5/11/04

Again comes the Spring....again comes the day.
'The Season of Grief', to which I have often referred any significant occurrence during this time.

It's been seven years.

7 years since the pediatrician denied the request for admitting him into the hospital. It was 'only bronchitis and not pneumonia'. She was right. But bronchitis can kill a child who has detrimentally developmental issues, and/or hypotonia....and it did. His weakened little body could not possibly come up with the resources required to clear one's own lungs.
And bronchitis did kill.
Kill.
My son.

After he died, someone told me not to make any Big Decisions within a year....and I didn't.
After he died, someone told me that it would take 3 yrs and 3 days to 'recover' from my grief.
After he died, someone told me that I needed to 'just let go'....
After he died, my life took on
a
new)}+
shape.

This is my history.
This is my life.


This is Ours to share or not.


I don't mean to get all.....
morose
or
overly poignant....

But this day was the day I said

'GoodbyeI'msosorryIletyoudownbylettingyoudie......'

And I am still sorry.
Because if a parent cannot keep their child alive, then what worth do they have??


But I am here.
And I am parent,mother,doctor,paper.

I am everything to them, I am nothing.

I have ashes in my cupboard.

I will survive this, because I choose now...

to LIVE it.



I will not passively let this day pass me by.

I will live it.

I will live every moment of it.

He will never turn eight.

Tomorrow is Elijah's birthday.
He's not turning eight this year.

Tomorrow, Supergirl is also debuting as a flower in her school's production of 'The Wizard of Oz'. It's a big deal, if you didn't know. FYI, the flowers are the very ones who greet Dorothy when she arrives in Munchkinland.

And Bubbles?
He is doing just fine. He's working on distinguishing the differences between 'w', 'l' and 'r', and we are coming along nicely. He also loves music and has developed a recent interest in show tunes.

When I tell you that my son died (almost) 7 years ago, I expect you to understand, at this point, that this is just part of our family history. He's just like Supergirl and Bubbles. He lived in our family.
I am the mama of three.
I will also expect you, as a decent and selfless human being, to allow me to talk about THAT son and the things I miss about him.
Freely.
At any time.
Without offending or skeeving you out.
Seriously.
I am the mama of three.

At this point, it's not too much to ask.

Because I really, really, REALLY miss him.

Sighting of A Boy

The family walks past the long window and through the door of the taqueria. The mother leads the way. She is undeniably who I first think she may be; her wild kinky black hair and beautifully pumpkin shaped body have not been altered by the seven years which have passed, and she is easy to recognize.
She is followed by her short, shuffling and grumpy husband, and I lean forward to catch a glimpse of the one I want to see so dearly and at the same time am afraid....and in another short, interrupted breath - he bounces in, buoyant in spite of his father's shadow.
He is tall, considering the stature of his parents.
His hair is like hers, and his smile is hers.
He talks animatedly about black beans or pinto; turns his excitement towards the soda fountain. He is seven.

The mother notices me staring and looks at me suspiciously for a moment before a flicker of recognition.
I wait for her to go first.
"You look familiar...do I know you? I know I know you from something....swim classes? The library? Music class?"
I let her trail off before I decide to answer.
"The NICU. We met in the NICU. Our babies were in together."

She looks at my children, sizing them up...wondering...

So I say, "No. This is my daughter. She was not even two at the time. This is my son, and he is four. It was Elijah who was in the NICU."

"Oh yes, now I remember. How is he doing?"
I shake my head, realizing I got myself into this by staring at her son.
I don't think she wants to hear.

The silence with which she waits indicates she is expecting the rest of the story.

"Well, he died when he was thirteen months old."

We go through the usual dialogue.
"Oh wow. Oh. I am so sorry."
"I know. It's okay. It was terrible. We really miss him. But now it's our family history."
"Oh wow. I am so sorry. I don't know how you....I could never....I don't know what to say...."
"So, your son looks great. Congratulations, he's wonderful."
"Oh wow....the NICU....wow. Oh the NICU...I hadn't thought about it in so long."
"Sorry."

I gather up the scraps of my kids' quesadillas, and herd them out the door. When I turn to wave goodbye, her elbows are propped on the table, her head is in her hands and she is staring glassily into the orange booth in front of her.

"I'm sorry." I toss out, by way of 'goodbye'.




I really was.

May 11th, 2010.

Today is May 11th.
Six years ago today, Elijah died.

When I first started writing about Elijah and losing him, these days scared the hell out of me. The anticipation alone was nearly enough to order a 5150. I stumbled from his birthday (3/31) to his death day 5 weeks later, noticing little along the way but the cruel and continuous passage of time.
I was terrified of what the day might bring. What could be even remotely as awful as that day in reality? Nothing.
But anticipation of more grief is a scary thing when you are already steeped in grief. My coping skills were watered down by grief, and chipped away by an unforgiving and full-of-judgment partner.

I did anticipate this day (dead baby day) to be easier than in past years, but I wasn't sure why I expected that. A few good friends asked me yesterday how I was doing, knowing that this time of year has historically sucked for me.
When I was asked, I realized that I was actually fine, because my anticipation of today was not influenced by the fear of being mocked or berated for whatever came up for me.
In the past, if I cried or was sad or depressed on this day, (vividly remembering unsuccessful CPR attempts and images of Elijah losing his breath), then I was 'choosing to be sad' or even accused of 'being ungrateful and not appreciating my live children'.
I am allowed to grieve freely this year, and I'm not even feeling that overwhelmingly grievous.
I miss my baby, I always will, but I am resigned to it being my history. Not fighting the emotions that came with that loss.
And if I am sad today?
This will also be fine.

Mother of three....

Today, my invisible child would have turned 7.
He would have. If he wasn't dead, that is.



For 406 days he shared himself, full of grace, with mortals.

For 406 days, I was his mother.


Some days, it's easier to breathe than others. Some days I don't have to remind myself to draw another breath in, before exhaling everything I have, deflated like an empty shell.

Quiet Observation

"Mama, how old would Elijah be next month if he was still alive?"

"Seven."

"Would he be in a wheelchair?"

"I don't know honey. Probably."

"Would he go to my school? I bet he would."
(note: although there are children of different ability at her school, none of them uses a wheelchair)

"I really don't know, Supergirl."

"Would other people make fun of him? I wouldn't let them, you know. They probably wouldn't at my school, anyway."

This went on for a short while, the asking and self-answering of questions.
I thought about how sweet it was, this dreaming that I had done for years causing me nothing but pain, and here she was....just wondering, just dreaming...no pain attached to her speculation at all. No judgment, just wondering.
I noticed that I shared the wondering with her. No pain. Just wondering for a moment.
How far we have come.

Sledgehammer

Everything is fine, nothing to see over here.

Yes, I know many of you know we went back to court today.

Nothing happened - there was not enough information offered today for a ruling, so we are going back on Nov 13th, with a bit of mediation sprinkled in.


He used to call it 'the sledgehammer'. He'd bring it out if he needed to...get something done. Or just if he wanted to disarm someone.
He would tell them about Elijah.
Wouldn't talk about Elijah with me, ever. (That's what your blog is for, he'd remind me.)
But the sledgehammer, use as needed, was his weapon.

Today, in court, he pulled out that sledge hammer over and over.
And I feel fucking pummeled.

Nice one, dude. Real nice.

New Post at Hopeful Parents

I wrote this.

Over here.

It's not about dead baby cake, I promise.
Just about dead baby birthdays.

That Little Boy Stole A Big Piece of My Heart

In the recently discovered files of pictures, I found this priceless triptych:


Elijah was between 5 and 7 days old, living in the NICU, and about to meet his sister:



Supergirl was only twenty months old at that time. Closer to one and a half, than to two. She had already endured a six week separation from her attachment parenting, hospital bound mother, so he was like the frosting - when he was born, maybe Mama could come home too!! She adored him from the beginning, and was gentle, gentle, very gentle with him:







These were precious days in the way that diamonds are precious - beautiful, but someone always dies for it.


Funny thing is, I've always loathed diamonds, while I've always loved babies.

Happy Birthday Tiny Boy

Elijah Brooklyn
3-31-03 - 5-11-04

We miss you so much.

Dead Baby Cake

So, I have to write this. I am also going to remind a certain someone that she is not being made fun of here, rather, has given me some comedic relief material in a dry period.

I was having a 'chat' with my innernet friend and one of the things I love about this particular innernet friend, is her dark humor and ability to climb into my brain from across the country. This time of year is, plainly, DARK for me. To cope with this season, I have often resorted to what some might call inappropriate humor.

So, I happen to mention to innernet friend (IFriend) that someone had suggested that I celebrate Elijah's birthday by making a cake and having a little birthday party.
Did that suggestion make me mad?, that someone had wanted to know.
No, I said, certainly not mad! I had definitely heard of people doing that....it just wasn't.....for me.
Of course I couldn't get it out of my head, and morbidly kept imagining just how that would take shape, this birthday party for my dead child. I suppressed some inappropriate giggles from some friends who I know are challenged by my annual bout with morbid humor....but of course I can't be kept down. I am a VIRGO.

So, I had to share with IFriend.

me: so, the idea was that i would have a party for him make a cake, get the children involved, have a birthday party.!!!!!

IFriend: WHAT! MAD?

me: oh no i am not mad

IFriend: a CAKE?

me: i have heard some people do that
IFriend: I would freak out making a cake

me: just NOT FOR ME

can you imagine?

IFriend: no, I honestly can't

me: MAKING A FUCKING CAKE

IFriend: it's macabre - I mean, you know, not that there's anything WRONG with it, but...not something I would do
me: there's the issue of putting the baby inside the cake, or just what to write on it...

i mean...okay....happy 6th birthday elijah....no that's not right....happy 1st birthday AGAIN elijah....no still not right.....ummmm....happy birthday in heaven my little angel?

IFriend: pukes - personally I would just fall the fuck apart making the thing and hate the whole process

me: has to maintain sense of humor right now

IFriend: yeah
me: a cake. yeah, i mean a lasagna maybe...but a CAKE? heh

IFriend: like "we're HAPPY our kid is dead"

me: i KNOW

IFriend: "see look, a CAKE"

me: HAPPPY DEAD BABY CAKE!!!

IFriend: keels over... lord

me: that isn't right either - you see the problem.

IFriend: yes - I mean, what to WRITE on it alone is a blog entry...

me: oooo - and we could SING TO HIS ASHES OF COURSE!

IFriend: put a party hat on the urn

me: that would rock, but....who blows out the candles?

IFriend: just take it outside and wait for the wind to blow the candle out...and be like "look kids, your brother made a wish!"

kids are gullible, they'd totally buy it

me: HAR! they TOTALLY WOULD!

End of Conversation Advice:

IFriend: I think doing some kind of non-deadbaby-activity would be much better than making it a Deadbaby Day...too tempting to wallow that way.


Indeed. Thank you, IFriend. You know who you are.

There is nothing poetic about dead baby anniversaries

Pissed.

You would think that I would just get it by now, not have any expectation, and reduce potential for being pissed.
But no, here we still are for some reason, and I'm pissed.

I ask for nothing, or so very little. Yet I am wrung out.

For just a few days out of the year, just a few predictable days, I only wish (not even ask) that he could think of someone but himself. To have the kindness to set aside some resources and time to weather the storm with me. To not pretend to maintain his well honed water treading yet try and drown me should I come swimming by.

There is so much wrong, not the least being that the glue that adheres us to one another is made of a dead baby. A dead baby who won't have another birthday on March 31st.

But instead of my wish, what I get is illusion, oppression, and a person who walks into a room to rip a childrens rainbow off the wall just because it is there.

I swim alone, because I can't risk drowning. And I close my eyes, because I can't watch.






I know this is incredibly depressing. Maybe after reading this you will forgive me for the Happy Dead Baby Cake post which is in my head and surely to worm its way out.

Five Years Later; Nothing Poignant in Repetition

[Cross-posted here.]

Today marks the first day of the fifth year of grief season*. I would call it 'grief month', but when your kid dies just five weeks after their (only) birthday, all of those important anniversaries like birthday and deathday run together, and calling it 'grief season' seems a bit more accurate.

I realized it was coming last week - it is a thought then it becomes a distant flickering light and then with a pop and crackle it explodes in front of me.
I am a veteran now.

Part of the pain this year is in the number. Well, there is truthfully always pain in the numbers; the numbers represent what never was, what never will be. Each birthday becomes the number of years he has been gone plus one, the age he was when he left us. Each birthday is a reminder of the age he will always be; a widening gap and stark contrast to the age he should be.

Five years.

There is fear in that number - a fear it is so far away - it makes Elijah farther away too. There is fear in saying that number aloud. Fear in the anticipation of how it will be received. Fear that you will expect too much from me, fear that you will quietly judge me: the mother who still grieves her child so deeply. Five years later.
Five years later and still so much is ragged and torn since he left. Five years later and the wound returns to be examined and the edges painfully lifted. Peeking into the same swirling abyss, searching each year for some previously unrevealed meaning. Something to make sense out of it. Still searching.


How does one make sense out of death? How does one ever make sense out of connecting the following thoughts: Oh shit that bronchodilator treatment didn't work...Oh that sound he is making isn't good....We need to get him to the ER, call the pediatrician....OH MY GOD HE IS NOT BREATHING.

Sure, I got rid of the living room rug upon which I administered CPR to my son for forty minutes.
That helped a little.
But even with the rug gone, the ghosts are still there. Not his ghosts so much as the ghosts of that evening, the ghosts of our absolute worst fears being realized, and the ghosts of failure.

Baby's breath is so intoxicating, so very unique, that a flower was named after it.

His last breath hangs in my home like the ghost it is, not the elixir it was.





*Grief Season: the period of time lasting from the weeks leading up to March 31st (Elijah's birthday) through but not limited to May 11th (Elijah's last breath), always including Mother's Day.

In Like A Sneaky, Cave-Dwelling Lion

I just realized that February is almost over, and greeted that thought with a cold chill and deep dread.

And then I responded to that thought with, 'Come ON get over your bad-ass moping self already. You can't have an annual springtime depression. If you can see it coming, you can avoid it.'
And then: This is not a head-on collision anymore.
And then: Deja vu.

Seriously. Let's look at the track record here.

The short story is:

Elijah would have been six years old on March 31st, 2009.
But he won't.

So if you are looking for another train wreck raw experience, hopefully evolved....then perhaps you have come to the right place this month - hang on!
If you are one of my thirty one fourteen faithful (OR RANDOM) readers who has given up on me because I cannot seem to:

• post regularly
• post anything of content
• post about life
• post about reality
• post enough about death
• stop posting about death
• do any of that shit right

...well then, welcome! Welcome back wholeheartedly, because all of those things are true, which makes you all right. Instead of me.

And this next month is sure to be a lovely walk through the blacks and browns of my poo-filled emotions. And the lovely lilacs and blues and vanillas which are Elijah.


Hang on.

Look What I Found!

My baby!






(And to think that someone made fun of me for taking this picture way back when....)

Got My Head In His Cloud Again

I recently found a huge file of photos of Elijah. I had either forgotten about them or convinced myself that they didn't exist....who knows.
I can hardly describe what finding these has felt like....a gift...a peace....a stirring....a mindfuck...another unwanted but polite visit from Grief....

A mother.
I was his mother too....wispy shadows swirling...his life flickered by....his scent hangs on my shoulders.....my head in his cloud.



The gifts are in the flickers; each one gifts me a memory....we had some fun with that baby:







Missing him doesn't quite cut it on these days.

SITUATION Follow-Up:1

I got home from a long day spent having The Big Fun here, (as immediately documented by QuicksilverCindy; stay tuned for the complaint and follow-up details!))where we were joined by the female members of the Fig Family, to a message that 'Marla' had been 'dealt with'.

The BOS did her thing and called Marla, on my behalf, telling her to essentially back the fuck off, she wouldn't want her reputation on this small mountain to reflect only the the small-minded and transparent lies she was offering, and she was sure she would not want people to think that she could continue to spread untrue and unkind lies about someone, let alone add to their pain.

Marla replied with a series of 'uh-huh's' and 'okay's', and the BOS reminded her that what she was spreading was indeed 'actionable' and would be addressed as such.

The Bos, against her inherent judgment, believes that 'Marla' will not be mentioning this story.
Ever again.

Me vs. Grief: Version 4.6

In Elijah's lifetime, there were a finite number of pictures taken of him.
There were quite a few pictures, but he lived for thirteen months and eleven days.
So there are thirteen months and eleven days worth of pictures. Considering not many pictures were taken of him at the end, when he was sick. It never occurred to us that it could or would be the end.

There was also video taken of him. This was before we had a digital video camera, so we have some tapes.
I have never, ever watched any of that footage. Not one second.
I have thought about it, I think I will do it, I think I am ready.
Then I conveniently forget.
Until the next time.

Right after Elijah died, I was incapable of even looking at his pictures. The day that he died, I came home to pictures of him all around my house - pictures of him alive. Pictures that taunted and mocked me, reminding me only of the fact that he was - gone.
A photo of his shining blue eyes reminded me that they were closed and unshining. A picture of his chubby smile reminded me of giving him mouth-to-mouth CPR for 45 minutes. A picture of his platinum hair reminded me of cutting a lock to drop into an envelope (which, to this day, remains 'lost') just hours after he took his last breath.
A picture of his life reminded me only of his death; of his expressions in death, of the panic, of the failure to revive him, of the fact that it was all over. Forever.

And then, as I would reach to turn the picture face-down, I would sob with guilt. What kind of mother looks at her child's smile and is reminded only of his death? What kind of mother could cradle him in astonishment as he took his last breath, cradle him just hours later while the shock overcame her that he was just an empty shell, and then, just a few hours later, be unable to look at his face?
Grief of this magnitude is difficult to navigate, it is suffocating - it is breathing in thick mud, it is impossible for the beholder to comprehend, and it is overwhelming (think catatonic) to feel. It is pretty much like a head-on collision with a large truck that doesn't kill you.
Sadness that runs so deep, it carries its own albatross of grief.

It has been four years and six months since Elijah died. That itself, seems unimaginable.
Not once have I been courageous enough to view any of that video. I know it exists.

I imagine what it might be like - to watch him wave his hands around again, to see him reach for his favorite toys, to watch his bright eyes dart between us and the fairies, and oh! to hear him coo and sing...
...but not be able to reach for him, kiss him, hold him...

I don't know. If I cannot write those memories without tearing up, perhaps I am not ready to see him.
I wish I could say I was strong.

But you can see, that really, I am not.

What Would You Do?

This one has been rolling around in my head - and heart - for a few days. I keep imagining that I have written about it already; then I find nothing on the computer and realize that I had just thought about it. Again. Over and over. And then again some more.

I have picked up the phone and not made the call. I have gathered the words to confront honestly, the other version in which I belittle, and then the one in which I threaten.


There is a person who lives here in my small community with whom I was friends for many years. (I resisted the urge to insert the word 'stupidly' between 'was' and 'friends'.)
Too many years.
Friends with the community Gossip Queen.
Too many years.
Who would never talk about me that way, right?
Too many years.
For years before I had my own children, I would step in to help Marla with almost anything - firewood in a lean winter, wine on a rough day, emergency childcare for her three children, overnight care for her children to assist her 'on-the-rocks' marriage (now, long over), waived preschool tuition bills, offered my shoulder and sleeve for her tears....to name a few.
Some of these favors continued after I started my own family; the requests were unfailing, but my availability was more limited.
The addition of Elijah to our family brought along a new direction and uncharted territory, involving hours of OT, PT, and testing. With a two year old in tow. I remember calling Marla a few times to ask her to watch Supergirl while I took Elijah to some appointment. By this time, she was going through a dramatic divorce, and her response was always 'This is my alone time - I don't have the kids then, so I need that time to myself'.
Whatever; I didn't really have the time to feel jilted back then.
Then, just four months after Elijah died, I had a surprise pregnancy and an even more surprising miscarriage. Marla's commentary on this event was the wake-up call I had been ignoring for years to call it quits in this give and take relationship (I gave, she took).

"If you were taking better care of yourself and sleeping better and living a more spiritual life, this wouldn't have happened."

I remember walking her to her car and suggesting she get the hell outta my yard that instant.

At that moment, I was free. I was free to resume and maintain healthy friendships with supportive friends and be left with only the residual sheepishness of having been her friend for so damn long. For ten years I had listened to her gossip about every single person she knew, watched her take what she could from her friends, and flirt with every single friend's husband she could get near. Those memories are my cross to bear.
It was over.

Not too long ago, a good friend of mine who is one of the kindest, most patient and forgiving souls you have ever met, had a momentary lapse of reason invited Marla over for dinner out of pity after an impromptu playdate involving their daughters. During this time, Marla proved that she was still quite the chatterbox. She appalled my friend by insulting her husband, and then clawing her way through a list of common friends and their failings. Nina, who has little tolerance for such things, called her on her gossiping, and Marla admitted she 'had a problem'.
Nina then asked her about a specific situation which Marla herself had incited years ago, creating a deep rift between myself and another local woman.
A situation which, even at the time, I knew had to be somehow exaggerated considering the source, but I was so hurt and angered by it that I never explored the source or extent of the malady.
The situation?

The short version is that this woman was a friend of Marla's and threatened to call CPS on us because we lied about Elijah's age in an elevator in Hawaii.

The longer and more detailed backstory is here, and highly recommended if you wish to follow along.

So, Nina asks Marla about this situation in particular, and Marla agrees, "I probably said too much."
Nina presses on and says, "You think so? I know so."

And then, Marla tells Nina something she is sure she didn't already know.
"I know how Elijah died. I had told her too much."

WTF????

"You know what?"

"Well, you know that Gwendomama was in the hospital [on too many pre-term labor drugs to count] for six weeks when she was pregnant?"
"Yes, I knew about the pre-term labor."

"Well, the reason she was in the hospital was because she was anorexic and starving herself and then...well...the baby....you know...."


It was at this point that my friend Nina ended the conversation, then sat on it for two weeks before she could even tell me. I appreciate that she did.
But I am beyond angry. Beyond hurt.

To take the knowledge of someone's past - a painful past which took years of effort to work beyond - and then use it to form some crackerjackass diagnosis for not only me but for MY CHILD -

Oh - I just have NO FUCKING WORDS FOR THAT.

Wait. They are coming.

And then? Then to spread that diagnosis around the mountain like poison oak, because that is what Marla does best....talk....Oh -
Oh!
OH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I think of the hatred I have carried around for this woman, and now I feel horrible! I can understand why she freaked out if she had believed Marla's backstory.
I don't entirely forgive her for being so fucking superior and ignorant at the same time, but I this whole story is different now.

I think of all the people up here who have looked at me and wondered if her story was true...I want to kill her.

Seriously.

I have not called Marla, I have not shown up at her door (which itself shows incredible restraint since I do know where she lives), I have not exposed her real name, and I have not even sent her a letter insisting that she cease and desist defamation of character.

I don't currently trust myself, so I am giving myself some time to calm down.
Just a little.


So......What would YOU do?

The Magic of Where We Live

The temperature in our part of California today was in the mid-eighties.
In mid-November.
Even on the coast.

(For those of you who spent a weekend in July freezing your arses off in San Francisco, this should be of notable record.)

We did what everyone else within sixty miles of the beach did today - we (drove the six miles down the hill to the coast and) headed to our favorite beach.


We went to Elijah's beach:



Bubbles enjoyed the tide pools and.......the rays of....... magic.....(?)



There was much rejoicing:


We tumbled, ran, splashed, swooped, stumbled, squawked, scooped, gawked, chased, lounged, basked...until the sun set.

And then we went home.