April 29, 2012--Detours
Thoughts of Max flood my brain lately. Not that I don’t think about him all the time anyway, but lately he’s all I can think of when I wake up in the morning and when I go to bed at night. There are so many more things that I start to remember as we approach the day that should be bringing us so much joy: his first birthday. I remember the look on his face when that first bit of water hit his little body in the bathtub; it was a look of confusion, but not annoyed confusion. Just confusion. As if he was thinking, “How the hell did I end up in here?” It was adorable and made me smile a little every time I saw it. I got used to seeing that face, and I have no doubt that the look would have evolved as he grew into a toddler and then a young man. I pictured him giving me that look when trying new foods, experimenting with words, or seeing something strange out in the real world. I wish I had a picture of that look or even a video to capture the body movements that went along with it—flailing arms, fingers spread wide. The snapshot in my mind will have to do, though. I still can’t bring myself to watch any of the very few videos we have of Max. Something about seeing him alive in my head versus alive on the screen is more comforting for now. I hope that I will be able to watch them at some point, and I believe that I will. It’s not something I’m rushing into, but I wouldn’t mind if it happened tomorrow. I miss my little guy.
Since my last post, Scott and I finished packing up Max’s room. We turned it into Quinn’s room, but I still can’t help but call it “Max’s room.” Sometimes I call it “Max’s old room,” but even that sounds strange to me. I don’t see this as being totally unhealthy. Ethan’s room will always be “Ethan’s room,” even after he moves out and it’s turned into a guest room or whatever type of room it’s destined to become. I’ll always think of it as his room because he was the first inhabitant. We painted it for him, we decorated it for him, and he’ll live there for a lot of his life. We say goodnight to him in that room every night, we play with him in that room, and we measure his amazing growth in that room. Calling it anything other than “Ethan’s room” takes all of the significance of those things away from the room and turns it into any other room in our house. I feel the same way about Max’s room. A lot of things happened in that room, and Scott and I smiled and laughed more times than we can possibly remember in that room. We sat in the chair in Max’s room for hours of his life, rocking him, feeding him, singing to him, just being with him. So, I don’t think it’s such a big deal that I still think of it as Max’s room and probably always will. He will always be a part of our family, so he deserves a place in our house. Just like that confused look would have evolved with Max, his room is evolving too. Its origins will remain the same though, and I choose to acknowledge those origins.
It is very strange to think that on this day last year, I was five days away from giving birth to Max. I can’t believe that he would have been a year old in just a few days. My labor with Max was painful, of course, but it wasn’t unnecessarily long or nearly as trying as Ethan’s. I didn’t take any medicine for pain until I got my epidural. This was very different from my experience with having Ethan. I was pumped full of various painkillers, which did lead to some funny commentary by me. (So I have been told; I really don’t remember.) I barely remember having Ethan. I had been in “false labor” for nearly three days by the time Ethan came for real. I was having full-blown contractions just minutes apart, but labor wasn’t actually progressing. On the third day, I was finally admitted to the hospital. I had barely eaten, I couldn’t sleep through the pain, and I was exhausted. And I hadn’t even started labor yet! When relief was offered in the form of an IV drip, I didn’t hesitate to say yes. My epidural came several hours later, and I finally slept for a few hours before Ethan was born. I couldn’t feel a thing when he was born. Max’s delivery was a much different experience for me. I didn’t take an IV drip of anything. I still had an epidural, but the effects were very different. My legs didn’t go numb, and I still had feeling everywhere. I could actually still walk, which was completely impossible when I was in labor with Ethan. I was not too happy at the time about being able to feel everything, and it definitely made the birthing part more difficult, but any ill feelings I had about the epidural went away when the nurses placed Max on my chest. I began to see that it was a good thing to have felt every bit of his delivery. I wasn’t in a drug-induced haze when he was born; every bit of me was conscious and focused on that baby boy who needed so much attention from me now. I was ready and anxious to give him every ounce of love and attention that he needed. We kept Max in our room for the remainder of our hospital stay; neither of us looked forward to when the nurses would take him for check-ups or bathing. We truly soaked up every minute of his existence. Unfortunately, there were far too few minutes in Max’s life to soak up. That realization hits me like some supernatural force sometimes. Sure, I can always take comfort in knowing that I really took advantage of my time with Max, but what do I do with the knowledge that his life was cut far too short, that the entire world was robbed of Max McFall?
I know Max’s birthday will be hard for us. April 4th was hard for me. I felt like life was moving along so slowly and that we had all of this time to prepare for Max’s first birthday, and then boom! April 4th was here, and we only had one month to go. I had to leave work that day. I just couldn’t hold it together. My friends at work banded together and afforded me the opportunity to go home and “let it all out” in a more appropriate environment. I know I’ve said it before, but I am so grateful to be surrounded by such thoughtful, selfless, caring people every day. I will miss that next year. For Max’s birthday, we’re going with an idea that my mom had a long time ago. She listened patiently to my pipe dreams for Max’s birthday, and then suggested a perfect idea: plant a memorial garden for him. So that’s what we’re doing. It’s not a food garden; it’s just a memorial garden. I don’t know how to define it in any other way so that its full meaning will be captured. Essentially, we are landscaping, but that sounds too boring and everyday for what we have planned. All of our friends and family are invited, and most are bringing some sort of perennial plant that will go in the garden. Our hope is that the plants will bloom every year around Max’s birthday and that we will be able to look out on his garden and be reminded of Max’s life—of the beauty of it, not the one ugly part. The blooming of Max’s garden will represent a lot of things for us: his beauty and perfection, the love that always surrounds us, the impact of his life on others, and the constancy of his presence in our lives. I know, maybe it’s a little to English teacher-ish, but I can’t help it. I really mean all of these things. It’s impossible to explain the power that a simple blooming flower, a fluttering butterfly, or a perfectly placed Cardinal has on a grieving mother. These things will never again go unnoticed or unappreciated by me. So, on Max’s birthday, we envision being surrounded by all of the people who surrounded us will love and support last year, and who continue to do so. In a sense, the garden will represent all of their combined efforts to leave something beautiful in the wake of such ugliness and horror. While May 4th is a day that I am dreading in a sense, it is also a day that holds a lot of hope for me. I have to keep in mind that May 4th was a day of immense happiness for me. It was the culmination of months of anticipation and planning. That day held the promise of new life and new happiness, and even if those promises were broken, I have to be thankful for ever having had them.
On a (not unimportant) side note, I want to say that while my posts may not always show it, I am healing. My friends and family help with that, Quinn helps with that, even Max’s memory helps with that. Most of all, the people who surround me every day and who aren’t afraid to say Max’s name help me with that. I cannot tell you how relieving it is to hear someone else say his name sometimes. I know many people imagine that it hits my heart with a pang or takes me to a terrible place, but this couldn’t be further from the truth. When I hear Max’s name, it warms my heart. I see his beautiful face and remember his smell and his smile and his goofy laugh. If I have to live in a world without Max, at least I can live in a world full of my memories of him. I am so thankful that the people around me let the world be a reality and that I don’t have to create it my own mind!
Max’s death has, of course, left me with a great sadness that I know will never go away. It makes it hard to fully enjoy things sometimes, but that doesn’t mean that I don’t enjoy them or feel happiness every day. I have a feeling that the rest of my life will be a process in learning how to deal with new situations after having lost a child. I am about to get all English-teachery again. so bear with me. I take the same route to get home from Ethan’s school every day: Antioch to 69-South. Last week, the ramp to 69-South was suddenly and without warning (to me, at least) closed. This made me a bit frantic because there are not many options for detours. I could either get on a totally different highway, or I could go the wrong way on 69. I chose to get on 69-North, take the first exit, and then get immediately back on to 69-South. This detour might not be the most effective, it takes extra time, and it’s full of curves and merging and stoplights, but it gets me to where I need to be. I felt panicked when I realized that my exit was closed, and I had to make decisions that I wasn’t prepared to make. I don’t like this detour, but it’s necessary. In the end, it might take a little longer, but it still gets me home. I know this story seems pointless, but I promise that it has a point. In many ways, I feel like this story is a metaphor for my life. I was happily headed one direction, and then all my plans were nixed with a roadblock. I had to make a lot of tough decisions, and it was not pleasant. I had to take a detour that I hated. It was full of obstacles and ups and downs and just plain unpleasantness. Through all of this, though, I’m still headed down the road that will lead me home. I don’t quite know what “home” represents yet—happiness? fulfillment? healing?—but I know that I’m headed that direction.
March 18, 2012
Today has been a tough day. It started out that way. It’s been brewing, I guess. I know that I’m bound to have good days and bad ones, but I
guess I still struggle with realizing that this is my reality. I have to wake up every single morning
and remember that my son is dead.
And then I have to figure out a way to face the day. Some days, it’s just easier than
others, and unfortunately today wasn’t one of those days.
I’ve been talking a lot with a mom who lost her daughter to
SIDS almost two months ago. She’s
devastated, obviously. We share so
many of the same thoughts and ideas, and I can’t help but remember what it was
like in those first few months. It
is painful to wake up in the morning.
It is literally painful.
The pain is everywhere, but it starts in your chest. It’s the pang that comes along with the
realization that you’re awake now and that your child is still dead. Grief is painful in so many ways. I never realized how sore it makes
you. My muscles and bones ached
for months after Max died. My head
never stopped hurting. My eyes
were dry, the skin around my nose raw.
Sometimes I was sick to my stomach. The physical pain is really the least of it. I could deal with that. It was the pain inside that was so
unmanageable at times. I mean,
there are only so many distractions to be found and undertaken in a single
day. Sometimes I would just
sit. I would sit and stare and
sometimes cry. Sometimes I was too
exhausted to cry. Sometimes I was
too pissed off to cry. Every day
was unpredictable. While I have
managed to get past the all-consuming grief that made it impossible to
accomplish small tasks like going to the grocery store or cleaning a bathroom,
I haven’t gotten past the unpredictability of it all. I suppose I never will.
This new mom is so fresh in her grief. It is heartbreaking. I’ve never met her, but I don’t need to
have met her to know that what she is dealing with is beyond what any parent
should ever go through. She also
has an older child, another little girl.
We share so many similarities, even our hometowns. She has a lot of support from her
family and friends, and I know firsthand how crucial that is. I also know how important it is to have
people around you who can relate.
That’s a nice way of saying that you need other moms who have lost
babies to lean on. I felt my first
glimmer of hope after talking to another mom who has lost not one, but two
children. If she can get through
this, then I can too, I thought.
And it was true. I can get
through this, and I will.
I originally started writing about Max’s death and my
feelings because I had to get it all out somehow. Writing about it gave me a sense of release that nothing
else had given me. I started
sharing my writing because I hoped that it would help those close to me
understand what I was going through.
I also hoped that it might help other parents. I know that this mom has read my blog, and she told me that
it has helped her. She appreciates
knowing that another mom has been exactly where she is and has been able to
find some peace and feel some hope.
I know that she is probably reading this, so I want her to know that she
will get there too. It’s hard work,
but it has to be done. I want her
to know that it’s been such a relief to have someone ask me about Max. It’s been so good to be able to say his
name and to share things about him.
I love hearing about her daughter, even though I know how it ends. I like to picture her in those happy
moments, and I hope she knows that those will be the memories that will stand
out in the end. Those are the ones
that really matter. What I really
want her to know is that she has been as helpful to me as I hope I have been to
her.
I mentioned that today has been tough, and then I got
sidetracked. What’s new? I went to breakfast with my family
today. My parents, my sister and
her son, and Scott and Ethan. I
noticed a newborn boy brought in by his parents as we sat down at our
table. I’ve actually been okay
lately with babies. I still don’t
like seeing newborns that belong to strangers, but I don’t burst out in tears
or feel anxiety like I did before.
We ordered and ate our food, and then I just happened to look up as the
mom carried the baby boy out of the bathroom. I remembered doing the same thing with Max last year while I
was out to breakfast with my parents.
This baby had a full head of black hair and beautiful skin, just like
Max. I held my breath a little. The sight of that baby stopped me in my
tracks, but I held it together.
Until he started crying. Of
course, as is my life, his family was seated at the table directly behind
us. He cried and cried. Each sound brought me closer to
bursting, but I was confident that I could keep myself together. Obviously, I wasn’t upset or annoyed because
the baby was crying; it was the familiarity of it all that was upsetting. It was hurtful. It was just another reminder of what
was missing at the table and what will always be missing in my life. I reached a point where it became
pointless for me to sit in the restaurant any longer. I (not so eloquently) told Scott I needed to go to the car
and got up and left. I was already
sobbing, and I’m sure people thought that my tears were the result of some
domestic disagreement. Scott and I
laughed about that later. Poor
Scott. I am not hard on myself
when I have breakdowns like this.
I know that it’s natural and healthy and that it’s just going to
happen. I’m fine with that. I guess what it really shows is that
I’ll never be immune to the emotional reaction that can accompany the sight of
a newborn baby with black hair or the familiar sound of that baby crying. It doesn’t matter how old I am, how
long Max has been dead, or how hard I try not to cry. I’m always going to be a mom without her son
March 6, 2012--An(other) Announcement...
I’ve been thinking about writing this post for a while now, but the timing never seemed quite right. It’s not anything potentially offensive or intensely emotional or anything like that, but it is kind of a big deal for me. This post is essentially about yet another way in which my life has changed since Max died. Before Max died, I was planning on going back to work in August and was in the process of finding childcare for him. I imagined myself dropping him off in the mornings before I went to work and picking him up right after school with Ethan. I would head home with my boys. I would get them dinner, make dinner for Scott and me, and then immediately start our evening routine of baths, dishes, homework, diaper changes, and then bedtime. In my perfect world, I get to do enjoyable things after the boys are in bed, but in reality I would be grading or doing lesson planning the majority of the time. And then I would go to bed and get up and do it all over again. Before Max died, this life was fine with me. It was a necessary means to an end. The “end” is the weekend, summers, vacations, retirement, etc. Since Max died, this life isn’t okay with me. It’s not fine. I’m not okay with being a full-time teacher and a part-time mom. I’m not okay with spending a few hours maximum with my kids every day. I’m not okay with giving up these years of their lives that I can never, ever get back. So, I’m not going back to work next year. I’m venturing into the world of stay-at-home-momness and filling my days with class parties, working with my husband, and being the full-time mom that I need to be.
Before I got pregnant with Quinn, I would imagine myself getting pregnant. It was one of the few images I had in the aftermath of Max’s death that brought me happiness and hope. I would imagine our lives being filled with the joy of parenthood again, and I would imagine Ethan beaming with pride again during his first meeting with his new little sibling. Even these images were followed with a sort of horror, though. Would Ethan wonder when or if this sibling would die too? Would Scott and I ever be able to feel the sense of permanence that should accompany a new life? How would I ever trust another person to watch our new baby for a night out, let alone for five days a week while we worked? I don’t have the answers to many of the troubling questions, and I can’t control them either. I know that. But I can control some of them, and I fully intend on doing that. Losing a child makes you realize just how little control you really have in the grand scheme of things, so controlling the things that you can is more important than ever. In the end, though, it’s not entirely about control, at least in the sense that most of us think about it. My decision is about taking advantage of every moment that I have with my children. My decision is about knowing what it feels like to have those future, imagined moments ripped away and not wanting to give up any of the ones that I could have as a result.
In a way, I feel like I’ve been given a chance at a life that could be fulfilling in a totally different way. I love teaching. There is a lot to love about it. I work with people whom I respect and truly connect with. I work for administrators who are funny and make my days enjoyable. I work with students who are genuine and curious and open-minded. I tell them to give Hamlet a chance, and they do. And they like it. I ask them to share their opinions with me, and they are articulate and mature and surprising. Not every day, but most days. Some of my former students have become fixtures in my life. I feel as proud as their parents must feel when they realize their dream of attending the Boston Conservatory, are selected for prestigious leadership programs at K-State, or give up all of their Christmas presents to make a donation to Max’s memorial fund. I watch them in awe every year as they connect their lives to the material we study, win prestigious writing awards, and raise tens of thousands of dollars for local charities. Yes, my job is fulfilling. It is incredibly rewarding. These things made it so hard to give up. The people that I know because of teaching make it hard to give up. There is one “job” that can exceed this fulfillment and sense of reward, though: parenthood. So, that will be my job for the foreseeable future. This decision, like so many others I’ve had to make since Max died, creates a mixture of emotions: nervousness, excitement, worry, stress, anticipation, and happiness. It is stressful for obvious reasons. We are a two-income family, and I may not make a ton of money, but I make enough to be a significant contributor to our lifestyle. In the end though, I would rather stress about money than about whether I can spend enough time with my children, whether I will miss Quinn’s milestones, or whether Ethan notices that I’m one of the moms who never shows up for his parties at school.
One of the many things that Max’s death has taught me is that you truly never know what will happen. I’m approaching the next phase in our lives with that in mind. I’m embracing the changes that are coming, and I’m not expecting anything about it to be easy or as expected. I could end up having to go back to work after one year off, but at least I will have had that year with Quinn and Ethan. I will be working part-time for Scott in his newly established solo practice, and it could be that my impact will be even greater than we anticipate it will be. Maybe I’ll work with him for the rest of our “working” lives. I’m also venturing into the world of higher education and teaching some college classes online. Perhaps that will turn into more than a part-time venture. Any or none of these things could happen, and I can’t control that. I refuse to try to control that. What I do know is that I’m making the right decision for myself, for Scott, for Ethan, and for Quinn. And I have Max to thank for giving me the clarity and the strength to be able to walk away from something that I truly love in order to enjoy something that I love even more, my family.
February 29, 2012--A Whole New World (without the Disney touch...)
Scott and I still go to counseling once every other week, and we probably will for a while. There was a point when we went every week, and I still went to individual grief counseling every week as well. When Ethan was still in counseling, this meant that I spent the majority of my days either in counseling or sitting in a waiting room at Solace House while Ethan completed a session with his counselor. Eventually, Ethan didn’t need counseling anymore, and I didn’t have a huge need for individual counseling either. It wasn’t that we were “healed” or anything like that; it’s that we took the techniques that we learned from our counselors and figured out how to use them in our daily lives on our own. I guess we were ready to give it a try on our own. That’s the whole point of counseling: to teach you how to cope on your own. For good reason, Scott and I have continued to go to counseling together. We’re not really trying to “fix” anything, but we are trying to learn how to grieve together and also how to heal together. We have always had a pretty strong relationship. Yes, we disagree and we argue, but somehow we have both been able to keep the bigger picture in mind. We aren’t good at fighting, and we don’t do it often. We are, however, very good at compromising, so we do that often. I don’t just feel lucky to have a husband like Scott; I know that I’m lucky. I know that I’m blessed, and sometimes I have felt that I got way more than I deserve with him. No matter what has gone on or what issues we’ve had, I have always known without a doubt that Scott loves me to the core and with everything he has. I know that he would do anything for me and that he would never do anything to risk what we have. He listens, he understands, he cares, and he gives. Scott is the most selfless person I know. I can’t say enough good things about him. That is why we go to counseling. Because he means too much to me to not do anything and everything in my power to make sure that we are on this journey together. Because he deserves all of my efforts. Because he is my partner in everything, including losing a child. Because I need to know that he will be okay.
At our last counseling session, Scott told our counselor about his day with candor. He had a bad day, he said. She wondered what made it bad. Was there something in particular? It turns out, there was something. A pretty big something, in my opinion. Scott has gotten into the habit of “checking on” Ethan since Max died. He is terrified that Ethan will die. I am too. For most people, this fear can be written off as irrational or unfounded, but we aren’t “most people” anymore. Ethan usually wanders into our bed at some point in the early morning hours, so checking on him has become a little bit easier, but it’s not done any less frequently. On this particular morning, Scott woke up and looked at Ethan in our bed. He looked too still. Scott touched him, and he was cold to the touch. He picked up Ethan’s arm, and it flopped back on the bed. Scott was sure that Ethan was dead. He put his hand near Ethan’s mouth and nose to feel for breathing, but he felt nothing. Panic set in, and Scott picked Ethan up, just as he had picked up Max on June 10th. Ethan still didn’t react. Scott said his name and shook him a little. Still no reaction. Finally, Scott said, Ethan opened his eyes and looked at Scott. In Scott’s words, Ethan’s facial expression seemed to say, “WTF, dad?” That’s the only funny part of the story. On a side note, I do think that we will become quite accustomed to that look in the years to come. Scott is the one who woke up to find Max unresponsive and not breathing that morning, and this event echoed all of his findings that morning. Obviously, the end result was quite different. I cannot imagine how Scott must have felt in those moments when he was convinced that Ethan too was dead. I cannot imagine how he even got out of bed that morning and went on with his day, but he did. Of course, the day was a wash from that moment, but he still did everything that he was supposed to. He took a shower, got dressed, got Ethan ready, helped him brush his teeth, and then dropped off his little boy at school and said goodbye. He did all of this just a few hours after reliving the worst day of his life and convincing himself that it was all happening again. I think I forgot to mention how strong Scott is. And if he is the husband I described earlier, then can you imagine him as a father? He’s amazing. Truly.
Hearing Scott talk about his morning made me realize how different our world is now. June 10th marked the beginning of a completely new world to us, one that is scary at times and one in which your worst fears sometimes become your reality. It is a world in which you look at your child and picture him dead. It’s a world in which that thought isn’t even remotely impossible. In fact, sometimes it seems more possible than impossible. One of my friends, a fellow SIDS mom who is also pregnant, posted on Facebook the other day that she yearned for the innocence of new parents whose only worry is when they will sleep. I yearn for that too. I live in this world where it’s not silly anymore to think that my child could die. The idea of a plane crashing into my house isn’t even a laughing matter anymore. When I worry that Ethan’s growing pains are really the early signs of bone cancer, it’s not as easy to laugh it off and push that thought out of my mind anymore. I used to be comforted by the fact that the odds were in our favor. Do you know what the odds are of having a baby die of SIDS? Now, odds don’t matter. Anything can happen. In this new world, no one is safe. Every stranger, every co-worker, every friend, and every family member is a potential victim. It gives the saying “It’s your world; we’re just living in it” a whole new meaning. Usually I try to end on a positive note, but I think I’ve kind of dug myself too deep of a hole here. I’ll just end by saying that this “new” world is quite unsettling and scary and sad, but I’m learning to live with it. So is Scott. It’s just a new part of our new life, and that’s okay. We’ll never stop worrying that Ethan will die. We’ll always worry about Quinn and any future children that we may have. We’ll worry about our families, our friends, even complete strangers. We’ll worry about each other. Unfortunately, we’ll always know that we could be right for worrying. This worrying, though, comes from a place of deep loss, but of deep love too. It comes along with knowing that what you hold dear might be ripped from your arms tomorrow, so you better enjoy holding on to it while you still can.
February 12, 2012--My Reimagined Life
Once again, way too much time has passed since my last post. I don’t have a good excuse, but I have plenty of excuses. I’m in that stage of pregnancy when “tired” is how you describe your daily mood. I’m busy at work, and I’m all too good at letting that dominate my thoughts and actions. I’m not sure what to write, which isn’t a new thing, but how I have been responding to it sure is. I get down on myself because I do exactly what I demand that my students NOT do: give up when I don’t know how to do something. My brain just feels like a big old circus of ideas lately, but I can’t seem to find the words to express those ideas. Isn’t it strange how that happens? I can explain them perfectly in my head; I know EXACTLY what they are, but I can’t give them meaning externally. It’s frustrating. Maybe that’s what they call “writer’s block?” I NEED to write something, so I’ll just do what I urge my Writer’s Workshop students to do when they hit an impasse: write whatever is in your head, even if it seems pointless. Most of the time, a pattern emerges and something wonderful happens. Other times, you spit out a bunch of pointless, meaningless garbage, but at least it’s out of your head then, right?
We found out that we are having a girl. The sonographer wouldn’t confirm the gender, but he gradually increased from “60% sure” to “98% sure” that there is a little girl growing inside of me. As the mother of two boys, I know that there are telltale signs, and I know how to spot them. An unborn child doesn’t know enough tricks to be able to hide a penis and testicles. I remember getting my first sonogram with Max around 13 or 14 weeks. As soon as his image came up on the screen, we noticed that he was spread eagle and therefore revealing his sex to us. Scott and I both looked at each other with big smiles. We knew he was a boy before the sonographer said a word. This time, as soon as the image of our unborn child came up on the screen, we also noticed the spread eagle position. What we DIDN’T see is what let us know that we were dealing with something totally new here. With girls, you are supposed to see three lines, but they are difficult to see until later sonograms. With girls, sonographers are forbidden to confirm the sex until these later sonograms. Although I probably should feel that the gender of our baby is still a little unknown, I don’t. I have the images to prove it, one of which clearly shows three lines. Nicole has confirmed this. She may not be a doctor, but she is one of the smartest people I know, so I take what she says as the absolute truth. My mom and Scott were in the room during the sonogram; they both know that it’s a girl too. If my next sonogram shows the “twig and berries” that I’m so used to seeing on the screen, then I will be truly amazed and probably begin to question my sanity.
We’re having a girl. I thought we were done after Max, so I envisioned my life as the mother of two boys. That’s how it was going to be. Always. Sometimes a lifetime is much shorter than you expect, though, and then your “always” ceases to exist. Nothing is guaranteed to “always” be the way it was going to be, the way that you thought it would be or should be. Our “always” includes a girl now. It’s strange. I very clearly remember the moment when I realized that I could end up having a girl instead of the boy that I did have and should have. It wasn’t long after Max died. I wasn’t pregnant, but I wanted to be. I wanted to be pregnant with a boy. If I’m honest with myself, I wanted to be pregnant with Max. I desperately wanted another chance. I wanted to do it all again, to change a few tiny things that would maybe give him a few more days, weeks, or, just maybe, much longer. Grief isn’t a mental state that encourages logical thinking. Anyway, I had this image in my mind that I would have another baby, and of course it would be a boy. What else could it be? I guess maybe I was desperate to hang onto the thought that my life still could be what I had begun to imagine it would be before Max died and everything changed. The thought never crossed my mind that I could end up having a little girl. Until one day, when the thought did cross my mind. It wasn’t a good moment. It was a sad one. A weird one, even. Why hadn’t I thought of that before? Maybe my brain just wouldn’t allow me to since it was so contrary to what I wanted. Maybe it did cross my mind and I just pushed it away until the moment when it came rushing back with such force that it couldn’t be ignored. Who knows. I remember feeling a little bit of horror. I’m ashamed to admit that I was so turned off by the idea of having a girl, but I’m also proud at how far I’ve come since that moment. I realized that I clearly wasn’t ready to have another baby. I mean, who gets pregnant, determined that they are going to have one sex over the other? Let me revise that question: What kind of logical person gets pregnant determined that the only happy outcome is to have a baby of a specific sex? Those are some pretty lofty shoes for an innocent baby to fill. One of my areas of focus in therapy became preparing myself to have another baby. My goal, our goal, was to reach the point where we felt ready to have a baby of any sex. After months of working on it, here we are.
Things are obviously going to be different. We realize that. We won’t really understand it until our little girl is born, but we’re expecting a whole new experience. I never thought I would say this and mean it, but having a girl is a relief in many ways. If that sounds heartless, please let me explain. Max’s room is full of things. It’s full of HIM. His bedding, his clothes, his car seat, his blankets, his diaper bag. We struggled for much of my early pregnancy with what to do with these things. Do we let a new baby wear clothes that Max wore? If not, then can the new baby wear the clothes that Max never got to wear? Do we change the bedding in the crib that Max was barely old enough to use? Can the new baby use his blankets? What about the diaper bag? Is that Max’s or is that mine? Can we bear to put a new baby into the car seat that still smells like Max? Do we dare do any of these things? These are decisions that we would have to make, and they would be much harder if we were having a boy who could actually use all of Max’s old things. Since we’re having a girl, many of these decisions are made for us. Max’s clothes are clearly boy clothes. Max’s bedding is clearly boy bedding. Max’s blankets are pretty boyish. So, it is a relief to not have to make these decisions. It is a relief to be able to agree to store all of these things instead of wonder how we will react if we see our new baby wearing a piece of clothing that we can only associate with Max. It is a relief to have to buy new things, although I still hate going to the baby section of any store. I don’t suppose that will change. In so many ways, having a girl gives us a fresh start and a new experience that we could really use right now. It gives us a chance to really live the life that we have been given instead of constantly feeling like we are living the life that we wanted with Max. I’m not going to lie and say that having a girl makes everything better. Being pregnant has been hard for me emotionally. It has been a mixed bag for me. Pregnancy has brought anticipation and apprehension, excitement and anxiety, and hopefulness and a heightened sense of my loss at the same time. It has been a challenge, but then I look at how far we’ve come as a family, and I can’t help but feel like this could be our reward. We’ve worked hard at allowing ourselves to feel sadness as well as happiness. While this baby will probably magnify both of those things, she is such a welcome addition to our “always.”
January 16, 2012--Nothing Will Ever Be the Same
Nothing
will ever be the same. I’ve known this for a while, but I think it’s
just starting to sink in…almost 8 months after the moment that ensured that
nothing would ever be the same.
People say this all the time without really thinking of everything that
“nothing” entails. For me, it
really does include everything. I
make brownies, and I think of Max.
He would be almost 9 months old.
Would I let him try a little piece of the brownies? Probably not because I made peanut
butter brownies, but that leads me to realize that I wouldn’t have made peanut
butter brownies if Max were alive since it’s generally thought to be unsafe to
give peanuts to young children who could have a severe allergy to peanuts. That leads me to realize that my life
is totally different in even the smallest of ways. I made peanut butter brownies in my real life, but I made
regular brownies in my “fake” life, the life that I sometimes feel that I should be living. These things happen all the time. They happen every day, hundreds and
maybe even thousands of times a day.
Every time I buckle Ethan into his booster seat, I see the empty seat
next to him. Max’s car seat should
be there. I should be racing to
the other side of the car in the cold weather to get Max into the car while
Ethan gets settled into his seat.
But I’m not. I’m just
buckling Ethan in. When I get home
from school and sit on the couch, I think that I should be getting Max out of
his car seat and probably changing his diaper. I should be putting him into a highchair that (thankfully)
we don’t have and giving him something to snack on. What foods would he like? His personality was already very different than Ethan’s, so I
often think that he wouldn’t like the foods that Ethan liked as a baby. I think that we would have had fun at
the grocery store picking out new foods for Max to try. I think that he would have smiled and
laughed when I showed him some of the strange-looking fruits in the store. Maybe he would have demanded to try
some of them, and then I would have learned something new—how to cut and serve
something new, a dragon fruit, for instance. Maybe I would have liked dragon fruit too. In those ways, my life would be
different.
It means something a little bit different for nothing to ever be the same though. It means that shopping for diapers will never be as mindless as it once was, smiling at a young child won’t be as natural as it once was, and watching TV shows or movies will never be as easy and innocently entertaining as it was before. Even TV shows remind me of Max. Last night, we watched one of our favorites, Sons of Anarchy. If you’ve seen this show, then you would probably recommend it to us as a pretty effective distraction. How in the world would a show about a motorcycle gang remind me of my innocent little baby who probably never even got to hear a motorcycle in his short life? In the episode, a man finds his dad dead. His screams and pleads to his dad to wake up reminded me of my own upon realizing that Max was dead. I understood entirely what that character was thinking—I knew that my son was dead, but there is a part of me that wouldn’t allow it to be possible yet. We live in a world where almost anything can be fixed; certainly my baby can be fixed, I naturally thought. I could hear myself screaming, but it was the sort of mindless screaming that is more of an impulse than a planned reaction. I’d only seen that in movies before, and now I understand that people familiar with death must have been the ones to first coach actors on how to portray it. In another scene of this episode, the dead man’s body is cremated. Max was cremated, so the connection there is pretty obvious. Unfortunately, watching the scene forced me to consider things that I’ve been able to force out of my mind before—the heat, what the flames must have done to his perfect body before it turned to ashes, how the person operating the crematorium must have felt to watch such a small box be reduced to so few ashes, how horrible it all really is, and how I can never again watch a scene like this without thinking of Max. Cooking will never be the same (what would I be making for Max, what dish would he have requested on his birthday every year, etc.), reading the news will never be the same (I can relate to the sadness and tragedy that many articles contain, I can’t be an uninvolved observer in some cases anymore), getting ready in the morning will never be the same (I should be waking up earlier, I should be taking breaks to help Max get ready, I should be leaving earlier to drop him off at daycare), even getting the mail will never be the same (I would be pushing Max in a stroller to the mailbox, we wouldn’t be getting mail for Max’s foundation, and Babies R Us mailers wouldn’t be so hurtful). This is what people mean when they say that their lives have changed so much that nothing will ever be the same. It means that they can longer do anything without thinking in some way of the loved one who is no longer here. It means that I can’t function without thinking of Max and that simple things are made more difficult by reminders of what is missing. Things like walking up a set of stairs are more difficult because I remember what it was like to hold Max while walking up those stairs. I remember how careful I was and how I thought with horror of all of the potential accidents that could happen on those stairs if I wasn’t very careful while holding him.
We did something yesterday that seems simple, something that parents do all the time for children who are still alive and growing—we put away some of Max’s clothes. Obviously, this is made difficult by many factors, not the least of which being that Max is dead, so we won’t be replacing the old clothes with new, bigger ones. We’ve been working on a plan for Max’s room with our counselor, and we have already decided that most of Max’s things will go into storage. We aren’t ready to make any permanent decisions regarding his things, so they will all stay here with us for now. If we decide in five years to donate his clothes, then so be it. For now, though, we just cannot stand the thought of another child, even our own, wearing clothes that belong to Max. We started in the closet where there is a dresser full of clothes that Max never got to wear, clothes that are bigger than he was. It wasn’t easy to see those clothes. I remember buying some of them and receiving others as gifts. I remember picturing Max wearing them as an older baby. Those clothes, in a way, represent the hopes and dreams that we had for Max, the future that we thought we could guarantee him. They represent everything that I still feel was unfairly and unjustly ripped from him and from us. They represent the anger that I still have and the confusion and the frustration and the loss. But I’m glad we started there because it only got worse. When we moved to Max’s changing table, I was a little surprised to find the bottom drawer still full of his clothes. These were the clothes that fit Max and that he still wore. I don’t even know what to say about this drawer other than it was hard and emotional and I’m glad it’s done. I did pull some things aside to keep more accessible than the others: a blanket embroidered with Max’s name, a few of my favorite onesies, the outfit that Max wore home from the hospital (shirt, shoes, hat), and a tiny little “Peepee Teepee” that we learned to use since Max was a bit unpredictable during diaper changes. Finally, we took the bedding off of Max’s crib and put that in a container with the clothes. In all, we filled up two containers before we decided to call it a night. We both needed a break, so we took one. We still have a lot to do, but I feel good that we at least started it. Cleaning Max’s room and getting it ready for another baby is a task that has been hanging over my head, waiting to be finished. Starting it at least gets us closer to finishing than we ever have been before. Still, it feels as if packing up Max’s room is just one more way to say goodbye to him and to make him a little less accessible in our lives. It is one more way in which I realize the impact of Max’s life and death and that, truly, nothing will ever be the same.
December 27, 2011--Big Brothers
This post is going to be a bit different than the others. It’s going to be happier, probably easier to read, and less reflective than most of them. This difference in tone is because I’ve been keeping a secret for a long time. It’s a good secret. One that I desperately wanted to share, but one that I just couldn’t share for reasons that are probably both obvious and a little bit less obvious at the same time. The secret, which is not such a secret any more, is that I’m pregnant. It’s been hard for me to write posts for the past 11 weeks because my mind has been pretty focused on the pregnancy and everything that comes along with having a child after losing another. What you might not know is that I actually keep two journals—this one (which I do consider a journal, even though it’s very public) and a private one that is full of things that I don’t share with everyone for various reasons. My private journal has been getting a lot of action lately. I have plans for the private journal. I hope that I can make it public someday because it’s what that journal holds that would really be of value to other parents struggling with their own losses. I’m not ready to share it with everyone just yet, but I feel that a time will come when that will feel right.
The pregnancy…I am about 13.5 weeks pregnant right now, which makes me due in late June. If this baby is anything like Ethan and Max, though, then I will surpass my due date and end up being induced in early July. This is what I fully expect to happen. I haven’t fully imagined what it will be like to have a baby just a few weeks past the one-year “anniversary” of Max’s death. I haven’t fully imagined what it will be like to bring a new baby home and use Max’s old room as his/her nursery. I haven’t even begun to think about what we will do with all of the things that are in Max’s room now that we haven’t been able to bring ourselves to even touch. As has always been my nature, I’m just taking it day-by-day. What is different now is that I have to really try hard not to freak out sometimes. As I’ve written before, I’ve always known that death (my own or a loved one’s) could happen at any moment. I’ve imagined a thousand ways in which it could happen. I’ve even imagined what it might be like afterward. Imagining is, as you can probably guess, completely different than actually living it though. One of my oldest friends recently wrote to me about how losing a child happens in books and movies, but not to people that you really know. And it certainly never happens to you. It’s just a thought that we use to remind ourselves that we are lucky and we are blessed and we are alive. Now that losing a child has ceased to be something that separates me from others who aren’t as blessed me, I freak out even more about things. Forgive any graphic images, but I expected to see blood every time I used the restroom for the first trimester. Hell, I still do, really. I expected an early sonogram that my doctor thoughtfully ordered for me to show that I was not, in fact, pregnant, but that the positive pregnancy tests were a result of some form of cancer growing within my body. I expect the worst in everything, but how could I not? My worst fears came true the day that Max died. I have firsthand knowledge that I am completely vulnerable. Nothing can protect me. And the worst thing that I can imagine can happen. And sometimes it will.
I feel like I’m getting a little off track here, so let me go back to something happy. I’ll tell the story of how I found out that I am pregnant. I think it’s a pretty good one. Scott and I decided very soon after Max died that we wanted another child, maybe even two more. We decided not to put a lot of pressure on ourselves though; we had a trip to Mexico for Nicole’s wedding coming up, and we wanted to be able to enjoy it. It turns out that the key to getting pregnant is saying “let’s not put pressure on ourselves to rush it” and booking a trip to an all-inclusive resort in Mexico. Toward the end of October, my grandma came to visit. The night before, I had a dream that I was pregnant. I told my grandma about it when she came over, and she told me that she felt very strongly that I would be pregnant soon. I’m not making us out to be undercover psychics or anything, but we definitely seem to have pretty great intuition. Later that day, we went to Wal-Mart with my mom. As I wandered around the store, I found myself near the pregnancy tests. I decided to buy some since I would need them anyway. I didn’t have any signs of pregnancy and really wouldn’t know for a few more days, but I couldn’t just put the tests in my closet; I had to take one. Much to my surprise, it was positive. I happen to be pretty well versed in pregnancy tests because of some confusing results that I got when I was pregnant with Ethan (there was supposed to be a plus sign for positive and a horizontal line for negative; I got a vertical line), so I knew what it meant. You rarely get a false positive with any sort of pregnancy test; the degree of inaccuracy is represented by false negative results. Still, I had a hard time believing that I could be pregnant. I took many more tests over the next few days, and gradually I began to believe that I was pregnant. I didn’t really believe it, though, until I had a sonogram and saw the baby and its heartbeat. What was on the screen was most certainly not a cancerous tumor!
It’s hard to say where I stand emotionally as a result of the pregnancy. I am excited, but I am hesitant to be too excited at the same time. I am nervous, but trying hard to not be too nervous since it’s not good for the baby. Sometimes I feel absolutely 100% pregnant, and sometimes I feel like I can’t possibly be having another baby. I feel happy that Ethan gets a chance to be a big brother again, but I feel so sad that Max doesn’t. I do think that the pregnancy helped me get through Christmas a little bit easier because I have something to look forward to, but it is also a reminder of how much hope and happiness I felt last year at this time. Being pregnant definitely reminds me that I don’t know what the future holds, but that I have to be ready for anything, good or bad. I can’t expect that this baby will be healthy or that it will even survive labor and delivery. One thing that I have been adamant about since Max died is that even if I knew how it would end, I would do it all over in a heartbeat. Even if I knew that he would live for only a little over a month and that our hearts would be broken and our lives shattered into a million pieces that can’t be put back together, I would still have him and love him and take care of him and somehow say goodbye to him. So, I know that whatever happens with this pregnancy and this child, I’ll feel the same way; I’ll do it all over again a million times. That’s just what a child’s love will do to you.
December 4, 2011--Max's Lessons
Max would have been 7 months old today. It fills me with mixed emotions to think of the things that he would be doing today. He would be helping us discover which baby foods he prefers, he would probably be crawling all over the place, and there is no doubt that he would be one big dude. Max would probably look much older than just 7 months. I saw a friend post her daughter’s 4-month stats on Facebook the other day—14 lbs, 22 inches. Max was 12 lbs and almost 24 inches at his one-month check-up, so I think everyone will agree that he would be absolutely gigantic now. His feet, as I’ve mentioned before, were huge. Maybe he would be wearing toddler-sized socks and shoes by now. I have the luxury of believing that Max never would have lost his beautiful hair, as most babies do. I imagine him with a full head of strikingly dark locks. I can do that. I can imagine all of these things because obviously I’ll never know what he would really be like. In my mind, Max will always be perfect. He’s always smiling too. Imagining these things gives me some sort of comfort, which probably sounds odd. Of course, it also makes me so damned sad. There’s no easier way to realize the absolute unfairness of losing Max than by imagining the things that he never will get to do or be. At the same time, I feel like I owe it to Max to recognize these things and to let my imagination run wild. Everyone who has or has ever had a 7-month-old knows that it’s not perfect, but in my imagination, Max gets to be perfect. I’d like to think that I would appreciate Max even in difficult times, but I know that it’s hard to do when you are cleaning up every second of the day after a curious, suddenly mobile baby and trying to make that still-unable-to-communicate-effectively baby happy at all times. Parenting is the most dangerous experiment in the world, and its lack of a manual makes it the most confusing and frustrating experiment too. We just do what we can and keep trying until something works. Through all of the experimenting, though, it’s impossible to not learn. Sometimes we learn little things—Peas do not agree with Max’s system. Sometimes we learn big things—patience and persistence. I’ve been thinking about the big things a lot lately.
I’ve heard from a lot of people who tell me that Max’s short life taught them a lot about life, parenting, and relationships. I think the shock of losing such a young person in such a sudden, unexpected and unexplained way makes people think a little bit harder and reflect a little longer. I sometimes think that the shock of Max’s death hasn’t worn off for a lot of us, and honestly, it never will. How could it? It’s so unnatural. So, we’re constantly thinking about our own lives and questioning the things that we’ve always believed (or at least desperately wanted to believe)—everything happens for a reason, good things happen to good people, you get what you give, what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, God has a plan, God only gives you what you can handle, etc. Well, if that’s the case, I would like to have a little discussion with this “God” that you speak of. I don’t think I need to explain why I think a lot of those clichés are complete BS, but I’m guilty of believing them from time to time before Max’s death. My honest opinion is that these are things that make other people feel better when horrible things happen to people they know. It’s our way of satisfying this need to explain or justify things. Trust me, it is of absolutely no comfort to hear these things from people. Still, I’ve heard them more times than I care to count. And, unfortunately, I’ve said them more times than I care to count. After Max, though, I don’t believe I’ll be pulling these “gems” out any more. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t scream at people who say these things or hold grudges against them. Not at all. I’m actually glad that they can find comfort in believing these things, but I also worry for them because I think we all one day will experience something that makes us realize that these clichés really are just blindfolds that we put on to make it easier to deal with horrible things happening. The truth is, in my opinion, horrible things just happen sometimes. You will never, ever discover a reason for them happening; you will never feel stronger for it having happened to you; you will wish that it HAD killed you sometimes; you will hate God for falsely believing that you could handle something like this; and you will discover that the whole idea of karma is BS when it comes to the big things in life. I really hope that none of this comes across as arrogant or hateful or insulting; I truly don’t intend it to be any of those things. I’m just keeping my promise to be honest all the time, which means that sometimes I’m going to offend people. I’m okay with that because people offend me too sometimes. Shocker!
My real intention was to write today about some of the lessons that Max’s life and death have taught me. So I guess I’ll get to the point now.
I continue to think of new lessons from Max daily. Sometimes they are little ones—what a relief, truly, that I have some of his hair to touch and feel! Sometimes they are big ones. Those are the ones I’ve been thinking about a lot lately, like I said earlier before I got totally off track (not shocking). These “big” lessons have changed me. I’m still coming to terms with some of the newly developed facets of my personality, and I suspect that this will continue to happen for the rest of my life. For one, I am more appreciative of my friends and family. The most important part of this is that I am vocal about that appreciation. Before, I might have assumed that my friends and family just knew how much I loved and appreciated them. Now, I know that nothing in life is guaranteed and that it takes very little effort to make your appreciation known. Sometimes I send little cards to show that I recognize the importance of a friendship, sometimes I spend a few extra minutes on the phone to say thank you for all that you’ve done for me, and sometimes I just stop by a coworker’s classroom to say hi. I’ve even noticed that I’m a little more vocal about this with my students. I give them candy when I mess up their names or when I lose patience with them for silly reasons. I write them little notes and attach candy (this is a must with high schoolers) when I notice that they’re having a rough day. The origin of these acts is not lost on me—I know that I do these things because my friends and family do them for me. I guess I’ve realized the importance of little gestures of appreciation. They aren’t so little to the person receiving them. Trust me on that! Next time you think about doing something small for someone, spend the time you would have wasted on thinking of reasons NOT to do it and just do it. You’ll feel better, and who doesn’t like to receive a piece of candy or a little note to brighten their day?
I think I might have a hard time explaining this next one, but bear with me. I have become a little more willing to stand up for myself and to not let other people’s actions ruin my day. Before Max’s death, I would have considered myself pretty passive. I still don’t like confrontation, but I don’t go out of my way anymore to avoid it either. I’m much more likely to call people on their rude or inconsiderate acts. Some people might consider this a bad thing, and I can see your point. But I also used to waste hours of my life wishing that I would have said something to the woman who was rude to Ethan at the grocery store or the receptionist who was absolutely no help to me at the doctor’s office or the woman at my dentist’s office who tried to make herself feel better for not doing her job by blaming me for not getting preapproval for my teeth cleaning. Obviously, I’m getting a little too specific for these things to have not happened to me lately! The difference now is that I said what I wanted to to these people, and I was surprised to find that I didn’t dwell on it all day. I actually felt better. I told the woman at the grocery store that she was being incredibly rude…to a five-year-old child. I think it was important that I stood up for Ethan and that he saw that I will stand up for him when someone else is in the wrong. After all, if I call him on his rudeness and lack of consideration, then shouldn’t I be willing to do that to others as well? I told the woman at my doctor’s office (she is the ONLY rude one, trust me) that I didn’t appreciate her unwillingness to find the answer to a simple question for me when I knew that the expectations of her superiors were much higher than that. In my defense, I was trying to find out whether I was going to have an “invasive” procedure done at an appointment that I had to bring my six-year-old son to. And I told the woman at my dentist’s office that while it might not technically be her job to make sure that my cleaning was approved by my insurance company, it was shameful and unethical of her to call me several times before my appointment to tell me that she had, in fact, gotten all of the charges cleared by my insurance company. I guess the lesson is that letting other people determine my moods and, in some cases, take advantage of me is not an option anymore. It made me feel weak and frustrated before. Now, maybe the woman at my dentist’s office will think twice before she lies to another patient since one already called her on it. Maybe the woman at my doctor’s office will be a little more willing to do her job since I wrote a letter to her office manager. As for the woman at the grocery store…if you’re rude to a five-year-old, then I’m not sure there’s much hope for you anyway. Some people just can’t be helped…
One final “lesson” that I’ll touch on applies to everyone, and it’s one lesson that I’m very grateful to have learned. It is, simply, that we’re not guaranteed a certain amount of time with our family and friends. We all realize this, but I’m not sure that most of us do anything about it. I’m not saying that you need to go crazy like some people who we are all friends with on Facebook. You know who I’m talking about—he/she just climbed a mountain this morning! Then he/she made a sweater for a needy child by hand! Then he/she cooked a five-course meal from scratch, even the dinner rolls! Then he/she took all seven of his/her children for a visit with Santa and then came home and made cookies and decorated them and churned some butter and hand washed every article of clothing owned by all family members, including the dogs’ sweaters and ran six miles and worked for 18 hours and made a movie and painted the ceilings in every room. I’m talking more about the moments when you are exhausted and looking forward to a few minutes to yourself. You’re interrupted by a crying baby or a sleepless toddler or even a six-year-old who just won’t stay in his bed. What might have been an annoyance before is really a gift now. It’s a few more minutes with my child that I wouldn’t have gotten had he stayed in bed. Of course, I would LIKE for him to stay in bed and develop wonderful sleeping habits, but I try not to be so annoyed that I forget how much I enjoy hanging out with Ethan. This doesn’t mean that I let Ethan dictate everything he does, including when he sleeps, or that I say yes to every request to do something. He wants to go to the creek, he wants to build a fort, he wants to play Lego’s, he wants to skip a bath, etc. Sometimes it’s just not possible to do those things, but I try to find something to do with him, even if it means just cuddling up on the couch and watching a movie. I guess I’m more willing to put things that I want to do on hold to do things that he wants to do, and I enjoy every second of it.
I’ll never be able to make a complete list of the lessons that I’ve learned from Max’s life and death, and to be clear, I will never agree if you tell me that the point of Max’s life was to teach me these things. The point of his life was to bring us all love and happiness and to receive those things in return. He wasn’t guaranteed a certain amount of time to experience life, unfortunately. The lessons that I have learned from Max are the inevitable results of losing someone that I loved so much and that I miss so much. Losing Max didn’t make me stronger, it didn’t happen for a reason, and no matter what others might say, it is NOT part of any “plan.” It is horrible, it is tragic, and I would give anything for it to never have happened. These lessons are a way for me to come to terms with Max’s death and to make sure that he is still a part of my daily life, even though it’s not the way I want him in it.
November 20, 2011--The Holidays...
This used to be my favorite time of the year. Thanksgiving, Christmas, and my birthday are all quickly approaching, and I love all three of those occasions for different reasons. This year, obviously, things are different. I am still looking forward to the holidays, but I’m also dreading them. Is there really a way to prepare for the holidays when such an important, celebrated piece of them is missing? I’m doing my best though. I’m trying to come up with new traditions to honor Max, and I’m trying to prepare for what will be a totally new experience by reminding myself that I really can’t prepare for what the holidays will be like. I just have to take it in stride and allow myself to react however I do. That’s pretty much my new motto on life in general, so maybe the holidays won’t be so bad after all. One thing I have learned is that the anticipation of a day or event is often much worse than the day itself, so bear with me if I’m a little high-strung over the next few weeks!
November 10, 2011--The 5-Month Check-Up
Max died exactly 5 months ago today. It seems like an eternity and a blink at the same time. We’ve still done nothing with his room, and we haven’t finished thank you cards. I have a feeling we’ll never truly be done with either of those tasks. I’ve been pretty vocal about my desire to have more children, so obviously Max’s room is going to have to be touched at some point. Plus, it’s probably not healthy to keep his room exactly as it was the day he died for the rest of our lives. I’m just not ready for today to be the day when we decide what to do with Max’s things. We’ve made a few decisions: we will not paint the walls, we will keep the chair, we will wait to see how we feel about a new baby wearing the clothing meant for Max. It may not seem like much, but it’s pretty big for us. For now, we’ll just keep his clothes in the drawers and hanging in the closet, and we’ll keep the bedding on the crib mattress as if he’s going to sleep on it tonight. Don’t worry; I have no illusions that this is actually going to happen.
My friend Donna brought me flowers today. She said they are called Football Mums. Whatever they are, they are beautiful. They’re white and full and happy, and I love the simple cylindrical vase that they sit in. I must say, my vase collection is pretty enviable at this point. Donna snuck in my room before school and left the flowers on my desk. She is the same friend who snuck in and left me a bag full of red Starbursts that I am still working my way through. As you may have gathered, Donna is pretty sneaky, but in the best way possible. Today was different than most mornings, and I didn’t start the day in my classroom. In fact, I didn’t make it up to my room until a few hours after I had gotten to work. So, I didn’t see the flowers at first. I spent quite a bit of my time away from my room talking to Donna, and she didn’t even mention the flowers. I’m glad she didn’t. What a beautiful surprise! I am still so touched by these gestures that might seem small. Their significance is not lost on me. Besides Donna’s flowers, I got many hugs and encouraging words from my coworkers this morning. That so many people remember the impact of the 10th and that so many people remember Max and have the courage to tell me so is astonishing to me. I am grateful and humbled and touched beyond words. It means so much to me that when I think of Max, I also think of the kindness and thoughtfulness of my friends. For the mom of a little boy who lives in memory only, it’s amazing to know that it’s not just my memory that he lives in.
The past few weeks have been pretty good for me. At my lowest, I still feel like I can do this; at my highest, I feel happy and hopeful. The truth is that I have a lot to look forward to in my life. I have a husband who loves me, a son who is curious and affectionate, friends who are selfless and understanding, and family that is supportive and encouraging. Yes, something horrific and unimaginable and unnatural happened to me. My life won’t be what I wanted it to be. I’ll have bad days. I’ll feel hopeless and angry and short-changed. I will be impatient. I guess what I’m focusing on lately is that all of these things are worth it. If someone came to me and said, “I can take it all away,” I would say no thanks. I read something at Faith’s Lodge that explains the way I feel perfectly: “Only hearts so full of love can hurt so badly.” My pain is a reflection of the love that I had and still have and will forever have for Max. It is a necessary reaction to the loss of the recipient of that love. If I hadn’t loved Max so deeply, maybe it would be feasible for me to “get over it.” But I did, so it’s not. I wouldn’t trade that love for anything in the world.
We went to Mexico last weekend. Nicole and Aaron got married there, and we were lucky enough to be able to attend. It was a weekend full of relaxing and reflecting for me. We mostly just lounged on the beach and ate when it was required. We did some snorkeling, but once I saw what was in the ocean, we decided to stick with the pool. I used all of the stationary in the hotel room to write letters to people. How strange. Max’s death, though, has reiterated to me the significance of written words. I don’t mean words written on a computer (although those have their place) or in a text; I mean handwritten words. I saved every single note and card that I’ve received since Max died, and I go through them quite often. There is something meaningful about a handwritten note. It’s more personal. Please don’t feel bad if you sent me an email or a typed letter—I understand the convenience and perhaps the self-consciousness regarding your handwriting. J I don’t mean to take away from any form of communication because I needed all of them, and I treasure all of them. All I mean to say is that I grew a deeper appreciation for handwritten letters, and so I write lots of letters lately. Anyway, the weekend was highlighted by a perfect, beautiful wedding. When we arrived at the airport in Kansas City, I noticed an old friend at the baggage claim. He was traveling with his wife and son, and they had all been on our flight, unbeknownst to us. His son happens to be six months old. Max would have been six months old last Friday. This was my first meeting with the baby; they live halfway across the country. I held the baby and smiled with him and laughed with him and spoke in my signature “baby talk.” I loved it. I truly did. I feared that it might be strange or that I might react badly, but I didn’t. I didn’t even have to remind myself to keep it together; I just did. I’m pretty proud of that. People walking by me in the airport had no idea what an accomplishment they were witnessing. I held a baby who was the same age as the one I’d lost five months before, and I felt genuine happiness. To give him some credit, the baby is one of the cutest I’ve seen, and his smile was pretty contagious. But still…
I don’t know what the whole point of this entry is. I guess it’s just an update to let people know that I’m doing okay. I still have bad days, I’m still sad, and I still cry. But I am also happy. I’m learning to be grateful for the time that I had with Max. I’m learning who my true friends are and just how valuable their friendship really is to me. I’m learning that a lot of clichés are true: the human spirit can endure, hope springs eternal, one day at a time, blah blah blah. I’m learning how to live after a part of me died. And I’m doing a pretty good job of it lately.
October 29, 2011--A Place Where Hope Grows...
We have been at this beautiful place called Faith’s Lodge since yesterday afternoon. We drove up with Nate and Lori, piled in the Prius like a clown car. On second thought, it may have been a bad idea to stop at the outlet mall on the way, but we somehow made it without having to throw anything out. And there is no tax on clothing in Minnesota, so maybe it was actually a good idea…
Faith’s Lodge is in Danbury, Wisconsin and was founded by a truly amazing couple named Mark and Susan Lacek. They lost their first daughter, Faith, in 2000 and quickly made plans to build a secluded, peaceful lodge where grieving families could come together and perhaps find some solace and hope in their darkest hours. This place is remarkable. A sense of relief came over me even as we pulled through the stone pillars marking the entrance to Faith’s Lodge from the winding county road it sits on. I will admit that I was a little skeptical as we started getting close to Faith’s Lodge. Every bar and restaurant that we passed on the last hour or so of the drive advertised something called a “Meat Raffle.” I’m not sure that I can even make an educated guess (inference—you’re neva gonna get it, Nicole) as to what a meat raffle might entail. I’m not sure if you can even consider yourself a “winner” in a meat raffle. Anyhow, there are no meat raffles at Faith’s Lodge this weekend, which is a bit of a relief and disappointment. The inquisitive side of me would just like to experience a meat raffle so that I have an interesting story to add to my repertoire.
I am not going to try to explain how amazing Faith’s Lodge is. Words cannot possibly capture the way that I feel being here, just like words cannot truly explain the impact of Max’s life and death on me. I will say that this place is peaceful and inspiring. I feel absolutely enveloped my Max, and I can, for the first time in a while, see his face so clearly. I can hear his coos, and I can feel him in my arms. I am absolutely focused on him, and that is a gift that no other place has been able to give me lately. I’ve struggled in the past few weeks to remember exactly what Max looked like, what if felt like to touch his soft hair and skin, and what it felt like physically and emotionally to hold him in my arms. All I could remember was what he felt like and looked like that morning, the morning that he died. I hate that one moment seems to dominate my memories of Max. I don’t know what it is about this place that made me replace those images with ones of happier times, but I am so absolutely grateful for that. I’ve cried here for the first time in a while, and I’m okay with that. Of course I cried out of sadness and longing for my baby, but I also cried for the sense of relief and hope that I feel. It was a release that I needed. I’ve been very tense and nervous and almost numb lately. I would rather feel any emotion than numbness.
Our room has two journals in it, each filled with stories written by other parents about the children that they have lost. I’ve read every single story, looked at every single picture, and written my own entry in my head. I am shocked by some of the connections that I share with these people. One child was born on my birthday, one was born on Scott’s birthday, and one was born on Ethan’s. One mom wrote a quote from my favorite book: “I love you forever, I like you for always. As long as I’m living, my baby you’ll be.” The PTSA moms at South gave me a garden stone with that quote hand painted on it. I get choked up just thinking about it. This mom wrote the quote after sharing her journey through grieving the loss of her 23-year-old son. What an impact that made on me! A couple from Kansas City signed the first entry that I read; no other entry has been from anyone even close to Kansas. I read about babies who were stillborn, children who died of cancer, and young adults (and some adults, even) who died tragic and sudden deaths. I devoured each of their stories, and they’ll stick with me forever.
There cannot possible be another place like this in the world. Even people who have not lost a child must understand how comforting it is to be in a place where people share your pain and understand it. It’s difficult sometimes to figure out how to relate to people in the real world now since my life is so changed. My perspective will never be the same. It’s hard to bring up my dead son in conversations about others’ living children and wonder what their reactions will be. Sometimes there is silence, sometimes conversation just goes on as normal, and sometimes there are looks of uncertainty and discomfort. It is hard to live in a world where very few people understand how hard it is to force yourself out of bed every morning and face each day with a giant piece of your heart missing. It gets so tiring to force smiles, engage in pointless conversations, and go home at the end of the day to a house that feels so empty, yet is filled with memories of my dead son. This is a vacation that I needed. Desperately. I didn’t realize how much I needed it until I got here. I just cannot describe how meaningful it is to be surrounded by people who get it. I don’t have to worry about bringing up Max or offending people or saying too much or not laughing at a joke or smiling when I’m supposed to or keeping quiet when I’m supposed to or proving to people that I’m okay. I’m not okay. Part of me never will be. How could I be okay? My heart is broken, and there is absolutely no way for it to be put back together. Even with a broken heart, though, it is possible to feel hope and peace. Hell, sometimes I even feel happy. These feelings function kind of as a band-aid for my heart. The band-aid doesn’t fix anything, but it protects the wound for a while. People know that the wound is there, but it’s not fully visible while the band-aid is on it. It serves as a little reminder. Don’t poke it or prod at it; treat it with care. Handle me a little more gently than normal. Sometimes the band-aid needs to be taken off so that the wound can get a little air. And sometimes I have to take off this “band-aid” and let my sadness and pain and anger go to my heart. Obviously, I’m going to have a pretty bad scar, but I wouldn’t have it any other way.
http://www.faithslodge.org/index2.htm
October 19, 2011--"Code-Shifting"
This might sound strange, but sometimes I feel such a sense of hope. I feel that way now. In these moments, I feel like my “old” self, which I know I’ll never really be, but it’s nice to have glimpses of it. I feel like I can smile without feeling guilty, and I feel like I. Can. Do. This. I feel like I can breathe. I feel like I can live with the knowledge that something horrible happened to me, that my son died, but that I can be happy again. It’s a good feeling. But I know it could be gone in a second. For this reason, I try to soak it up. I try to do productive things because I know I won’t have the energy to do them again when I’m not feeling so great. Sometimes I write thank you cards or respond to the hundreds of messages that still need responding to. Other times I work on the fundraiser or actually (gasp) get some grading done.
I joined a new support group through Solace House. Everyone has lost a child, but these children have died at different ages and from different causes. It’s odd how much I have in common with some of these parents. Death dates, middle names, and of course, our shared loss. It surprised me how emotional I got when I shared Max’s story. It surprised me because I’ve been able to talk about it openly lately. I’ve actually even talked with some of my students about Max and answered their very thoughtful questions. Yet, when I sat in a room full of people who know what it means to lose a child, I crumbled and sobbed. I couldn’t even speak through my crying. It’s been a while since that happened, but I think I needed it. No matter how good my days feel, there will always be some pretty heavy emotions that need to be released beneath the surface. I won’t share any other stories from my support group because they aren’t mine to share. I will say that I feel that this is a group that I truly belong to, despite my hesitations to join it.
One thing that has not given me any comfort lately is hearing about other parents who have lost babies to SIDS since Max’s death. There have been many of them. Too many. And the connections are just plain strange. One of them is a childhood friend of Lori’s. One of them is a patient of a friend of mine who is a midwife. She delivered her baby, actually. The former of the two lives in Jackson County. The investigators told her that they have had more cases of SIDS in the past few months than they have ever seen. The latter lives in Gardner. The police there told her that her son’s death was the sixth SIDS case in six months in Gardner alone. How naïve was I to think that SIDS didn’t happen that often anymore? How would we know, though? How many stories of babies dying of SIDS have you seen in your newspaper or on your newscast? None? Neither have I. There is a real problem with that. I almost feel, actually I do feel, like we parents live in a bubble sometimes. In this bubble, we don’t know that our babies are at danger every time they fall asleep. I mean, we do, but we really don’t. We know that it could happen, but it happens to other people. And you never have to hear about those other people or their sad, helpless stories.
I always thought, and statistics would back me up, that SIDS was rare and something that could be prevented by following a specific set of preventative measures. Unfortunately, I was wrong, but not because I was uneducated or uninterested in knowing the facts. If you know me or have read my blog since the beginning, you know that I constantly worried about Ethan dying of SIDS when he was a baby. Obviously, I did my research. I bought the most highly recommended mattresses, the baby monitor that alarmed you when your baby failed to move the recommended amount of times, I didn’t allow him to be around smoke, I didn’t use bumper pads, blah, blah, blah. I did everything right. What I’ve learned since Max died is that none of those things prevent SIDS. Nothing prevents SIDS. Absolutely NOTHING. I’m not trying to scare people. I’m sharing what I’ve learned and what pisses me off about the general public’s thinking about SIDS. It is something that is mysterious, unexplained, and absolutely unpreventable. It’s funny that books on grieving your child’s loss state that, but I don’t recall reading that anywhere before Max died. I was always under the impression that if you followed all of the guidelines, you could prevent SIDS.
A lot of the investigatory procedure involving sudden infant deaths is dictated by horrific cases from long ago. A mother in California murdered several of her children and successfully passed them off as SIDS deaths. Even less was known about SIDS in the early 90’s, so it was fairly easy for her to do this. Eventually, her secrets were revealed, so the original investigators looked negligent. Maybe they were; who knows. After this highly publicized case, law enforcement agencies changed their protocol for investigating infant deaths. That, obviously, was a good thing. I’m sure you know that with every “good” change comes some sort of “bad” though. The bad here is that medical examiners around the country became more hesitant to label sudden infant deaths as “SIDS” for several reasons. Labeling a death SIDS is basically like writing “I don’t know” on the death certificate under “Cause of Death.” Label too many infant deaths as SIDS, and then we have an epidemic that causes panic and fear in parents everywhere. Make a mistake in labeling a murdered child’s death as SIDS, and…well, you might just be burned at the stake. There are no telltale signs of SIDS; some research has found that SIDS babies have tiny hemorrhages in their lungs, but like all fields of research, experts disagree about the significance of this evidence. Basically, labeling a baby’s death as SIDS is too conclusive and inconclusive at the same time. You close doors while leaving far too many others open. So, medical examiners pretty much reserved their SIDS rulings for a few cases a year.
NPR recently did a piece on this phenomenon. Some major metro areas in the United States reported no deaths attributed to SIDS last year. Really? Gardner has six cases in six months, but Washington D.C. has none? Instead of labeling sudden infant deaths as SIDS, many medical examiners will attribute these spontaneous, unexplained deaths to any cause that they can possibly find. This is called “code-shifting,” and it is believed to be the cause for the apparent “drop” in SIDS deaths in recent years. Unfortunately, these deaths are being attributed to causes that a logical person can’t possible believe are terminal conditions that could cause death. I have friends whose children have supposedly died from a “red” throat, positional asphyxia from sleeping in a car seat (who has never seen a baby sleeping in a car seat?!?!?), infected ears, and unexplained (doesn’t that mean SIDS???). These are the things listed under “Cause of Death” on the death certificate. My point is that SIDS is somewhat rare, but it’s not nearly as rare as statistics would tell you. It’s impossible for researchers to figure out whether any of the recommendations are working to prevent SIDS because it’s impossible to trust the statistics. When you hear that SIDS rates have dropped drastically in the past few years, what has really dropped drastically is the labeling of sudden infant deaths as “SIDS.”
The “Back to Sleep” campaign is a perfect example of how the public is tricked into believing that SIDS is preventable. In the mid 90’s, we were suddenly told that babies should absolutely not sleep on their stomachs or sides because this would increase the risk of SIDS. Before, we were told that babies absolutely should not sleep on their backs because that would increase the risk of SIDS. So, we switched it around. We put our babies to sleep on their backs, but guess what has happened? Babies still die sleeping on their backs. Max is one of them. And if you include some of these bogus causes of death in the statistics for SIDS (the CDC has actually created a whole umbrella chart of attributed causes of death that they consider to mean “SIDS,” including positional asphyxia, which is the most commonly used cause of death in “code-shifting” cases), then you will see that the numbers have not reduced one bit. There have been absolutely no significant drops in SIDS cases since the “Back to Sleep” campaign launched. Coincidentally, the “Back to Sleep” campaign kicked off right around the time that medical examiners and law enforcement agencies changed their investigatory procedures regarding infant deaths and labeling them as “SIDS.” So, the drop in cases that you often hear about is likely just the result of these new, stringent procedures regarding labeling infant deaths as SIDS.
I know I just threw a whole lot of information at you. I feel a bit like a walking Encyclopedia or WebMD entry sometimes. This is information that I would have never sought out before Max died because it would have just given me further proof that my child could be taken from me at any moment. Obviously I don’t blame anyone who hasn’t lost a child to SIDS for not knowing this information. It seems to only become significant after SIDS makes an unwelcome appearance in your life. And just so you know, I sought out this information after the medical examiner who performed Max’s autopsy mentioned it to me. It’s no secret in the world of death, apparently. Again, I share this information not to scare people unnecessarily, but to give you a glimpse of the horrors that keep on coming after your baby dies. Think about how horrible it would be to have your child die of something so mysterious and unpreventable. Now, imagine what it would be like to be one of the parents whose baby’s death is attributed to positional asphyxia or an inflamed throat or some other “cause of death” that is completely preventable. A sense of ownership or blame is associated with these “causes of deaths.” If your baby had a sore throat, you would take him to the doctor, right? You certainly wouldn’t let him die. If your baby were being asphyxiated, you would do something to help him, right? If you didn’t, wouldn’t you feel at fault? Diagnoses like this are completely irresponsible and a manipulation of obvious facts. They shift blame from some unknown, unexplainable, and absolutely unpreventable condition and put it on the parents. It’s just adding horror to an already unimaginable tragedy.
Now I will hop off my soapbox.
October 10, 2011--Dreams & Daisies
My days have been more good than bad lately. Obviously, I am glad for this. There have been many days since June 10th when I’ve questioned the possibility of ever having a “good” day again. It’s nice to know that it is a possibility, even if my “good” days are what I would probably refer to as “okay” days in my life before Max. Even on good days, there are still lots of things that make me sad—seeing babies, hearing a certain song, seeing that video in my email inbox, smelling something that reminds me of Max. The list goes on and on and it’s different every day. Even when I’m not thinking of Max or what is missing from my life, I am still sad. That sadness is just part of me now. I don’t like that it’s part of me or that it probably won’t go away, but it also feels justified and normal. I know that people feel relieved when I crack a joke or make it through a baby shower, and I feel that way too. I know that people feel sad and maybe frustrated when I don’t crack jokes or even attempt to make it through a baby shower, and I understand that. It would be hard for me to see a friend or family member going through what I am. I’m sure I would feel helpless and worried and desperate. I would want to help, and it would kill me that I couldn’t. I would want my friend to be happy, to have something good happen after something so horrible. I know that’s what my friends want, and I do too.
Today marks four months without Max. In some ways it seems like he died years ago, but in other ways it feels like he died yesterday. In most ways, I still can’t believe that he died at all. Nicole brought me four Gerber daisies today, one for each month that Max has been gone. I love Gerber daisies. I don’t think Nicole realized this, but while I was in the hospital having Max, Scott’s mom planted two pots of bright, colorful Gerber daisies for me. For the past few years, I’ve picked out flowers for my pots on Mother’s Day. I spend the day potting them and arranging them until they’re just right. I don’t always remember to take care of them after I plant them, but at least for that day they are treated with great care and love. Since I was busy having Max over Mother’s Day weekend, I didn’t pick out my flowers. Betty knew that I loved Gerber daisies, though, so she picked them out and planted them for me. It was a surprise for me. The flowers sat on our front porch when we returned home from the hospital over Mother’s Day weekend with the perfect little boy that we imagined would complete our family. The daisies were beautiful. How can I help but think of Max every time I see a Gerber daisy now? This is probably horrible to say, but I couldn’t wait for those flowers to die this year. I stopped watering them in hopes that they would die and stay that way. Why should they get to live longer than Max?
I had a dream about Max last night. Maybe I had it because today is the four-month “anniversary” of his death, maybe I had it because I looked at some of his pictures before I went to sleep, or maybe I had it because I just needed to. It was a little strange, but isn’t all of this strange? In my dream, Max was dead. I held him through the entire dream though. For some reason, we were allowed to keep Max. This is a common practice when babies are stillborn. Parents keep their babies for two or three days in their hospital room. Newborn portraits are taken, relatives are brought in to “meet” the baby, and parents are given valuable, but fleeting “bonding” time. I know it sounds morbid, but it’s beautiful. In a way, I feel jealous that I didn’t get to keep holding Max. The last time I held him was when I ran with him down the stairs and handed him to a firefighter. I would give just about anything to have been able to hold him before they took him away that day. I suppose I could have, but I didn’t know that. I was so unprepared for my son to die. I was so unprepared for what he would look like and feel like, and I was so shocked by both. Of course, now I could just scream at myself for not being able to get over those feelings for just a second to hold him or to even consider the possibility of picking him up. Asking and being told no would be better than never having asked at all.
Anyway, in my dream, I held Max. He was dead, but I held onto him tightly. I can still feel myself holding him. I walked around and talked to him. I caressed his face, I combed my fingers through his hair, and I gave him every ounce of love I had in me. In my dream, people kept telling me that it was gross that I still had Max. It didn’t anger me when they said that; I knew they just didn’t know any better. Death is “gross” to people before they realize that it’s so much more than that and before they know what it really is to love someone else more than you love yourself. Eventually, people started to gently suggest that it might be time for me to “take him back.” I’m not sure where I was supposed to take him, but in my dream I knew. Each time they phrased their suggestion so that I might come to think of it as my own: “Don’t you think it’s time?” I would grip Max a little tighter and smile while brushing them off. I couldn’t fathom the thought of letting him go. Eventually, I started to realize that it was, in fact, time to “take him back.” I caressed his face and kissed him several times. I told him how much I loved him and how sorry I was. I hugged him and took in all of his beauty. And then, I “took him back.”
I woke up feeling okay. I remembered my dream in chunks while I got ready for work. I actually felt a little relieved that I finally had another dream about Max. I didn’t tell anyone about my dream until I told Nicole after school. Now, as I write about it, I sob. That’s one of the most peculiar and frustrating things about this whole “grief” thing—I never know how I’m going to react to anything, even if it’s happened before. Case in point: I am able to articulate my dream to Nicole without feeling a rush of tear-worthy emotions, but then an hour later I sob when thinking about it. This is the first time I’ve cried in a few days, though, and I feel okay about that. I’m glad that I’ve been able to enjoy bits of my life, but I’m also relieved that I’m not done actively grieving Max just yet. I supposed I’ll never be done, and I’m okay with that too. If I grieve Max as hard as I love him, after all, then I’ll be doing it for the rest of my life.
September 26, 2011--Another Earth
This is going to be a hard one to explain, but that doesn't mean I'm not going to try! I am lucky enough to teach a creative writing class that is full of smart, talented, eager young writers. One of those writers told me about this new movie called Another Earth. It sounds fascinating, and I know that I would have loved it before Max died. I know that I'll hate myself if I go see it now, though. I used to love sad movies and books, but they feel too heavy for me now. Scott used to ask me why I wanted to make myself feel sad by reading these books and seeing these movies, and I never really could explain it. It's not that I wanted to feel sad; it's that the experience of reading an incredible book that happened to be sad was worth it. Sometimes it made me realize just how lucky I was, how full my life was, or how much I really loved being alive. I remember reading The Road and literally feeling my perspective on parenthood change with every word that I devoured. I really never was the same mother after that. I remember reading The Year of Magical Thinking and realizing how truly rare it is to have the kind of love that Scott and I do and becoming paralyzingly terrified of losing Scott or Ethan. I remember watching In the Bedroom and realizing how quickly things can change and how empty life can be when a daily fixture is removed from it. If you've ever seen this movie, then you realize how eerie it is that this has been one of my favorite movies for years. It's about parents who lose their son. I guess sometimes feeling sad is just a means to an end, and the means are definitely justified when the end is something so meaningful.
Okay, back to the movie...I will do my best to summarize the plot of this movie that I will never, ever see for many reasons. A girl is accepted to MIT. She goes out to celebrate with friends and has some drinks. On her drive home, she becomes distracted by a big blue sphere in the sky. At the same time, the radio announcer is relaying breaking news that scientists have discovered another planet, Earth 2. Earth 2 is an exact duplicate of ours, including all of the people on it. While distracted and probably drunk, the girl hits a car carrying a family. The mother and two children are killed, but the dad survives. The girl is sent to prison for four years. In the meantime, scientists make lots of discoveries about this other Earth. There are questions about whether individual lives are actually paralleled on Earth 2 or if they have gone in different directions as a result of making different decisions. The girl is released from prison and wants to somehow repent to the dad whose family she killed. She chickens out when she meets him, but they end up forming a friendship that turns into a romantic relationship. He unknowingly starts to become happy again with the woman who is responsible for all of his misery. She enters a contest in which the winner gets a trip to Earth 2. She obviously wants to win because she believes that her life is different on Earth 2. She believes that on this other earth, she didn't kill a mother and her two children and ruin a man's life. You'll have to watch the movie to find out the rest. Here is a link to the trailer, which is guaranteed to send chills up your spine.
It’s been a long time since I’ve written. Way too long, honestly. Writing really does help me, and I’m in need of some help lately. The last few weeks have been beyond difficult. In the last few weeks, I’ve had some of my worst days since the first few days after Max died. There have been days when I felt like the only thing I could do was cry, and so I did just that for most of the day. I’ve cried at work, in my car, at lunch, at the dentist’s office, at Wal Mart, and of course at home. I’ve held back tears a million times at a million places using a million different strategies. Holding them back doesn’t mean that they don’t come later, though. Trust me on that. I know that some people think that these “bad days” are happening because I’m coming out of the fog that you seem to live in after someone you love dies. I won’t argue against the fact that my life has been a bit hazy since Max died, but I will argue with you if you say that I’m just coming to “accept” Max’s death. I hate that word. It means a million different things. In some ways, I accepted Max’s death the moment I picked him up and realized that he was dead. I accepted his death because it was true, and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t make it untrue. I accepted it because he was stiff and still and way too quiet and cold to be alive. I accepted it because there were people at my house telling me that my son was dead. I accepted it because they covered Max’s little body with a blanket, put it in a horrifyingly tiny body bag, and took him to the morgue. I accepted it because the medical examiner called me after he cut Max’s body open and tried to find a reason for his death. What in the world did I do that day if I didn’t accept that he was gone? What in the world have I been doing for the last 137 days if I haven’t been accepting that Max is dead and our lives are forever changed because of that?
I know that people probably don’t mean that I need to accept the reality that Max is dead. They must know that I know he’s dead. I can’t help but picture them thinking that I have been living in some make-believe world where I go home from work every day and carry a doll around, pretending like it’s Max though. I imagine that they think I change this doll’s diaper, feed it, and talk to it while Ethan and Scott help keep up the gig to spare my feelings. Obviously, I don’t do this. I know that people mean that I need to accept that Max is gone in a way that brings me peace and comfort and makes me feel okay about that fact that I’ll never see him again. I think that’s an awful lot to ask of me. I have every right to be angry and sad and horribly heartbroken. I know that I won’t feel like that every single day of my life; I don’t feel that way every day even now. But I do know that I’ll always go through phases when I feel like that. That’s as close to acceptance as I’m ever going to get. This is one time when I would be happy to be wrong, though.
Sometimes I fear that people substitute acceptance for the idea of “getting over it” though. If you are reading this, you are probably smart enough to know that I’ll never get over Max’s death. I will admit, though, that I thought that it was entirely possible to get over a loved one’s death before Max died. I see now that “getting over it” is some phrase that people use to make themselves feel better about another person’s loss. Before, I just assumed that people got over their husband’s, child’s, parent’s, friend’s death with time. I see now that I was completely wrong. My grandma hasn’t “gotten over” my grandpa dying; she misses him every day, and her heart still aches at the thought of living without him. My mom hasn’t “gotten over” her dad dying; she wishes she could call him every year on his birthday, and she still feels that painful stab in heart when she thinks about the moment she found out that he was dead. I have a co-worker whose husband died suddenly years ago. I didn’t know her when it happened, but I just assumed that she had “gotten over it.” I feel like a jerk for assuming that. No one ever gets over it. We just go on because we have to. We mention our dead loved ones less and less because people get more and more freaked out at the sound of their names years later or maybe because we are surrounded by people who might know of our loved ones, but they don’t really know. People mention our dead loved ones less and less because they don’t want to bring it up. They don’t want to make us feel bad if we’re having a good day or if we’ve “gotten over it.” They don’t realize that having a “good day” means something entirely different after your son dies and that I’ll never, ever “get over it.” If you say his name, you’re only saying what’s been said in my head a thousand times already that day.
Weird transition coming, but just stay with me. I promise it will all come together. Ethan has been seeing a counselor since Max died, and he is doing really well. He feels a lot more comfortable asking questions about Max, sharing his feelings and memories with us, and supporting us when we’re feeling sad. Ethan’s counselor helped him make memory boxes a few weeks ago. One was for Max; one was for Bonnie. Ethan painted the boxes and decorated them, and then he recorded memories, thoughts, etc. about Bonnie and Max on sheets of paper that were placed inside the boxes. When he brought them home, I didn’t look inside them at first. I don’t know why; I just didn’t. A couple of days later, I did. The last sheet of paper that I pulled from Max’s memory box said, “I miss all of him.” Children have a way of saying things perfectly in as few words as possible. It was such a simple way to say what Max means to him, but it was absolutely perfect. I can’t believe I never thought of that. I miss all of him. It’s exactly how I feel. I miss his hair, his eyelashes, his nose, his toes, his smile, his laugh, his cry, his skin, his fingernails…all of him. Those words that came from Max’s big brother’s mouth made me so sad for him, but proud of him also. He is six years old, and he understands what has been taken from him. He is six years old, and he loved his little brother. I hope he gets a chance to be a big brother again.
Honestly, I don’t think that my recent “bad days” have much to do with me accepting Max’s death or coming out of any fog. I think they have everything to do with me grieving the loss of one of the most important, precious people in my life. I think they have everything to do with me needing to take some time to really feel the impact of my loss, pay tribute to my son, and mourn the loss of his future. I think they have everything to do with me remembering exactly what his little body felt like that morning and comparing it to what his body felt like every day of his life before that. They have everything to do with me feeling pissed off, traumatized, and short-changed. And knowing that I am completely justified in feeling those ways. I think I’ll always have periods of time when I feel like this. Sometimes I’ll know when they’re coming; most of the time I won’t. I’ll never accept Max’s death or get over it or move on or do anything else that some people seem to think that people can be heartless enough to do after losing a loved one, but I will realize the impact of Max’s death and the importance of his life for the rest of mine. It won’t feel good, it will be hard, and I will hate every second of it. But I know that I’ll get through it.
September 12, 2011--The "Anniversary"I haven’t been getting a whole lot of sound sleep lately. I have no problem falling asleep; it’s the staying asleep part that gives me trouble. I wake up several times a night. Most of the time I fall right back asleep, but sometimes it takes a while. Most of the time I’m not thinking of anything in particular and can’t really pinpoint specifically what woke me up. In general, I probably don’t need to spell out what is waking me up. It’s Max. My thoughts of him, my dreams of him, my absolute obsession with him. Sometimes I wonder when every single thought in my head will center on things besides just Max. Then I think, a little panicky, what if it never stops? And then I feel like a jerk for wanting to think about other things besides Max. But I think I deserve that. The truth is, not every thought I have of Max is wonderful and precious and comforting. A lot of them are bad, actually, because they mostly involve the one thing that can’t be avoided: the fact that he is dead. I see a mom in the grocery store pushing her little baby around while her older child walks beside them, and all I see is me not getting to do that. I see Ethan gaze at my friend’s newborn baby, and all I see is him not getting to do that with Max anymore. It doesn’t matter what I see, really, because I don’t see what’s really there; I see what’s been taken from me and from Max. I teach my students a new word, and all I think of is that Max will never get to learn that word. I put a sticker on Ethan’s sticker chart, and I think that Max will never, ever get a sticker. He’ll never taste the lollipop that Ethan got from the nice cashier at Trader Joe’s tonight, he’ll never get a birthday card with his favorite animal on it, he’ll never make us proud by sleeping in his own bed and pottying in the big boy toilet. I know it sounds selfish of me, and I’ll be the first to admit that. It is selfish, but grief is selfish. You don’t have time to worry about other people when you’re falling apart yourself.
On Friday night, I had another sleepless night. We were in Tulsa at Scott’s parents’ house to celebrate Scott’s birthday and his mom’s. I was exhausted in the way that all teachers are on Friday nights. It had been a hard week too in the way that some weeks are worse than others when you’ve just lost your son. Anyway, I went to bed about 10:30 and fell asleep quickly. And then I started waking up. Every 30 minutes, almost on the dot. I think some of my restlessness had to do with Saturday being the 10th, three months past the day that Max died. Some time around 1:00, I started to imagine the things that I would have been doing exactly three months prior. At 1:00 am, I would have been almost home from the KC Sporting game that I wish I had never gone to. At 1:30 am, I would have been getting into bed and kissing Max one last time. I remember looking at him before I fell asleep that night. I remember smiling at how beautiful and perfect he was. I remember feeling so lucky. At 2:30 am, I would have been sleeping soundly. At 3:00 am, Max could have already been dead, but I didn’t know it yet. At 6:00 am, I did, but I wasn’t letting myself believe it. I was giving him CPR. I was trying to stay calm, but I eventually started screaming. I knew what was going on, but I didn’t know. At 6:00 am, I was blowing air into Max’s mouth and willing it to do something. I was begging it to work. It came right back out, and I knew, but I kept breathing anyway. I couldn’t give up. At 6:00 am, I was using my fingers to do chest compressions on my little 12-pound baby boy’s chest and trying not to hurt him. I didn’t want to crack a rib; that wouldn’t be fun to recover from! Of course, I knew that there would be no recovering from anything, but I didn’t really know. I just kept on. My hands and my breath and my mommyness would save him! I made him; surely I could save him! I think this is what they call “magical thinking,” and I’m here to tell you that it doesn’t work, no matter how much work and heart you put into it.
I woke up at 6:22 in the guest room at Jim and Betty’s. I looked down at Ethan, asleep in his little pod on the floor next to the bed. It was exactly where Max’s pack and play would have gone, exactly where he should have been sleeping. I thought about what I would have been doing three months ago, and I felt like I knew exactly what I was doing. There’s no way to know for sure, but I feel confident of it. I was sitting on the stairs in my house. Two or three police officers stood at the foot of the stairs, leaning against the wall, probably feeling incredibly awkward. I sat staring at Max’s body on our living room floor. A baby blanket covered him. I had gotten the blanket out just the day before to play with him on the floor. That is the definition of irony: a baby blanket meant for play covering a dead baby’s body. How cruel. I sat on the stairs shaking my head. My signature move when I’m crying is to fan my face as if the act itself will somehow erase what is making me cry in the first place. I didn’t fan my face that day. I let the tears come, and I shook my head. I’m not going to say that it felt like a bad dream or that it just couldn’t have been true. I knew it wasn’t a dream, and I knew it was true. But I willed it to not be true. I willed it to just go away. Just like I willed my hands and breaths to save Max, I willed the world to take back what it had done to me. Unfortunately, this was just as effective as making someone take back something hurtful they’ve said. You can’t take it back. It’s always there. So, maybe I shouldn’t feel so bad about wanting to be able to think of things besides Max. I don’t know if it will ever happen, but I’ll deal with it either way. I owe that much to Max.
I don’t remember going back to sleep after 6:22 on Saturday. I had a horrible day as far as days go, but I was surrounded by good people who care about me. Seeing babies was harder for me that day. Honestly, seeing people was just plain hard for me. The three-month “anniversary” of Max’s death hit me harder than any others so far. Maybe because we’re all going back to “normal.” Actually, we aren’t, the rest of the world is. I do know that I’ve accomplished some things that I didn’t think were possible in the past three months. I’ve gone an entire day without crying. I’ve had fun with friends. I’ve done a pretty good job at work. I’ve held a couple of babies. I’ve come to terms with the fact that I might not have another boy. I’ve thought of Max and smiled. I’ve loved Ethan and Scott and my family and my friends with all of my heart, even though I thought it might never work again. I’ve done a lot of things that seem small, but they are the things that really matter when you look at the big picture.
September 5, 2011--Strange Happenings at Great Wolf Lodge
The day after Max’s funeral, I had my six-week postpartum check-up. I decided not to reschedule it; I just wanted to get it over with. It was hard to walk into the office where I had gone monthly, then weekly when I was pregnant with Max. I had taken Max there a few times after he was born too. I took him just a few days before he died just to have him weighed. I felt like he was growing so fast, and he was. The ladies in the office had gotten to know me well over the last year or so, and they oohed and aahed over every part of Max. Of course, they loved his hair. Everyone did. They commented on how beautiful he was. Everyone did. They made me feel like he was the most perfect baby they had ever laid eyes on, and maybe he was. I spoke with many of these women and my doctor on the day that Max died. They were so concerned and wanted to do anything to help. I loved my doctor and his staff before, but I really love them now. Donna gets all the credit for referring me to this practice. Thanks, girl! Anyway, when I went for my postpartum check-up, the mood was obviously different. The smiles and oohs and aahs were replaced with tears and hugs and comforting words. I started to sit in the waiting room, and I knew I couldn’t hold it together. Some of the receptionists came out and got me and took me back immediately. I was already bawling. My mom was with me. I’m glad that she got to witness the kindness of everyone at my doctor’s office. It just would be too good to believe unless you saw it firsthand.
After my appointment, we went to Costco. The reason for our trip there escapes me now, but I remember exactly how I felt. I felt like I was floating, and I know that I had a dazed look in my eyes and an eerie (probably creepy) smile on my face. Who smiles when they go to Costco? Seriously. My mom said something to me as we walked in that I will never forget. It struck me as the complete truth. Nothing I’ve ever heard sounded as true as what she said. “There are probably at least three people in this store right now who have lost children.” Of course! Why hadn’t I thought of that? One of the reasons why I had such anxiety in public places was because I hated the thought that no one knew that my son had just died. No one knew how hard it was for me to make myself go to the store. I was completely alone in my misery. I worried that someone would be rude to me, and I would just crumble. I would cry and scream and cause a big scene. I would demand kindness and a proper apology from them. “You don’t know what I’ve been through!” I would scream. But that didn’t happen. People weren’t rude to me. Even at Costco. Raise your hand if you have ever been to Costco without wanting to punch a fellow shopper in the face. If you raised your hand, I would like to shop at your Costco. And I think you’re lying. Anyway, something about those words made me feel lighter. I felt a sense of relief in knowing that there were people all around me who were sad too. Sad about real things, like death and loss, not silly things like a bad hair day or a date gone wrong. I never expected to feel that way after my appointment. I expected to go home, crawl into bed, and emerge the next day. But I didn’t. I really surprise myself sometimes.
What my mom taught me that day was something that I badly needed to learn and that other people should probably keep in mind too. You never know what other people have gone through. You don’t know their sad stories that might be hidden behind their public smiles. The woman who cut you off and snarled at you could be picking out flowers to put on her husband’s grave. The man who sneaks in front of you in line could be on the verge of a panic attack after seeing a baby who looks like his dead daughter. You just never know. I’ve been keeping that in mind lately. People probably look at me, Scott, and Ethan and think that we have a good life. They see us smile and think, “What a cute little happy family.” They have no idea what is missing in our lives. I had an experience this weekend that really reminded me to never assume that people are happier or somehow better off than me.
We took Ethan and our good friend Ellen and her son to Great Wolf Lodge for a little staycation. Ellen has done so much for us. She has been a constant presence at our house whether we’re having a good day or a really bad one. She cleaned up after the murderous, Satanic dog killed Bonnie. She too said sociopath serial killer dog to an emergency vet and then drove him to Lee’s Summit. She got home at 5:30 in the morning. She bought me a 90-minute massage at Great Wolf. She is incredible. So, as some small token of our appreciation, we took her and Cooper to Great Wolf Lodge. As I stood in line waiting to check in, I was surrounded by babies. Seriously. They were everywhere. None of them looked like Max, but I was jealous of all of their mothers. The woman in line behind me chatted with her family members who sat on a nearby couch. I gathered that she was the grandmother of the baby being held by a seemingly happy mom. The baby was around the same age as Max would be, but she was a girl. I stared at that baby with envy. I felt sorry for myself that she had her baby and I didn’t. I felt sorry for Max’s grandparents that they weren’t standing in line chatting with me while I held Max and played with him. I was jealous of their happiness and innocence. I want that! I noticed Scott talking with some of the family members, and I just assumed that they were making small talk. Pretty soon though, Scott came over and talked to the woman behind me in line. It was clear that they knew each other. She mentioned that her granddaughter was four months old. Max would have been four months old the next day. I kept waiting for her to ask how many children we had, but she never did. For some reason I wanted her to know about Max. Maybe it would make my rude staring a little bit understandable. She asked about Scott’s parents, his brother, and our family, but she didn’t ask about our children. We parted ways when it was my turn to check in. I never said a word to this woman.
As we walked toward our room, Scott filled me in. The woman in line behind me was the mother of one of Scott’s high school classmates. I had met him at the ten-year reunion a few summers ago. I met his wife too, the one who I had been so jealous of holding the baby on the couch. This classmate died not too long ago. It was very sudden and very unexpected. His wife was pregnant at the time. She was pregnant with the little girl that she sat holding on the couch. How naïve of me to be so jealous of them. I just assumed that they were one big happy family coming to spend a nice weekend together. How wrong I was! I had been staring with envy at this woman who had lost her husband months before. I had been so jealous of her as she sat playing with her daughter, who no doubt is a daily reminder of just what she has lost. I envied this grandmother who never got to tell her son how proud she was of him and how beautiful his baby girl was. I was so jealous of this tiny baby who will never, ever meet her father. And I was jealous of the baby’s father, who I assumed was gathering his family’s bags from the car. I couldn’t have felt like more of a jerk. To think, of all the people in the lobby that day (and there were A LOT), I stood in line in front of the one woman who has experienced the same loss as me. How weird that I focused all of my jealousy on the one mother in the entire lobby who has a hole in heart just like mine. I wanted to find them later and tell them how sorry I was for their loss. I wanted to rush back into the lobby and tell the woman behind me in line that I know how she feels. I didn’t. I never saw them again, but I’ve thought of them since then. It’s funny how right our moms are about everything.
August 29, 2011--Woman in War-Torn Country Begging for Potatoes, Kidnapping a Child, and Sitting in a Sacred Chair
I. am. having. a. bad. day. Nothing really happened to make it bad other than that Max died 73 days ago, which I just realized is his number of days on earth inverted. Hmmmm. I’ve thought about him for all 73 days since then, and I’ll think about him for many, many more, I’m sure. Today, I felt impatient, dull, and really, really, really angry. I’ve been thinking about the idea of karma. I wonder if a true believer in karma could explain to me what the hell I did. What in the world could I possibly have done to make this come back around to me? Sure, I’ve done bad things. I haven’t always been the person that I wanted to be. I haven’t always been proud of myself. But still. I would say I have been a pretty good person. Not as good as some, but not nearly as bad others. Am I having a pity party for myself? Hell yeah I am. I do feel sorry for myself. The truth is, I think I should feel sorry for myself. I would be sorry for anyone in my situation, and I am so sorry for other parents who have lost children. I’m just having one of those days when my pity party is a much bigger event than normal. If it were a real party, it would be the biggest, most extravagant party you’ve ever been to. You would realize that you didn’t even know what a party really was before attending my pity party. I want to scream and cuss and run and kick and cry and throw glass vases against sidewalks. Don’t worry, I’m only really going to do maybe one or two of them. I don’t feel like Max’s death was a punishment for some real or imagined wrong on my part or anyone else’s. I don’t think I deserved it or caused it somehow. It’s not any of those things. Plain and simple, it’s that I’m just pissed that it happened. I’m so angry.
I had a dream last night. Please don’t judge me for it. I don’t judge you for your weird dreams, and I know you have them. I dreamt that I kidnapped a baby. I feel that it is important to state that I would never, ever, no matter the circumstances, even if they included absolutely zero chance that I would ever get caught, kidnap another person’s child. That would essentially be causing someone else the same pain that I’m in, and I wish this on no one. No matter what you’ve ever done to me or said about me or thought about me, I would never wish this one you. But in my dream, I was apparently a different person. I didn’t feel bad for kidnapping this baby. I felt like I was owed that baby. I am an English teacher, so of course I overanalyzed the crap out of this dream. In reality though, I do feel like I’m owed a baby. I’ve been robbed of all the things that Max was supposed to do, and he has been robbed of those things too. Ethan’s been robbed, and Scott’s been robbed. So we’re owed, and I would like to collect. For the record, I will go about collecting the good old-fashioned way. I promise I will not kidnap a baby.
I just decided that this is going to be a ramble. I’m entitled to it. I’m feeling very entitled tonight. I don’t go into Max’s room very often. That’s something that I want to work on, but I am giving myself time. I spent some time in there a few weekends ago with Lori. We listened to this stupid song that I can’t seem to escape. I don’t know what it’s called or who sings it, but I know the first line is, “If I die young…” I don’t even care what comes after that. That line is all that matters. We sat around on the floor because Max’s chair is a sacred thing. I was shocked to open the drawer to his changing table and find all of his clothes still there. I had no idea. I don’t know where most of his stuff is, but I know it’s here somewhere. My sister packed it all up the day that he died. I love her for that. And I really love her for leaving his clothes in the drawer, whether she did it on purpose or as a sheer oversight. I can’t describe that moment. It was awful and wonderful. It was so incredibly painful and so incredibly touching. I loved it and hated it. I remember buying every single item that was in that drawer. Max was even with me when I bought some of them. He sat in his car seat in the cart, and I talked to him the whole time. He slept, but I didn’t care. I imagined that me talking to him helped him stay calm and sleep well. Other shoppers checked out the contents of my cart, including Max. Some complimented him, some smiled, and some just stared. It’s sad for me to think that other people can’t see him like that now. What a difference a day makes.
Like I said, Max’s chair is kind of sacred. I usually head straight to it when I venture into his room. It’s brown and soft and perfect. Aaron took a video of me holding Max while sitting in it. It was taken the day we brought him home from the hospital. Aaron titled it, “Woman in War-Torn Country Begging for Potatoes.” It’s a happy video. I am beaming and playing the part of…you guessed it, a woman in a war-torn country begging for potatoes. I don’t know why. Aaron and I make quite an odd team. Max sleeps silently and peacefully in my arms, a little too silently and peacefully for me now. It sits at the very top of my email inbox. It’s the first thing I see when I open my email at work. Every time I watch it, I am engrossed by Max. I don’t even look at myself. I stare at Max, willing him to move or make a sound. He doesn’t. He just sleeps. We have other videos, but for some reason that one really gets me.
The chair is also sacred for me because it holds some of the tenderest memories that Scott has of Max. Scott loved that chair. He would rock Max in it, sometimes for hours after Max was already asleep, just to spend more time holding him. That’s the kind of father Scott is. It’s a beautiful thing to see. I remember standing in the doorway on many occasions and just taking in that image. I’m glad I did that now. Scott would always smile at me, even if Max was crying or fussy. He truly understood what a miracle he was holding. I know that Scott goes into Max’s room more than I do. I’ve put one of Max’s blankets in a Ziploc baggie to preserve the smell, and there are other things that hold his scent in that room as well. His car seat, the sleeper that he wore when he took his last breath, and his Boppies. I wish they made Ziploc baggies big enough to hold those things too. One day, I went into Max’s room and made my way toward his chair. A handful of coins were scattered on the cushion. That image stopped me in my tracks. It was heartbreaking and heartwarming to see that Scott had left a little reminder of his most recent visit. The coins must have fallen from his pocket. It reminded me of Hansel and Gretel, except that this time it was a devastated daddy leaving a trail for his dead baby. I didn’t even bother moving them. I sat down and let the coins tumble where they may.
I spent some time in Max’s room after my friend’s baby’s funeral on Saturday. The service was absolutely beautiful. We were surrounded by love and compassion. One of my students was there. Strange. He is my friend’s cousin. I struck up a conversation with his mom, and she eventually got around to asking how I knew my friend, the mother of the dead baby girl. I told her about Max and about the little support group that us mothers have formed. I was shocked to learn that her sister’s daughter had given a baby up for adoption to a couple who lost a son to SIDS also. Even weirder, she was AT the funeral. We talked for a long time. I can’t believe how small the world truly is sometimes. Anyway, when I returned home I headed straight for Max’s room. Scott joined me. We’ve rarely been in there together. We hugged in Max’s room, like we did many days and nights while he was still alive. This time, we weren’t hugging because we felt so lucky or blessed, but the overflowing love for our precious baby boy was still there, stronger than ever.
August 26, 2011
My friend Eva said to me the other day, “People just want to share their sad stories with you.” She was referring to one of the things that happens after you lose a child. Eva had a stillborn son, Lincoln, last year. This came after years of fertility treatments. Lincoln was their miracle baby, so his death seems like an even worse robbery than mine. They never got to see Lincoln alive, never felt his heart beating through his chest, saw his eyes blink and recognize their faces, or felt the warmth of his breath against their skin. It’s true, what she said. People do want to share their sad stories with you. I understand it. It’s their way of trying to relate. A sort of attempt at saying, “I know a little of what you’re going through.” I appreciate it, and most of the time I don’t mind. Eva doesn’t either. She followed her comment with a smile and said softly, “But it’s okay. I kind of like it.” Hearing other people’s sad stories is what she meant by “it.” I’ll never forget the image of her saying that to me. It was like an epiphany in a way. It hadn’t occurred to me that I had become a collector of sad stories about other tragic, untimely losses. I had already added to others’ collections too. Of course my friends and family knew about Max, but I had also shared his story with several strangers. They have since become my friends, but at the time I was just another mom sharing her sadness with them. “They” are other moms who have lost babies. They’ve lost them to SIDS, stillbirth, cord incidents, Potter’s Syndrome, Trisomy 18, and every other horrible condition, disease, or incident you can think of that should never ever happen. I know that we are lucky to have each other, but our relationships are also a reminder of all the horrible things that happened to us and the heavy sadness that we all carry around.
Just since the school year started, I’ve discovered two students whose families experienced the same loss as we did this summer. One lost her baby sister, and one lost her niece. Both were born very premature and died shortly after birth. I’ll never understand how these students came into my life now of all school years. For a week or so after Max’s death, I really felt like we were the only people who had lost a baby. I mean, I knew that we weren’t, of course. But I felt like it. I thought for sure that other people who had lost babies lived far, far away in exotic places. They led completely different lives than we did. We would never meet them. We’d never know their baby’s names or share Max’s story with them. I might read about them in a book or online, but I never thought they would end up in my classroom, in my home, or as fixtures in my everyday life. It astonishes me that all of these things happened. I thought we would travel this road alone. How stupid of me to think those things! These women are some of my best friends now. We email, text, and talk almost daily. We know exactly what to say when one of us has a bad day. We know exactly what it’s like to be on the verge of tears twenty-four hours a day. We know our sad stories, and just like Eva said, we kind of like knowing them. It reminds us that we aren’t alone. There is someone else out there who is also living a “should-be” life and missing the hell out of their baby.
Shortly after school started, I learned about a friend of a friend whose wife gave birth to a stillborn girl. Out of respect for their privacy, I won’t reveal our connection, but it in itself amazes me. Not in a good way. My friend asked if I felt like I was in a place where I could offer support to this couple. Of course I do, and I would never ever want someone else to go through the loss of a child without others who know what it’s like. I sent him an email, and I was surprised to hear back from him only a few hours later. He and his wife were both adamant about surrounding themselves with people who had experienced the same loss. I don’t know how people can make such sound decisions in such times of chaos and incredible pain. I tried to remember what it was like in the first few days after Max died. I wanted to be able to say or do something to help this couple out. When I think back on it though, it’s really a blur. I remember shaking my head a lot, crying nonstop, and wishing I could just go to sleep and wake up living a different life. No one could have said anything to “make it better.” So, I did the only thing I could think of. I emailed him a list of things to keep in mind and consider doing to create memories for a child that will never have any herself. Most of these things I only learned about long after Max’s death, so I don’t have them myself. I only learned them from other moms who had been forward thinking enough to consider the future. I admire that about them. I haven’t heard back from this couple, but I continue to think of them daily. I hope that I will hear from them because I have quite a few people who want to meet them and hear all about their little girl.
I also have a friend who lost a baby on Monday. Her loss was what is called “expected,” a term which really only tricks you into thinking that you can prepare for it. She found out late in her pregnancy that her daughter had Potter’s Syndrome. She told me to spare myself and not Google it. I followed her advice, and I hope that you all will too. From what I understand, Potter’s babies can suffer from a variety of developmental problems in utero, but it is 100% fatal. They either die in the womb, during childbirth, or shortly after. My friend originally wanted to spare her daughter the trauma of childbirth, and preferred that she pass before it. As her body began preparing for childbirth though, she changed her mind. She and her husband wanted to meet their baby. They wanted to hold her and look into her eyes before she was taken from them. I was so glad to hear that. I only have my experience to go on, but I feel so thankful for the moments that I had with Max. I wouldn’t have it any other way. My friend was scheduled for an induction on Monday, which we all knew would also be the day that her baby died. I thought about my friend and her family all week. I hoped and prayed that they actually got to meet their precious baby. I got the most beautiful email from her today. Their baby lived for 2 hours, far longer than what is expected for a baby born with Potter’s. She said that she has to believe that all of the thoughts and prayers of friends, family, and strangers made that extra time possible. Even though her story is incredibly sad (two hours should never equal a lifetime), there is happiness, love, and hope in it as well. You might ask, “Where?!?!” I ask myself that too, but when it comes down to it, they got to experience the most unique and unforgettable parts of being a parent: looking at what you helped create, seeing the life that you are completely responsible for bringing into the world, and feeling the overwhelming and explosive love that we have for our children. My friend’s heart grew that extra chamber that I call the “Max Chamber,” and she filled it with as much as it would hold. I am so happy that she and her family got to meet their baby, but I am also sad for them that they only got a short meeting. It is so strange to have experiences that are full of complete sadness and happiness at the same time. It seems unnatural and impossible. I’ll be going to a memorial service for my friend’s daughter on Saturday. It will be the first of its kind since Max’s, but it probably won’t be the last. I guess that just comes with the territory now that I’m a collector of sad stories.
August 24, 2011--The "Should-Be" Life
School has been going well. My students were very understanding, and they did a pretty good job of passing information on to other students who may not have known about Max. I was greeted by a smiling student on my way into my classroom on the first day of school though. She asked the dreaded question in passing, “How’s the baby?!?!?” I was already nervous to tell my students—it was obvious physically because I was trembling by the time I made it into my classroom—so I just gave her a look that I hope said, “Let’s not talk about it now.” It probably said something much different, but I just couldn’t stand to add another explanation on to the 5 that I already had to do. I handled myself pretty well, in my opinion, throughout the day though. I cried the first time I told a class, and I cried the last time I told a class. In between, I was composed and serious. At least, that’s how I envision myself when I remember that day. My friend Debi found me in the morning and gave me 7 pieces of chocolate—one for each class period. Nicole had already taken a co-worker’s advice and printed out a schedule of friends willing to come and take over a class if I felt the need or couldn’t handle it. I got several hugs, lots of encouraging words, and hand-delivered flowers from my husband. I was exhausted by the time the day was over, but I was also relieved. I handled myself better than I thought I would. It was hard work, but it was necessary. I have felt pretty great since being back at work too. I am still sprinkling some humor in with my lessons, and I’m making an effort to get to know all of my students. I know that many of them probably have dealt with their own tragic losses, so telling them about Max can only be a step in the right direction. High schoolers constantly amaze me with their ability to empathize and be compassionate. That’s not to say that they don’t also amaze with their immaturity sometimes, but they’re still kids after all. It’s allowed and expected. I am just lucky to teach in a school that is full of good kids who have big hearts and open minds.
There are some things that I have thought every single day since Max died. I really believe that I will think these things daily until I die too. A few of them are completely expected, like that I love Max so much, I miss him like crazy, and how I notice his absence sometimes when I least expect it. One thing that I think is kind of giving me trouble lately though. I guess I thought it would go away by now. It happens when I see or hear ordinary gestures, people, or sounds. What I think is, “That should be me…” (insert action). The first time I remember thinking this was at WalMart on Father’s Day. Father’s Day fell on the weekend after Max’s death. It was absolutely horrible. I at least got a Mother’s Day with Max. We brought him home from the hospital on the weekend of Mother’s Day. It was the greatest gift that I could have received. I was so happy. I was surrounded by friends and family, and I kept thinking to myself, “This is the happiest I’ve ever been.” Scott didn’t get Father’s Day with Max. I had no idea what to do for him for Father’s Day. I thought the least I could do was buy him a card. I went to WalMart to complete this seemingly normal, easy task. It was anything but normal and easy. It turns out, they don’t make Father’s Day cards for dads who have lost a newborn baby only a week before. They don’t make anything close to it. At this time, I was still having pretty bad anxiety in public places, so WalMart on Father’s Day was probably a really bad idea. Still, I wanted to do it for Scott. He deserved to have something special on that day, even if it would forever be linked to the most horrible event in our lives.
As I stood in front of the cards, trying my hardest to focus on the words scrawled on them, a young mother with a stroller came to a stop beside me. Of course I looked in her stroller. Lying inside was a newborn baby, perhaps a few weeks old. She picked up card after card, obviously looking for just the right one. We had that in common at least. I was entranced by her and her baby. I kept repeating the phrase over and over in my head: “That should be me.” I thought, “That’s what I should be doing.” I should be pushing Max in his stroller with Ethan in tow, searching high and low for the perfect Father’s Day card for a new beaming, proud dad. Instead, I was by myself, wearing pajamas and holding back tears while searching for a Father’s Day card for a grieving dad. I was fighting off a panic attack because of the new mom and baby standing next to me. It was horrible. I finally picked a card that was neither perfect nor fitting. It was stupid. I don’t even know if I ever gave the card to Scott. I know that it sat on our dresser for weeks because I just couldn’t figure out what to write in it. What do you say to your husband who is heartbroken and devastated over the loss of his child? What do you say to him on a day that is reserved for the celebration of fathers and the love and devotion that they have for their children? The thought of celebrating such a day after Scott’s son had been ripped from his life just seemed ridiculous to me. It was absurd to even think of. Of course, we did celebrate for Ethan. My parents, my sister, and her boyfriend came over. We grilled steaks (I think?) and went for a drive in the country. We played in the hose with Ethan. And we mourned for our little lost boy who (I kept thinking) should have been there to make his daddy’s day brighter.
In the days, weeks, and months (has it really been that long???) since Max died, I’ve thought to myself at least once a day, “That should be me…” I think it when I see a mom holding a baby who is around three months old (Max’s age), I think it when I hear a parent talking about his/her child’s babysitter, I think it when I see an advertisement for diapers, I think it when I hear a baby crying. I think it several times a day, honestly. Sometimes when I’m getting ready for bed, I think about all of the things that I should be doing. I should be changing Max’s diaper for the last time that night, I should be singing to him and rocking him gently to sleep, I should be staring into his beautiful eyes, I should be combing my fingers through his thick black hair, I should be picking out the cutest clean sleeper to change him into, I should be feeding him one last time. The list goes on and on. I guess what it comes down to is that I feel like I should be living a different life than the one I’m living. I feel like that almost every second of every day. But I’m not. I guess I tend to think of my life as having a huge divide in it. I know I wrote about how I feel like my life is separated into two parts now, “before” and “after.” This is different though because one of the divided parts is fake. It’s imagined. It’s made up in my own mind. It will never be real. It’s as if my life split into two paths or separate lives the moment that Max died: the life that I should be living and the life that I am actually living. I don’t think I need to point out which one I would rather be living. I think I’ll always think that way. In some alternate universe (in my mind, not in reality), I’ll keep living this life that I should be living. When Max is 15, I’ll go to school and see him everywhere. I’ll think, “I should have one of those” about every polite, good-natured 15-year-old boy with dark hair and a tall frame. When my co-workers’ children start to walk and talk, I’ll think to myself, “I should be experiencing those things.”
Of course, none of that matters. I can imagine this life that I still believe should have happened, but it doesn’t make it real. Sometimes it just makes it more painful. Sometimes it just makes Max’s death seem like even more of a robbery (for me and for him). Sometimes it just reminds me of one more thing that Max won’t be able to do. One more thing that I hadn’t thought of not being able to experience with him. One more thing was taken from us without explanation or reason. Sometimes, though, these thoughts make me smile. Sometimes I get the clearest picture of Max as a toddler, saying his first words. Or of him as a 3-month-old smiling back at me while I talk to him. Even of him as a teenager, learning to drive in our neighborhood. It will always be horrifying and terrible to know that these things will never be real, but I’m thankful that I can at least imagine the life that I should be living.
August 15, 2011--Bye Bye Bonnie
I’ve been back at work for almost a week, but the real challenge comes tomorrow when my students show up. I have been thinking about this day and planning for it for weeks, but I feel wholly unprepared. I don’t have copies made, I can’t keep my new schedule straight, and I am absolutely dreading the here’s-a-little-bit-about-me part. I debated about whether to tell my students about Max, and when I decided that I needed to, then I contemplated how to tell them. Do I tell them that I have two sons, but only one that lives here with us? Do I tell them that one only lives in my heart? To be honest, I don’t know where Max is other than in my heart and always on my mind, so I can’t tell them with conviction that he is in heaven. I hate that I don’t feel 100% confident in that, but there is nothing like the death of your child to make you question every thing that you ever believed in. Ultimately, Nicole and my counselor helped me to come to what I feel is the right approach: honesty. I have really mixed feelings about telling my students still. I know that I have to and that it’s the right thing, but I hate that I have to ruin some of their days with such shocking, unnatural news. I do feel blessed in a way that I taught mostly seniors last year so that I don’t have to see the faces every day that remind me of my happy pregnancy and the joy that they shared with me throughout the whole thing. My students all felt like they knew Max, and that a little bit of him belonged to them. They took guesses on whether he was a boy or a girl, they suggested names and smiled broadly at the suggestion that maybe I was pregnant with twins. They bought Max gifts, made him cards, and threw a party for him on my last day of school. They prodded my long-term substitute for information, pictures, and updates while I was gone. They were a huge part of my pregnancy; I spent most of my awake time with them. So, it would be very hard to see them walking the halls and either giving me sad, knowing smiles or naïve, unknowing ones. In a way, it’s good that most of my students this year don’t know. I have a fresh start with most of them. In other ways, it’s bad. I worry that they won’t understand how much I loved Max and how much I miss him. I worry that they won’t be as forgiving as my old students when I have really tough days. I’m just worried about a lot of things. Nothing new, I guess.
This weekend, Ethan turned six. This weekend, our cat, Bonnie, also died. I can’t say that it was a horrible weekend because of Ethan’s birthday, but I will say that it was hard. We’ve had Bonnie for almost 8 years. She disappeared for almost an entire year when we first moved to Kansas City, and then she magically reappeared and settled right back in. Bonnie was a cat that Scott didn’t want at first, but she was also the cat that convinced Scott that cats were every bit as loving, fun, and rewarding to own as dogs. He loved that cat, and the feeling was mutual. Bonnie slept with Ethan nearly every night. On nights when she didn’t, she slept with us. She was the only cat that we gave that privilege to. Bonnie was the cat that everyone loved; she was secretly and not so secretly everyone’s favorite. I mentioned last week that we had gotten a dog. His name was Benjie, and we were starting out just fostering him. We hoped that he would become our pet, but we had a lot of things to work on with him. On Friday night/Saturday morning, I walked into our bedroom to find Benjie mauling Bonnie. I’ll spare everyone the details, but I will say that it was horrific, violent, and unforgettable in all the wrong ways. Bonnie must have been hiding somewhere in our room because we never let Benjie loose in a room unless it was cat-free. Scott was in the shower the whole time. I’m sure that will haunt him for a long time. We are so lucky that our friends Ellen and Paul were here. They cleaned our bedroom, the dog, and me. Thanks to Ellen, the dog was taken away immediately. We buried Bonnie beside our house, and I think I’ll plant some zinnias to mark her spot. She loved flowers—not looking at them, but eating them. It always bothered me, but that didn’t stop her. I think she would approve of the flowers. And zinnias are my favorite.
I do want people to know that we had Benjie cat tested before we allowed him in our home. Supposedly he barked but displayed no aggressive behaviors toward the cat. After what I saw on Friday night, I’m going to call BS on that. I’ve never seen a dog act so viciously. I’ve seen dogs bite people and fight with each other, but I have never seen such ferocity. I had to use a lot of force to get him to even let go of Bonnie. It mostly just makes me angry, and it makes me feel so sorry for Bonnie. The next morning we got to wake Ethan up to tell him happy birthday. We also had to tell him that his dog and cat were gone. We’ve lost a child, a little brother, a dog, and a cat so far this summer. I hope we don’t add anyone else to that list because I’m not sure that I’m strong enough for that.
So, maybe tomorrow will be worse because of this weekend. Maybe it won’t be as bad as I think. I know that telling 170 teenagers about the death of my son will be hard, especially since I have to do it five times in one day. I know that I’ll be exhausted tomorrow night, and I know that I will feel like a zombie at some points. I’m just so sick of death and everything that comes along with it. I’m sick of what life is like after someone dies. It feels like a big waiting game. I have no idea what I’m waiting for though. Peace? Another death? Happiness? I wish I knew. Sorry this has turned into such a negative post. It is very indicative of how I’m feeling now though, so I guess I’m really not sorry. I’ll relax for a few hours tonight, and I’ll get through tomorrow as best as I can. Maybe I’ll be in a better mood tomorrow night and I’ll post about something happy, like our last few trips to the fire station or some of the funny things that Ethan has been telling me about kindergarten. You just never know what you’re going to get with me these days.
August 11, 2011--All in a Day's WorkI did have a little meltdown a little bit later, but it was good in a way. We have a few new teachers in our department this year, and one of them pulled me aside after our department meeting. She explained to me that she knew all about Max and that she has been reading this website. She told me how sorry she was and how helpful the website had been to her in trying to understand what I’m going through. She was so genuine and articulate. I really admire people like her, and I am in awe of the courage that she mustered up to approach a complete stranger and pour her heart out in such an eloquent way. I also appreciate her helping me avoid an awkward moment. I wasn’t sure if she knew about Max or not, and I wasn’t sure how or if to approach it. She also happens to be pregnant, so I might have just avoided telling her all together. I remember how troubled I was when I heard about my new friend, Brie, having a stillborn little girl when I was pregnant, so I really might have just tried to spare her from that. In the end, I’m glad that she knows. And I’m so thankful that she talked to me about it, even if it made me cry. They were good tears. What I mean is that they were the kind of tears that feel good to get out, the kind that make you feel a sense of relief when they come.
By the time I finally made it up to my room, I had survived almost three hours at work. But to be fair, I was sobbing when I got to my door. It was right after my new conversation with my new, pregnant coworker, and I just couldn’t stop the tears. My long-term sub from last year was actually in my room getting books organized and cleaning up a little. She sent me an email earlier in the week asking if she could come help me. I don’t know how it does, but it still amazes me that people can be so selfless and thoughtful. I chatted with her for a bit, and then I sat down at my desk. One of my friends, Donna, had gone into my room earlier in the week and left me a card and a huge bag full of red Starburst candies. Whenever I walk by her desk, I steal a red Starburst from her candy bowl, so she and another coworker, Linda, had spent days opening new packages of Starburst and picking out all of the red ones. I was amazed and touched. Do you see how incredible my friends are? The card was absolutely perfect. It talked about all of the positive things that I’m doing and planning on doing in Max’s memory. It was nice to hear someone affirm to me that I’m doing good things in the wake of such a horrible event in my life.
After I popped a few red Starbursts, I started looking through my drawers. Man, I was not ready for what was inside. List after list of things to do to get Max insured, paperwork to turn in for maternity leave, classes to enroll in at the hospital, things I had ordered from Babies R Us.
The List of Things Found in My Desk Pertaining to Max:
1. Notes about maternity leave
2. Lesson plans for my sub during maternity leave
3. List of steps to complete to add Max to our health insurance
4. A website for help in finding a daycare provider for Max
5. My FMLA paperwork
6. Receipt for an online order from Babies R Us
7. An unopened picture frame with “BABY” at the top of it—a gift from a co-worker
8. The decaf coffee that I drank while I was pregnant
9. A gigantic card from some of my students
It’s funny that my blog post from the night before had been a bunch of lists. I’ll take that as a little sign from Max. It was hard seeing these things. Really, really, really hard. It made me want that life again. The life that I still think that I should be living. It made me want that naïveté back. I guess I just want that life that doesn’t involve the death of my child. It made me remember how happy I was, and how excited I was to be completing my family with our second little boy. It made me remember how proud I was that Scott and I had chosen the most perfect name for our little boy. I’ll probably never feel exactly that way again because even if I have something promising to look forward to, I’ll always know exactly how easily things can go wrong. I hate the thought of never being able to enjoy unconditional happiness again. I really hate that Max isn’t here making me feel unconditional happiness and love. I really, really hate it.
During one of my stops in the office, I saw a student. I’ve never had her in class, but I know her. She is so sweet. She is thoughtful, polite, soft-spoken. She is just plain nice. Oddly enough, I had just had a conversation with another person about how sweet this girl is. She smiled and said hi, and then she asked me the question that I’ve been dreading for exactly two months: “How’s your baby?” She said it with a huge smile on her face, surely expecting me to smile in return and say, “He’s doing great!” and maybe even show her some pictures. Instead, I had to walk over to her and explain that Max died in June. I felt horrible that I had to be the one to tell her. I hate that I made such a happy, nice, innocent girl feel so terrible. Sure, it was awful for me, but think about how horrible it must have felt to be her in that moment. I’m really hoping that doesn’t happen very often. I know that it will happen, but I hope that won’t be a regular thing.
I went back up to my room that was full of reminders. I sat down and tried to do some more work, but my heart wasn’t in it. Neither was my brain. Still, I pressed on. I pulled another stack of papers out of a drawer and started organizing them. On one of the sheets of paper, I found three quotes that I had typed up last year at the beginning of my pregnancy. They were from The Book Thief, a book that I absolutely admire and love. It’s also incredibly sad and heart-wrenching. And it involves death. Lots of it. It is actually told from the point of view of Death. In the book, Death actually has feelings. He hates his job sometimes, especially when he has to take children. I copied maybe twenty quotes from the book in different fonts, and I used them for an activity in Writer’s Workshop, a class that I teach on creative writing. For whatever reason, I hadn’t used the three quotes that I found yesterday. Instead, I had folded that piece of paper and placed it in my desk drawer for me to find months later, after ten months of pregnancy, the birth of a beautiful baby boy, and then his death. When I found them yesterday, I decided to call it a day.
The Quotes I Found in My Desk:
1. “Don’t punish yourself,” she heard her say again, but there would be punishment and pain, and there would be happiness, too. That was writing.
2. Where was Max’s comfort? Where was someone to alleviate this robbery of his life? Who was there to soothe him as life’s rug was snatched out from under his sleeping feet?
No one.
There was only me.
3. I wanted to explain that I am constantly overestimating and underestimating the human race—that rarely do I ever simply estimate it. I wanted to ask her how the same thing could be so ugly and so glorious, and its words and stories so damning and brilliant.
The second quote actually contained a _______ where I’ve placed Max’s name, but I decided to fill in his name. I think my reasons are obvious.
On a side note (it wouldn’t be a typical post without a side note, right???), I am not at all in the habit of starting books and not finishing them. I can probably count on one hand the number of times I’ve done that. This habit has led me to completing some pretty awful books, but I just can’t stand the idea of not finishing something. There is one book that I started reading this summer that I won’t be completing, though. It’s the book I was reading when Max died. It’s called A Lesson Before Dying. Not interested.
1. Blue Valley Recreation Center—the week that Max died, he and I took Ethan to an Outdoor Explorers class every day. My mom took him the day that Max died. I don’t think I’ll ever step foot in that building again. It represents the immediate “before” and the sudden change to “after.” We also took Ethan to Open Gym there. Every one gushed over how beautiful Max was and asked me a million questions about him. I wouldn’t be able to stand it if anyone recognized me and asked about Max. Luckily, I have to pass this building to get just about anywhere!
2. Max’s bedroom door—it stays closed, but I see if every day. It’s still exactly as Max left it. Scott threw away Max’s Diaper Genie a few weeks ago. That was hard for him. It was full of dirty diapers, and there was a wet diaper in the trash can that he carried gently down the stairs and into the garage. He cradled it as if Max were still in it. How heartbreaking. I really admire him for doing that. We aren’t putting pressure on ourselves to change anything just yet. I know moms who have moved hanging clothes belonging to their dead babies to guest bedrooms when a new baby arrived. I have a feeling I’ll be following in their footsteps. I also decided that I don’t want to paint the walls. Ever. Max peed on the wall beside his changing table at least ten times. The funny thing is that I never got mad or frustrated or annoyed when he did it. I laughed and cleaned it every time. I’m glad for that now.
3. The Back Seat of My Car—the dents from Max’s car seat are still visible in my back seat. In a way, I hope they’ll always be there.
4. Max’s Strollers—these are in the garage next to my car. One of them is a jogging stroller that I never even got to use with Max. He needed to be 6 months old or able to sit up on his own in order to safely ride in it. I feel like an idiot for buying it now, but how was I supposed to know that he wouldn’t live that long?
5. Scott’s Hair—it’s thick, soft, and black, just like Max’s. It’s one of my favorite things about Scott, and it was one of my favorite things about Max. When I touch it, I can still imagine touching Max’s hair sometimes. I hope Scott never goes bald. : )
6. My Reflection in the Mirror—everything about me reminds me of Max. My body-the visible signs that I carried Max inside me for 10 months; my face-he had my eyes, nose, mouth, EVERYTHING; the sad look in my eyes-it’s me missing Max; even when I smile-that’s how Max saw me most of the time.
7. Music—okay, so I don’t technically see music, but this is my list, so I make the rules. There was something about music that calmed Max down. Not lullabies, real music. Specifically, rock music. There were many days and nights when you could find Scott rocking Max with his iPhone playing classic rock or me holding him in our bathroom singing songs from the new Foo Fighters album to him. We took our little iHome with us wherever we went and played whatever our little man desired. He would stare up at us, wide-eyed and curious. Sometimes he would fall asleep. The night of the Foo Fighters concert was going to be Max’s first overnight stay with grandma and papa. I bought tickets the minute they went on sale. I imagined how worried we would be to leave him for the first time. It would have been hard, but it would have made coming home to Max that much more rewarding. I think that night will be hard for different reasons now.
Another list…
My Nicknames for Max:
1. Maxi-poo
2. Maxi
3. Maxi-Max
4. Max Man
5. My Little Man
6. Baby Max
And another…
Things NOT to Say to Me (or Scott):
1. He’s in a better place—There is no “better” place for a baby to be than with his loving, nurturing, protective parents and big brother.
2. At least he was only 5 weeks old—A parent’s love isn’t measured by how long her children live. Do parents begin with no love and then build more as their children get older? Do you love your 18-year-old more than you love your 12-year-old?
3. At least it wasn’t Ethan—It shouldn’t have been either of my children. Or anyone else’s.
4. Things happen for a reason—Even if they do, I’m having a hard time finding a “reason” for Max’s death right now. Keep this one to yourself for now.
I’m sure there are many more offensive and insensitive things that have been said to parents who have lost children, but I’ve been lucky. I have been comforted, supported and uplifted by the words of friends, family, and strangers. I’m lucky to count my coworkers among my closest friends, especially since I return to work tomorrow. I’m feeling anxious and apprehensive, but I also feel ready. I wouldn’t say that I’m excited, but I’m ready. That’s pretty darn good for me right now.
August 5, 2011--The Max ChamberI recently got together with some moms who are walking this same shitty road with me. Most of them had stillborn babies. That was always one of my biggest fears during pregnancy. It’s horrifying and scary, especially when there is no explanation. Now that I think of it, stillbirth is sort of like the pregnant version of SIDS. Hmm… Even though we all share the same general loss, we are still having different experiences. For them, giving birth to a living, breathing, healthy baby only to have it die 37 days later is unimaginable. For me, giving birth to an otherwise healthy baby boy with no heartbeat is unimaginable. It’s not like we’re comparing losses or having a contest to see whose loss is worse; we’re trying to understand what the other side feels like. It was interesting to hear their perspectives. They just couldn’t imagine losing a baby who was healthy, active, and thriving. I couldn’t imagine their loss and never getting to experience the things that I did with Max—his smile, his laugh, his eyes full of life, his body growing outside of mine, even the smell of his farts (they were toxic). We’ll never completely understand the other side. At least, I hope we don’t because the only way to completely understand it is to experience it. Even then it’s hard to understand, honestly. Despite that, we know what the pain is like for each other. Our loss is the same—it’s the loss of the life that we had planned for not only our dead children, but for ourselves too. It’s the complete and utter defeat and surrender to the unfairness and vulnerabilities of the world. It’s the loss of hope, innocence, promise, and the naïve idea that good things will happen to you if you just live your life decently. We understand each other’s anger, frustration, and annoyance with everything pretty and innocent in the world. We understand when one mom reveals that she’s been avoiding a certain co-worker who does nothing but complain about the living baby that she has at home. Doesn’t she realize that our babies are dead? The truth is that other people move on; they get over our losses. Sometimes they might even forget about them. We’re the ones who don’t. And we can’t be expected to. Actually, there would be something seriously wrong with us if we just “got over” our child dying.
I got an email from an old friend the other day. He and his wife just had their second baby. This friend is one of the “best” people I know; he is honest, kind, loyal, and good-natured. Simply put, he is a good person. His email was very sympathetic and articulate. He wrote about reading this website, and the part that stood out to me is this: “your words encouraged me…and you reminded me to fight through life’s craziness and my own exhaustion and soak up every minute with my little ones. What a critical reminder!” That is what I want people to take away from my experience. His message is the greatest gift that anyone could have given me. To know that my pain and loss and Max’s short life may have caused someone to think twice about complaining when his baby poops for the 32nd time in a day or vomits right down the front of his freshly changed shirt is astounding. To know that there are parents out there who have really tried to understand my loss and have made a conscious effort to apply what they’ve learned to their own lives is rewarding in a way. Life isn’t guaranteed. We all intuitively know that, but we don’t do anything about it most of the time. It’s more instinctual to react with annoyance or complaints when our babies don’t sleep as long as we want them to. It takes conscious effort sometimes to realize that when your baby wakes up early from a nap, you’re really being given the gift of more time with him. It’s hard to fight past the exhaustion and find enjoyment in moments of inconsolable crying, crankiness, and leaky diapers. I promise that it’s there though. Take it from someone who doesn’t have those moments anymore—they are precious and every bit as rewarding as the quiet ones.
I appreciate people trying to understand the way I feel. It is hard, I know. It’s also hard to explain. That doesn’t mean I’m not going to try though. : ) Here goes. When you have a baby, it’s like an extra chamber is added to your heart. That chamber is reserved only for your baby. It contains all of the feelings that you have for your new child—love, pride, protectiveness, a need to nurture, anxiety, hope, etc. Your heart tells you how to express those emotions outwardly with your child; it helps you turn those emotions into actions. Each time you have a new baby, your heart grows another chamber and it’s filled with the same feelings. I swear that you can physically feel this happen the second your new baby is placed in your arms or you hear its first cry. When Max died, the chamber of my heart reserved for him didn’t die with him. It’s still there, and it’s still filled with all of my feelings for him. I just don’t have him to shower with those feelings. That extra chamber will always be there, and it will always be full. When I have another baby, I’ll grow another chamber. It will be right beside Max’s. So, if you care to imagine, I am walking around in the world with this heart that is made very heavy by the extra chambers it carries. And it’s especially heavy now because I can’t just cut that full chamber out and forget that it was ever there. I wouldn’t do that even if I could.
I’m glad that I held Eli and that it was such a success. It gave me the courage and confidence that I needed to go to the hospital the next day to visit Stella. I held her for the first time, and I also entered a maternity ward for the first time. I had imagined all of these things being incredibly emotional for me. I thought they would bring back memories of Max and my pregnancy, and I thought those memories would make me miss him more. What I realized is that that’s impossible. I can’t miss Max any more than I already do. Nothing that I do can make my loss feel any more painful than it already is. No baby that I hold is going to make me long for Max again any more than I already do. Seeing babies with black hair and big feet might be harder for me on some days, but some days it will make me smile while remembering Max’s beautiful smile and contagious laugh. While these milestones might seem small and insignificant to some, they are major for me. I allowed myself to be vulnerable to breakdowns and uncomfortable emotions, and I surprised myself with smiles and happiness.
July 29, 2011--What Dreams May Come
My friend Lori has had some very strange, sometimes meaningful dreams since her son, Bo, died on May 18th. She shares them with me sometimes, and I’m baffled by them most of the time. I’m also a little bit envious because she dreams of Bo so often. I’ve only remembered a few of my dreams since Max died, and only two of them starred him. It’s not a great feeling waking up from these dreams, but I love them because in my dreams Max is alive. I’m usually holding him at some point, but there is also a lot of trauma and tragedy in my dreams. I hope that I’ll keep having them, but I hope that they’ll be more consistently happy. I hope at some point that I’ll have a dream that involves only holding him, kissing him, and taking care of him. I could do without the other stuff eventually. I’m not going to attempt to analyze my dreams; their meanings are obvious. I miss my son, I want him back, and I would do anything for him. I’m traumatized, I’m sad, but I’m also full of love for him. Here are my dreams…
The first dream I remember having is incredibly bizarre. A friend and his wife had come over. She had just finished working out and was wearing a tank top with a built-in sports bra. She leaned over to hug me, and I was horrified to notice that her underarms were full of long, dark hair. I hugged her anyways, but the image stuck with me. I woke up wondering why (name removed) didn’t shave her armpits. This dream came to me the night after Max died. I was pissed at the time. I wanted to dream about Max, not some woman with hairy armpits. How dare she invade my dream like that, I thought to myself. I kept that thought to myself, but I did share the dream with other people. I don’t know why I’m even sharing it here other than to show you a side that you probably don’t think about when it comes to grieving parents. The side that wants every moment, even sleep, to be consumed with thoughts and memories of her baby. It’s frustrating when they aren’t.
The next two dreams that I remember involve Max. They don’t just involve him; they are completely consumed by him. The first one was a few days after Max died. Most people probably don’t know this, but we saw Max one more time before he was cremated. Our funeral director, Nancy, got him all ready for us to do a private “viewing.” I hate that term because it was so much more than a viewing for us. It was important for us to have this opportunity available to a few special people: Scott’s parents, my parents, my sister, and Scott’s brother. Scott’s brother never met Max. We skyped a few times, so I’m glad for that. At least he got to see Max breathing and healthy before seeing him cold and lifeless. Scott’s parents also hadn’t seen Max in a few weeks. Betty actually came back the week after we brought Max home from the hospital because Ethan got very sick. He was too sick for me to take care of his needs and the needs of a new baby at the same time. As always, Betty swooped in and gave us more help than we could have asked for. I wonder now if that sickness didn’t come on for the simple purpose of giving a loving, doting grandmother more time with her precious grandson. Neither Scott nor I were totally sure that we would go back in to see Max. We had seen him before the “transport” company took him to the morgue, and that memory was absolutely horrible. I won’t share the many reasons why; let’s just say that it is the absolute worst thing that any parent could experience. Our family members went first, and each one assured us that we would not regret going in to see Max one last time. Scott and I spent a long time in that room, and I don’t regret any second of it. That memory is private for me, so I’ll keep it to myself right now. It was beautiful and healing, though.
Anyway, my first dream of Max came the night before we were scheduled to go see him at the funeral home. In my dream, the private viewing is at a hospital for some reason. Someone walks me back to the room where it is to take place. Max is covered in a sheet on a table. As I move closer to the table, I see the sheet move. I lurch forward and uncover him. I discover that he is breathing. As first, I think I’m crazy, but then he opens his eyes. I stare at him for a few moments, my heart welling with happiness and hope. Then I turn and run to the door. I call out for a doctor to come help me. A doctor runs over, and I explain to him that I think Max is breathing. He shakes his head confidently and says, “Oh yes. Babies can go up to three days without breathing.” I don’t remember anything beyond that. I hope there was another half of the dream that involves me taking my living baby into my arms where he belongs. I hated waking up from that particular dream. Max’s death was still very recent, and I woke up with a feeling of hope every day, which was quickly dashed when I realized that Max was really dead. I woke up feeling very hopeful that morning, understandably. So the realization of the truth that morning was especially painful.
I had the second dream last night. Do you understand why I’m frustrated now? I went almost 7 weeks without remembering or having a dream about my baby. I hope that I’m just not remembering them, but that really doesn’t make me feel any better. In my dream, Max is alive. I am returning to work, so I have to leave Max in someone else’s care for the day. The plan is to leave him with a woman I know who just had a baby in real life. The woman did not have a baby in my dream, and she is absolutely not capable of doing what she did in my dream. I feel bad for her that she is the “responsible party” in my dream, but I don’t plan on sharing that with her. In my dream, I get all ready for work. I am very nervous about leaving Max. I don’t want to leave him at all. I tell the woman that I am only working a half day, so it will be kind of like a trial to see how Max takes it. I go on to work, and I return a few hours lady. The woman and Max are gone. I call everyone I know, trying to find out where they are. I start to get nervous. I finally get in touch with someone who tells me that this woman has kidnapped Max and does not plan on returning him. Her reason for kidnapping him is that I didn’t take good enough care of him. I try calling this woman’s dad, who is a police officer in my dream. He is supportive of his daughter and her crime. I spend a large portion of the rest of the dream trying to locate Max. I am frantic with worry. I am so mad that this woman has taken my baby. I’m hurt that she thinks I didn’t take good care of him. I know that I did. I keep pleading with people to help me, and they do. I eventually find Max and this woman. I yell at her and chastise her for taking my baby, who I am madly in love with, away from me. She gives Max back to me. I hug him and kiss him over and over. I take in his smell, the look in his eyes, and every detail of his face. He smiles at me. I tell him that I love him repeatedly. And then I woke up.
I woke up to Ethan lying in bed with us. Scott reminded me this afternoon that Ethan had come into our room very upset late last night. He was crying. He said, “Max is crying.” Scott tried to explain to him that Max was not crying, but he was insistent. “Max is crying. Go help him!” Scott helped Ethan get into our bed and got him back to sleep. I guess I wasn’t the only one dreaming of Max last night.
July 27, 2011--Watch Out, Here I Come!
I went to the fire station yesterday. Twice. I called Scott as I was heading back for my second visit of the day. I left him a message telling him of my unplanned visits. I said, “I am crazy. I’m pretty sure I know why I’m crazy, but what are we going to do about it?” I’m a little bit glad that he didn’t answer because he probably would have appealed to my logical side and convinced me not to go back and create even more of a scene. My emotional, impulsive side has been winning all battles over my logical side lately, and I don’t think it’s such a bad thing.
On my way home from dropping Ethan off at school, I decided that I was going to stop at the fire station. I wanted to get the names of the firefighters who responded to our house the morning of Max’s death. I felt like I should send them personal thank you cards instead of one impersonal card for the whole station. I know very little about the workings of emergency response teams, so I just assumed that the firefighters who came to our house that morning would not be on duty. I imagined myself walking into the station, getting a list of names, and then leaving. That is not at all what happened.
When I pulled into the parking lot, I really wasn’t nervous. I walked up to the door, but it was locked and I didn’t see the doorbell, which just happens to be right next to the door. Go figure. Normally I might have gotten a little frustrated, but things like that don’t phase me any more. I walked through the open garage door and into the back entrance. I startled the firefighter who was sitting at the table talking on his phone. I learned later that his name is David. I apologized for barging in on him and asked if I might be able to get the names of the firefighters who were on duty in the early morning hours of June 10th. He was very friendly and got up to go check with another firefighter, Bob. I don’t remember who asked me, but someone asked if firefighters had come to my house on June 10th. I said yes, but didn’t offer any more of an explanation. No need to ruin someone’s day by sharing my sad story. At some point another firefighter came out. He asked me what my address was, and we determined that he and his family live just a few houses down from me. What a small world. He doesn’t even work at this fire station normally. His home station is a few miles away, but for some reason he was at Fire Station 5 yesterday. We joked a little bit about Jerry Springer being on the TV. They had been watching the news, but no one noticed or changed the channel when Jerry Springer came on afterward. It was funny picturing all of these macho men sitting around on the couches watching Jerry Springer. I believe them that they don’t watch it all the time, but still. By this time, Bob had come from the back room and was saying that they were the firefighters on duty on June 10th. David said, “We were on duty, but you don’t look familiar.” I said that none of them looked familiar either, but that they would probably remember the call. “It was my newborn son,” I said. It was one of those moments when you can feel the air change in a room. All jokes about Jerry Springer were put aside, and they definitely weren’t smiling anymore. Bob and David both shook their heads. “That was us,” one of them said. Their faces were solemn and sympathetic. It’s weird—I don’t remember any of their faces from June 10th, but I remember the looks on them. They were the same looks I saw yesterday.
Maybe I’m an idiot, but I had not even considered the possibility that the same responders would be on duty yesterday. So I obviously had not planned what I would say to them if they were. I’m sure that showed because I rambled and rambled. I didn’t know what to say. None of us did. I remember saying all sorts of weird stuff—things about never wanting to see them again at my house, a thank you here and there, and something about wanting to bring them donuts. I also started bawling at some point. I don’t know what I was trying to say when it started, but it just came on like it always does. Bob was very nice and hugged me, which calmed me down a lot. I apologized and told them that I thought I could handle it that day. I think seeing the men who were at my house the morning that Max died was just plain shocking to me. I can’t believe that I was naïve enough to just assume that they wouldn’t be working. I guess I have a long way to go before my brain will really start functioning again. I decided that it was probably time to go. I don’t particularly enjoy standing in a room full of strangers and crying. Not because I feel weird, but because I don’t want them to feel awkward. That’s a big burden to put on people who don’t know me as anything other than the woman who lost her baby. So I left. David showed me where the doorbell was for the next time I came to visit. I forgot to mention that they also invited me back to the fire station. I told them that they might regret that open invitation later.
I couldn’t stop thinking of things that I should have said or asked when I left. I made it home and stayed for about 5 minutes before I decided that I was just going to go back and ask the questions that I wanted to about that morning in June. They gave me an open invitation to come back whenever I wanted to, and obviously I was going to take advantage of it. This time I stopped at Dunkin Donuts before I went. If I was going to pester them with questions that they probably didn’t want to answer, I might as well bring them some sort of treat. For some reason, I requested all donuts without sprinkles. Firefighters don’t like sprinkles, I remember thinking to myself. See? I really am crazy. Everyone loves sprinkles. This time I rang the doorbell, and David answered the door. I told him that I would like to try again and introduced myself a little more eloquently than the last time. I asked Bob and David if it would make them uncomfortable if I asked them a few questions. They immediately said no. I can tell that they are the type of people who would have said no, even if they meant “Yes, they will make me incredibly uncomfortable; please do not proceed.” I sat at the table and started with my questions. Below is a brief recap of what I can remember.
Q: Did either of you perform CPR on Max?
A: No
Q: Did you use a defibrillator?
Both of those answers surprised me. I had assumed that both CPR and a defibrillator had been used on Max. There were adhesive strips left behind, which I assumed were from a defibrillator. I asked about them. Bob told me that they knew right away that Max was dead and that he had been for some time. The paramedics hooked Max up to a heart monitor, which showed that he was asystolic—flat lined, basically. That’s what the adhesive strips were from, not a defibrillator. He explained that the last thing that they wanted to do was to give us false hope by performing CPR or transporting Max by ambulance to the hospital. I told him that I actually really appreciated that. I know parents whose children have been transported to the hospital despite showing no signs of life. They recount driving to the hospital and thinking that there must be hope. After all, you don’t take dead people to the hospital, right? Once they get to the hospital, their hopes are dashed. They hold their babies and say goodbye in a cold, clinical hospital room. And then they go back home to their empty houses and the investigation. At least we got to say goodbye to Max in our home, in his home. I know that many people are bothered by the fact that Max lay on our living room floor for two hours after he died. I am too, but if he had to lie anywhere that morning for two hours, I’m glad it was at our house. It was very hard to let people come into our house and take his body away, actually. I didn’t watch it happen. I don’t think I could have. I do remember asking, for some reason, if they had a tiny body bag that they would put him in as opposed to the big ones for adults. I don’t remember the answer. I hope it was a little one; I’m not sure why.
I asked Bob how long he thought Max had been dead. He qualified his answer by pointing out that he is not a medical examiner or time-of-death expert. I appreciate that, but I bet his experience has taught him way more about establishing a time of death than he gave himself credit for. The time of death on Max’s death certificate is 6:01 am. This time is a formality; it is absolutely not true. We called 911 around 5:55 am. Max was not alive when we placed that call. Bob told me that he believed that Max had been dead for at least 2-3 hours before the paramedics and firefighters got to our house. I hope this doesn’t sound selfish or morbid, but I was relieved to know that. All this time, I’ve been thinking that we missed Max’s death by mere minutes. In my memories of that morning, he is warm and his lips aren’t blue yet. I think I remember him that way because that’s how I wanted it to be. It’s not true though. I feel some sort of relief in knowing that we didn’t miss seeing our boy alive again by just a few minutes. There is nothing that we could have done either way, but I don’t think I could live with missing him breathing by just a few minutes.
We talked for a few more minutes, and then the paramedics came back from a call. I assumed that I wouldn’t recognize them either, but I did. I handed Max to Raymond at the bottom of our stairs. I think that Raymond recognized me too. I recognized Alexis immediately. She knew exactly who I was too. Leave it to the two females to recognize each other. We all talked for a few more minutes. We talked about their kids, Ethan, and the different support systems that we are using to try to cope with Max’s death. Notice that I said “cope with” and not “get over.” That’s an important distinction. I told them about my neighbor, Carol, whose husband used Fire Station 5’s services often during his battle with cancer. I told them that I would bring Carol next time and maybe even Ethan. I would like to bring the whole world to show them how nice and genuine these men (and woman) are. They turned what could have (and probably was) a very awkward situation into one that was at least tolerable if not enjoyable. I don’t think I ever really expressed my feelings of appreciation for them. I’m a bit of a bumbling mess lately, if you haven’t noticed. I guess what I wanted to tell them is thank you. Thanks for the sacrifices that you make to help others. Thanks for being brave enough to walk into a home where parents have just lost a child and react with sympathy and kindness. Thanks for being caring and understanding enough to let a grieving woman barge into your fire station and ask you questions about a day that you’d probably like to forget. Thanks for actually inviting said woman back even though she isn’t the best company right now. Thanks for being so selfless, considerate, and honorable. Thank you for treating my son with dignity and respect. And thanks for letting me hear you say his name.
July 25, 2011--The Charm Collector
Here are the links to the videos of Duke's "lesson" regarding Max's life. The "lessons" are like sermons, except that they aren't focused around some sort of Biblical message. This one is about living the type of life that Max did--simple, untainted by negative emotions, and full of love and happiness. It's a lesson that we could all stand to learn a bit from, so I hope everyone will watch it.
**Don't worry--he's not doing the robot...
Since Max died, I've received all sorts of really meaningful, thoughtful "trinkets." The word "trinket" makes them sound like tiny, worthless objects, but they are anything but worthless. I feel a little bit like a charm collector, but I love that. Anyone who has been in my classroom knows that I collect random objects. I have posters of dinosaurs, horses with wings, and Dr. Seuss sayings. I have a "tree of inspiration" that has motivational quotes, pictures of Betty White, and random notes from students hanging from it. I have pictures of Mr. Baranowski hidden throughout my room, and I spent three days last year hollowing out a dictionary and filling it with candy. I can't reveal any more about these last two items because they are surprises that are meant to be discovered throughout the school year by my students. My classroom is a reflection of me--quirky, surprising, and sentimental. So, these "charms" that I have received are perfect for me. They are unique, personalized, and most importantly, they have meaning. They remind me of Max, and I'll treasure them for the rest of my life. I'll leave them to Ethan and his future siblings when I die, and I'll make sure that they know just how meaningful these things are to me. I appreciate having things around that make me remember Max, and so I thank everyone who has contributed to my collection of charms. I'm going to share a few of these things now...
The first "charm" that I received was from a very thoughtful co-worker, Shelley. She has actually given me a few, but I think you'll understand why this one is my favorite. Shelley mailed me a handkerchief. I received it the day of the visitation. I was actually getting in the car to leave when I decided to run down and check the mail first. I opened the package from her on the way to the funeral home. It's a good thing there was something to catch my tears inside of it. I used that handkerchief to soak up every single tear that I shed at the visitation and funeral. And then I put it in Max's box. (Max's box contains his ashes and a few other things that I'll keep to myself.) I didn't wash it, and I never will. I will also never use it again. Those tears were only for Max, and so they will stay with him forever. I'm not going to take a picture of it. Just know that it is beautiful and perfect.
I also received a prayer shawl from a co-worker named Nancy. No one who knows Nancy will be surprised by that. Not only is she incredibly thoughtful and kind-hearted, but the woman knits whenever she has two free hands. She even knits at faculty meetings. I love it. I can't wait to see her knitting in a few weeks when we go back to work. The prayer shawl is just like Nancy--comforting, gentle, and warm. What I really love about it is that Nancy also donated a prayer shawl to a hospice organization in Max's name. Nancy never told me, but I got a card from the director of the hospice. It was such a nice card. It said, "Just as we wrap the shawl around a dying patient's shoulders in comfort, we send our thoughts and comfort to you and your family." It's nice to know that Max might be of some comfort to someone who is about to join him.
I've also received a few pieces of jewelry that I've worn nearly every day. I actually damaged one because I refused to take it off. I guess that gives it character??? The first one I received was from a neighbor I had never met. I've mentioned her before, but a quick recap--her name is Carol. She has three sons and two cats that Ethan adores. We call them "our creek cats" because we see them all the time at the creek behind our house. Carol lost her husband two years ago. She started leaving me little cards, notes, and gifts the day that Max died. When we returned home from the visitation, there was an envelope inside our storm door. It contained a bracelet and note from Carol. The note said that she had been praying for us during the entire visitation, and the bracelet had little butterflies and dragonflies on it. I put it on right away and didn't take it off for a few weeks. I slept with it on and took showers wearing it. The latter was not a good idea. I kept thinking about taking it off to take showers, but I just couldn't. So I didn't. Now it's looking a little weathered, but I'm feeling a little weathered, so I guess it's appropriate. I'll never see another butterfly or dragonfly without thinking of Max. I'm thankful for that.
I also received a necklace from a student. It's beautiful and has such a touching story behind it. This student, Briana, lost two people she was close with. She received a necklace shortly afterward, and she felt like the necklace provided her with a lot of comfort and some sort of tangible object to remember these people by. When she heard about Max, she called her great uncle in Jerusalem and asked him to pick one up for me. Briana explained a little bit about the necklace's history, but I could be making some of this up. I tend to do that. The necklaces are handmade in Jerusalem, and they have a unique design that closely resembles the Arabic symbol for "faith." I put the necklace on that night and have worn it nearly every day since receiving it. I do, however, take this one off to sleep and shower. I'd like to think that I learn from my mistakes. About a week ago, I actually got cut off by a car while I was driving. My first instinct was to honk, but I noticed a sticker on the car's back window. It was the same symbol that is on my necklace. Instead of honking, I smiled. That's what we call "pulling a Max."
Another necklace that I got came as a complete surprise. I received a package from Canada as we were preparing to leave for a BBQ hosted and attended by other parents of babies who have died of SIDS. I had no idea what was in the package, but the customs paperwork and intense cellophane wrap job really sparked my curiosity. After a few frantic attempts at unwrapping the secure package, I decided to just cut it open. I don't know why I insist on trying to open every package I receive by hand and without the assistance of scissors. Inside the package was a small box that contained a beautiful heart-shaped charm. On one side is a set of tiny footprints; on the other side is Max's name. Attached to the charm is an emerald stone, Max's birthstone. The charm came from a friend, Kristine. I cried. I just can't believe how thoughtful people are. Kristine and her husband are the kind of people who are fun to be around, no matter what you're doing. You might think that they're all fun and games on the surface, but a deeply serious and caring side of them exists and is pretty accessible. They are some of the best people I know. A poem also came with the necklace. It is absolutely perfect.
Tiny Footprints on a Mother's Heart
When a baby arrives,
be it for a day, a month, a year or more,
or perhaps only
a sweet flickering moment
the fragile spark of the tender soul,
the secret swell of new pregnancy
the goldfish flutter known to only you-
you are unmistakeningly changed...
the tiny footprints left
behind on your heart
bespeak your name as Mother.
Another very thoughtful gift that we received was a set of wind chimes. These came from our friends, Abby and Jason. They too are parents, and Abby has a close friend who experienced the loss of a baby recently. She wrote the most beautiful, sincere letter that I have received. I bawled while I read it--tears of sadness and loss, but also ones of hope and happiness. In the letter she wrote that she and Jason had thought long and hard about what they could send to us. She read on this website that I hated being inside and spent a lot of time on my back deck, hence the wind chimes. What is so special about them is that, first of all, they are not the annoying kind of wind chimes that everyone's grandma seems to own. They sound soft and unintrusive, not violent and high-pitched. They also have a tribute to Max on them. I guess you would call this a double-sided pendant? I'm no wind chime expert, but that's what I'll call it. The pendant has Max's name, birth date, and death date on it, but it also has a special message: "Gone to play with the angels" etched on it. I still can't believe how perfect this gift was. I don't think I have ever been so thoughtful in my life. Every time I hear them (which isn't very often lately--go away gross, unmoving air!), I'll think of Max. Thanks for that, Abby and Jason!
We've received lots of other "charms" too--figurines, bird statues (these have a special meaning that I'll share later. Thanks, Lori!), plants (all of our landscaping in the front, actually!), and pictures. I'm just losing steam right now, so I've got to wrap this up. Just know that each of these "charms" is really a treasure to us. We'll look at them for years and remember the kindness of others and the love that we all have for Max. Of course, I will think about Max every day for the rest of my life, but there is something very comforting about seeing an unexpected or forgotten tangible reminder of him. I'll collect these charms gladly, and I'll sprinkle them throughout my life, just like I do in my classroom, to find later as surprises.
July 24, 2011--THE Table
Side note--I'll be posting a link to Duke's "lesson" from services at Unity Temple this morning. It involves Max, and it was beautiful, powerful, and poignant. I hope you'll all watch it.
My mom shared an idea for a “memory” table with me a few days ago, and I loved it. All of Max’s pictures, toys, and Max himself (his ashes) have been sitting in our dining room exactly where the workers from McGilley’s left them after the funeral. I just didn’t have the energy to look through them. Putting that stuff “away” also makes it seem more final. Final is not the word I’m looking for, but it’ll do. I just felt like putting those things away somewhere meant that we were forgetting about him or trying to put the memory of Max away with his things. So, I just let them sit there. I saw them every time I walked in the front door or looked into the dining room from the kitchen. It also forced every person who entered our front door to see Max and his belongings. I don’t know how people felt about that, but I hope no one was offended. My mom’s idea was to buy some sort of credenza or sofa table that Scott and I could put in our bedroom. We would put Max’s pictures, ashes, and whatever else we wanted on the table. We would see it every morning when we woke up and every night before we went to bed. I loved the idea, so I went in search of a table. I didn’t know what I wanted, but I knew it had to be cool enough for my little man. I actually bought the first table that I saw. It was perfect. It has shelves on the side where we can display pictures, and it has drawers and cabinets in the middle for some of the things that we want to keep private. I paid for the table with a smile on my face, and I felt satisfied. The hard part came later, of course.
Scott and I worked on the table last night. It was hard. We unpacked each of Max’s belongings with extreme care and very heavy hearts. Unwrapping each picture was like unearthing some sort of treasure. His big, curious eyes looked into mine. In some of the pictures there were other eyes looking at me too. Nicole’s, my mom’s, my grandma’s, Ethan’s, Scott’s, even mine. Our eyes were filled with joy and sometimes happy tears. Our eyes were filled with naivety and innocence. We had our little bundle of joy, and everything was all right. Life was good. We were happy. It was hard seeing that. I’ve come to think of my life as being divided into two separate sections: “before” and “after.” It’s like B.C. and A.D. except that it has nothing to do with Jesus and everything to do with Max. I guess he kind of was my Jesus, but I’ll leave religion out of it. I’m still not sure where my faith stands anyway. These pictures were all from my “before” life—my life that had been largely untouched by tragedy. My life that didn’t know the type of pain and loneliness that is left when your child is gone. These pictures represent all of our lives “before.” Happy, innocent, unsuspecting, untainted. It was hard seeing them because it makes me realize that I’ll never have my “before” life again. A lot of people that I love won’t have a “before” life again either. Instead of thinking about which new toys Max would be growing into for Christmas (I know it’s only July, but I love buying Christmas presents for kids!), I’m looking into what types of gifts we can buy to honor his memory. I’m showing our parents websites for DNA portraits (these are really cool, but still) instead of ones for toys appropriate for a 7-month-old baby boy. And it sucks.
Back to the table…I love it. I love every picture on it, every toy on it, and every piece of Max that is on it. I just hate that we have a shrine to our dead son instead of a “wall of pride” that would embarrass the hell out of him and induce eye rolls when I showed it to his high school and college girlfriends. Scott and I experimented with placement of pictures and toys until we got it just right. I am proud of it. I will probably try to show many people who aren’t really very interested in looking at pictures of a baby who isn’t alive and growing anymore, but I hope they’ll just smile and tell me that it’s perfect. Hint, hint. Scott actually opened the evidence bags that I picked up last week. Those also ended up on the dining room table, which I should really start calling Max’s table instead. At first, I didn’t want to see what was inside. I watched him open the bag holding Max’s last bottle, which is now covered in dark mold. I didn’t like seeing that. Scott said, “I guess we’ll throw this away?” My first instinct was to say no, but what are we going to do with a moldy bottle? And if I didn’t like seeing it now, 6 weeks later, then why would I want to see it 6 months from now when even more mold would have grown on it? So, I guess it’s in the trash. I decided I didn’t care to watch the next bag of evidence being opened. It contained Max’s pacifier and a small burp cloth. I just knew it would destroy me. Scott opened it while I turned the other way, and then he quietly placed the items in the table drawer. I went about my business, but I kept thinking about that pacifier. I finally opened the drawer, and I surprised myself. It didn’t destroy me. It didn’t make me happy, but it didn’t destroy me. I decided that the pacifier needed to be with Max, so I wrapped it up with Max’s ashes and put them back in his box. I’m glad that I did that.
I added a few of the trinkets that people have given us in memory of Max, and then the table was complete. It’s going to be hard to see this table every day and feel good about it, but it’s not like my “after” life is going to be easy anyways, right? Seeing Max’s face makes me smile sometimes; other times it makes me cry. But every single time I see his face, it makes me remember how truly precious life is. It makes me long to hold Max and protect him from all of the nasty things that parents worry about, but it also makes me want to live my life better than before. Max makes me want to treat people with love, kindness, and compassion. He makes me want to “pull a Max,” as Duke put it at Max’s funeral. I have heard a few times that babies like Max come here to teach, not to learn. I don’t know how I feel about the last part yet, but I know that the first part is true. Max did teach us. And I don’t think that his lessons ended with his death. I think Max is going to be teaching us until we die too. I guess that’s something that I can learn to be grateful for, but I would still go back to being my old, uneducated self if it meant that Max would still be here with me.
July 21, 2011--Part 2
Just Being Honest...
Since I'm in the business of being honest lately, I'm going to be very honest right now. I am having more than a rough day. I'm having a horrible, awful, shitty day. I'm looking back at this morning and wondering how in the world I managed to get Ethan to school and make it back here before I started crying. I'm amazed that I even got myself out of bed this morning. I'm amazed that I've conducted a few normal conversations today. I fell asleep for a little while, and I think I must have had a dream about Max. I can't remember it, and that's really frustrating. I felt panicky when I woke up, so I tried to take a shower to feel better. I'm not sure how I thought that was going to work, but there I was in the shower not feeling any better. And I still don't. I was supposed to pick up Ethan, but I just can't. I can't fathom the thought of stepping one foot out my front door. I have no desire to be part of that world out there today. I know this is horrible to read, but I'm hoping that I'll feel better if I share it. I usually do, but it didn't exactly work today.
I am going over to a woman's house today. She contacted me a few days after Max died and shared her story with me. Brie's daughter was stillborn earlier this year, and there is no explanation for it. It wasn't a cord incident, and the autopsy showed nothing wrong with her daughter. Brie's email was very sweet, and she offered me whatever kind of support she could offer. For me, that's friendship right now. We made plans to have a get together with two other moms who have lost children, and I offered to bring Lori. Brie has found a lot of comfort in her newly formed friendships with these other two moms. Our shared tragedies make us instant and permanent friends. We could have nothing in common besides the fact that we know what it's like to have our babies die, and it wouldn't matter one bit. We'll be friends forever. We probably won't have the heart shaped "Best Friends Forever" necklace, but our hearts will be linked forever. Don't worry, Nicole and I already have the aforementioned necklaces.
A few days ago, I realized something about Brie that is really upsetting to me for some reason. The day after Brie's daughter died, a friend from work told me about Ann's story. My friend was shocked and saddened by the horror of the situation, and she immediately apologized for telling me because I was pregnant with Max. I told her how sorry I was for Brie's loss, and I couldn't imagine the pain that she and her family must have been going through. My friend never mentioned Brie's name, but I thought about this stranger constantly for days and weeks afterward. I only realized a few days ago that this stranger was Brie, my new friend. I don't know why it upsets me so much. Lori had the exact same experience with one of her friends from work, and she told me how angry she felt when she discovered that this new friend was actually someone she had heard about and grieved for. She couldn't believe that one person would have two friends lose babies in the same year. Now I understand the anger that she felt. It kind of gives the saying "it's a small world" a darker, more sinister meaning.
Regardless of how I'm feeling right now, I am so excited to finally meet Brie and her friends. I need that kind of companionship, especially on days like this one. I wish we were going to be bonding over some other shared event or interest in our lives, but I'm thankful to have my new circle of friends nonetheless. They are amazing, strong, inspirational women who anyone would be lucky to know. I'm looking forward to a night spent enjoying good wine, understanding friends, and stories of the children we'll always carry around in our hearts.
July 21, 2011--Thanks
*I think I may have gotten Officer Hill's name wrong. I apologize if so. I promise I'll be good and correct it.
I am having what I call a “rough” day. In reality, each of the last 41 days has been rough, but some are more unbearable than others. Today is one of those days. I just woke up feeling sad and empty. I woke up missing Max. I woke up angry that he wasn’t lying beside me, ready to have his diaper changed and eat a little bit. I want my baby back. [Please don’t sing that Chili’s song about baby back ribs.] I seriously want him back. On days like this, I wonder how in the world I’m going to function when I go back to work in a few weeks. It was so hard to get Ethan ready for school and actually take him this morning, so how am I going to drag myself to school when I have days like this? Right now, I can’t imagine standing in front of a room full of teenagers and holding it together for 50 minutes. I suppose I’ll find a way. I have to. I don’t know how I’m going to react to being back at work. I never know how I’ll react to anything anymore. That’s one of the parts that I hate the most—being unpredictable. I hate pretty much every part of this, but that unpredictability has been tough to adjust to. I don’t know how I’ll react to the students (and maybe even a few coworkers) who don’t know what happened to Max. I hope I can be strong, and I think I can, but who knows. What I do know is that I have a lot of true friends at work who will be understanding and helpful when I have days like this. I am so thankful for that.
I started to write some thank you cards yesterday. I got two done. That’s how effective I’ve been lately. One of the cards was to Ethan’s school, Brookridge Day School. I can’t even begin to express how wonderful they have been to us. I always heard from teachers and administrators there that Brookridge was like a family, and I know what they meant now. When I sat down to write the card, my mind flashed back to late May when I sat down to write another thank you card to them. Max sat in his car seat, watching me patiently. I wrote in that card about how thankful we were for everything that the teachers, staff, and administration had done for Ethan. He entered Brookridge as a shy, timid little boy. He left a confident, outgoing “big kid.” This school is seriously amazing. They have the most dedicated staff who I now know will truly do anything for one of the members of this beautiful “family” that they’ve created. I looked at Max during a break from writing, and I thought about the day when he would walk through the doors at Brookridge for his first day of preschool. I imagined how excited everyone would be to see us, but really how excited they would be to see Max all grown up and following in his brother’s footsteps. I could hear them saying, “Last time I saw you, you were just a little baby! Look how big you are now!” I wrote in that thank you card that I looked forward to sending Max to Brookridge too. I’m sad that he won’t experience the miracles that Brookridge performs every day, but I’m glad that he got to be part of the family for 37 days.
Obviously, writing the thank you card to Brookridge after Max’s death was quite a different experience. I was happy the first time; the second time I was miserable. I tried to express our gratitude to them, but I know we’ll never be able to. After Max died, the staff at Brookridge huddled around us to provide whatever support and comfort we needed. They sent flowers, they came to services, they welcomed Ethan back to the summer program with a cheering section, and they offered to have him back for kindergarten. Ethan was going to go to Stanley Elementary just a few blocks from our house. We worried about being able to afford the tuition at Brookridge plus childcare, so we decided to send him to Stanley. After the events of this summer, how could we send him anywhere besides Brookridge? He needs to be surrounded by loving, supportive people who know exactly what he’s been through this summer. There isn’t a place in the world that I feel comfortable sending Ethan to right now besides Brookridge.
The second thank you card that I wrote was to one of the first police officers to arrive at our house after Max died. Her name is Chandra Kelly. I got a list of every officer who was at our house the day that Max died because I want to send each of them a thank you card. I didn’t really know how to go about getting their names besides requesting a copy of the police report, and I have absolutely no desire to see the police report right now. I actually have a very strong desire to NOT see the police report. I got a letter last week stating that the evidence collected from our home had been released and was ready for pick up. I smartly made the choice to pick up the evidence on the way to my meeting with my new grief counselor. The woman who met me at the door to the police station and handled the paperwork cried with me as she listed the items to be released: a baby bottle and its contents, a small blanket, and a pacifier. She handled the sealed paper bags with great care, as if Max himself was inside each one. I guess a part of him really is in those bags. His saliva is still on each of those items. He may have even left a few hairs behind on the blanket. Her kindness made me think of the way that we were treated by every law enforcement officer who responded to our 911 call. I’m telling you, people have it all wrong about cops. Maybe we just got lucky, but I don’t think so. I think they have a real desire to help and protect, and it kills them when they can’t do that for a baby like Max. It kills everyone, but it’s their job, just like it was mine as a parent. Anyway, the woman helping me that morning was heartbroken for me. I feel badly that her day had to start that way. She had brought Kleenex with her when she saw that I was collecting evidence from the scene of my son’s death. I’m glad she did because we needed them. She wrote down the names of the police officers who had been at our house on June 10th, and apologized for her sloppy handwriting that wasn’t sloppy at all. I wish I would have gotten her name. She deserves a thank you too.
I really am the queen of digressions…back to Officer Kelly. Her job that morning was to stand outside of our front door. I think this was done in lieu of putting up yellow crime scene tape, which we greatly appreciate. Officer Kelly had the unfortunate job of greeting our friends and family who showed up. As far as I know, this included Nicole and my parents. Nicole arrived first. She told me later that she had convinced herself on the way to our house that I had said, “Max is gone.” instead of “Max is dead.” We both know that I actually did say the latter, but she convinced herself that morning that Max had been kidnapped and that we would be working on finding him and getting him back alive instead of planning his funeral and everything that came after it. So, I assume that Officer Kelly was the one who had to break Nicole’s heart with the truth. Just a reminder—this all happened early in the morning on Nicole’s birthday. She actually didn’t answer her phone the first few times I called because she thought I was just being annoying and trying to wish her a happy birthday. When I called her fiance’s phone, she knew that wasn’t the case. Because infant deaths are immediately (and understandably) investigated, our house was treated as a crime scene. People weren’t allowed in, and we weren’t really allowed out until the investigation was complete. Part of Officer Kelly’s job that day was to explain to my best friend and parents that they couldn’t come in to be with us until the investigation was complete. I can’t even imagine how heartbreaking it was for her to stand on our front porch and turn Max’s loved ones away. I know it was hard for her; I saw her tear up several times. I’m sure that she wanted to be able to say the right thing to comfort Max’s grandparents and honorary aunt, but what do you say? She did what she could, and I’m so appreciative for that. Officer Kelly was empathetic, compassionate, and thoughtful in the way she handled Nicole and my entire family (myself and Scott included). I know that these types of cases are probably the hardest for police officers and firefighters, and I thank them for having the strength to deal with such tragedy in a professional, yet kind manner.
Since Max’s death, we’ve met many (too many) other families who have lost babies and dealt with the aftermath, including the intense investigations. There is a lot to be said about how investigations into sudden infant deaths are treated, but this post is already too long, so I’ll save it for another day. I will say that Max laid on our living room floor for two hours after he was pronounced dead by the first firefighters on the scene. During that two hours, Scott and I were escorted to different areas of our house by another police officer. I believe his name is Officer Hill. I’m sure he has a first name, but I don’t know it. Ethan was still sleeping in his bed, and we didn’t want him coming out of his room because Max’s lifeless body was visible from the top of the stairs (right next to Ethan’s room). Officer Hill understood this and stood outside of Ethan’s room, blocking the stairway so that Ethan wouldn’t see Max when he woke up and emerged from his room. Officer Hill repeatedly apologized to us for having to follow us everywhere and keep us inside. He apologized for the pain that we were going through. I know that Officer Hill hated being at our house and seeing the raw emotions of that day. He probably hated seeing Max’s body lying on the floor for so long. He probably hated everything about it, but he was so kind to us. No matter how many times we told him that we understood that he was just doing his job and we weren’t upset by it, he still just kept apologizing. What a gift for a police department to have such an empathetic officer. Officer Hill came to Max’s visitation. He sat in the back and didn’t talk to anyone, but I saw him there remembering Max and sending his support to us. I’m glad he was there.
I’ve really got to stop because this is getting ridiculously lengthy. Hopefully I haven’t lost the attention of too many readers yet…I will write more about the day that Max died later, but for now I just want to share a few more words about the investigators and firefighters who responded that day. The firefighters got here less than five minutes after we placed the 911 call. They worked quickly and furiously to save Max, but we all knew. Still, they tried their hardest. And I’m sure that each of them begged and pleaded, just like I did, for some kind of miracle. I’ll never forget the sadness and pain in each of their eyes. Their posture changed, like they were trying to hold their hearts together somehow. I know that doesn’t make sense, but that’s what I remember it looking like. They were all in my home witnessing the single worst moment of my entire life, and I’m sure they hated every second of it. How could they not? They watched a mother and father being told that their life’s purpose was gone forever. They watched a mother and father feverishly shake their heads and scream “No.” They must have seen the looks in our eyes—searching, pleading, confused, devastated. I’m sorry that they had to see that. I have a surprise planned for the firefighters. It’s nothing big, but it’s something from the heart. I’ll share later.
Like the firefighters, the police officers were all incredibly kind and compassionate. No one knew what to say or do, but they somehow found the strength to stick around and talk with us. The detectives had to interview us, but I’m not sure I could even repeat one question that they asked us. It is such a blur now. The term “foggy memory” has taken on a new meaning for me. When I try to picture sitting on the floor in our bedroom with the detectives, there is literally fog in the room in my memory. Obviously, this can’t be a true recollection of the scene, but I can’t shake it from my memory. I do remember our detectives being very sympathetic and apologetic, just like Officer Hill. I think I remember them saying that they were both parents, but I could have just imagined that. I know that their job was hard that day. They did it thoroughly but quickly so that we could be with our family and friends. Detective Fizer came to Max’s visitation. He came through the line and greeted us. He hugged us, and I think he may even have been crying. I’m not sure though. He told us how sorry he was for us and that Detective Wedel was so sorry that she wasn’t able to make it. I have no idea who, if any, of the responders came to the funeral. I didn’t really have the strength to face the crowd. It means a lot to us that some of them came though, and I know those who couldn’t make it were thinking of us and probably praying for us. I have heard horror stories from other parents about the investigations that took place after their children died. Many felt accused by the investigators, and most say that the responders were heartless and almost cruel. I am so thankful that our experience was the complete opposite. We were in good hands that day, and so was Max.
July 18, 2011
All These Questions!
I know that people have a lot of questions for me. And I know that they don’t ask them because they don’t want to make me feel uncomfortable. I appreciate that. I think it’s kind and thoughtful. I also want people to know that I don’t mind being asked questions. If I don’t want to answer, I’ll tell you that. I’m going to address some of the questions now, but some of them I need to wait a little while to answer. I’m not quite ready to share every detail about the day that Max died yet, but I am ready to share some other things.
I do want more children. I want that more than I ever have before. I’ve got all this love, protectiveness, patience, pride, and care built up inside of me. I started building it up before I became pregnant with Max, and I spent every day of my pregnancy building it up more and more. I showered Max with all of it while he was here. When he died, those feelings didn’t go away; I just didn’t have any place to put them anymore. After Max was born, Scott and I felt like our family was complete. We had our two little boys, and we weren’t going to have any more kids. Max’s death has changed all of that. All of the things that annoyed me about being pregnant—being tired all the time, not being able to eat certain foods, not being able to enjoy a beer or go to happy hours with my friends—seem so silly and ridiculous now. I would give up all of those things for the rest of my life to make my kids happy. It is a privilege to be able to give those things up to ensure that the life growing inside of you is healthy and safe. One of the first thoughts I remember having after Max died was that I wanted another baby. I don’t want another baby to replace Max; I want another baby because I love being a mom. Now that I’ve experienced parenthood, I can’t imagine living my life as anything other than a parent. I want to experience that pride and happiness again. My neighbor told me last night about how one of her friends described the feeling of becoming a parent. He said it’s like someone takes your heart from inside of your body and puts it on the outside, on your child. So every day, it’s just out there in the world, vulnerable to pain and anguish. That is exactly what it feels like. Being a parent is the only thing in the world that is worth the possibility of feeling the kind of pain that I feel now. I know that I’m not ready to get pregnant now because I want to give birth to Max again. I would be heartbroken if the doctor handed me a girl, or a bald baby, or a tiny baby. I would want a beautiful, perfect 8 lb 4 oz, 21-inch long baby boy with a full head of dark hair and huge feet. Anything else would be devastating right now, so I’m not ready. But I will be. I’m working on it.
I also want people to know that I don’t have an aversion to all children and pregnant women right now. I have an aversion to children and pregnant women who are strangers. The ones I see at Wal-Mart and Target who don’t have names and don’t know what I’ve been through. I have never been happier to see my friends’ children because I can give each of them a little of my love that I had saved up for Max. And I have never been happier for my pregnant friends. Yes, it’s a little bit harder than before, but that’s probably because I’m a little bit more scared for them than normal. I just had a pretty screwed up experience that reinforced to me how unfair life can be and how vulnerable we all are, no matter how hard we try to protect against tragedy. I am, however, so excited for my friends to experience the joy that overwhelms your heart when you become a parent. So, pregnant ladies and parents of children, please don’t be scared to share your happiness with me. I want to be a part of it.
The last question that I’m going to address is probably the hardest one for people to bring up: Max. People wonder if it’s okay to ask me about him or mention his name. I can’t say this loud enough: YES, it is! It is more than okay; it is what I want to hear. We put a poem inside the memorial books that people got at Max’s funeral. One of the lines in it explains that we don’t want people to hesitate to mention his name because it’s something we long to hear every day. I want to be saying Max’s name a million times a day while I’m changing his diaper, comforting him while he’s crying, and rocking him to sleep. Even though I can’t do those things any more, it doesn’t mean that I can’t stand to hear his name. He was my child, the love of my life, and the embodiment of perfection. Of course I want to hear his name. I’ll never hear a more perfect name than Max McFall. I know that I won’t hear it every day, but just keep in mind that I was already planning on hearing it every day of my life. You’re just sticking to the plan when you mention him.
A little side note—we are planning a big fundraiser with our friends, Lori and Nate. Their son, Bo, passed away on May 18th. (Today is the two-month anniversary of his death, so please keep them in your hearts and send some strength their way.) The fundraiser that we are working on will probably take place in the spring, but we will be busy planning for months. Our plan is to have a dinner, silent auction, and party. If you think you can help with any part of it, whether it’s getting items for the silent auction or getting us some free publicity, please let us know. The money raised will go to scholarships in both boys’ names, SIDS research, and support resources for other parents who, unfortunately, will find themselves walking this same road in the future. We hope it’s something that we’ll be able to do every year to keep Max’s and Bo’s memory alive, be in the company of our awesome family and friends for an evening, and create some kind of support system for other families dealing with the loss of a child.
July 15, 2011
Max Attack!!!
I feel very disjointed lately. My mind goes through 800 unrelated thoughts every minute. Of course, most of them are related to Max somehow. I don’t know what to do with myself most of the time. I have a pretty random thought process anyway, but it’s a million times worse now. I hate feeling that way because most people would agree that I’m a pretty calm, laid-back person. I guess maybe this is the new me. Chaotic, impulsive, blubbering.
I had a “Max attack” last night. In a way, it was probably good because I haven’t had one in a while. I could feel my emotions piling up in that part of your brain that just clicks when it becomes too full. I went shopping for a new dress to wear to Nicole’s bachelorette party on Saturday. I dislike shopping in general, so it’s probably not something that I should be doing right now. I just felt like maybe I would feel happy and excited on Saturday if I had a new dress to wear. I know that everyone is going to look so pretty and have so much fun, and I’d like to do that too. After trying on 17,000 dresses that all made me look like a pumpkin, I found one that is beautiful and flattering and perfect. I am trying to cut myself some slack in the body department since I just had a baby ten weeks ago, but it’s hard because I don’t have that ten-week-old baby to make it all better. If Max were here, then it would be fine. Looking into that beautiful, precious face would remind me why I am packing a few extra pounds, and I wouldn’t care. But Max isn’t here, so the baby weight is yet another reminder of what is missing from my life. It’s a reminder of the changes that my body went through to bring Max into the world. It’s hard work to look at the body that carried him for 10 months, but only got to hold him for 37 days. It’s a hard thing to live with, and I just can’t stand it sometimes. It’s too much. It’s overwhelming and shitty and really, really screwed up.
As I drove away from Town Center last night, I just lost it. I pulled into the parking lot at Menorah (yes, that’s how far I made it…across the street) and just cried. I had one of those moments when the sadness and anguish are just too much to bear. When it happens, I’m not even thinking about anything specific. I’m just thinking about Max, and usually (this is not a pretty mental image—warning) I’m just repeating his name over and over again. Out loud. Cars were driving by, and I can only imagine what their occupants were thinking. I doubt that any of them thought that I was sitting in a random parking lot grieving for my dead son though. I called my mom, and talking to her helped me calm down so that I could actually drive home. Scott knew what was going on, and he knew exactly what to do. He’s amazing. And I am amazingly lucky to have him. Then my new friend Lori came over, and we had a good night. We laughed and smiled and discovered more eerie connections that we have. A future post will be dedicated to those connections.
Now, I’m just drained. Crying is exhausting. Grieving is exhausting. Right now, life is exhausting. But, I do know that I can count on people like Scott, Lori, Nicole, and my mom (just because I didn’t refer to you by name doesn’t mean that I don’t count on you too!) to give me the energy to keep on trucking. And I will. (I pictured Drew Baranowski when I typed “keep on trucking.”)
July 12, 2011--My day with Max...
This is my second post of the day, but I had to share a few things that I saw today. Just like every other day, there were approximately 986,893,827,719 things that reminded me of Max. A few of them were especially obvious though...
I started my morning at the most crowded venue on any street in America: Quik Trip. On a side note, why are there 300 people there at any given second? And is there a code of etiquette for navigating those parking lots? Anyway, I chose the longest line (I have a serious talent for doing this) and waited my turn. Quik Trip cashiers live on Rooster Booster and No-Doz, so my wait wasn't long. The gentleman helping me was about 19, pretty tall, and had beautiful black hair, just like my husband's. He was a very handsome lad. I think I'm old enough to call teenagers "lads" now. I liked him, but not in a creepy way. I promise. He was just really nice. I looked at his name tag: Max. I wanted to pester him with a million questions about his name, look at pictures of him at all stages of his life, and probably end the conversation by telling all about my Max. That would have been creepy, and a sheriff walked in while I was at the register, so I just smiled and left.
Later, I went to lunch with Nicole and my cousin, Jessica. We went to Ingredient (I'm not bothering with those silly dots that go in between the syllables), and we all decided to get the Cobb salad. When I got to the register, however, I asked what the sandwich of the day was. The not-so-friendly cashier pointed at the "Specials" sign, which listed the "Mad Max Pizza" as the special pizza for the day. I didn't really want pizza, but obviously I had to order it. It was absolutely delicious. I saved some for Scott so that he can try the "Mad Max" as well. Unfortunately, I left it in Nicole's refrigerator.
The next one is a bit of a stretch, but hear me out. As we got up to leave Ingredient, we noticed the sign below hanging next to the exit.
Like I said, it's a stretch, but why wouldn't they just write out "maximum" instead of shortening it to "max"? I can't recall ever seeing a business post a sign that reads "max occupancy" instead of "maximum occupancy." To be fair, I don't go around checking businesses for clearly posted signs stating how many people can legally gather there, but still. It is a little eerie considering the circumstances of my day.
Finally, I picked up Ethan from a play date and made it approximately two feet before he told me that he needed to go to the bathroom and couldn't hold it. We stopped at McDonald's to use the restroom, and we entered a stall just as another young boy and his mom came out of the other one. As I stood in the stall, I heard the mom say to the little boy, "Come on Maxi, come wash your hands." Maxi-poo was one of my embarrassing nicknames for Max, and Ethan picked up on it. He always called him "Maxi." He actually still does. I will admit that it is entirely possible that I misunderstood the mother, but that doesn't change the fact that "Maxi" is what I heard.
At first, these signs made me feel happy and peaceful and almost relieved. Now, though, they're just making me feel sad and pissed off and heavy. I literally feel heavy. Not fat or bloated or lazy, just heavy. I'm angry that I have to go out into the world looking for "signs" from my dead son when I should be going out into the world making memories with him. I'm sad that I'll never be able to meet a person named Max without wondering if my Max would have been anything like him. I'm pissed off that a stupid pizza brings tears to my eyes and that I have to fight off the urge to explain my strange behavior by telling the impatient cashier all about my dead son who shared a name with the stupid pizza that I'm ordering. I know that I'm just having a "bad" moment right now, a "Max attack" as my good friend Lori would call it (she has "Bo-ments" for her son, Bo, who also passed away). I know that it will pass, and that I'll be thankful that I was surrounded by "Max" today, even if it was just a string of coincidences. But it's hard work getting there sometimes.
July 12, 2011
I miss Max. I really, really miss him. I miss everything about him—his smiles; his goofy laugh (the kind of laugh that people would have remembered him by as he got older); his big, beautiful eyes that searched every face he saw; the way he would turn his head to find me when he heard my voice; his soft, dark hair that curled when it was wet (that really surprised me since neither Scott nor I have any curl whatsoever); his long, lean legs that flailed and kicked in appreciation when I changed his diaper; even his little cry that sounded forced and sometimes made his bottom lip tremble. I could go on and on about the things that I miss about Max. Simply said, I just miss him. And I know that other people miss Max too. A lot of other people. I still can’t believe sometimes how popular he was for a five-week old. It was impossible for people to visit us and not smile when they met Max. I am absolutely convinced that he would have brought joy to every person he ever met had he lived beyond 37 days. He was just that type of dude.
I know I keep writing about my friends and family, but I can’t help it. They are amazing. I don’t mean to single anyone out, but I’ve been thinking a lot about a few people specifically. I wish I could write about every single person who has helped me since Max died, but I’m pretty sure I would exceed my size limit for this website. I know that “size limit” is not the technical term for it, but I’m not about to go searching for the right one. I know a certain student teacher who would think that term is just plain “appropriation.” My teacher friends know who I’m talking about…
One of the people I’ve been thinking a lot about is my best friend, Nicole. I’ve always known that Nicole is amazing. And I’ve always admired her for the person she just naturally is. She is selfless, considerate, generous, funny, loyal, and honest (sometimes to a fault maybe). In a word, Nicole is my perfect friend. We joke that we are the same person, and we kind of are. I wouldn’t like my job nearly as much as I do if I weren’t surrounded by my awesome co-workers, Nicole included. Not many people get to work with their best friend; I am so lucky for that. Nicole was very involved with my pregnancy. Truth be told, she knew I was pregnant before Scott did. Scott was in court when I called him, so I called Nicole. I had to tell someone! Nicole knew what I was going to say before I even told her. That might be a testament to how linked we are. She was so excited to hear about every doctor appointment I had, and she cried when she felt Max move for the first time. She felt him move a lot, and I’m so thankful that she did. Nicole was at the hospital when Max was born. When she held him for the first time, she cried. I remember watching her hold Max; she treated him with such care and love. Her eyes were full of tears, but her whole face was smiling. I also remember Nicole telling me how excited she was to watch Max grow into a man. She was looking forward to being a huge part of his life, and she would have been. Nicole spent many days at our house after we brought Max home. She held him with that same tenderness, caressed his hair, and talked to him in a soothing voice. Max was showered with affection from his Aunt Nicole, and I’ll forever treasure those memories of Nicole and Max.
I think a lot about Nicole now because she is about to embark on her own journey into married life and maybe even parenthood. I worry that the loss of Max, along with the sudden and tragic loss of her cousin and close friend in January, will dissuade her from having children. I worry because Max died on Nicole’s birthday, and because I know that Nicole is grieving not only for her own loss of Max, but also for mine. It must be hard for friends like Nicole to deal with a loss like this. Her grief is compounded because it is not only for Max, but for me as well. I’ve talked with Nicole about my worries, and she assures me that the tragedies of this year will not affect her decision. I know that’s a bunch of bologna (bull-og-na; pronunciation courtesy of aforementioned student teacher). All I can say is that I hope Nicole has children. I want her to experience that overwhelming joy and love and purpose that children bring to their parents’ lives, and I want a child to be lucky enough to call her “mommy.” I also want a chance to repay her for all of the happiness and love that she gave to Max and me. Who knows, maybe we’ll be pregnant at the same time…
Another person who I think about a lot is my mom. My mom is an amazing person. She is actually a lot like Nicole. She is selfless, funny, affectionate, and compassionate. She is one of the strongest women I know, although she tries to disagree with me on that point. So, I guess she’s very modest also. My mom is a hospice nurse, and I have absolutely no doubt that she is the best hospice nurse in the universe. She deals with death every day. She provides comfort and relief to her patients and their families, and she is damn good at her job. None of that matters when it’s your grandson, though. My mom loves her grandchildren, and she loves her children too. She was so happy that Scott and I decided to add Max to our family, and she was also at the hospital with us when Max was born. She held my hand through the whole process. There were times during my labor when I called for my “mommy” because I knew that she could help me in ways that only a mom can. And yes, I still call my mom “mommy.” My mom spent a lot of time with Max. She was over nearly every weekend after he was born, and she was his first and only babysitter for an afternoon. When Scott and I returned from running errands and eating lunch, my mom was beaming. She had a great afternoon with Ethan and Max. She got to see Max smile and listen to him laugh. I remember her saying to me, “I thought you were crazy when you told me Max was smiling and laughing, but you aren’t. He is smiling, and he is laughing. He is happy.”
I’m so glad that my mom got to experience the joy that Max brought us. And I’m so sorry that she has to experience the loss along with us. I really believe that grandparents’ feel pain doubly when they lose a grandchild. They are mourning the loss of their grandchild, but they are also grieving for the loss that their own child has endured. Every parent’s worst fear is something painful happening to his/her own child, whether it’s physical injury, emotional pain, or even death. So, imagine what a parent feels when his/her own child loses a child. I know that my mom worries for me, but I worry for her too because I know that Max’s death has left a heavy burden on her. She’s sad, and I’m sad for her. People often forget about grandparents in situations like this. They focus on the parents of the baby who has died, but there are so many more people who need some of that love and support too. Max had an entire family full of people who loved him and who miss him dearly. And Scott and I have parents who love us and who worry about us every second of every day. So—mommy, daddy, Jim, Betty, Justin, Cheryl, and Stephanie—I think about you guys all the time too, and I’m so sorry for the pain that you are all experiencing too.
