Capture Your Grief, Day 31: Metaphor Overload

Today's topic: sunset

October is finally coming to a close. A month ago this time, I thought I would be relieved to get through the month. But I'm not. I'm back to breaking down in public and generally being a mess.

I also thought I would feel relief at getting past my due date. But now I actually feel worse. Today is five days past my due date, so it is highly likely that I would not have been pregnant anymore. I would have been holding my little boy in my arms.

It doesn't hurt as much to see pregnant women now. Now it's the babies, and thinking about everything Weston will never experience.

Like Halloween today. Weston should be here. I had planned a home birth, and, back in the early days of my pregnancy, I was actually worried that I might be giving birth on Halloween, with all the kids banging on my door for candy in between contractions. It was more of a joke than anything, and a problem I would give anything to have.

If I had, in fact, given birth to Weston before Halloween, the holiday would have been a little tricky. It is so much fun to watch Caroline enjoy Halloween, but I would not have wanted to take a days-old newborn out and about so soon, and I would not have wanted a lot of kids at my house, even though it would just have been at the front door. So we would have had to figure out how to watch Caroline have fun without exposing Weston to any germs. Another problem I would love to have.

Tomorrow's calendar turnover to November marks yet another month removed from Weston's life and death. And it means the holiday season is officially upon us. Cliche alert: time marches on, but I find that time is not healing this wound. In fact, it feels worse.

So, here come the metaphors. The sun is setting on this Capture Your Grief project, on Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Month, and on my due date month. We are entering the fourth month without Weston on this earth. And I'm transitioning from longing to still be pregnant to an even more acute longing to have Weston in my arms. Because that is where he would have been by now, whatever the outcome. If I had carried the pregnancy to term, he would probably have been born by now. If he had not died on July 28, he would probably be home from the NICU by now. Our lives would not be normal by any means, but we would have a LIVE baby at home.

Weston would not have experienced August, September, and most of October 2012 (outside of the NICU, anyway). But Weston would have experienced Halloween. He would have experienced the beautiful cooldown we are finally having. Instead of my daily runs, we would be taking daily walks with him in the stroller (well, maybe not quite yet!). He would be at the Thanksgiving holiday in a few weeks that I am dreading so much, and he would experience the general holiday frenzy that generally drives me crazy but that will make me want to perpetually bang my head against the wall this year. As I walk through life now, I will wonder every moment, what would Weston be doing right now? Would he like this? How would he look in his little Halloween costume? On his first day of kindergarten?

The natural world has been in a frenzy lately. Hurricane Sandy just blew through the East Coast. It toppled giant trees in my sister's neighborhood and caused severe property damage at my mother's house. But things could have been so much worse for them, so we are thankful.

I have mentioned previously that my uncle died forty years ago, before I was born. My grandparents lived in Texas at the time. They were given a small ficus tree when he died and planted it in their yard. It grew well, and, when they moved back to Phoenix thirty-five years ago, they brought the tree with them. It survived the move and is currently alive and well at their current house. I love everything about this story.

Now, I cannot even keep cactus alive. That is a true statement. We were given some beautiful potted plants when Weston died. My dad asked me if I wanted them after the memorial service. I remember very clearly thinking about my grandparents' tree...and my black thumb. I thought about it and concluded that whatever plant I took from the memorial service would represent Weston. If the plant were to die on my watch, I would never forgive myself.

We used to have two giant pine trees in our front yard (probably over 50 feet tall). With the way our house is positioned, they shaded the street a bit and framed the view of the entire street (we live close to the end of the block). They both died, and the second one was removed early this year. It was unfortunate, of course, to lose such old, big trees, and it changed the view of our street entirely.

Early last week, my mom called and said they wanted to have a tree planted for Weston at our house. In the back of my mind, I was worried about my black thumb, but the thought of a live, growing, breathing piece of nature to represent Weston at our house was too wonderful to pass up. She wanted to have it planted last week, the week he probably would have been born, but the nursery was not able to come out until yesterday.

So, here is Weston's tree!

As my mom said, it is a baby tree, like Weston. And, now that my grief is evolving away from pregnancy-related issues with my due date passing, the timing of the tree planting is perfect. In time, it will grow until it frames the street, like the pine trees once did. Our yard will never look the same, but Weston's tree will always be there. And he has changed the landscape of our hearts.

We cannot live at peace with death...I shall try to keep the wound from healing, in recognition of our living still in the old order of things. I shall try to keep it from healing, in solidarity with those who sit beside me on humanity's mourning bench.
~Nicholas Wolterstorff, Lament for a Son at 63

Capture Your Grief, Day 30

Today's topic: Your Grief - Tell the World

According to the project "rules," I am actually supposed to take a picture of myself holding the statement I would tell the world about my grief. The pictures will be put into a slide show. But, I have never been one for brevity. If you have read any of my blog posts, you know that already. The words I would come up with would never fit on one piece of paper.

So, I am using a different picture, obviously, one of Weston and myself. Of course I am biased, but this is a beautiful picture that captures a hint of my deep love for my son and the emotions surrounding his death. In this case, a picture truly is worth a thousand words.

This picture conveys the following, which I want the world to know:

THIS IS MY SON. He existed on this earth, and he died. I am forever changed.

Weston simply looks like a sleeping baby in this picture. He is very much alive in my heart. Please acknowledge that aliveness whenever you think of him and/or our family.

Love is stronger than death. Until we meet again, my love.

Capture Your Grief, Day 29

Today's topic: Music

I like this topic. For the Facebook event, the difficulty will lie in narrowing the post down to just one song. I have already blogged about how music has helped me through Weston's death here and here.

Within just a couple of weeks of Weston's death, I compiled a playlist of songs that I call, simply, my Weston playlist. I listen to it every time I run. I continue to add to it, and added two additional songs tonight. So, I'm just going to list all the songs for your listening, uh, pleasure.

Music is art, and so is songwriting. Like any good art, these songs can have multiple meanings. I have known and loved some for years, and others I have just recently discovered. So, in no particular order:

Family Tree (Frances England)
~This is a children's song sung from the perspective of an older child awaiting the arrival of her younger sibling. I have already blogged about it here. I cry mostly for Caroline when I hear this song.

1000 Oceans (Tori Amos)
~I thought she wrote this song after she lost a baby, but the word is that she wrote it for her husband after his father died. I discussed this song's comfort to me and included the lyrics here.

Til Kingdom Come (Coldplay)
~I just like this song. I have always liked it.

Baby Mine (Alison Krauss version)
~ This is an old, classic lullaby. I first heard it as a child in "Dumbo," the cartoon movie. I sing it to Caroline every night, and now I am always reminded of the wonderful fifteen minutes that I got to hold Weston during his life when I hear the lyrics, "Rest your head close to my heart, never to part, baby of mine."

Breath of Heaven (Amy Grant)
~This song was a great comfort to me while Weston was alive, which I discussed here. We played it at his memorial service.

I Will Remember You (Sarah McLachlan)
~This is another one that I have always loved.

The One Who Knows (Dar Williams)
~This is truly a dual-meaning song to me. A dear friend actually sang it at our wedding. And then we played it at Weston's memorial service during the slide show (which I will someday figure out how to post on this blog). Who would have ever anticipated that. It's a beautiful song about loving someone and, ultimately, letting them go.

I Will Carry You (Selah)
~This is a beautiful, heartbreaking song written for parents whose baby received a fatal diagnosis in utero. They carried her to term, and she lived for two hours. The mother also wrote a beautiful book about her daughter that I found very comforting.

C'est la Mort (The Civil Wars)
~C'est la Mort literally means, "It is the death" in French. The lyrics say, in part, "C'est la vie (colloquially, that's life), c'est la mort." I love this song. Side note: RUN to your computer and buy their album Barton Hollow. The Civil Wars is an unbelievable duo.

Hallelujah (k.d. lang version, original song and lyrics by Leonard Cohen)
~This song kills me. I had a moving experience with this song a few weeks after Weston's death. I talked about it here.

Song for a Winter's Night (Sarah McLachlan)
~I love Sarah. And I have loved this song for years. It's on heavy rotation during the holiday season and will take on new meaning this year.

One Moment More (Mindy Smith)
~This is another song from my sister. She has fabulous taste.

No One's Gonna Love You (Band of Horses)
~I talked about it here and included the lyrics. I had a childbirth playlist put together (I needed lots of mellow, meaningful music for that natural childbirth I was going to have), and this was always the first song that would play. It was the first song I heard during labor with Caroline.

Ronan (Taylor Swift)
~Taylor Swift wrote this song about a little boy named Ronan who died of cancer right before his fourth birthday. I had never heard a single Taylor Swift song until I found his mother's blog, Rockstar Ronan. Maya, Ronan's mom, is creating a beautiful legacy for her son and raising money to cure childhood cancer. Her chronicle of her grief journey has been very helpful to me. She is an inspiration, and I hope to meet her someday (she happens to live in Phoenix too). Taylor Swift happened to find Maya's blog and then wrote the song. Although the song is obviously very specific, it speaks to the pain of losing a child.

You're Beautiful (James Blunt)

Will I See You in Heaven (The Jayhawks)

Beam Me Up (Pink)
~A recent discovery. Wow.

He's My Son (Mark Schultz)
~I blogged about this song here. It's a prayer about a little boy who is dying. It is heartbreaking.

Just Breathe (Pearl Jam)

I Don't Wanna Miss a Thing (Aerosmith)

A Thousand Years (Christina Perri)
~Another recent discovery. Apparently it's the theme song to one of the Twilight movies. I have not seen the movies or read the books, but the lyrics to this song are beautiful.

To Where You Are (Josh Groban)

The Rose (Bette Midler)
~My grandparents bought a player piano when I was a child. It came with about fifty songs, including this one. My sister and I would play it and sing along, over and over. This song is truly bittersweet.

After silence that which comes nearest to expressing the inexpressible is music.
~Aldous Huxley

Capture Your Grief, Day 28

Today's topic: Memory

This:

I got to hold my baby when he was ten days old, for fifteen minutes, while he was alive. It was the most beautiful fifteen minutes of my life. Weston Max Yoder died three months ago today.

I was out of town for the weekend, visiting dear friends from my undergrad days whom I had not seen in many years. It was just what I needed. We talked about Weston. My friends have suffered profound losses of their own throughout the years, and we talked about those losses as well. But, we had FUN, and we laughed a lot. It was wonderful to take a little break from my grief.

Today, two of us had to catch plane flights at two different airports, and another friend had to work. So there was not a lot of time to reflect today, on the three-month anniversary of Weston's death. But, even though my mind was busy, my body reminded me of my loss and my grief: my c-section scar has been aching all day. It REALLY hurts at certain moments. My surgery site is not back to normal by any means, but it has been months since my scar actually hurt all day. But I welcome the reminder.

While waiting at the airport today, I met a very nice man, who is a good friend of one of the friends I went to visit. He asked me if I have kids, how old, etc. Of course I wasn't going to leave Weston out, but I only had a split-second to figure out how to answer. At least today, I was not in the mood to drag others into my pain, which is probably a good thing.

So I told him that I have two kids. My daughter is three, and my son would be three months (actually, closer to four months now). Then he wanted to see pictures. Again, I couldn't leave Weston out. I showed him a picture of Caroline and then picked one of Weston with his eyes open and my wedding ring around his hand. As I scrolled through my phone to find the picture, I said, "My son actually passed away. Here he is with my wedding ring on his hand." Somehow, I kept my voice steady, and thankfully I was a little distracted by scrolling through my phone.

Maybe this guy was just really extraordinary, but he didn't miss a beat. He marveled at my wedding ring on Weston's tiny hand, and we talked about that for a second. Then he asked me his name.

And that was that. I held it together, and the conversation did not come to a screeching halt. I have no idea how the man really felt about the conversation, but he was so gracious, and genuinely interested in my children (and he must be a good person; this friend of mine deliberately surrounds herself with wonderful people). I can't fathom ever leaving Weston out of my family description, and I hope that future conversations with strangers go as well as this one did. I realize that most people won't be that interested in seeing pictures of my children, and that's OK. But, anyone who wants to know about my children is going to hear about all of them, dead or alive; my family is a package deal.

In other news, I am uneasy today. Hurricane Sandy is creeping up the East Coast, and my family is looking at a direct hit. My mom and her husband are under direct evacuation orders and are genuinely concerned that they will not have a house to return to (and my mom is not a worrier). Communication could be very unreliable in the next few days as well.

More seriously, my sister is nine-plus months pregnant. She lives in New York City, and the mass transit system has closed in anticipation of the storm. She does not need labor or childbirth to be complicated by transportation issues. I will breathe much easier when the storm has passed.

My family has been through more than enough heartache this year. We don't need any more trouble, whether it's major property damage or, God forbid, more pregnancy and childbirth issues.

2012, I hate you. In keeping with today's "memory" theme, 2012 will certainly not be a year that blends in with the others. It will stand out forever as the major dividing point of my life.

People tend to remember best the things they have felt most deeply.
~David Riesman, "Books: Gunpowder of the Mind," Atlantic, December 1957

P.S. I came home to a very happy little girl tonight. She was in bed already, and Shannon was reading her a bedtime story. She saw me and started laughing and laughing. She gave me a huge hug and rubbed my back. Then she said, "I'm laughing at you." I love that kid. After I put her to bed, I was greeted by a pile of cards and letters from family and friends. Being three months out from Weston's death, there are rarely piles of correspondence anymore, so it was quite a heartwarming surprise. The whole weekend underscored the irreplaceable support system I have. In that regard, I am a blessed woman.

It's Not the Grief Olympics

Being a new member of the bereaved parents club, having just attended a grief conference specifically for bereaved parents, AND with October being Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness month, it's time to talk about the "Grief Olympics." There should be no such thing.

This is a sensitive topic that addresses a broad spectrum of people. I am going to talk about things I have not experienced. Please understand that I have the best intentions, and I sincerely hope that none of this post is offensive to anyone who HAS experienced what I am going to address.

Obviously, I have made my grief over losing Weston very public. A lot of people know about Weston's life and death, and I wouldn't have it any other way. Every person's grief is different, but opening myself up has allowed people to help me, pray for me, send me heartwarming messages and gifts, etc. To me, it has been a huge blessing. An unexpected outcome has been the outpouring of your own losses. Some are obvious to the world: death of a child, parent, sibling, spouse, cousin, friend, a divorce...the list goes on. However, many are quite private: many of you have told me of your own experiences with stillbirths and miscarriage.

Well, I guess a stillbirth, by definition, occurs later in pregnancy, when the pregnancy is usually common knowledge. I'm already getting myself in trouble here...

There has long been the "rule" in our culture that a woman does not announce her pregnancy until the end of the first trimester, when it is "safe" to do so. Officially, the end of the first trimester occurs at the end of 13 weeks gestation. My pregnancy problems started at 12 weeks 5 days. I had already told people close to me, and a few others. In the early days of bed rest, I wrestled over whether I should have told anyone I was pregnant. As soon as that thought would come into my head, it was immediately replaced with, "That is ridiculous. You are on bed rest now. You have a toddler you can't take care of. You need help. People are going to notice that you have dropped off the face of the earth!"

According to the Internet, a pregnancy loss before 19-24 weeks is a miscarriage, while a pregnancy loss any time after that is a stillbirth. But really, who cares? I doubt the mother experiencing a pregnancy loss at 18 weeks feels any differently from the mother whose loss occurred at 25 weeks. By the way, there are some real gems out there in cyberspace explaining the EMOTIONAL differences between stillbirth and miscarriage. Note the heavy sarcasm of the previous sentence.

Weston and I do not fall into either camp. Weston was born alive and lived less than 28 days, so his is considered a neonatal death.

So, why the taboo against talking about miscarriage and stillbirth? Why does it have to be so private? If Weston had been born just a week earlier, he would have most likely been a stillbirth or a miscarriage (depends on which Internet resource you consult). But who is to say I would be grieving any less than I am now? To be hamstrung from sharing my loss would be devastating and debilitating. As lonely as grief is (have I said that before?), I CANNOT IMAGINE the loneliness I would be feeling if I felt that I couldn't talk about it, or that people would minimize my loss. Just like I needed physical (and mental, emotional, and spiritual) help while I was on bed rest, these parents who have experienced pregnancy loss need a lot of help as well. I have been thinking about this issue for a while, but it has been underscored recently with the realization, through another friend, that so many mothers experiencing pregnancy loss simply do not talk about it because they anticipate a lack of support and/or sympathy.

This is WRONG. As a MISS Foundation person said, "We are not in the Grief Olympics." It's not a contest, people. The end result is the same: we have lost children. I am not going to posit that my experience is worse than someone who never got to meet their baby. My grief is my grief, and whether it is deeper than someone else's who lost their child, at whatever age or gestation, is immaterial.

I have never experienced miscarriage or stillbirth, for which I am grateful. But, I have been threatened with each. That day in the park, April 18 (which I wrote about here), I thought I was having a miscarriage and did not know what was going on for a few hours. Let me tell you, I was devastated. To this day, I cannot go back to that park. Caroline still remembers how upset I was: "Mommy got hurt at the park near the swings. There was a lot of blood." If I had lost Weston that day...well, I can't imagine.

And, stillbirth. It was a real possibility when I was diagnosed with CAOS at about 22 weeks. I was told, in the hospital, to request a sedative and sleep aid and just wait out this "difficult situation" because, essentially, my baby was not going to make it. It was also suggested around that time that I get an amnio so that I could terminate the pregnancy (at 22 weeks!). In other words, there was little to no hope that my baby would ever see the light of day. For the first (and, so far, only) time in my life, I did request a sedative; I was that upset.

But, thankfully, Weston did see the light of day. It was not nearly long enough, because I am still alive and he is not, but it was more than the miscarriage and stillbirth parents experience. True, miscarriage and stillbirth parents probably did not have to experience the following:

Twelve weeks of bed rest
Twelve weeks of bleeding
One month in the hospital
A panicky c-section
Leaving their sick baby behind in the hospital
Fear of breathing on or touching their baby
Not knowing the fate of their baby, minute by minute
Their one-pound, six-ounce baby actually LOSE weight
Watching their baby silently cry and be unable to comfort him
The sights and sounds of the NICU
Endless tubes connected to their baby, to the point they didn't even know what he really looked like
Agonizing over DNR orders (I did not experience that either, but it is a common reality in the NICU)
Being denied access to your baby
Agonizing over how much time to spend at the NICU, work schedules, etc.
Regretting every moment not spent by their baby's side
Having to make the decision to cease life support and watch their baby die

However, look what I got to experience that they did not:

Possession of a Certificate of Live Birth and a Death Certificate
Feeling my baby kick and move inside of me
Weston being born alive (although I have no memory of this)
Knowing the sex of my baby
Pumping milk
Introducing Weston to family and friends
Changing Weston's diaper
Wiping his eyes, feeding him through his tube
Feeling him grasp my hand
Seeing his open eyes!
Watching him grow
Experiencing some milestones (eyes open, pooping, taking breast milk)
Touching his warm body for hours on end
Seeing Weston respond positively to my touch
Smelling him
Giving Weston a bath (after his death)
Holding him against my chest while he was alive (I would go through hell and back a thousand times over to experience that moment again.)
Being with Weston as he died peacefully, and know approximately when he left this world
Having his ashes

When you lose a child, you learn that NO amount of time is enough if you, the parent, outlive your child. I would give ANYTHING to have had more time with Weston. I would do it all again-the bed rest, the hospital, the bleeding and threats to my health and life, the unparalleled stress of the NICU-even just to have three weeks again. And, although I'm breaking my rule stated above to not put myself in others' shoes, I would venture a guess that a mother who lost her child in utero, at any stage, would gladly take on my experience as well if it meant they got to meet their child.

In hindsight, I do not wish that I had had a miscarriage or stillbirth instead of being sliced open and later watching Weston die in the NICU. Who knows if it would have made things "easier?" But if my baby had died before he was born, the world and I would have never gotten to know Weston Max Yoder. Look what I would have missed. I am so thankful for those three weeks. My heart aches for those parents who did not get to experience any time with their children.

So, there is no such thing as the Grief Olympics. It is not a contest. Please do not judge or dismiss the grief and emotions of the hurting mother who never got to meet her child(ren). (And fathers too! I keep saying "mother" because I am a mother, and I write from a mother's perspective.) Please support her, love her, give her whatever she needs. She has lost a child and all hopes for the future that accompanied that child. Her loss is real.

If you think your task as comforter is to tell me that really, all things considered, it's not so bad, you do not sit with me in my grief but place yourself off in the distance away from me. Over there, you are of no help. What I need to hear from you is that you recognize how painful it is. I need to hear from you that you are with me in my desperation. To comfort me, you have to come close. Come sit beside me on my mourning bench...[N]o one thinks death is more awful than it is. It's those who think it's not so bad that need correcting.
~Nicholas Wolterstorff, Lament for a Son at 34-35

Capture Your Grief, Day 26

Today's topic: Their Age

This picture was taken a few hours after Weston died. He lived 21 days. If you look closely in this picture directly underneath "All About Me", you can see that it says, "I am 20 days old." When the day shift started at 7:00 am that morning, which is when, I presume, the staff updates the board, Weston had just coded and was dying. He died at 8:10 a.m., so there was no opportunity and no need to update the board.

"Their Age:" it should be 0. Today is my due date. The last thing I should be doing right now is blogging. I should be in labor or holding my brand new baby boy. Which means I would have just found out that he was a boy. It is still hard to believe he is gone and that I will never get to hold him in this lifetime.

What does it mean, [Weston] dead, removed from our presence, [reduced to ashes], inert? Or is such shattering of love beyond meaning for us, the breaking of meaning-mystery, terrible mystery?
~Nicholas Wolterstorff, Lament for a Son at 43

The babe in arms is a channel through which the energies we call fate, love and reason visibly stream.
~Ralph Waldo Emerson, "Considerations by the Way"

Capture Your Grief, Day 25

Today's topic: Baby Shower/Blessing

We did not have a shower for Weston. He was our second child, so I wasn't really expecting one. Bed rest started at 12 weeks 5 days; between the pregnancy complications and being still early in pregnancy, we never got to the point of talking about it. Some people did give us gifts, which I will always treasure...I also never had a chance to set up the nursery. I am very glad now. The thought of having to dismantle the nursery or give away all of his gifts would be just too much.

But I'm posting a picture that has nothing to do with baby showers. This picture of Weston was taken a few hours after his death on July 28, 2012. I posted an edited version of this picture on Day 24. But this one is the real deal. In our minds, our babies are perfect, so I didn't t

hink anything of posting an edited picture the other day. But, so many parents participating in the Capture Your Grief project have struggled so much on whether to post pictures of their beautiful, sweet babies, so I thought the least I could do is posted an unedited picture.

Weston was doing quite well for a 24-weeker for most of his life. Even when things weren't going as well, no one EVER told us they thought he wouldn't make it. We walked into the NICU that morning to find staff attempting to resuscitate Weston (we had gotten a call about an hour before, but he coded just a few moments before we arrived). As bereaved parents well know, nothing can describe the horror of that moment. They were trying everything, but he was just not responding. After about 20 minutes of agonizing, we asked the staff to cease resuscitation efforts and give us our baby to let him die peacefully. In their haste to give him to me while he was still alive, they ripped the tape holding his breathing tube in place off very quickly, tearing his skin the process. He didn't feel any pain, from what I understand. My son died peacefully in my arms about 45 minutes later.

Good night, baby boy. I can't wait to see you again.

Capture Your Grief, Day 24

Today's topic: Siblings

This is Caroline Mariah Yoder, Weston's big sister (also known as Missy Moo or Sweeeeet Caroline, bum bum bum!). She turned three about a month after he died. She is the light of my life.

This picture was taken about 4.5 months ago, when I was 20 weeks pregnant with Weston. I checked into the hospital two days later. She kept my spirits up when I was on bed rest and in the hospital and is the ONLY thing getting me out of bed these days.

Here is one of her from February, right around the time I found out I was pregnant with Weston. I had also just started staying home with her. Those days were so happy and carefree.

And here is the only picture of Caroline and her little brother, Baby Weston.

Caroline is not in preschool, so her days are spent with...me, and no other kids. But I thought she would be getting a little brother right about now. Even though she is a lively toddler, the house is deathly quiet now. I am so sad for her, that she will not get to grow up with her baby brother. She is so compassionate and nurturing, and I knew she was going to be the best big sister to him. Her loss is huge.

I wish she could sing this song:

Last night while everyone was asleep
I looked out my window up through the trees

The sky was so big and covered in stars

I knew a baby brother or sister soon would be ours

Hey ho, our family of three

Is growing beyond my mommy, daddy and me

Hey ho, just how will it be

When we add another branch to our family tree

I'll be the protector, so strong and wise

I'll be the cheerleader, always by his side

This cute little baby will soon enough see

No one could love him any more or better than me

Hey ho, our family of three
Is growing beyond my mommy, daddy and me
Hey ho, just how will it be
When we add another branch to our family tree

I'll teach him all the things I've learned along the way
I'll help him blow out the candles on his first birthday
We'll grow up together, side by side
Take care of one another, full of love, full of pride.

~Family Tree
Frances England

Capture Your Grief, Day 23

Today's topic: Their Name/Their Photo

This picture was taken a few hours after Weston died. Here is my beautiful baby:

And here is his beautiful name:

He is gone, and this is all we have left. What more is there to say? Regardless, I do not have the strength. Posting these pictures the week of my due date is the height of cruel irony.

You're beautiful, you're beautiful
You're beautiful, it's true.
I [see] your face in a crowded place
And I don't know what to do
'Cause I'll never be with you.

~James Blunt
You're Beautiful

Capture Your Grief, Day 27

Today's topic: Artwork

Ha. I am not creative in the least. I believe I have been known to say, "Pinterest can suck it." However, I do have some artistic things that remind me of Weston. Well, everything reminds me of Weston, but here are some things that fall into today's category.

The W is obviously for Weston. I bought it at Anthropologie about a month after Weston died. Anthropologie is kind of artistic, right? I haven't done anything with it yet.

The postcard is of a painting called Christina's World by Andrew Wyeth. My sister sent me this postcard in June. I spent over half of June in the hospital.

This is one of my sister's favorite paintings. The woman is Wyeth's neighbor; she had polio and was paralyzed. According to my sister, Wyeth intended for this painting to be hopeful, rather than depressing. My mom, sister, and I had a lively debate about this painting a few years ago: my mom and I (the realists) thought it was horribly depressing, and my sister (the idealist) thought it was beautifully hopeful.

What a difference a few years makes. I remembered our discussion as soon as I saw this postcard, and I changed my position to that of my sister's (sorry, Mom!). Hope was all Weston and I had to get us through during that last month of my pregnancy when things were really bad.

Even more interestingly, I did some research on the painting and discovered that Wyeth painted it three years after his father was killed in an accident. In general, his paintings changed after his father's death: "his palette became muted, his landscapes barren and his figures-if present-seemed plaintive. Christina's World epitomizes these traits and conveys the impression that it is an outward expression of Wyeth's inner grief." www.arthistory.about.com.

I feel like the paralyzed woman now. It's hard to see in this picture, but she is looking and crawling toward a house in the upper right corner of the picture. I am that woman, trying to crawl home but unable to make it there. But I still see the element of hope that my sister loves so much: as impossible as it looks to reach home, she struggles to get there with all of her heart.

In keeping with the art theme, I'll close with a poem:

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul
And sings the tune without the words
And never stops at all

And sweetest in the gale is heard
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm

I've heard it in the chillest land
And on the strangest sea
Yet never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.

~Emily Dickinson

Capture Your Grief, Day 22

Today's topic: Place of Care/Birth

Weston spent almost two months at St. Joseph's Hospital and Medical Center in Phoenix, Arizona: about one month in utero, while I was a patient, and the entire three weeks of his life on the outside.

I love this picture: it provides a small glimpse into the amazing care provided by St. Joe's. This was Weston's own personal dry erase board with all of his stats, important medical information, names of doctors and nurses, etc. Every baby had one.

To this day, I love driving by the hospital. For a while, I continued to visit the NICU often, but right now I am not strong enough to go up there. I went and sat in the lobby for a couple of hours last week.

St. Joe's is the site of the worst experience of our lives, but it was Weston's home. He would not have been born alive if I had not already been there. St. Joe's and their wonderful staff will always hold a special place in my heart.

Here is a picture of the outside of the hospital. I took this picture about a week after Weston died while at a memorial service for Rolland, my friend's son and NICU roommate of Weston's. He died the day after Weston.

Here is Weston's isolette:

And here is the hallway outside of my room in the antenatal unit, which was my home for almost a month before Weston was born. We were on our way to visit Weston in the NICU here:

How I wish we were all still there.

Ritual

One of the seminars I attended at the grief conference addressed rituals. I have always been a ritual and tradition junkie, so this session was perfect for me. Unbeknownst to us, we had already started rituals to honor and celebrate Weston.

A few days after Weston died, Shannon started lighting a candle every evening. I didn't think anything of it, but he told me a few days later he lights the candle for Weston. So now we do it every night. We have already gone through several candles, and I had to buy a huge pack of matches today. We are in it for the long haul. This is something that is so simple, yet so special. My morning runs, my yoga sessions, listening to my Weston playlist, visiting the hospital, and my Random Acts of Kindness are rituals as well.

Here is a scholarly, and beautiful, definition of ritual:

any activity-sacred or secular, public or private, formal or informal, traditional or newly created...that includes the symbolic expression of a combination of emotions, thoughts, and/or spiritual beliefs of the participant(s) and that has special meaning

~Castle & Phillips, 2003 (brought to my attention at the Transforming Grief: The Importance of Ritualization seminar at the MISS Foundation Grief Conference 2012)

I love this definition. Weston is unique, and our family is unique. Within the family, each individual's grief is unique, so the bereaved can and must create rituals unique to their child(ren) and their own grief experience.

Ritual is powerful. Here are just a few benefits:
~helps parents maintain continuing bonds with their child
~helps parents cope with their loss
~facilitates the parents' post-traumatic growth by honoring their child
~mediates grief through reconstructing meaning after a child's life and death

One of the most important reasons to create rituals is that it honors Weston and provides a concrete way to keep him alive. As one of the presenters said, without me, Weston is just a child who died too soon. WITH me (and Shannon, and Caroline, and everyone who loves Weston), Weston's life is honored, and he has a presence in and beyond our family.

Ritual can be public or private, as stated above. In the beginning, there is often a (normal) desire for the entire world to stop and mourn with you, in which case rituals are often more public. Hence, my blog, Facebook request for candle-lighting last week, etc. For me, it has been almost three months since Weston died, and I still feel that way very often. At some point, though, grieving becomes more private, and the rituals may become more private as well.

So, what does a ritual entail? Ritual can be artistic: I encountered parents who write songs, do sculpture, write poetry, take photographs...the possibilities are endless. It can also be a ceremony, or volunteering.

This is a timely topic, given the upcoming holiday season. I am dreading the holidays, and we are trying to find ways to honor Weston at Thanksgiving and Christmas while still making it fun for Caroline. However, to expect others (holiday hosts, for example) to spontaneously honor the child is setting yourself up for failure. You, the parent, need to ask for what you need, during the holiday season and always, especially, I imagine, as time goes on.

It is important for others to always help bereaved parents remember their children. One of the presenters went so far as to say that NOT doing so is destructive and ethically questionable. I have said before that we grieve because we love. Shannon and I will grieve Weston's death until the end of time: to stop grieving is to stop loving. I am fortunate that both my family and my mother-in-law have already addressed different ways to remember Weston during the holiday season.

I learned that I need to set goals and make long-terms plans: for Weston's birthday, his death day, and (not so long-term) my due date. I need to have some activity scheduled for those days. In the meantime, I should do small things: acts of kindness, play music, look at his chest, write his name in the sand, visit the NICU, etc.

We should have a symbol for Weston. Rainbows and the wind always remind me of Weston, because we saw a rainbow and felt a strong breeze (breath of heaven) the night of his death.

So, my first big ritual: Halloween! Weston was supposed to be a Halloween baby, more or less. I have had a renewed love for Halloween since becoming a mother but have never done anything more than costumes for Caroline and trick-or-treating. Last year I did make pumpkin gingerbread for her, because she has food allergies and can't eat most of the candy. But, NOW I am going all-out! Not this year: I'm still reeling from Weston's death too much to get my act together enough to do almost anything, much less anything festive. But next year, look out: our house is going to be the scariest one on the block! However, the spiderweb decor is foolproof and cheap, so...I did it! Here is our super-scary mailbox and palm tree:

and front porch:

Please don't mind the weird-looking lines through the middle of the first picture. I have no idea what is going on with that.

The presentation used a pathway as a metaphor for grief. My pathway sucks: it is the path that not a single person on earth would choose to walk. But, unfortunately, it is my path, and I have to make it my own. I can make it more beautiful through the way I choose to honor Weston, through new friends (I have already met so many wonderful people), through honoring and involving other children, through helping others, and through a changed outlook on life.

For me, the takeaway point from learning about ritual was this question: if the path of hope and the path of despair lead to the same place, which one will you choose? Transformation does not just happen; it is a choice. I do not want Weston to be just a child who died too soon; it is my imperative as his mother to make sure that he inspires hope, altruism, and a deeper appreciation for life's greatest blessings to everyone who knows of him.

As Robert Frost said, choosing my road carefully will make all the difference.

Capture Your Grief, Day 21

Today's topic: Altar/Shrine/Sacred Space

We don't have a single area in our house dedicated to Weston. We have his chest and have placed pictures everywhere. I want to have something of his in every room, so he is throughout our house. With that being said, I have so many plans regarding places. This week is my due date week, with my actual due date being Friday. My mom is arranging to have a tree planted in our yard this week in honor of Weston; it will become a very special place.

Speaking of trees, here is a picture of some beautiful ones that Shannon took last weekend in Flagstaff, Arizona (my home town). We both missed Weston acutely while we were up there. I always feel a little closer to Weston when I'm out in nature. I get a sense of the large scale of the universe, and heaven and earth seem to merge together just a little bit. Although I don't feel close to God right now, I know Weston is with him, and I get a better sense of that when I'm outdoors. So that's as close as I get to a physical sacred space right now.

Running, music, and yoga have also become "sacred spaces" for me since Weston died. I have enjoyed all three of those activities for many years, but they are truly healing to me now. I only do yoga one day a week but am trying to figure out how to do it more often without getting injured, because I'm also running five days a week. I wish I was in better shape, so I could run for hours.

Yoga is intense. I used to do it strictly for the exercise benefits, but now I am feeling the emotional benefits as well. For example, a few weeks ago, the instructor had us do backbends. I am still quite weak and inflexible from my months in bed, so I could barely attempt this move. I got frustrated immediately and started to cry. Although I cry all the time, it seemed to come on quickly and without warning this time.

Fast forward a couple of weeks to the grief conference. I attended a "Yoga for Healing" session, where I learned that backbend and open-chest-type moves typically produce an emotional response, usually crying. Whoa. So now I want to research some more of the "healing" yoga poses.

It's not perfect, of course. Last time, the instructor told us to have gratitude for our health and the health of our family members as we were winding down at the end of the class. I fired off a heated response in my head...

But, by and large, running, music, and yoga allow me to be with Weston in my mind. That is as good as it will get in this lifetime. So here's hoping my knees, flexibility, and eardrums hold up well for the rest of my life.

Capture Your Grief, Day 20

Today's topic: Charity/Organization

I talked about the MISS Foundation on Day 14 of this project for the Community topic, so I won't repeat it here. Also, I am too lazy to post a photograph tonight. But I love MISS.

Another organization that has become near and dear to my heart is the March of Dimes, which combats prematurity.

And I discovered another charity when looking at other posts for this Capture Your Grief project called Molly Bears. The organization makes teddy bears at a specified weight, usually the child's weight at birth. Memories of size and weight fade, and there is nothing worse than coming home from the hospital with empty arms. A Molly Bear would be comforting. There is one organization that tries to have bears or dolls completed by the time the parents leave the hospital. I would love to do something like that at St. Joe's. (Never mind that I can't sew AT ALL. And I don't have a lot of patience at trying new things, especially those that require fine motor skills. But I would do it for Weston.)

Scrolling through the many Facebook posts today, I was astonished at the sheer number and range of services provided by these organizations. The vast majority, if not all, were founded and are operated by parents who lost children. It was inspiring and encouraging to see such beauty and selflessness arising out of the worst experience a parent could ever have.

Capture Your Grief, Day 19

Today's topic: Project

This is Weston's memory chest. I found it at a thrift store: it is made of cedar and was painted red and green, so I painted over it and had stencils custom-made. My stencil job turned out really crappy, so I had to paint over it after I took this picture. The second stencil job is a train wreck as well. I am really frustrated and haven't touched the chest, except to look at Weston's things inside it, for over a month. There have been days where I feel like the ultimate failure of a mother, with my body unable to keep him inside me long enough. The least I could do is create a beautiful memory chest for him, and I can't even do that. Fortunately, I am not that hard on myself most days.

My ongoing "project" will be to communicate Weston's beautiful spirit to the world. This project will never end and is the only way I can be his mother now. Right now, my medium for this project is obviously this blog. I will continue blogging as long as Weston continues to inspire and help others through my words and as long as it continues to be therapeutic to me, but this "project" could take a different form in the coming months and years.

I have already seen results of this "project." The candles that many of you lit the other night were so beautiful. So many of you have opened your hearts and lives to me; it is truly an honor that you have let me into these corners of your lives. Sharing my story of loss is therapeutic, as I have said, and I hope your sharing yourselves with me is therapeutic for you. 

Sometimes you see or hear something that reminds you of Weston, or sometimes Weston reminds you to not take anything for granted, hug your children tighter, or help someone out. That is the best way to honor Weston and the ultimate gift to me, and it is the reason why my "project" to tell the world about Weston will go on forever.

There is no foot so small that it cannot have an imprint on this world.
~Unknown

Capture Your Grief, Day 18

Today's topic: Your Family Portrait

This is one of the only pictures of the FOUR of us. It was taken on the beach in Connecticut about six weeks after Weston died. I am wearing a necklace with Weston's ashes in it. Caroline is holding the necklace and pointing it to the camera. Be still my heart.

Today was good and bad. Two of Caroline's cousins were spending the week with my in-laws, and my mother-in-law called last night to invite Caroline over for the day. With no daycare anymore, no preschool, no living sibling, and grieving parents, she probably gets a little lonely. So I had an unexpected day to myself.

This NEVER happens. I thought to myself, what should I do with my day? First, I thought I could go get a massage, go shopping, maybe sit in a coffee shop and read for a few hours. Eight months ago, a day like that would have sounded like heaven on earth.

But that didn't appeal to me. Then I thought about everything that NEEDS to get done: the house is dirty, and medical bills need to be negotiated and paid.

Well, slaving away at home sure didn't appeal to me either. While I was wondering about how to spend my day, my grandma called. She said they had a gift for me and asked me if I wanted to come over and pick it up. Well, that sounded perfect. I figured I would do that and just play the rest of the day by ear.

So, I went to see my grandparents. They are both 85 and blessed with excellent health. And Weston Max is named for my grandpa, Max. We have always been very close, but now we have something else in common: we all know what it is like to lose a child.

My grandparents lost their only son, my mom's brother, in a car accident when he was eighteen years old. He died before I was born, so I obviously never got to meet him. His first name was Max. He died on July 26, 1972. Weston died on July 28, 2012: forty years and two days later.

Brad (his middle name, by which he was known) has always been a part of the family. His pictures are all over my grandparents' house, and they talk about him regularly. My grandparents were at a fundraiser recently, and a man came up to my grandma and introduced himself as one of Brad's good childhood friends. He told her about the mischief they used to stir up. My grandparents were surprised, and so pleased, that this man recognized her over forty years later.

My grandparents are loving, passionate, and generous people. I obviously didn't know them before their loss, but they have full, rich lives. It gives me hope. I can ask them anything about how they dealt with their grief in the early days and can observe their perspective on their loss, forty years later.

I ended up staying for over three hours, and they even fed me lunch. My family is amazing. Have I said that? Next, I went to Macy's and bought some boots. That whole excursion lasted about thirty minutes. I needed the boots but couldn't wait to get out of there.

Then I found myself heading to the hospital. I am not strong enough these days to go up to the NICU, so I just went to the lobby. I was hoping that being there would make me feel close to Weston, and it did help a little. I had one of my grief books and a novel with me, so I finished the grief book (A Grief Observed by C.S. Lewis) and started the novel. But first I wrote a long private message to a friend struggling with a big loss of her own.

So, the books. My attention span is gone. Reading is truly one of the great pleasures of my life, and...nothing. I tried to start a Pulitzer Prize novel and found my mind wandering within the first page. I love C.S. Lewis and loved the first half of A Grief Observed, which he wrote after losing his wife to cancer just four years into their marriage, but got really restless in the second half. I was relieved to be done with it.

I had a support group meeting tonight. I LIVE for these meetings now. With my dominant emotion being anger at this moment, I shed fewer tears at the meeting tonight. The facilitator said something that really stuck with me: she would not go back to being her pre-loss self. One does not understand or experience true joy until experiencing true loss. This is so true.

But, it is a choice. You do not just magically become a better person after suffering such devastation. I am too paralyzed to make any such choices right now, but I have never seen so many beautiful people in one place as I encounter at these meetings and at the grief conference. So, again, there is hope.

I am staying up really, really late these days: now I consider midnight an early bedtime. It's the only time of day I can be completely quiet and alone with my thoughts. It is when I miss Weston the most.

In terms of feeling Weston with me, today was a little better. I read a blog post of someone who recently suffered a big loss that really spoke to me. And another friend, who also suffered a loss of a family member just a few days ago, texted me to say that she saw three rainbows today. Desperate to keep the connection going, I wore Weston's sweater (the one he died on and that I refuse to wash) to the support group meeting. Hearing encouragement from my fellow bereaved parents was a good ending.

There is no doubt that I am a changed person. Faced with the unexpected gift of a free day to myself, self-indulgence, which, I readily admit, every mom-every woman!-deserves and needs from time to time, was not appealing (I know, I know-except for the boots purchase). And, who cares that the carpet needs vacuuming? So I spent the day with family and sitting in a hospital, trying to be close to my son. I spent the evening with other broken people like myself who inspire me. And, it was the perfect day. Except I was really missing that sweet three-year-old face after an entire day without her. And I was missing the other equally sweet face that I have not seen for 11 weeks and 5 days and that I will never see again.

I hope I don't sound self-righteous. Although losing one's child forces profound change, shifting priorities, and newfound clarity in the surviving parents' lives, simply to survive, I do not wish this particular opportunity for personal growth on ANYONE. How I wish there was a different way to achieve personal growth.

Capture Your Grief, Day 17

Today's topic: Anniversary/Birthday/Due Dates

Here is a picture of my calendar: I recorded my due date way back when I first learned I was pregnant in February. My due date is October 26: nine days from today.

Looking at this picture, it's pretty funny that the prominent thing is not my due date but...Happy Hour. That is Shannon's social engagement. I wish it was mine.

When I was pregnant with Caroline, I recorded every week of gestation on my calendar. If I remember correctly, I wrote out all of them as soon as I found out I was pregnant. I didn't do that with my pregnancy with Weston, and now I am really glad that I don't have to see yet another visual reminder of my dashed hopes and broken heart. Not that it would have made a difference: I know without looking at the calendar that today I should be 38 weeks 5 days pregnant.

In light of this post, it is very interesting to think about why I did not write out the weeks on my calendar. It wasn't conscious, at least not in the beginning. At some point early in the pregnancy, I think I planned to sit down and write them out, but I just never got around to it. When my pregnancy troubles started at 12 weeks 5 days, I thought about it again (and I had A LOT more time, being confined to the bed or couch), but I didn't record the weeks then, either.

One day, when I was on bed rest, I wanted to record all the weeks of my pregnancy, but I distinctly remember thinking that, if my baby was born prematurely, I would not want to see the weeks written out on my calendar. Well, wasn't that keen foresight...

But now I'm nine days from my due date. And it's on the calendar. And carved into my brain. The last nine days of my pregnancy with Caroline were wonderful: we wondered when the exact moment would come, what she would look like, etc. The possibilities were endless. Now I'm just wondering how I am going to survive this giant hole in my heart.

Weston's birthday: July 7, 2012. The seventh day of the seventh month. 7/7. The number seven...TWO number sevens. Isn't that supposed to signify good luck?

Anniversary: Is that supposed to be the date of Weston's death? If so, it's July 28, 2012. It is the day that my child died and my world ended. July 28 became, and will always remain, the "before/after" dividing point of my life.

Capture Your Grief, Day 16

Today's topic: Release

I don't have much to say about this topic. We have not done our own release for Weston yet. This is a picture from last night's candle-lighting service for Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Day.

My BFF, Karen, was here with me when Weston died. She had come to visit for the weekend, and she had to go home before his memorial service, which we scheduled several days later. On the day of Weston's service, Karen and her family did a balloon release for Weston. She sent me a picture, and it was beautiful. I just can't figure out how to post it here.

We also did a balloon release for Baby Rolland at his memorial service a few days after Weston's. It was at the hospital, which I loved, and I released my balloon for both babies.

So, one of these days, I'll get my act together and plan some kind of release for Weston.

BUT, we now have all of Weston at home with us. My youngest brother is in town, and he accompanied Caroline and myself to the funeral home to pick up the rest of his ashes. It was very difficult, of course, so I'm glad he was with me.

Weston's urn is so beautiful (I posted a picture of it last week), and I decorated it for Halloween. It is our way of celebrating the holidays with our son. It's a sad substitute for the real thing, but it will have to do. Here is the Halloween urn with an angel keeping watch:

It is not the best decorating job, but, as I have said before, I am NOT crafty or creative. Any costume for Weston would have been store-bought. Next on the list: finding a fireplace mantel for the urn!

I am feeling pretty blah today. I'm not nearly as emotional as I have been in the last few days. I miss Weston so much, and I just feel like a robot going through the motions of life. My due date is in ten days.

But Caroline was funny today. She was angry with me when I made her come inside from the garage after an errand. I went in to check the chicken in the crockpot, and she stood there slamming the door to the laundry room over and over. She yelled out her best insults:

You just eat dinner!

You just eat raw chicken! (Hahahahaha!!!!!!!)

I'm going to take your socks and your undies and your HEAD!

I couldn't help it; she saw me laughing, she started laughing too, and her anger was forgotten.

So, that is all. None of this would be worthy of a normal blog post in my eyes, but I have to post a picture every day this month for the grief project. Another sad day in the life.

Capture Your Grief, Day 15

Today's topic: Wave of Light
Bonus topic: Losing My Anonymity

If you are my Facebook friend, you have probably already seen my numerous posts about today being Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Day. There were candle-lighting ceremonies all over the world tonight, and our family went to one as well. I'll admit, when I first saw today's topic, I thought it would be kind of boring and generic, but was I ever wrong. And I couldn't even just pick one photograph for today. So here is an album.

Here is Caroline at the ceremony we went to at the Angel of Hope. It was a beautiful slice of community (continuing with yesterday's theme). Obviously, no one wants to be a bereaved parent, but they are beautiful people.

Here are some candles I lit at home, with Weston's picture on the chair. We have a beautiful picture of Caroline as a newborn on that chair too.

And this is my Facebook photo page from this evening. Starting a few days ago, I asked my friends on Facebook to light a candle for Weston today, and tag Shannon or myself. This is a screen shot of just a few photos we received. I LOVE this. Forgive the pun, but it truly warms my heart.

And, a couple more shots at home.

Today was a hard day. I am losing my anonymity. We joined a gym about a month ago. No one knew us, and no one knew about Weston. Well, that all changed today. After my workout (during which I broke down in tears at least three times), I went to pick up Caroline from the kids' room. The teacher mentioned that she had been pretty quiet and didn't want to play with some of the other kids. Generally, Caroline does enjoy the company of other children but definitely has her introverted moments when she prefers to be alone, so this just seemed normal to me.

But the teacher seemed a little concerned. She asked, "Does Caroline have any brothers or sisters?" Well, damn it. Of course, I immediately teared up and said, "Her brother died." She didn't understand me, so I had to say it AGAIN, while crying even harder. She and the other teacher gasped and apologized profusely. So, after I was able to collect myself, I had to put on my happy face and pretend like I was fine, so they wouldn't feel any more uncomfortable than they already did....So, now I am going to be "that" mom at the gym. Not that I don't want people to know about Weston, because I have said a million times that I do. I just don't like crying in front of complete strangers.

Then, I drove through Starbucks. It occurred to me that I could do another Random Act of Kindness and pay for the person behind me (you can read about my last one here). It's pretty pathetic that I haven't done one in six weeks. Well, everyone at this Starbucks knows me too. When I got up to the window, the barista asked how I've been, etc. I think he is also the one who actually noticed when I dyed my hair last month. That's how often I go there.

So, if you didn't click on the link above, when I do these random acts of kindness, I leave a card saying the act was done in memory of my child. I fill in the blank with Weston's name, and there is a link to the MISS Foundation. So, today I paid for the car behind me and left a card with the barista with instructions for him to give it to the people whose drinks I bought.

Random Acts of Kindness are supposed to be anonymous. Last time, the car behind me ended up following me home, so it was NOT anonymous, but it was still really great. Well, today the car did not follow me, but now the barista knows I lost Weston. So, I am no longer anonymous at the second-closest Starbucks to my house (I am still anonymous at the closest Starbucks, but they ran out of pumpkin spice flavoring, so I'm not going back for a while. And it doesn't have a drive through.)

But (again, going back to yesterday's theme), I guess that is what community is all about. The teachers at the gym and the baristas at Starbucks now have a face to put on infant loss, if they didn't already. I am proud to be Weston's mother. I am not waddling around with my giant full-term belly, showing off my new baby boy, or preparing for a NICU discharge, so I have to be his mother through lots of tears and this blog.

Because no retreat from the world can mask what is in your face.
~Gregory Maguire, Wicked: The Life and Times of the Wicked Witch of the West