could so beautifully and accurately capture something that he will, with certainty, never experience.) If Mary, the MOTHER of Jesus, cannot see beyond her pain at losing her son to the bigger picture of his redemption of humanity, then why should I be expected to see the bigger picture of Weston's death? It is NOT acceptable that Weston is dead. I do NOT feel better knowing he is in a better place. I will NEVER come to terms with Weston's death, and absolutely NOTHING will make his death worth it. It only comforts me very slightly to know that I will see Weston again someday.
Because I am human. And I cannot fathom what is out there. I know that it IS out there and that it's better than what is here, but right now...I DON'T CARE. And honestly, I never will care until it's my time to join Weston again.
Like Mary, I can and do have faith. But I don't have to like it.
Sunday, December 16, 2012
If You Read/Share ONE Post, Please Let it be This One
I need to go on a Facebook fast. It is making me want to vomit these days. I have been blogging about child death for a few months now, trying to give anyone interested a glimpse, just a glimpse, into what it is like to lose a child. My purpose for blogging is two-fold: my first, and more personal, reason is to tell the world about Weston Max Yoder, my son, and how he has profoundly affected my life. Because he died, I must be his voice now.
My second reason is to educate. In the wake of losing a child, words have enormous power to hurt or heal. Action or inaction also has incredible power to hurt or heal. Grieving parents have had their worlds rocked in a way you can't even imagine, and WE NEED SUPPORT.
I suppose I have a third reason for blogging: by giving interested readers a glimpse into my heart and soul, I hope to encourage empathy and perspective. I want people to stop complaining about petty things. I want people to stop focusing on themselves so much and be there for someone else. I want people to stop being judgmental. I want people to be thankful for what they have and stop focusing on the things that don't matter. Hopelessly utopian? Perhaps. But when we live in a world where innocent babies die, and innocent children and teachers are gunned down in school, why do we waste our time being obsessed with the wrong things and ignoring the right things?
Since last week's tragedy in Connecticut, child death has been in the national spotlight. Everything I have been blogging about (and a whole lot more) is part of a national conversation now. On an individual level, words, action, and inaction have hurt me since Weston died. But now the ignorance and insensitivity is everywhere, in my face. Although it is not directed at me, I am reliving horrible moments all over again. But whatever words hurt me, they are not part of the national news. They are not circulating around Facebook. I do not see hurtful and ignorant things, directed at ME, everywhere I look. God help these parents. On their behalf, I ask you to LISTEN UP.
**Here is an easy-to-read article about how to talk to a grieving parent. I posted it on my Facebook page the other day, but it needs to be circulated EVERYWHERE.
**And this is a very helpful article written by a former chaplain at a children's hospital. IF YOU BELIEVE IN GOD, or are trying to comfort grieving parents who believe in God, this is MANDATORY reading. It's important if you don't believe in God, too. Everyone, just read it.
Look at this garbage I saw on Facebook today. And who are the 284,000 people who actually "liked" this sanctimonious drivel that she posted hours after the horrific shooting at Sandy Hook Elementary School:
I may lose a few friends over this-- I truly believe that all this evil stems from taking God out of our schools, our government, our everyday lives. Our nation was founded on the principles of Him. How can we expect Him to protect us, protect our children when we refuse to let Him in our schools and in our lives. May God be with those families and those children whose lives will be forever changed. Let this be a call to Him.
You might be thinking, what's wrong with this? Shauna, you are going straight to hell. I have talked quite a bit about my faith struggles here, and I have never been a card-carrying evangelical Christian, as they are known, caricatured, whatever in American society at large. I am, however, a Christian, and I believe that God is good. I might have made a little progress in this area since writing this post, although I am still struggling with God's silence in my life. But this, THIS, is the kind of drivel that drives the knife in deeper, and twists it for good measure, to bereaved parents. (Drivel. I've used it twice already. It's my word of the day.)
Let's assume, for the sake of argument, that Anonymous Poster (I saw her name, but I don't want to give her more attention. Because, you know, so many people read my blog.) is correct: that "all this evil stems from taking God out of our schools, our government, our everyday lives." Well, Anonymous Poster, do you personally know the families of the twenty-six victims of this horrific tragedy? Do you know for a fact that they took God out of their everyday lives? How do you know they didn't pray in school? Prayer doesn't have to be approved by the government for it to happen. See, we have this thing called the First Amendment that guarantees freedom of religion. It means we can pray whenever we want, to whomever we want. (I am not touching the Second Amendment here. No way.) All-knowing Anonymous Poster (AP), did you ever stop to think that maybe these children and teachers believed in God? That they DID pray that day, and maybe every day? Maybe their parents prayed for them in the car on the way to school, like my mother used to do with me. Maybe their parents asked God to keep them safe, as I do with my daughter every night. Oh, and AP, I also prayed for God to keep my son safe. Prayed and prayed and prayed and prayed. Guess what? He died.
And, here is one of the most self-righteous statements I have ever heard: "How can we expect Him to protect us, protect our children when we refuse to let Him in our schools and in our lives." So, Anonymous I-Let-God-in-EVERY-Area-of-My-Life Poster, what would your answer be if, God forbid, YOUR child had been among the victims? How would you explain that? (Maybe you don't have a child. I don't know.)
AP, this garbage that you post is what makes people hate God. And who can blame them? Really, who would want to serve, much less believe in, a god that says, "Oh! You didn't pray to me enough today, so I'm going to let this disturbed young man into a school and KILL YOUR CHILDREN." Or, "You know that Supreme Court ruling back in the day that upheld the separation of church and state? Well, I don't like that, so I'm going to put your child in the path of a semi-automatic rifle." Or, "Whoops! You didn't read your Bible long enough, so I'm going to make your placenta disintegrate, forcing you to give birth to your son way too early, watch him suffer for three weeks, and then let him die." Not me.
AP, my son died. I am struggling with God right now. But I imagine you, smug, self-righteous AP, don't understand that, because everything is so easy, so black and white, with you. I have intensely examined and wrestled with my faith over the last fifteen years. Before my precious, beautiful, perfect son Weston died, your clueless insensitivity would have just rolled off my back. Sure, it would have made me sad as a Christian to think that the God I believe in is portrayed so negatively, but I would have just continued living my life, hoping that others would somehow see a more kind and loving God through me.
But now. You see, when our children die, we parents question EVERYTHING we have ever done. Our first mandate as parents is to keep our children safe. So, when they DIE, we have to deal with a lot of self-loathing and feelings of failure. We search for answers. We don't really want to know the answers, but we search anyway. And if we believe in God, EVERYTHING we thought we knew about God is shaken to its core.
And, if we didn't, in your words, "refuse to let Him in our schools and in our lives," what then? AP, how do you reconcile that? Remember the shooting in the Amish community a few years ago? Their schools, their lives revolve around God. How do you explain that tragedy?
My son's name is Weston. God was and is a part of our family life. I prayed and prayed and prayed for Weston. He died anyway. How do you, all-knowing AP, explain that?
We have no idea why these horrible events happen, why children die. AP, DON'T YOU DARE pretend to think that you know the answer. Even worse, don't portray God as some heartless entity that is waiting to pounce or turn his back on us or take away our children the minute we "take him out of schools". Whatever that means. God is not like that.
Most of all, don't tell a grieving parent that their child died because they "took God out of their lives." After this long, impassioned post, do I even need to explain why? THERE IS NO REASON WHY. Don't heap more guilt on bereaved parents.
284,000 people believe that AP's statement was an appropriate thing to say AFTER CHILDREN DIED. Boy, do I have my work cut out for me. I pray that this drivel (Oh! There it is again! I need a thesaurus.) never makes its way to the parents grieving their children lost in this horrific shooting. I don't pretend to think that this post will reach 284,000 sets of eyes, but read the articles. Please, please, please be intentional with your words and actions toward bereaved parents. I know that God does not need me to defend him, but please don't think that he is the way AP portrayed him. As much as I don't understand WHY he let my baby boy die, he is good. And, if this post ever reaches another bereaved parent, specifically one who lost a child, of any age, at Sandy Hook, please don't ever think that your beliefs, or non-belief, in God had anything to do with this tragedy. You are loved, you are not alone, and it was not your fault.
My second reason is to educate. In the wake of losing a child, words have enormous power to hurt or heal. Action or inaction also has incredible power to hurt or heal. Grieving parents have had their worlds rocked in a way you can't even imagine, and WE NEED SUPPORT.
I suppose I have a third reason for blogging: by giving interested readers a glimpse into my heart and soul, I hope to encourage empathy and perspective. I want people to stop complaining about petty things. I want people to stop focusing on themselves so much and be there for someone else. I want people to stop being judgmental. I want people to be thankful for what they have and stop focusing on the things that don't matter. Hopelessly utopian? Perhaps. But when we live in a world where innocent babies die, and innocent children and teachers are gunned down in school, why do we waste our time being obsessed with the wrong things and ignoring the right things?
Since last week's tragedy in Connecticut, child death has been in the national spotlight. Everything I have been blogging about (and a whole lot more) is part of a national conversation now. On an individual level, words, action, and inaction have hurt me since Weston died. But now the ignorance and insensitivity is everywhere, in my face. Although it is not directed at me, I am reliving horrible moments all over again. But whatever words hurt me, they are not part of the national news. They are not circulating around Facebook. I do not see hurtful and ignorant things, directed at ME, everywhere I look. God help these parents. On their behalf, I ask you to LISTEN UP.
**Here is an easy-to-read article about how to talk to a grieving parent. I posted it on my Facebook page the other day, but it needs to be circulated EVERYWHERE.
**And this is a very helpful article written by a former chaplain at a children's hospital. IF YOU BELIEVE IN GOD, or are trying to comfort grieving parents who believe in God, this is MANDATORY reading. It's important if you don't believe in God, too. Everyone, just read it.
Look at this garbage I saw on Facebook today. And who are the 284,000 people who actually "liked" this sanctimonious drivel that she posted hours after the horrific shooting at Sandy Hook Elementary School:
I may lose a few friends over this-- I truly believe that all this evil stems from taking God out of our schools, our government, our everyday lives. Our nation was founded on the principles of Him. How can we expect Him to protect us, protect our children when we refuse to let Him in our schools and in our lives. May God be with those families and those children whose lives will be forever changed. Let this be a call to Him.
You might be thinking, what's wrong with this? Shauna, you are going straight to hell. I have talked quite a bit about my faith struggles here, and I have never been a card-carrying evangelical Christian, as they are known, caricatured, whatever in American society at large. I am, however, a Christian, and I believe that God is good. I might have made a little progress in this area since writing this post, although I am still struggling with God's silence in my life. But this, THIS, is the kind of drivel that drives the knife in deeper, and twists it for good measure, to bereaved parents. (Drivel. I've used it twice already. It's my word of the day.)
Let's assume, for the sake of argument, that Anonymous Poster (I saw her name, but I don't want to give her more attention. Because, you know, so many people read my blog.) is correct: that "all this evil stems from taking God out of our schools, our government, our everyday lives." Well, Anonymous Poster, do you personally know the families of the twenty-six victims of this horrific tragedy? Do you know for a fact that they took God out of their everyday lives? How do you know they didn't pray in school? Prayer doesn't have to be approved by the government for it to happen. See, we have this thing called the First Amendment that guarantees freedom of religion. It means we can pray whenever we want, to whomever we want. (I am not touching the Second Amendment here. No way.) All-knowing Anonymous Poster (AP), did you ever stop to think that maybe these children and teachers believed in God? That they DID pray that day, and maybe every day? Maybe their parents prayed for them in the car on the way to school, like my mother used to do with me. Maybe their parents asked God to keep them safe, as I do with my daughter every night. Oh, and AP, I also prayed for God to keep my son safe. Prayed and prayed and prayed and prayed. Guess what? He died.
And, here is one of the most self-righteous statements I have ever heard: "How can we expect Him to protect us, protect our children when we refuse to let Him in our schools and in our lives." So, Anonymous I-Let-God-in-EVERY-Area-of-My-Life Poster, what would your answer be if, God forbid, YOUR child had been among the victims? How would you explain that? (Maybe you don't have a child. I don't know.)
AP, this garbage that you post is what makes people hate God. And who can blame them? Really, who would want to serve, much less believe in, a god that says, "Oh! You didn't pray to me enough today, so I'm going to let this disturbed young man into a school and KILL YOUR CHILDREN." Or, "You know that Supreme Court ruling back in the day that upheld the separation of church and state? Well, I don't like that, so I'm going to put your child in the path of a semi-automatic rifle." Or, "Whoops! You didn't read your Bible long enough, so I'm going to make your placenta disintegrate, forcing you to give birth to your son way too early, watch him suffer for three weeks, and then let him die." Not me.
AP, my son died. I am struggling with God right now. But I imagine you, smug, self-righteous AP, don't understand that, because everything is so easy, so black and white, with you. I have intensely examined and wrestled with my faith over the last fifteen years. Before my precious, beautiful, perfect son Weston died, your clueless insensitivity would have just rolled off my back. Sure, it would have made me sad as a Christian to think that the God I believe in is portrayed so negatively, but I would have just continued living my life, hoping that others would somehow see a more kind and loving God through me.
But now. You see, when our children die, we parents question EVERYTHING we have ever done. Our first mandate as parents is to keep our children safe. So, when they DIE, we have to deal with a lot of self-loathing and feelings of failure. We search for answers. We don't really want to know the answers, but we search anyway. And if we believe in God, EVERYTHING we thought we knew about God is shaken to its core.
And, if we didn't, in your words, "refuse to let Him in our schools and in our lives," what then? AP, how do you reconcile that? Remember the shooting in the Amish community a few years ago? Their schools, their lives revolve around God. How do you explain that tragedy?
My son's name is Weston. God was and is a part of our family life. I prayed and prayed and prayed for Weston. He died anyway. How do you, all-knowing AP, explain that?
We have no idea why these horrible events happen, why children die. AP, DON'T YOU DARE pretend to think that you know the answer. Even worse, don't portray God as some heartless entity that is waiting to pounce or turn his back on us or take away our children the minute we "take him out of schools". Whatever that means. God is not like that.
Most of all, don't tell a grieving parent that their child died because they "took God out of their lives." After this long, impassioned post, do I even need to explain why? THERE IS NO REASON WHY. Don't heap more guilt on bereaved parents.
284,000 people believe that AP's statement was an appropriate thing to say AFTER CHILDREN DIED. Boy, do I have my work cut out for me. I pray that this drivel (Oh! There it is again! I need a thesaurus.) never makes its way to the parents grieving their children lost in this horrific shooting. I don't pretend to think that this post will reach 284,000 sets of eyes, but read the articles. Please, please, please be intentional with your words and actions toward bereaved parents. I know that God does not need me to defend him, but please don't think that he is the way AP portrayed him. As much as I don't understand WHY he let my baby boy die, he is good. And, if this post ever reaches another bereaved parent, specifically one who lost a child, of any age, at Sandy Hook, please don't ever think that your beliefs, or non-belief, in God had anything to do with this tragedy. You are loved, you are not alone, and it was not your fault.
Friday, December 14, 2012
Band-Aids
Today, twenty children and seven adults in Connecticut were killed at the hands of someone with a gun. Like the rest of the country, I am horrified. I cried as the stories came in via my Facebook feed, and I cried while watching the silent TV monitor at dinner.
My mom's husband is from Connecticut, and he has school-aged family there. When I heard the news, I immediately texted my mom to make sure they were safe. (I was pretty certain it was a different town, but I wanted to confirm. Only the name of the county had been released at that point.)
I am not going to get on my proverbial soapbox and talk about this tragedy; I have nothing new to add to it beyond the cacophony of voices calling for more restricted access to guns (with which I wholeheartedly agree). But although I have not lost anyone to gun violence, I now have an awful kinship with twenty more families.
There are a million ways to lose your child, and none are worse than the others. The end result is the same: our children are gone. Weston was a beautiful, perfect, innocent baby; everyone mourns the loss of innocent children. Others, even people I don't know and people who never met Weston, mourn with me. That is obviously true with the children lost in today's tragedy as well.
But I spent all afternoon thinking about the gunman's mother. She, too, lost a child, yet not many people will mourn the loss of his life. They will call him a monster. As isolated as I am in my grief, at least I can take comfort in the fact that my son never did anything wrong, that he was loved well by so many people. This mother would have no such comfort.
But then I learned that she was among the victims today. And, I will stop right there.
Maybe people think I'm crazy for fixating on the mother of the gunman and not the parents of the innocent children who were killed. I have met parents whose children were murdered. I have met parents whose children did bad things, who, perhaps, died while doing bad things. While there might be additional anger directed at specific people with which I do not have to contend, none of us has it better or worse than the other. Make no mistake, I am ANGRY. But no one person was responsible for Weston's death (except for me and God, but we won't go down that road now). I can probably speak for all parents when I say that we love our children unconditionally and equally, whether they are what others would call angels or monsters. Our losses are equal.
I am hearing all over cyberspace of people counting their blessings tonight, hugging their children a little tighter, crying, being angry, etc. That is expected. But, my actions today were not different from any other day. I do all of these things daily now since losing Weston. However, like the twenty families who lost children today, I had one fewer child to hug and kiss tonight.
To the Band-Aid. The last baby I held was my dead son, on July 28. Before that, I held Weston when he was alive, once, for fifteen minutes. Since Weston's death, I absolutely could not bear to think about holding another baby anytime soon. This has been very distressing to me; I have a brand new nephew, and I've worried about how I will bring myself to hold this little boy whom I already love so much yet is a flesh-and-blood reminder of what I have lost.
But the dilemma has been solved, and relatively painlessly. I was chatting with my good friend and neighbor, S, today. Our daughters were playing together in her front yard, and she was holding her baby boy, who is a month older than Weston (they should have been 4.5 months apart). Then her daughter had to use the restroom. I just figured everyone would part ways, but she asked if I would hold the baby while she took her daughter inside. I hesitated for a second but said yes. Just in case you're wondering, S is not clueless and insensitive. She has been, and still is, a wonderful friend to me throughout this hell. This was the first time she had asked, and she gave me an out.
So I took the baby, and they went inside. I felt a little emotional for a second, but I kept it together. Caroline was giving me a funny look. I don't know if she could read the emotion on my face or if she was weirded out by me holding another baby (she never saw me hold Weston). Probably both.
But we all did fine, baby J included. He is cute and cuddly. S and her daughter were inside for all of two minutes. When they returned, I remarked that this was actually the easiest way to pass this "milestone." I didn't have time to think, obsess, and get emotional about it. And this is good, given that I am going to meet my nephew relatively soon. And another good friend is going to have a baby boy any day now.
Now, don't go thinking that I'm doing well. It has been one hell of a week: horrific, actually. I have about seven blog posts in draft; I tend to write more when I'm in a dark place. (Usually I have about, oh, zero to one posts in draft.) But being able to hold a baby boy without breaking down was a little reprieve, I think. Like ripping off a Band-Aid. Thanks, S!
I am in a dark place, and today the world joined me. But I don't like company of this sort. As much as misery loves company, being isolated in my grief means I can see a light out there, somewhere, albeit dim and flickering. Being joined in my grief means that everything is dark. There is no Band-Aid big enough to fix it.
My mom's husband is from Connecticut, and he has school-aged family there. When I heard the news, I immediately texted my mom to make sure they were safe. (I was pretty certain it was a different town, but I wanted to confirm. Only the name of the county had been released at that point.)
I am not going to get on my proverbial soapbox and talk about this tragedy; I have nothing new to add to it beyond the cacophony of voices calling for more restricted access to guns (with which I wholeheartedly agree). But although I have not lost anyone to gun violence, I now have an awful kinship with twenty more families.
There are a million ways to lose your child, and none are worse than the others. The end result is the same: our children are gone. Weston was a beautiful, perfect, innocent baby; everyone mourns the loss of innocent children. Others, even people I don't know and people who never met Weston, mourn with me. That is obviously true with the children lost in today's tragedy as well.
But I spent all afternoon thinking about the gunman's mother. She, too, lost a child, yet not many people will mourn the loss of his life. They will call him a monster. As isolated as I am in my grief, at least I can take comfort in the fact that my son never did anything wrong, that he was loved well by so many people. This mother would have no such comfort.
But then I learned that she was among the victims today. And, I will stop right there.
Maybe people think I'm crazy for fixating on the mother of the gunman and not the parents of the innocent children who were killed. I have met parents whose children were murdered. I have met parents whose children did bad things, who, perhaps, died while doing bad things. While there might be additional anger directed at specific people with which I do not have to contend, none of us has it better or worse than the other. Make no mistake, I am ANGRY. But no one person was responsible for Weston's death (except for me and God, but we won't go down that road now). I can probably speak for all parents when I say that we love our children unconditionally and equally, whether they are what others would call angels or monsters. Our losses are equal.
I am hearing all over cyberspace of people counting their blessings tonight, hugging their children a little tighter, crying, being angry, etc. That is expected. But, my actions today were not different from any other day. I do all of these things daily now since losing Weston. However, like the twenty families who lost children today, I had one fewer child to hug and kiss tonight.
To the Band-Aid. The last baby I held was my dead son, on July 28. Before that, I held Weston when he was alive, once, for fifteen minutes. Since Weston's death, I absolutely could not bear to think about holding another baby anytime soon. This has been very distressing to me; I have a brand new nephew, and I've worried about how I will bring myself to hold this little boy whom I already love so much yet is a flesh-and-blood reminder of what I have lost.
But the dilemma has been solved, and relatively painlessly. I was chatting with my good friend and neighbor, S, today. Our daughters were playing together in her front yard, and she was holding her baby boy, who is a month older than Weston (they should have been 4.5 months apart). Then her daughter had to use the restroom. I just figured everyone would part ways, but she asked if I would hold the baby while she took her daughter inside. I hesitated for a second but said yes. Just in case you're wondering, S is not clueless and insensitive. She has been, and still is, a wonderful friend to me throughout this hell. This was the first time she had asked, and she gave me an out.
So I took the baby, and they went inside. I felt a little emotional for a second, but I kept it together. Caroline was giving me a funny look. I don't know if she could read the emotion on my face or if she was weirded out by me holding another baby (she never saw me hold Weston). Probably both.
But we all did fine, baby J included. He is cute and cuddly. S and her daughter were inside for all of two minutes. When they returned, I remarked that this was actually the easiest way to pass this "milestone." I didn't have time to think, obsess, and get emotional about it. And this is good, given that I am going to meet my nephew relatively soon. And another good friend is going to have a baby boy any day now.
Now, don't go thinking that I'm doing well. It has been one hell of a week: horrific, actually. I have about seven blog posts in draft; I tend to write more when I'm in a dark place. (Usually I have about, oh, zero to one posts in draft.) But being able to hold a baby boy without breaking down was a little reprieve, I think. Like ripping off a Band-Aid. Thanks, S!
I am in a dark place, and today the world joined me. But I don't like company of this sort. As much as misery loves company, being isolated in my grief means I can see a light out there, somewhere, albeit dim and flickering. Being joined in my grief means that everything is dark. There is no Band-Aid big enough to fix it.
Thursday, December 13, 2012
Back to Square One
Over the last few days, my body has decided to revert back to July 28, 2012 (the day Weston died) and the following weeks. In other words, back to square one. My brain and my heart have remained at square one all this time; they have not moved on. But my body slowly returned to "normal." (I put normal in quotes because, really, nothing is back to normal. My child died. My former, normal self died with him.)
Now, as it was back then, my appetite is gone. I am in a constant state of anxiety. I am staying awake later and later; my average bedtime now is between 12:30 and 12:45 a.m. I had ONE regular beer on a full stomach the other night and was almost drunk. My scar burns often. I even feel a milk letdown sometimes, although I obviously am not producing anything.
In the several weeks following Weston's death, I found an excuse to go to the NICU almost every day. It was comforting. More recently, I couldn't handle going to the NICU, but I still found comfort in sitting in the hospital lobby, where I spent so many hours in my wheelchair last summer before Weston was born. But the other night, as I drove past the hospital on my way to support group, my entire body tensed up. I can't do it anymore; my body won't let me. My place of refuge, Weston's HOME as a source of comfort has now been taken from me.
For some reason, I went back through my blog the other day and read this post that I wrote about Weston's death a couple of days after it happened. I am struck by the straight narrative of the post, almost devoid of emotion. Clearly, I was in a state of extreme shock. But I discovered that, although the last four months have been a complete blur, I still remember everything about that day. That is as it should be; Weston's death was the worst thing that has ever happened to me, the worst thing that could happen to any parent. I cannot and will not let myself forget. My brain will preserve it forever. It is mind-boggling, what the body does (no pun intended).
I went to the dentist the other day. They knew I was pregnant, because they wanted to take x-rays at my last visit, and they knew Weston died (and really, what else is there to know?), but they didn't know anything else. I was nervous about going, as I am nervous about doing almost everything now.
H, the hygienist, gave me a big hug, and I immediately started crying. As she started cleaning my teeth, I noticed that my gums were extremely tender. The teeth cleaning, while never comfortable, was very painful this time. I mentioned this to H, and she said she was not surprised at all, given the horror and stress I have experienced since my last visit. I was grateful that she acknowledged the interconnectedness between the heart and soul and body.
Then the dentist came in. Pleasantly, as always, he asked if I had experienced any medical changes in the last six months. The question surprised me. I fumbled for words and finally said, "Well....yes. Everything with my son." I was confused: my dentist knew that Weston died. Grief affects the body profoundly; H had just acknowledged that. Why would he even bother asking IF there were medical changes? (I know, I know. He is a medical professional; he has to ask.) He said, "I meant with YOU." Then I just felt like an idiot. He went on to list heart, lung, liver, hospitalizations--YES! Now I was no longer the "crazy" person claiming to be physically affected by an "external event." So I piped in, "Yes, I was in the hospital for a month, and I had a c-section." (I keep forgetting that I was in a very serious medical situation myself.) He just said, "Oh. Uh, that's a long time to be in the hospital." Yes, it was. And my son wasn't in the hospital as long as I was, but 100% of his life was spent in the hospital. How's that for a long time?
The whole conversation was awkward. Of course. They always are. My entire being, physical body included, has been through hell. Actually, it's still there. Medical professionals recognize this to the point that they often try to subscribe pills to someone who has just lost a loved one (a subject for another post...and there WILL be one). So, the question should have been, "How has the loss of your son affected you physically?"
If you have not lost a child, you probably think I am completely unreasonable. But that's fine, and expected, I suppose. The truth is, I AM unreasonable. Who would not be unreasonable with grief upon losing a child? I talk a lot on this blog about hurtful conversations and other exchanges I experience. No one is trying to be hurtful, and it might seem that everything is just a matter of semantics.
But we bereaved parents are so lonely. Although we don't want you to truly understand what we are going through, we want the enormity of our loss to be acknowledged and respected. That is a big reason why I blog. Words and actions have so much power to heal and hurt. While I wish that no one ever comes to know what I know, EVERYONE will be touched by loss at some point, whether directly or indirectly. No one is immune. So it is very important to know how to be there for your loved ones, colleagues, clients, etc. who are hurting. As for me, when in doubt, assume that I am a train wreck. If I'm not, everyone can be pleasantly surprised.
Because the loss of my son has affected EVERYTHING about me, even down to my gums.
UPDATE: Since publishing this post, I have learned that my dentist, in fact, did NOT know that Weston died. Shannon had his teeth cleaned a few days later, they had a conversation, and now everybody knows. And now we know WHEN everyone knew what they know. Confused yet?
So I feel better. But these conversations still happen all the time, even among people who know of the loss.
UPDATE: Since publishing this post, I have learned that my dentist, in fact, did NOT know that Weston died. Shannon had his teeth cleaned a few days later, they had a conversation, and now everybody knows. And now we know WHEN everyone knew what they know. Confused yet?
So I feel better. But these conversations still happen all the time, even among people who know of the loss.
Stream of Consciousness
Setting: inside my head on a treadmill at the YMCA. My view of the clock on the wall is obscured by a weight machine, and a towel covers the treadmill display, so there is no sense of time.
Music: a playlist I made called "Childbirth." It was meant to relax me and help me focus during my natural childbirth with Weston. Irony duly noted.
Monologue of Weston's mom, set to Childbirth playlist:
Sail Away (David Gray)
Sail away with me, honey. I put my heart in your hand. Yes, please.
You Can Always Come Home (Andrew Peterson)
I'll love you today, I'll love you tomorrow. I'll love you as deep as the sea.
I'll love you in joy, and I'll love you in sorrow. You can always come home to me.
All true. Except, of course, that last sentence.
Sister (Dave Matthews Band)
I miss mine. She has a brand new baby boy: the very definition of bittersweet to the millionth power. There is a chasm.
No Ceiling (Eddie Vedder)
Oh, Eddie. You get me. Hauntingly beautiful song from an unforgettable book and movie (Into the Wild). I envy the one who got to satisfy his "urge to up and disappear." So much so that I am going to repeat this song three times.
Why can't I cry?
Birds of a Feather (The Civil Wars)
Sometimes I can't tell where I am, Where I leave off and he begins. Who could do without you?...One of these artists must have lost a child.
Crush (Dave Matthews Band)
OF COURSE you would play my favorite Dave song, which happens to be lighthearted and carefree. The old me who enjoyed those happier, simpler times died with Weston on July 28. Now this song just breaks my heart.
Furnace Room Lullaby (Neko Case)
All night, all I hear, all I hear's your heart...The rest of the lyrics are so dark I can't bring myself to put them here, for fear they could come true.
I'm Scared (Duffy)
I'm scared to face another day 'cause the fear in me won't go away. In an instant you were gone and now I'm scared.
Mary (Sarah McLachlan)
And OF COURSE you would play a song entitled "Mary." My latest fixation: Mary, the mother of Jesus. (Another post is coming on that topic. Get excited.)
Mary walks down to the water's edge, and there she hangs her head to find herself faded, a shadow of what she once was. She said how long have I been sleeping, and why do I feel so old? Why do I feel so cold...
All of this, all of the above: it is my time with Weston. When I want to spend time with my son, THIS is how I have to do it. In my head, accompanied by very dark thoughts.
Action
Step off treadmill, head to free weight area, do a set of lunges.
Dialogue
Trainer: Just so you know, I will be using this entire area for my group. We're going to be throwing balls around and moving around a lot. Blah, blah, blah....
Me: In other words, I have to move.
Trainer: Well, you can use this part right here. ["This part" is about the size of my foot. No, thanks.]
Where the hell am I supposed to do my lunges?
Action
Crunches on stability ball. Find another, much less convenient place to do lunges and complete another set.
Back to stability ball. A woman is using it. I go to get another one; they are all in use.
Back to MY ball. Stand and wait.
Dialogue
Woman who stole and is currently using my ball [in a very bitchy tone and with bitchy eyes]: Do you need this or something?
Me: Yes, I need my ball.
Will you people please stop taking my space? Is there any room for me in this (quite large) gym? IS THERE ANY ROOM FOR ME ON THIS EARTH? DO I EVEN EXIST TO YOU PEOPLE? Assholes, every single one.
Action of Caroline's mom
Walk to kids room to pick up surviving child.
Dialogue
Kids room teacher: Is she really three?
Me: Yes.
Teacher: It's amazing she's only three. She is so eloquent.
Me: [Big smile]
Teacher: She takes a while to warm up, but then this bright personality comes out. I can't believe she is only three. She is amazing.
Me: Thank you so much. Yes, she is.
So is my son. I wish you could see for yourself.
It's hard to believe Caroline's mom and Weston's mom are the same person. This is the dual reality of living the divided life, every single day.
Music: a playlist I made called "Childbirth." It was meant to relax me and help me focus during my natural childbirth with Weston. Irony duly noted.
Monologue of Weston's mom, set to Childbirth playlist:
Sail Away (David Gray)
Sail away with me, honey. I put my heart in your hand. Yes, please.
You Can Always Come Home (Andrew Peterson)
I'll love you today, I'll love you tomorrow. I'll love you as deep as the sea.
I'll love you in joy, and I'll love you in sorrow. You can always come home to me.
All true. Except, of course, that last sentence.
Sister (Dave Matthews Band)
I miss mine. She has a brand new baby boy: the very definition of bittersweet to the millionth power. There is a chasm.
No Ceiling (Eddie Vedder)
Oh, Eddie. You get me. Hauntingly beautiful song from an unforgettable book and movie (Into the Wild). I envy the one who got to satisfy his "urge to up and disappear." So much so that I am going to repeat this song three times.
Why can't I cry?
Birds of a Feather (The Civil Wars)
Sometimes I can't tell where I am, Where I leave off and he begins. Who could do without you?...One of these artists must have lost a child.
Crush (Dave Matthews Band)
OF COURSE you would play my favorite Dave song, which happens to be lighthearted and carefree. The old me who enjoyed those happier, simpler times died with Weston on July 28. Now this song just breaks my heart.
Furnace Room Lullaby (Neko Case)
All night, all I hear, all I hear's your heart...The rest of the lyrics are so dark I can't bring myself to put them here, for fear they could come true.
I'm Scared (Duffy)
I'm scared to face another day 'cause the fear in me won't go away. In an instant you were gone and now I'm scared.
Mary (Sarah McLachlan)
And OF COURSE you would play a song entitled "Mary." My latest fixation: Mary, the mother of Jesus. (Another post is coming on that topic. Get excited.)
Mary walks down to the water's edge, and there she hangs her head to find herself faded, a shadow of what she once was. She said how long have I been sleeping, and why do I feel so old? Why do I feel so cold...
All of this, all of the above: it is my time with Weston. When I want to spend time with my son, THIS is how I have to do it. In my head, accompanied by very dark thoughts.
Action
Step off treadmill, head to free weight area, do a set of lunges.
Dialogue
Trainer: Just so you know, I will be using this entire area for my group. We're going to be throwing balls around and moving around a lot. Blah, blah, blah....
Me: In other words, I have to move.
Trainer: Well, you can use this part right here. ["This part" is about the size of my foot. No, thanks.]
Where the hell am I supposed to do my lunges?
Action
Crunches on stability ball. Find another, much less convenient place to do lunges and complete another set.
Back to stability ball. A woman is using it. I go to get another one; they are all in use.
Back to MY ball. Stand and wait.
Dialogue
Woman who stole and is currently using my ball [in a very bitchy tone and with bitchy eyes]: Do you need this or something?
Me: Yes, I need my ball.
Will you people please stop taking my space? Is there any room for me in this (quite large) gym? IS THERE ANY ROOM FOR ME ON THIS EARTH? DO I EVEN EXIST TO YOU PEOPLE? Assholes, every single one.
Action of Caroline's mom
Walk to kids room to pick up surviving child.
Dialogue
Kids room teacher: Is she really three?
Me: Yes.
Teacher: It's amazing she's only three. She is so eloquent.
Me: [Big smile]
Teacher: She takes a while to warm up, but then this bright personality comes out. I can't believe she is only three. She is amazing.
Me: Thank you so much. Yes, she is.
So is my son. I wish you could see for yourself.
It's hard to believe Caroline's mom and Weston's mom are the same person. This is the dual reality of living the divided life, every single day.
Tuesday, December 11, 2012
[Fill in the Blank] Day
After losing a child, life becomes one long series of memorials or days of awareness. Before Weston died, just about the only cause I knew about was breast cancer awareness, when everything turns pink. Oh, and Administrative Professionals Day and Bosses Day, which I inevitably never remembered until that morning. I was happily oblivious.
Now, unfortunately, I am becoming an expert in sick or dead children. For example, since Weston died just over four months ago, I participated in Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Day/Month in October. Our family attended a candle-lighting service at a cemetery on October 15. So many of you lit candles for Weston, which was wonderful.
Then, November 17 is World Prematurity Day, organized by the March of Dimes. I didn't do anything beyond dressing myself and Caroline in purple (the color of prematurity awareness); I don't think there was an organized group event in Phoenix. But I have become an expert on prematurity. For example, did you know that the cause of premature birth is unknown in up to 40% of cases? And that half a million babies are born prematurely every year in the United States? I didn't know that, and I wish I still didn't know it. But I can't unlearn that information, and I can't simply do nothing when MY BABY became a statistic. When he died because he was premature.
December 9 was National Children's Memorial Day. That's another day I wish I never knew existed. Did you know that sometimes parents have to bury their children? (Of course you do, if you're reading this!) Our children are the statistics: the premature babies, the stillbirths from unknown causes, the freak accidents, the one in a million illnesses, the victims of medical malpractice, SIDS, the victims of violence. Well, there is an international day of remembrance for our children. I helped organize the local memorial service, and I spoke at the service as well. I hope my words (that I read from somewhere else) were comforting to the other parents. Another thing I never thought I would do.
I generally don't get too nervous about public speaking. It's part of being a litigator, so I'm used to it. But I was nervous before I spoke at the service because I was afraid I would not be able to get through my reading without crying. I cried during my two test runs. But once I got up on the stage, I kept it together. Clearly, Weston was with me, and he got me through it.
When your child dies, it suddenly seems that children die everywhere. And they do. I have also learned September is Childhood Cancer Awareness Month. Why don't more people know this? Because children die of cancer too. Now I know that childhood cancer is vastly underfunded; there are almost no drugs to treat pediatric cancer. I wish I didn't know this; I wish no one knew this, because then it would mean that children don't die of cancer. Why did this little boy have to die?
In addition to the plethora of memorial days, we learn, and remember, the birthdays and death day anniversaries of countless other beloved children. Knowing that people remember your child on those important, and incredibly difficult, days is comforting, so we make sure we honor and remember other children.
I wish I knew why Weston died, so I could throw my efforts into erasing that particular medical condition from the earth. In a sense, parents of dead children become imbued with a new energy, a new life. They direct everything they have into solving problems, hopefully erasing problems, so other children and parents don't have to live the hell that bereaved parents experience. (I say "they," not "we," because I have not yet figured out where to direct my efforts, my energy, my rage. When I do, watch out: prematurity, placental problems, mysteries that shut down babies' lungs and hearts, and/or ignorant and insensitive treatment of grieving parents are GOING DOWN.) If nothing else, bereaved parents develop a radar for other suffering people.
When I was an undergraduate student, I studied the poetry of William Blake (I am heavily supplementing my memory of these poems with Wikipedia). He wrote two series of poems called Songs of Innocence and Songs of Experience. Instead of trying to paraphrase, I give you the description straight from Wikipedia (English professors, I apologize):
"Innocence" and "Experience" are definitions of consciousness that rethink Milton's existential-mythic states of "Paradise" and the "Fall." Blake's categories are modes of perception that tend to coordinate with a chronology that would become standard in Romanticism: childhood is a time and a state of protected "innocence," but not immune to the fallen world and its institutions. This world sometimes impinges on childhood itself, and in any event becomes known through "experience," a state of being marked by the loss of childhood vitality, by fear and inhibition, by social and political corruption, and by the manifold oppression of Church, State, and the ruling classes.
Here are some poem titles in Songs of Innocence: The Lamb, The Blossom, Laughing Song, A Cradle Song, Spring, Infant Joy...And here is what's in store in Songs of Experience: The Sick Rose, The Fly, Infant Sorrow, A Poison Tree, A Little Boy Lost, A Little Girl Lost. Gee...which series would you prefer?
I remember having a lively class discussion about the benefits and drawbacks of innocence and experience, and our personal preferences. We students were 19-21 years old; we were not thinking about these poems in the context of parenthood. The love of one's child presents a paradox: it is pure and innocent at its core. Indeed, it restores "childhood vitality" and makes the parent lose "inhibition." Parents' eyes are opened to experiencing the world through the innocent eyes of a child. On the other hand, experiencing such an intense and inexplicable love opens up a world of fear unlike any other. And, when those fears are sometimes realized, as by me...complete devastation.
Becoming Caroline's mother made me experience love on a level that I didn't know existed. I graduated simultaneously to the next levels of both innocence and experience when she was born. However, it was not until I lost Weston that I discovered the true depths of love for my children. I gained that knowledge by experience. I love more intensely than I did before, thanks to experience. However, it is a lesson I would give anything to unlearn.
How did we get from [Fill in the Blank] Day to the poetry of William Blake? In any event, although I generally believe that gained knowledge and experience result in deeper love and meaning, I loved my children well enough before Weston died. I wish I could take back my innocence...and my oblivion to everything that hurts and kills children.
The Angel
I dreamt a dream! What can it mean?
And that I was a maiden Queen
Guarded by an angel mild:
Witless woe was ne'er beguiled!
And I wept both night and day,
And he wiped my tears away;
And I wept both day and night,
And hid from him my heart's delight.
So he took his wings, and fled;
Then the morn blushed rosy red.
I dried my tears, and armed my fears
With ten thousand shields and spears.
Soon my Angel came again;
I was armed, he came in vain;
For the time of youth was fled,
And grey hairs were on my head.
William Blake
~From Songs of Experience
Now, unfortunately, I am becoming an expert in sick or dead children. For example, since Weston died just over four months ago, I participated in Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Day/Month in October. Our family attended a candle-lighting service at a cemetery on October 15. So many of you lit candles for Weston, which was wonderful.
Then, November 17 is World Prematurity Day, organized by the March of Dimes. I didn't do anything beyond dressing myself and Caroline in purple (the color of prematurity awareness); I don't think there was an organized group event in Phoenix. But I have become an expert on prematurity. For example, did you know that the cause of premature birth is unknown in up to 40% of cases? And that half a million babies are born prematurely every year in the United States? I didn't know that, and I wish I still didn't know it. But I can't unlearn that information, and I can't simply do nothing when MY BABY became a statistic. When he died because he was premature.
December 9 was National Children's Memorial Day. That's another day I wish I never knew existed. Did you know that sometimes parents have to bury their children? (Of course you do, if you're reading this!) Our children are the statistics: the premature babies, the stillbirths from unknown causes, the freak accidents, the one in a million illnesses, the victims of medical malpractice, SIDS, the victims of violence. Well, there is an international day of remembrance for our children. I helped organize the local memorial service, and I spoke at the service as well. I hope my words (that I read from somewhere else) were comforting to the other parents. Another thing I never thought I would do.
I generally don't get too nervous about public speaking. It's part of being a litigator, so I'm used to it. But I was nervous before I spoke at the service because I was afraid I would not be able to get through my reading without crying. I cried during my two test runs. But once I got up on the stage, I kept it together. Clearly, Weston was with me, and he got me through it.
When your child dies, it suddenly seems that children die everywhere. And they do. I have also learned September is Childhood Cancer Awareness Month. Why don't more people know this? Because children die of cancer too. Now I know that childhood cancer is vastly underfunded; there are almost no drugs to treat pediatric cancer. I wish I didn't know this; I wish no one knew this, because then it would mean that children don't die of cancer. Why did this little boy have to die?
In addition to the plethora of memorial days, we learn, and remember, the birthdays and death day anniversaries of countless other beloved children. Knowing that people remember your child on those important, and incredibly difficult, days is comforting, so we make sure we honor and remember other children.
I wish I knew why Weston died, so I could throw my efforts into erasing that particular medical condition from the earth. In a sense, parents of dead children become imbued with a new energy, a new life. They direct everything they have into solving problems, hopefully erasing problems, so other children and parents don't have to live the hell that bereaved parents experience. (I say "they," not "we," because I have not yet figured out where to direct my efforts, my energy, my rage. When I do, watch out: prematurity, placental problems, mysteries that shut down babies' lungs and hearts, and/or ignorant and insensitive treatment of grieving parents are GOING DOWN.) If nothing else, bereaved parents develop a radar for other suffering people.
When I was an undergraduate student, I studied the poetry of William Blake (I am heavily supplementing my memory of these poems with Wikipedia). He wrote two series of poems called Songs of Innocence and Songs of Experience. Instead of trying to paraphrase, I give you the description straight from Wikipedia (English professors, I apologize):
"Innocence" and "Experience" are definitions of consciousness that rethink Milton's existential-mythic states of "Paradise" and the "Fall." Blake's categories are modes of perception that tend to coordinate with a chronology that would become standard in Romanticism: childhood is a time and a state of protected "innocence," but not immune to the fallen world and its institutions. This world sometimes impinges on childhood itself, and in any event becomes known through "experience," a state of being marked by the loss of childhood vitality, by fear and inhibition, by social and political corruption, and by the manifold oppression of Church, State, and the ruling classes.
Here are some poem titles in Songs of Innocence: The Lamb, The Blossom, Laughing Song, A Cradle Song, Spring, Infant Joy...And here is what's in store in Songs of Experience: The Sick Rose, The Fly, Infant Sorrow, A Poison Tree, A Little Boy Lost, A Little Girl Lost. Gee...which series would you prefer?
I remember having a lively class discussion about the benefits and drawbacks of innocence and experience, and our personal preferences. We students were 19-21 years old; we were not thinking about these poems in the context of parenthood. The love of one's child presents a paradox: it is pure and innocent at its core. Indeed, it restores "childhood vitality" and makes the parent lose "inhibition." Parents' eyes are opened to experiencing the world through the innocent eyes of a child. On the other hand, experiencing such an intense and inexplicable love opens up a world of fear unlike any other. And, when those fears are sometimes realized, as by me...complete devastation.
Becoming Caroline's mother made me experience love on a level that I didn't know existed. I graduated simultaneously to the next levels of both innocence and experience when she was born. However, it was not until I lost Weston that I discovered the true depths of love for my children. I gained that knowledge by experience. I love more intensely than I did before, thanks to experience. However, it is a lesson I would give anything to unlearn.
How did we get from [Fill in the Blank] Day to the poetry of William Blake? In any event, although I generally believe that gained knowledge and experience result in deeper love and meaning, I loved my children well enough before Weston died. I wish I could take back my innocence...and my oblivion to everything that hurts and kills children.
The Angel
I dreamt a dream! What can it mean?
And that I was a maiden Queen
Guarded by an angel mild:
Witless woe was ne'er beguiled!
And I wept both night and day,
And he wiped my tears away;
And I wept both day and night,
And hid from him my heart's delight.
So he took his wings, and fled;
Then the morn blushed rosy red.
I dried my tears, and armed my fears
With ten thousand shields and spears.
Soon my Angel came again;
I was armed, he came in vain;
For the time of youth was fled,
And grey hairs were on my head.
William Blake
~From Songs of Experience
Thursday, December 6, 2012
Five
Update: Weston's five-month birthday was December 7. I posted after midnight on December 7, but apparently Blogger's clock is off, because it says I posted December 6. My brain is mush, but not that bad: I do, in fact, remember my son's birthday accurately. Here is the original post.
Dear Weston,
Today you would have been five months old. If you had been born on time, rather than 16 weeks early, you would be about five weeks old. Happy Birthday. If you were here, I would be gazing at your smiling face right now.
Christmas is coming, and our family is observing Advent for the first time this year. I had been thinking about various Christmas traditions for a couple of years, but YOU inspired our inaugural Advent "celebration" this year.
I can't believe you have been gone over four months. You cannot imagine how much I miss you and how much I wish you were here. Your absence is unbearable.
In the past few weeks, I have done some things in your honor. I have donated to some charities and will donate to a handful more during Advent. Throughout my life, I have given to charities here and there (and one every month for years), but now I seem to discover another one every week that tugs on my heartstrings. After watching you struggle so much during your entire life and then losing you, it hurts me to see children suffering.
Also, I made Thanksgiving cards for the babies in the NICU where you lived and died (the people who read this blog already know about this). I did not mention you on the card, because I don't want to remind the parents of those sick babies that some babies do not make it out of there. They need to hold onto hope.
A couple of days ago, K, the family support specialist from the NICU, called me to check in. She knew it was me who dropped off the cards because someone else recognized me in the lobby. How they recognized me with my red, puffy, tearstained face is a mystery, but they did. Anyway, K said that the cards are everywhere in the NICU right now: one at every baby's bedside. She said she thinks of you every time she sees the cards. The fact that people think of you brings me more comfort than you can even imagine.
I wish I could write your name everywhere. And it makes me happy to know that my little donations might help another sick child. But I feel like it's so inadequate. I just wish I could do more. Nothing I ever do, for the rest of my life, will measure up to you or be good enough for you. But I will die trying.
You have changed me. I am doing some good things as a result of being your mother. But I have also done some things I am not proud of. Yesterday, for example, I took your big sister to the grocery store. I put her in a cart when we were leaving, so I could get everything to the car. She wanted to sit in the back of the cart, so I lifted her in and told her to stay seated. A man sitting there saw this and yelled to me, "Don't let her stand up! A little girl did that, and she died."
Weston, I wanted to hit him in the face. I would never have actually done so, because I have to be a good example to your big sister, and I want to make you proud of me. And I also would rather not go to jail. I was angry at him for giving me, a stranger, parenting advice. (This is one of my pet peeves.) He was judging me, and I hate that. I wanted to tell him, "I know ALL about children dying, thank you. Please mind your own business."
Instead, I just shot him daggers with my eyes and walked away. I should have given him the benefit of the doubt: he was just trying to help, etc. But I didn't. However irrational, I am still angry at him for saying what he said.
A big event has happened since your last birthday: you have a new cousin! His name is Silas. If you had been born on time, you would have only been three weeks older than he is. You, Silas, and his big brother Jude would have been buddies for life. Some religions believe we all used to be in heaven, and then we come to earth as babies. I like that. It means that you and Silas (and your other cousins, should-be playmates, and your big sister, of course) used to play together. I wish so badly that your aunt and I could watch you boys play together here.
I have not dreamed about you since before you were born. And I have learned recently that parents almost never dream about their dead children. Why is that? I wish you would come visit me in my dreams. But if that is not possible, can you please visit someone else who loves you in their dreams? There are so many people who love you; you know who they are. Then they can tell me about their dreams of you, and I can have a little piece of you that way. That would make me so happy. If I can't have you here, a visit in a dream from you is the only thing I want for Christmas.
You are the most beautiful boy. I carry you in my heart, always.
I love you,
Mommy
Dear Weston,
Today you would have been five months old. If you had been born on time, rather than 16 weeks early, you would be about five weeks old. Happy Birthday. If you were here, I would be gazing at your smiling face right now.
Christmas is coming, and our family is observing Advent for the first time this year. I had been thinking about various Christmas traditions for a couple of years, but YOU inspired our inaugural Advent "celebration" this year.
I can't believe you have been gone over four months. You cannot imagine how much I miss you and how much I wish you were here. Your absence is unbearable.
In the past few weeks, I have done some things in your honor. I have donated to some charities and will donate to a handful more during Advent. Throughout my life, I have given to charities here and there (and one every month for years), but now I seem to discover another one every week that tugs on my heartstrings. After watching you struggle so much during your entire life and then losing you, it hurts me to see children suffering.
Also, I made Thanksgiving cards for the babies in the NICU where you lived and died (the people who read this blog already know about this). I did not mention you on the card, because I don't want to remind the parents of those sick babies that some babies do not make it out of there. They need to hold onto hope.
A couple of days ago, K, the family support specialist from the NICU, called me to check in. She knew it was me who dropped off the cards because someone else recognized me in the lobby. How they recognized me with my red, puffy, tearstained face is a mystery, but they did. Anyway, K said that the cards are everywhere in the NICU right now: one at every baby's bedside. She said she thinks of you every time she sees the cards. The fact that people think of you brings me more comfort than you can even imagine.
I wish I could write your name everywhere. And it makes me happy to know that my little donations might help another sick child. But I feel like it's so inadequate. I just wish I could do more. Nothing I ever do, for the rest of my life, will measure up to you or be good enough for you. But I will die trying.
You have changed me. I am doing some good things as a result of being your mother. But I have also done some things I am not proud of. Yesterday, for example, I took your big sister to the grocery store. I put her in a cart when we were leaving, so I could get everything to the car. She wanted to sit in the back of the cart, so I lifted her in and told her to stay seated. A man sitting there saw this and yelled to me, "Don't let her stand up! A little girl did that, and she died."
Weston, I wanted to hit him in the face. I would never have actually done so, because I have to be a good example to your big sister, and I want to make you proud of me. And I also would rather not go to jail. I was angry at him for giving me, a stranger, parenting advice. (This is one of my pet peeves.) He was judging me, and I hate that. I wanted to tell him, "I know ALL about children dying, thank you. Please mind your own business."
Instead, I just shot him daggers with my eyes and walked away. I should have given him the benefit of the doubt: he was just trying to help, etc. But I didn't. However irrational, I am still angry at him for saying what he said.
A big event has happened since your last birthday: you have a new cousin! His name is Silas. If you had been born on time, you would have only been three weeks older than he is. You, Silas, and his big brother Jude would have been buddies for life. Some religions believe we all used to be in heaven, and then we come to earth as babies. I like that. It means that you and Silas (and your other cousins, should-be playmates, and your big sister, of course) used to play together. I wish so badly that your aunt and I could watch you boys play together here.
I have not dreamed about you since before you were born. And I have learned recently that parents almost never dream about their dead children. Why is that? I wish you would come visit me in my dreams. But if that is not possible, can you please visit someone else who loves you in their dreams? There are so many people who love you; you know who they are. Then they can tell me about their dreams of you, and I can have a little piece of you that way. That would make me so happy. If I can't have you here, a visit in a dream from you is the only thing I want for Christmas.
You are the most beautiful boy. I carry you in my heart, always.
I love you,
Mommy
Wednesday, December 5, 2012
Outside Looking In
A couple of nights ago, I went running in the evening. I usually go in the morning, so this was different. It was completely dark by the time I got home, which made me feel even more isolated. I like the isolation: it means I can be alone with Weston and my tears, and no one will bother me.
For some reason, it felt quieter. I'm certain that it was not actually quieter out, because it was rush hour. I played my Weston playlist, of course. About halfway through my run, I heard a song with lyrics about wanting to see a departed loved one smile.
I never got to see Weston smile. He did not live long enough. How completely, utterly unfair. Seeing your child smile for the first time is one of life's most precious memories for a parent, and I was cheated out of it.
The fact that I never saw Weston smile did not occur to me until I heard those song lyrics during my run. Maybe it's because, until now, Weston would probably not have smiled yet. He would have been five months old this week. Adjusted to his due date, he would have been about five weeks old. Caroline first smiled at five weeks. So I would have been looking forward to that milestone any day now.
Of course, after that thought came to me, I completely lost it in the middle of my run. The tricky thing is that it was not dark yet. I was not wearing sunglasses, so anyone passing by would have seen my meltdown. Another thing about running while crying is that...it's hard to see in front of you. I have taken a few tumbles during runs over the years. The worst was when I fell and twisted my ankle badly while running in the dark about twelve years ago. I was on crutches for a while after that. Now I run with a headlamp if I run in the dark. Trust me, I have gotten a lot of crap for that. But, safety first.
But what do you do when the reason for your blindness is not darkness, but tears? If you're me, you just keep running. And you actually wish for a face plant, so you can be distracted from your grief by physical pain. And, hopefully, you would have an ugly physical mark on your face from the face plant so that you don't look so put together. You would be relieved that your outside matches your inside.
I kept running. But there was no face plant.
Our neighborhood is quite festive, which I hate now. Coming home, I wound through the streets lined with houses decorated to the hilt for Christmas. When I got to our house, Shannon had turned on our outside Christmas lights. Our Christmas tree lights in the front room were on, and the shutters were still open. If you had been standing on the curb in front of our house, you would have seen all of this, including that iconic American snapshot: the outline of a Christmas tree through the window. You would have seen two chairs and a small table on our front porch and a big front lawn with plenty of room for multiple kids to run around and play. If you had looked harder (please don't; that would be a little creepy), you would have seen toys strewn across our living room floor. Picture-perfect.
In other words, you would have thought to yourself, What a nice, comfortable house for a family. Look at the memories that can be made: rolling around on the lawn, sitting on the porch, playing by that tree, etc.
That is how I used to feel. Standing outside of my house looking in, I was overwhelmed with the blessings bestowed on me. Now, I look at my house and think, What a facade. Our winter grass has grown in nicely, and the flowers are blooming (I live in Phoenix, people; I do not have a magic green thumb). Our Christmas decorations look festive. But the outside of our house is nothing but a shell that masks heartbreak and emptiness inside.
That night, the darkness was a blessing. No one could see the breakdown that I had right in front of my own house. None of the neighbors wondered if I had misplaced my keys when I didn't immediately go inside. (Who am I kidding? They know what happened; they would KNOW I'm not looking for my keys when I wander around outside by myself in the dark.)
What I wanted to do in those moments, staring at my house before anyone knew I was home, was channel Joni Mitchell:
It's coming on Christmas
They're cutting down trees
Putting up reindeer, singing songs of joy and peace
Oh, I wish I had a river I could skate away on.
...
I wish I had a river so long
I would teach my feet to fly.
I have always loved Sarah McLachlan's version of that song. Now I know why.
Alas, there was and is no river to skate away on. By the time Shannon walked outside looking for me, my tears had dried, and the darkness hid the emotion that was still on my face. So I gathered myself together and walked inside.
I'm so hard to handle
I'm selfish and I'm sad
Now I've gone and lost the best baby
That I ever had
I wish I had a river I could skate away on.
~Joni Mitchell, River
For some reason, it felt quieter. I'm certain that it was not actually quieter out, because it was rush hour. I played my Weston playlist, of course. About halfway through my run, I heard a song with lyrics about wanting to see a departed loved one smile.
I never got to see Weston smile. He did not live long enough. How completely, utterly unfair. Seeing your child smile for the first time is one of life's most precious memories for a parent, and I was cheated out of it.
The fact that I never saw Weston smile did not occur to me until I heard those song lyrics during my run. Maybe it's because, until now, Weston would probably not have smiled yet. He would have been five months old this week. Adjusted to his due date, he would have been about five weeks old. Caroline first smiled at five weeks. So I would have been looking forward to that milestone any day now.
Of course, after that thought came to me, I completely lost it in the middle of my run. The tricky thing is that it was not dark yet. I was not wearing sunglasses, so anyone passing by would have seen my meltdown. Another thing about running while crying is that...it's hard to see in front of you. I have taken a few tumbles during runs over the years. The worst was when I fell and twisted my ankle badly while running in the dark about twelve years ago. I was on crutches for a while after that. Now I run with a headlamp if I run in the dark. Trust me, I have gotten a lot of crap for that. But, safety first.
But what do you do when the reason for your blindness is not darkness, but tears? If you're me, you just keep running. And you actually wish for a face plant, so you can be distracted from your grief by physical pain. And, hopefully, you would have an ugly physical mark on your face from the face plant so that you don't look so put together. You would be relieved that your outside matches your inside.
I kept running. But there was no face plant.
Our neighborhood is quite festive, which I hate now. Coming home, I wound through the streets lined with houses decorated to the hilt for Christmas. When I got to our house, Shannon had turned on our outside Christmas lights. Our Christmas tree lights in the front room were on, and the shutters were still open. If you had been standing on the curb in front of our house, you would have seen all of this, including that iconic American snapshot: the outline of a Christmas tree through the window. You would have seen two chairs and a small table on our front porch and a big front lawn with plenty of room for multiple kids to run around and play. If you had looked harder (please don't; that would be a little creepy), you would have seen toys strewn across our living room floor. Picture-perfect.
In other words, you would have thought to yourself, What a nice, comfortable house for a family. Look at the memories that can be made: rolling around on the lawn, sitting on the porch, playing by that tree, etc.
That is how I used to feel. Standing outside of my house looking in, I was overwhelmed with the blessings bestowed on me. Now, I look at my house and think, What a facade. Our winter grass has grown in nicely, and the flowers are blooming (I live in Phoenix, people; I do not have a magic green thumb). Our Christmas decorations look festive. But the outside of our house is nothing but a shell that masks heartbreak and emptiness inside.
That night, the darkness was a blessing. No one could see the breakdown that I had right in front of my own house. None of the neighbors wondered if I had misplaced my keys when I didn't immediately go inside. (Who am I kidding? They know what happened; they would KNOW I'm not looking for my keys when I wander around outside by myself in the dark.)
What I wanted to do in those moments, staring at my house before anyone knew I was home, was channel Joni Mitchell:
It's coming on Christmas
They're cutting down trees
Putting up reindeer, singing songs of joy and peace
Oh, I wish I had a river I could skate away on.
...
I wish I had a river so long
I would teach my feet to fly.
I have always loved Sarah McLachlan's version of that song. Now I know why.
Alas, there was and is no river to skate away on. By the time Shannon walked outside looking for me, my tears had dried, and the darkness hid the emotion that was still on my face. So I gathered myself together and walked inside.
I'm so hard to handle
I'm selfish and I'm sad
Now I've gone and lost the best baby
That I ever had
I wish I had a river I could skate away on.
~Joni Mitchell, River
Tuesday, December 4, 2012
Are These YOUR Top Five?
My cousin recently posted an article on Facebook called "Top Five Regrets of the Dying." You can read the entire article here. Not surprisingly, losing a child makes one think about these topics more often.
Weston only got to live for three weeks. I have regrets about his life, and the lack thereof, that could fill up the Internet. More than anything, I regret that horribly substandard placenta of mine that was ultimately responsible for his too-early arrival that cut his life so short.
During my pregnancy and during Weston's life, everything else fell away. I stayed in bed for three months to help him live. I missed out on so much during that time, but I have no regrets. Keeping him alive was my priority, and all other obligations disappeared. Experiencing my son's life being cruelly cut short has necessarily caused a radical shifting in priorities.
For the article, a palliative nurse discussed her findings with respect to the "top five" regrets of the dying, based on conversations she had with dying people over the years. Here they are. Think about them.
1) I wish I'd had the courage to live a life true to myself, not the life others expected of me.
Wow. Making sure this is NOT one of your regrets requires constant self-examination and vigilance. Values shift and change as life goes on, so living a life true to oneself now might look completely different than it would have ten, or even five, years ago.
This one is a little difficult for me to honestly assess at this point in my life. After losing Weston, I don't know what I want out of life anymore. Things that used to matter a lot don't matter as much anymore. Or they matter even more.
But I do think that I was generally moving in the direction of being true to myself. At this point in my life, this would not be a big regret of mine.
2) I wish I hadn't worked so hard.
This is a tricky one. I sure don't want to unleash the mommy wars. And not everyone has the choice to decide how much they will work. This is more of an issue for the upper middle and upper classes.
Last December, this would have been my biggest regret. Even though I was working "part-time" (about 37 hours a week), not spending more time with Caroline was really getting to me. Quitting my job was the right decision at that point in my life, and still is. So, right now, this would also not be a regret.
3) I wish I'd had the courage to express my feelings.
Well, I can say with certainty that this is not one of my regrets. I'm blogging about the death of my son for the whole world to see, so I think it is safe to say I am expressing my feelings.
4) I wish I had stayed in touch with my friends.
This one is a mixed bag. Weston's death has rekindled so many friendships. Ironically, they are often one-sided, since I don't have the emotional strength to respond to everyone. But I am so touched by so many people reaching out to me; I do not take it for granted.
At this moment in my life, this one would not be a regret. But a year ago, it probably would have made my top five. It was just too easy for life to get in the way of spending time with friends.
5) I wish that I had let myself be happier.
The article refers to happiness being a choice and the fact that we have opportunities to make choices that will lead to happiness. I would argue that the biggest predictors of happiness are outside of our control: we have no control over the deaths of our loved ones, for example. Losing Weston has obviously devastated me to my core; I would not say that I am a happy person right now. And I don't see how I could "let" myself be happier. There are no choices I could make that would bring Weston back.
However, other choices are within our control. We can fight to keep relationships healthy and intact, for example. We can choose to spend time with our loved ones who are still here. We can choose to engage in meaningful activities that make us happy.
I cannot even imagine being happy right now. I have hope that I will be happy again, but I don't know how to get there. So, if the Mayans are right and I only have a couple more weeks, this would be one of my regrets.
This list is thoroughly depressing. Hey, kind of like the rest of my blog! But I hope that this list (and my blog) inspires people to appreciate what they have and to make time for the things that truly matter. We are truly lost without them. I am truly lost without Weston.
So as of today, December 4, 2012, here is my tally:
1) No regret
2) No regret
3) No regret
4) No regret
5) Regret
Wow. The death of one's child has a way of renumbering life's priorities. Not that I'm thankful; if Weston had lived, I'm pretty sure that four months in the NICU followed by years of intense medical care would have caused a drastic shift in priorities as well. As I said in a previous post, there is NO good reason for Weston's death: I'd rather have him here than a reduction in my regrets any day.
It is not as if I made conscious choices (except quitting my job), and any regrets I used to have went away. I haven't really been living life since Weston died; I just exist, and people, life, things, circumstances pull me along for the ride. However, I am glad that, somehow, automatically, things changed, leading to fewer regrets, at least with respect to the above list. I am thankful for the courage and ability to live true to myself, not work too much, express my feelings, and stay in touch with friends.
I just really miss my baby. My regret of his lost life eclipses all others.
Of all sad words of tongue or pen,
The saddest are these: "It might have been."
~John Greenleaf Whittier, "Maud Muller"
Weston only got to live for three weeks. I have regrets about his life, and the lack thereof, that could fill up the Internet. More than anything, I regret that horribly substandard placenta of mine that was ultimately responsible for his too-early arrival that cut his life so short.
During my pregnancy and during Weston's life, everything else fell away. I stayed in bed for three months to help him live. I missed out on so much during that time, but I have no regrets. Keeping him alive was my priority, and all other obligations disappeared. Experiencing my son's life being cruelly cut short has necessarily caused a radical shifting in priorities.
For the article, a palliative nurse discussed her findings with respect to the "top five" regrets of the dying, based on conversations she had with dying people over the years. Here they are. Think about them.
1) I wish I'd had the courage to live a life true to myself, not the life others expected of me.
Wow. Making sure this is NOT one of your regrets requires constant self-examination and vigilance. Values shift and change as life goes on, so living a life true to oneself now might look completely different than it would have ten, or even five, years ago.
This one is a little difficult for me to honestly assess at this point in my life. After losing Weston, I don't know what I want out of life anymore. Things that used to matter a lot don't matter as much anymore. Or they matter even more.
But I do think that I was generally moving in the direction of being true to myself. At this point in my life, this would not be a big regret of mine.
2) I wish I hadn't worked so hard.
This is a tricky one. I sure don't want to unleash the mommy wars. And not everyone has the choice to decide how much they will work. This is more of an issue for the upper middle and upper classes.
Last December, this would have been my biggest regret. Even though I was working "part-time" (about 37 hours a week), not spending more time with Caroline was really getting to me. Quitting my job was the right decision at that point in my life, and still is. So, right now, this would also not be a regret.
3) I wish I'd had the courage to express my feelings.
Well, I can say with certainty that this is not one of my regrets. I'm blogging about the death of my son for the whole world to see, so I think it is safe to say I am expressing my feelings.
4) I wish I had stayed in touch with my friends.
This one is a mixed bag. Weston's death has rekindled so many friendships. Ironically, they are often one-sided, since I don't have the emotional strength to respond to everyone. But I am so touched by so many people reaching out to me; I do not take it for granted.
At this moment in my life, this one would not be a regret. But a year ago, it probably would have made my top five. It was just too easy for life to get in the way of spending time with friends.
5) I wish that I had let myself be happier.
The article refers to happiness being a choice and the fact that we have opportunities to make choices that will lead to happiness. I would argue that the biggest predictors of happiness are outside of our control: we have no control over the deaths of our loved ones, for example. Losing Weston has obviously devastated me to my core; I would not say that I am a happy person right now. And I don't see how I could "let" myself be happier. There are no choices I could make that would bring Weston back.
However, other choices are within our control. We can fight to keep relationships healthy and intact, for example. We can choose to spend time with our loved ones who are still here. We can choose to engage in meaningful activities that make us happy.
I cannot even imagine being happy right now. I have hope that I will be happy again, but I don't know how to get there. So, if the Mayans are right and I only have a couple more weeks, this would be one of my regrets.
This list is thoroughly depressing. Hey, kind of like the rest of my blog! But I hope that this list (and my blog) inspires people to appreciate what they have and to make time for the things that truly matter. We are truly lost without them. I am truly lost without Weston.
So as of today, December 4, 2012, here is my tally:
1) No regret
2) No regret
3) No regret
4) No regret
5) Regret
Wow. The death of one's child has a way of renumbering life's priorities. Not that I'm thankful; if Weston had lived, I'm pretty sure that four months in the NICU followed by years of intense medical care would have caused a drastic shift in priorities as well. As I said in a previous post, there is NO good reason for Weston's death: I'd rather have him here than a reduction in my regrets any day.
It is not as if I made conscious choices (except quitting my job), and any regrets I used to have went away. I haven't really been living life since Weston died; I just exist, and people, life, things, circumstances pull me along for the ride. However, I am glad that, somehow, automatically, things changed, leading to fewer regrets, at least with respect to the above list. I am thankful for the courage and ability to live true to myself, not work too much, express my feelings, and stay in touch with friends.
I just really miss my baby. My regret of his lost life eclipses all others.
Of all sad words of tongue or pen,
The saddest are these: "It might have been."
~John Greenleaf Whittier, "Maud Muller"
Sunday, December 2, 2012
Pancakes for Advent
My holiday ranting officially began with this post and continued with this one. Although today's post also discusses the holidays, it is not a rant. Finally, something different.
It was about this time last year that I had an epiphany (no Advent pun intended) while driving home from work (you can read more about that here). I was generally frustrated with the general craziness of the holiday season and wishing I had more time to establish meaningful Christmas traditions with my family.
Christmas came and went, I quit my job, and the rest should have been history. But then my son died. And now, beginning the first holiday season without Weston, it's time for change. My mom remarked to me recently that her most difficult holiday seasons were also the most meaningful. As excruciating as every holiday, every event, every day, every breath is without my son, I am determined for all those excruciating moments that will add up to the rest of my life to mean something and reflect my values.
When it comes to the holiday season, what are my values? I am struggling with God's place in my life since losing Weston, as discussed here, so that question is not as easy to answer as it used to be. God is still important to me; that's why his seeming absence hurts so much, I suppose. Establishing a tradition that meaningfully observes the birth of Jesus is important and something I want to do for my daughter. Remembering Weston is important, every day. NOT giving in to the consumerist frenzy of the holiday season is important. Staying out of debt. An emptier calendar (easier to practice when one is swearing off most parties for the foreseeable future, but more difficult when it comes to the little ones in the household. Do we or do we not take Caroline to The Nutcracker? Etc.). Surrounding ourselves with family and friends. Helping others. Instilling a sense of wonder, reverence, and tradition in our daughter. Lately, observing the Christian calendar.
I am not Catholic, but I observed Lent this year. Looking back, that was a blissful time. I was newly pregnant with Weston, and the pregnancy was progressing normally at that point. I had just left my job, and my family was starting a new adventure. Little did I know that the "adventure" would actually be a catastrophe. Easter was April 8, and our world started falling apart on April 18.
So, here is our new tradition (drumroll, please): starting this year, we will observe Advent, the beginning of the Christian year. Not only am I not Catholic, I am also not any kind of expert on Advent, so I won't go there in this post, for fear of butchering the explanation. This blog post does a good job of explaining Advent, so I'll just let her blog tell you all about it, if you want to know. She describes Advent as "quiet," "somber," and "full of waiting and hoping" for the arrival of Baby Jesus. And I don't think it is a coincidence that Advent occurs during the darkest time of the year.
Among many other things, Advent is a perfect antidote to the ridiculous holiday frenzy imposed by our culture starting in OCTOBER now. In some ways, it will be easy to observe Advent this year, as I am struggling to live life without my son during what should have been his first Christmas season.
So, what will Advent look like in our family? Just as one can go all out for Christmas, one can really do it up for Advent. Some people do daily activities. Maybe we'll get to that point someday, but for now we will simply observe Advent as a family every Sunday evening. Because Advent is a period of somber waiting and expectancy, some people do not listen to Christmas music or put up Christmas decorations until right before Christmas, but we are not doing that either, even though the Christmas tree that is already up and the Christmas music that is already playing are not accurate reflections of how I am really feeling (and I'm not playing the music as much as in previous years; it just hurts too much).
A digression: I realize that this post, so far, makes it seem that I am making Advent about me, and starting a tradition that matches my feelings, rather than the expectant waiting for Baby Jesus. And I probably am, to an extent. But my son died barely four months ago. My brain doesn't work, my heart is broken, and I am in spiritual turmoil. Jesus came for people like me. For that I am grateful, and for that I will wait.
Anyway...
Advent involves, among other things, a wreath with five candles. Each week you light one candle (starting four Sundays before Christmas), and you light the final candle on Christmas Day, I think. Here is our "wreath," before we lit the first candle. Those are tealights around the big candle:
Yep, I told you I don't do Pinterest or anything crafty. So the wreath is more of a free form candle arrangement. A post-modern Advent, perhaps? Maybe by next week I'll have an actual wreath.
Our plan consists of a simple meal and a basic Advent prayer. We also started the Jar for Jesus. When Caroline does something sweet, we will write it down on a piece of paper and put it in the jar (It is a Christmas-themed jar. We are so not Advent purists.). Those are her gifts to Jesus. In case you're wondering, this is a slight variation on a tradition that my mother started when we were little. I have completely turned into my mother.
One reason for Advent, at least for me, is to SLOW DOWN so we can actually enjoy the season together as a family. So I decided days ago that I would make chili and sourdough bread for our Advent meal. I got some free sourdough starter in the mail, but it is taking forever to activate. I bought the ingredients for the chili this morning and was so proud of myself for thinking so far ahead (eight hours before dinner is pretty impressive, if you ask me). But then I noticed a voicemail from yesterday. It was my grandma. Some of our extended family came into town from the Midwest last-minute, and she had invited us over for lunch.
So the Advent dinner was going to be prepared on the fly. But that's OK. I took Caroline over to my grandparents, and we spent a wonderful afternoon with my family. Both of my brothers were there too. Shannon has been pretty stressed lately, so he got five hours to himself. He is now a happy camper. There is no better reason to be rushed for dinner than because you whiled away an afternoon with those you love most. And, yes, we talked and cried about Weston.
So, dinner. We had no bread, and we had all this extra dough. So I made pancakes. We had pancakes and vegetarian chili for Advent. I burned my hand while cutting what I thought were mild Anaheim chiles, but my hands are still on fire hours later.
For the dinner itself, I brought Weston's urn over to the table. I started to read a simple, kid-friendly Advent prayer but couldn't get through it. Once I sat down to enjoy this wonderful meal with my precious family, the fact that we are starting a completely new tradition without our son, and Caroline's brother, on what should have been his first Christmas, was too much for me. Shannon had to finish reading the prayer.
Sigh...it's gonna be a long month.
We did enjoy dinner. The traditional Advent song is "O Come, O Come Emmanuel," one of my favorites. So I played it, and some other Christmas songs (courtesy of Mannheim Steamroller) on my iPhone during dinner.
Another holiday tradition I want to start is giving to a different charity each week during Advent season. I thought of this last week when I learned of Giving Tuesday (which I LOVE). Then an opportunity arose, and I gave to a fund that conducts medical research into treatment for Crohn's disease in honor of a friend's daughter, who is living with Crohn's. After watching Weston struggle and suffer (although not from Crohn's), I just wish I could take the pain away from all children.
So I started that tradition a little early. And I haven't even told Shannon about it yet. I suppose I should! I'm sure he'll be on board, though.
Weston's death was a major motivator in starting Advent this year. I feel quite somber, and I am now blessed and cursed with a sense of urgency that life is fleeting. Life, and the holiday season, is too short to fill it up with stress and meaningless piles of gifts. Weston's life and death changed us forever; our lives need to reflect that change, starting NOW.
As far as truly awaiting the arrival of Baby Jesus is concerned, I feel a sense of reverence, but not much more. I suppose that could be God starting to refill the gaping void he left me when Weston died. I hope it is. Christmas without Jesus would truly be meaningless.
It was about this time last year that I had an epiphany (no Advent pun intended) while driving home from work (you can read more about that here). I was generally frustrated with the general craziness of the holiday season and wishing I had more time to establish meaningful Christmas traditions with my family.
Christmas came and went, I quit my job, and the rest should have been history. But then my son died. And now, beginning the first holiday season without Weston, it's time for change. My mom remarked to me recently that her most difficult holiday seasons were also the most meaningful. As excruciating as every holiday, every event, every day, every breath is without my son, I am determined for all those excruciating moments that will add up to the rest of my life to mean something and reflect my values.
When it comes to the holiday season, what are my values? I am struggling with God's place in my life since losing Weston, as discussed here, so that question is not as easy to answer as it used to be. God is still important to me; that's why his seeming absence hurts so much, I suppose. Establishing a tradition that meaningfully observes the birth of Jesus is important and something I want to do for my daughter. Remembering Weston is important, every day. NOT giving in to the consumerist frenzy of the holiday season is important. Staying out of debt. An emptier calendar (easier to practice when one is swearing off most parties for the foreseeable future, but more difficult when it comes to the little ones in the household. Do we or do we not take Caroline to The Nutcracker? Etc.). Surrounding ourselves with family and friends. Helping others. Instilling a sense of wonder, reverence, and tradition in our daughter. Lately, observing the Christian calendar.
I am not Catholic, but I observed Lent this year. Looking back, that was a blissful time. I was newly pregnant with Weston, and the pregnancy was progressing normally at that point. I had just left my job, and my family was starting a new adventure. Little did I know that the "adventure" would actually be a catastrophe. Easter was April 8, and our world started falling apart on April 18.
So, here is our new tradition (drumroll, please): starting this year, we will observe Advent, the beginning of the Christian year. Not only am I not Catholic, I am also not any kind of expert on Advent, so I won't go there in this post, for fear of butchering the explanation. This blog post does a good job of explaining Advent, so I'll just let her blog tell you all about it, if you want to know. She describes Advent as "quiet," "somber," and "full of waiting and hoping" for the arrival of Baby Jesus. And I don't think it is a coincidence that Advent occurs during the darkest time of the year.
Among many other things, Advent is a perfect antidote to the ridiculous holiday frenzy imposed by our culture starting in OCTOBER now. In some ways, it will be easy to observe Advent this year, as I am struggling to live life without my son during what should have been his first Christmas season.
So, what will Advent look like in our family? Just as one can go all out for Christmas, one can really do it up for Advent. Some people do daily activities. Maybe we'll get to that point someday, but for now we will simply observe Advent as a family every Sunday evening. Because Advent is a period of somber waiting and expectancy, some people do not listen to Christmas music or put up Christmas decorations until right before Christmas, but we are not doing that either, even though the Christmas tree that is already up and the Christmas music that is already playing are not accurate reflections of how I am really feeling (and I'm not playing the music as much as in previous years; it just hurts too much).
A digression: I realize that this post, so far, makes it seem that I am making Advent about me, and starting a tradition that matches my feelings, rather than the expectant waiting for Baby Jesus. And I probably am, to an extent. But my son died barely four months ago. My brain doesn't work, my heart is broken, and I am in spiritual turmoil. Jesus came for people like me. For that I am grateful, and for that I will wait.
Anyway...
Advent involves, among other things, a wreath with five candles. Each week you light one candle (starting four Sundays before Christmas), and you light the final candle on Christmas Day, I think. Here is our "wreath," before we lit the first candle. Those are tealights around the big candle:
Yep, I told you I don't do Pinterest or anything crafty. So the wreath is more of a free form candle arrangement. A post-modern Advent, perhaps? Maybe by next week I'll have an actual wreath.
Our plan consists of a simple meal and a basic Advent prayer. We also started the Jar for Jesus. When Caroline does something sweet, we will write it down on a piece of paper and put it in the jar (It is a Christmas-themed jar. We are so not Advent purists.). Those are her gifts to Jesus. In case you're wondering, this is a slight variation on a tradition that my mother started when we were little. I have completely turned into my mother.
One reason for Advent, at least for me, is to SLOW DOWN so we can actually enjoy the season together as a family. So I decided days ago that I would make chili and sourdough bread for our Advent meal. I got some free sourdough starter in the mail, but it is taking forever to activate. I bought the ingredients for the chili this morning and was so proud of myself for thinking so far ahead (eight hours before dinner is pretty impressive, if you ask me). But then I noticed a voicemail from yesterday. It was my grandma. Some of our extended family came into town from the Midwest last-minute, and she had invited us over for lunch.
So the Advent dinner was going to be prepared on the fly. But that's OK. I took Caroline over to my grandparents, and we spent a wonderful afternoon with my family. Both of my brothers were there too. Shannon has been pretty stressed lately, so he got five hours to himself. He is now a happy camper. There is no better reason to be rushed for dinner than because you whiled away an afternoon with those you love most. And, yes, we talked and cried about Weston.
So, dinner. We had no bread, and we had all this extra dough. So I made pancakes. We had pancakes and vegetarian chili for Advent. I burned my hand while cutting what I thought were mild Anaheim chiles, but my hands are still on fire hours later.
For the dinner itself, I brought Weston's urn over to the table. I started to read a simple, kid-friendly Advent prayer but couldn't get through it. Once I sat down to enjoy this wonderful meal with my precious family, the fact that we are starting a completely new tradition without our son, and Caroline's brother, on what should have been his first Christmas, was too much for me. Shannon had to finish reading the prayer.
Sigh...it's gonna be a long month.
We did enjoy dinner. The traditional Advent song is "O Come, O Come Emmanuel," one of my favorites. So I played it, and some other Christmas songs (courtesy of Mannheim Steamroller) on my iPhone during dinner.
Another holiday tradition I want to start is giving to a different charity each week during Advent season. I thought of this last week when I learned of Giving Tuesday (which I LOVE). Then an opportunity arose, and I gave to a fund that conducts medical research into treatment for Crohn's disease in honor of a friend's daughter, who is living with Crohn's. After watching Weston struggle and suffer (although not from Crohn's), I just wish I could take the pain away from all children.
So I started that tradition a little early. And I haven't even told Shannon about it yet. I suppose I should! I'm sure he'll be on board, though.
Weston's death was a major motivator in starting Advent this year. I feel quite somber, and I am now blessed and cursed with a sense of urgency that life is fleeting. Life, and the holiday season, is too short to fill it up with stress and meaningless piles of gifts. Weston's life and death changed us forever; our lives need to reflect that change, starting NOW.
As far as truly awaiting the arrival of Baby Jesus is concerned, I feel a sense of reverence, but not much more. I suppose that could be God starting to refill the gaping void he left me when Weston died. I hope it is. Christmas without Jesus would truly be meaningless.
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