A New Low

There are five generally-accepted stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. It is also widely recognized that there is no correct order to follow and that one can jump back and forth between stages.

With that being said, I am STUCK in the anger phase and have been for a long time, in case you couldn't tell. As time goes on, I meet more and more parents (mostly mothers), either in person or online, who have also lost children. It's generally difficult to refrain from comparing oneself to others, and that holds true in grief as well. I look at other people or read their blogs and am struck by the relative lack of anger. (Or maybe they just hide it better.) Not that they aren't incredibly sad, because they are. But I read and I read, I think, I talk to my loved ones, I pray, and there is no way around it: I am ANGRY. There is no doubt that it is my default emotion tied to Weston's death.

Weston is dead, and I am mad. I'm actually not mad at God anymore (HUGE progress), so I don't even know where to direct my anger. I am not mad at Weston (being angry at your dead child is actually very common). I am not mad at any one person or entity. I'm "just" mad that my son is dead and the results: this huge hole in my heart and in my arms.

The result of my anger: I yelled at an old lady. That is my new low. Shannon, Caroline, and Weston would have been horrified. I feel ashamed, but the old lady was incredibly rude. (See, I'm STILL rationalizing my rudeness.) In a nutshell, she didn't like the fact that I was talking on the phone, she yelled (and yelled and yelled) at me, so I finally yelled back that asking nicely would have gone a long way. Yes, I recognize the irony that I yelled that particular sentiment at her.

So, there's proof that I'm a raging bitch. Losing a child clearly brings out the best in people.

I have been a busy bee lately: purging my closet (DOES ANYONE WANT A PROFESSIONAL WARDROBE before I consign it all??), scrubbing grout with a toothbrush, combing Craigslist, redecorating our patio, making homemade Nutella, and generally keepingmyselfso

busyIdonthavetimetothinkaboutWeston.

But there are moments. Highlights from the past week:

~While finding myself on the road for an hour the other night (thanks, Craigslist), NPR's Fresh Air featured an interview with Emily Rapp, a professor and writer whose young son died just last month from a terminal illness. She wrote a book about the experience, which I've been wanting to read. While I was mostly in awe that she didn't get emotional once during the interview, I was so grateful that God essentially made me pay attention to my feelings for an hour.

~I was about to put a ten-year-old barely-worn dress in the consign pile when I noticed the brand: Weston Wear. It went back into my closet.

~A friend sent me a picture of a rainbow.

~Someone who takes care of Caroline regularly at the gym told me she is an enigma. The exact word has been used to describe Weston. I talked about it here.

~Caroline told her friend that she has a brother who died and that he was too little for her to hold.

~I have been reminded again that my friends are wonderful, empathetic, and supportive. I am pretty blessed in that department.

I am deluged with new thoughts, words, feelings, etc. I have been reading A LOT lately, all pretty intense and heavy books. My mom pointed out that I'm making up for lost time because I couldn't/wouldn't read for so long, and I think she's exactly right. My attention span is back, apparently. And I watched a movie with Shannon the other night.

Anyway, the books, the books. I have been finding a lot of comfort in the Catholic religion. I don't know if this is the place to air all of those thoughts. But Catholicism reveals God and Jesus in an entirely different way than the God of my formative years.

In some ways, I am feeling intensely private. I'm not blogging much, obviously. I don't really want to talk about my thoughts on Catholicism (I've always been relatively private about my spiritual life, anyway). Prematurity awareness events are coming up, and I don't really feel like participating. I just want to be angry all by myself, I guess. So I probably shouldn't take it out on old people.

In any event, this might all change tomorrow.

I feel like dry, brittle wax. See below.

Souls are like wax waiting for a seal. By themselves they have no special identity. Their destiny is to be softened and prepared in this life, by God's will, to receive, at their death, the seal of their own degree of likeness to God in Christ...The wax that has melted in God's will can easily receive the stamp of its identity, the truth of what it was meant to be. But the wax that is hard and dry and brittle and without love will not take the seal: for the hard seal, descending upon it, grinds it to powder.
Therefore if you spend your life trying to escape from the heat of the fire that is meant to soften and prepare you to become your true self, and if you try to keep your substance from melting in the fire-as if your true identity were to be hard wax-the seal will fall upon you at last and crush you. You will not be able to take your own true name and countenance, and you will be destroyed by the event that was meant to be your fulfillment.
~Thomas Merton (Catholic!), New Seeds of Contemplation

Now, how to melt.

Felicity

Hello, virtual world. In case you haven't noticed, I haven't been blogging as often lately. I don't know why, really. Nothing has changed. Weston is still dead. I am still sad all the time. Blogging is still therapeutic for me.

But I have been very numb lately. I had a few very difficult moments last week. To counteract them, I just put my pain (and Weston, to an extent) out of my mind. Although I may seem fine on the outside, living without Weston has not gotten any easier. In some ways, it has gotten harder; thinking about the milestones he would be meeting right now is especially painful.

I only lasted two weeks at church, although I am contemplating God more than ever. At church, a video that was supposed to be funny was played, but it was deeply painful to both Shannon and myself. I just can't do it. Anything unexpected hurts too much. Right now, I am more than content to experience God by myself, with my books. Which brings me to...

Felicity. Felicity of Rome is the patron saint of mothers who have lost children. A Catholic friend told me about her. I am not Catholic, but I am finding comfort in many aspects of Catholicism these days. Which is a topic for another post (that I may or may not write; I've been feeling pretty guarded lately, on top of everything else).

For all you non-Catholics, a patron saint is a holy and virtuous man or woman who is considered to be a defender and intercessor for a specific group of people. Each saint has his or her own feast, or celebration, day.  For example, millions of people will celebrate Saint Patrick next weekend. There's also Saint Valentine, Saint Nicholas...and Saint Felicity. She warrants a three-day weekend in my book.

Thanks to Wikipedia, I can tell you all about her. Felicity, a widow, lived during the second century and had seven sons. She was quite charitable and was instrumental in many conversions to Christianity. The conversions angered the "pagan priests" who demanded that she and her sons worship pagan gods. They refused and were, consequently, condemned to death.

As if dying for her beliefs was not admirable enough, there's more. Felicity "implored God only that she not to be killed before her sons, so that she might be able to encourage them during their torture and death in order that they would not deny Christ." God answered her prayers. Each son was killed, one by one, and she was with each one. According to legend, one was scourged to death, two were beaten with clubs, one was thrown over a cliff, and three were beheaded. Awful.

After each death, Felicity was given the opportunity to renounce her faith. She refused, thus becoming a martyr. She was killed four months after her last son. It is said that she died eight times: once with each of her sons, followed by her own death. I can relate.

So, this nightmare I have been living for the past seven months, the worst imaginable to me: Felicity actually asked God for it.

Could I have done the same? Of course I would rather have died than Weston. Ditto with Caroline. But, could I knowingly let them go first, knowing the agony of living without them? Weston died in my arms. If he had died somewhere else, I don't know if I could bear it. So, yes, I would stay alive to ease the transition from this world to the next. (My children are/were too young to renounce God. So I can't speak to that scenario.) That is what mothers do.

Do not even think about calling Mental Health Services right now. 

See, I am no saint.

But wait, there's MORE. Felicity's celebration day is July 10. Weston was born on July 7. He was ALIVE on July 10 (I even have a picture of his white board from July 10). July 7-27 will always be glorious, because those are the days Weston lived. They are the days that our family was together and complete.

Not being Catholic, I would never have thought to seek out a saint that would apply to my situation. My being informed of Saint Felicity's existence was no coincidence. I hope she is keeping Weston good company and perhaps providing a welcoming lap until I can hold him again.

Transition

It is March: the unofficial start of spring. Each new month and each new season has been a struggle, because each takes me further away from Weston. The calendar turning over to March has coincided with beautiful, springtime weather, so I'm dealing with both aspects at the same time. Lovely.

Generally, I LOVE March in Phoenix. We plant flowers, we can dust off the outdoor grill, and we can wear t-shirts outside. But it still cools down enough at night to enjoy semi-chilly runs in the morning.

This year, of course, is different. While the shorter, colder days took me further from Weston, springtime's longer, warmer days bring me closer. Full circle. In addition to the pain in my heart and soul, simply walking outside and observing nature coming alive serves as an all-encompassing reminder of last year's two months of pregnant bliss followed by four months, give or take, of increasingly desperate hope. Which, of course, culminated in complete devastation last July 28: hell, during the hottest time of the year.

It is ironic that I will be retracing last year's increasingly painful footsteps during the season of rebirth. If only such a rebirth, a do-over, was possible with humans. (And I mean that literally. I know people can experience figurative rebirths. They are great and all, but I would prefer literal.)

The clock is tick-tocking toward April 18: the day our problems began. April 18 was a beautiful spring day. After weeks of not being able to do much more than lie on the floor and watch Caroline play, I was feeling good. And I remember being so thankful as I walked to the park that day, pushing Caroline in her stroller and actually breathing fresh air for a change. Weston was the size of a shrimp then. I experienced many transitions in a single day: I went from feeling like a blob on the floor to being energetic and experiencing the vividness of spring with my babies, and then to complete panic. We all lost our innocence that day. Caroline STILL talks about the blood.

So, my heart and soul begin to transition yet again. But, in addition to the seasonal transition all around me, there is another literal and equally painful transition.

(Interestingly, or maybe not, I drafted the rest of this post way back in early December. For some reason I never published it. I guess now is the time. But I still remember everything about that day.)

My last visit to the NICU was the day before Thanksgiving, when I delivered the cards I made for the babies and their families. I am only allowed in the lobby, but I can see inside when the doors open. And  I can hear the sounds. That day, I heard the monitors beeping. I smelled the soap we used to scrub in every time we went in there. Weston's home. Even seeing it from the doorway was so painful that I have not been able to return.

Someday, maybe I will be allowed in the NICU again (in a volunteer capacity, perhaps), and I could visit Pod 9, Weston's pod. I have always thought that I will want to go back, although not anytime soon. Among other things, seeing another baby in his spot right now would send me over the edge.

But I need to know his spot, his home, is still there.

Except it's not anymore. Weston's home will cease to exist. The NICU is being remodeled. The remodel started a couple of days after Thanksgiving, so, unbeknownst to me, my train-wreck Thanksgiving visit was my last time to ever see Weston's home as I knew it.

(I don't know if the remodel is finished yet.)

The babies are temporarily on a different floor of the hospital until the remodel is finished. The NICU will occupy the original space, but it will be completely reconfigured, with two babies per pod instead of four. It will probably be unrecognizable from when Weston was there.

This is a good thing, I know. Two babies per pod will give families more privacy and the medical staff more room to care for the babies. Not that I cared; I didn't know anything different. Except when the mom of the baby next to me was going on and on about her friend's 24-weeker dying. I wanted to hit her in the face.

Weston's bed was next to a window. Not all babies had natural light. He was one of the lucky ones in that sense. Studies have shown that hospital patients recover more quickly when they are near a window. I wonder if the new NICU will have more windows.

Caroline and Weston were born at different hospitals. She recognizes both when we drive by. This is the type of conversation that typically ensues:

Caroline: Weston came out of your tummy at the other hospital? (We were close to "her" hospital.)
Me: Yes.
Caroline: Weston was in a little tiny crib. Then God took the little crib away from Baby Weston, and now Baby Weston is with God.
Me (trying not to let her see my tears): Yes, that's right.
Caroline: Mommy, I really really really miss Baby Weston. I want to go to heaven and see him.

Why does she have to wonder if God takes cribs away from her brother? And now, quite literally, someone is taking his crib and his entire room away, never to return it.

On another level, the remodel makes me angry. Why wasn't it available for Weston? My anger doesn't necessarily make sense, because a brand-new NICU would not have saved him. It's not like there is a cure for chronic lung disease in that new NICU. (I anticipate that such a cure would cause an intense conflict of emotions: overjoyed that babies can be saved, but heartbroken all over again at the unfairness.)

More than that, though, I just wish time would stop. The seasons should not change. The NICU should not change. Progress should not occur. My heart remains suspended on July 28, 2012, and the rest of the world should too.
~
You would measure time the measureless and the immeasurable.
You would adjust your conduct and even direct the course of your spirit according to hours and seasons.
Of time you would make a stream upon whose bank you would sit and watch its flowing.

Yet the timeless in you is aware of life's timelessness,
And knows that yesterday is but today's memory and tomorrow is today's dream.
And that that which sings and contemplates in you is still dwelling within the bounds of that first moment which scattered the stars into space.
Who among you does not feel that his power to love is boundless?
...
And is not time even as love is, undivided and paceless?

But if in your thought you must measure time into seasons, let each season encircle all the other seasons,
And let today embrace the past with remembrance and the future with longing.
~Kahlil Gibran, The Prophet (on time)

Death From a Child's Perspective

Here are highlights from our bedtime conversation tonight.

Caroline: I want to go up to heaven and see Weston. I want to say, God, can you please give me Weston? And then I will bring him here.

He has little tiny ears, and he needs little tiny socks.

C: I went up to heaven, but I couldn't carry Weston because I had my hands full.
Me: What were you carrying?
C: A bag of sharp knife-es.
Me: What were the knives for?
C: For God.
[Yikes.]
Me: Why did you have knives for God?
C: So he could cut things with them.
Me: What did God cut with the knives?
C: Arugula and onions and green beans.
Me: Oh, was he making a salad for Weston?
C: No, Weston doesn't like salad.
Me: What does Weston like?
C: He likes Cheerios and goldfish. (Huh? This from the girl who is allergic to dairy.) I put Weston in the little high chair and gave him Cheerios and goldfish from the snack bowls.

C: I laid down in bed, and Weston tried to get in my bed. So I got up and picked him up and put him in the bed with me. He had a Spiderman blanket. We cuddled in bed.

All the while, I had this mental picture in my head of the two of them lying in bed together, and I could hardly stand it. She misses her little brother, and I can't make it better.

Earlier today, someone was telling us about a book about a near-death experience. According to the author, there is a special "baby palace" in heaven. I'm not sure what to make of that, but it is a comforting thought. Babies separated from their parents by an entire realm need special care.

Oh, to be inside Caroline's head right now. She must be so confused.