A Thin Thin Line

On Monday as we left our acupuncture appointment, E and I went to the grocery store. Outside, there was a woman, obviously very down on her luck, who asked for spare change. E and I both gave her the change out of our pockets - a total of maybe a dollar. She went into the store - it's a natural foods market and produce stand, so I felt self-righteously okay that she'd be buying some whole grain bread or some organic clementines or something with her money; but I also didn't necessarily think too long about it.

When we were getting ready to check out, she was in front of us in line. Clearly agitated, like she was desperate for a fix. E looked at her purchase, and said to me, "That makes me so sad." She was buying a copper scrub sponge thing, something that is apparently used to smoke crack. Along with a bag of oranges. The woman in front of her in line made a very rude and judgy comment to the checker at the store about needing to pay by check because she refused to let the woman see that she had cash in her wallet. I was so angry with the judgy woman it just about made my blood boil, but I kind of couldn't figure it out. (At that time, I hadn't seen that the woman was buying crack paraphernalia, so I'm not sure if that would have changed my reaction or not.)

When we got out of the store, and we saw the woman panhandling again, E then relayed to me that he had seen she was buying crack accessories, and that is why he had said he was so sad about it.

It made me sad too. I had this realization, this phrase that I've heard so many times but never before had it had such a true feeling for me, "There but for the grace of god, go I."

Really.

E and I are so lucky to have the resources and support available to us that we do. Family close by. Thoughtful family, who talk about Otis and talk about missing him and talk about loving him, instead of pretending this is all just some horrible incident to forget about and move on from. Support professionals galore: we see three therapists - one just for me, one just for E, and one for the two of us. They all have given us reduced rates so that we can afford to go for as long as we need. My grandmother is our landlord, and we haven't paid rent for 4 months now, so that we could afford the therapy. Our acupuncturist has donated all of our sessions, for as long as we need. My hairdresser is going into the salon on Sunday, when they are closed, so she can give me a (no charge) haircut (my first since July, yikes) in a place where I don't have to deal with the crowds and the busy-ness and superficial chit chat of a bustling hair salon. We had meals delivered three times a week in September and October, and then twice a week through December.

Our friends have rallied around us. Made donations in Otis's name to keep his memory alive. Written his name in the sand, in the snow, on sidewalks with chalk, on refrigerators with magnets. Taught their own children about my boy, shown them his photograph, told them his name. Given us such incredible financial support that we can do the things that help us to heal without finances being a barrier. Sent us flowers, warm cozy heating pads, yummy lotions, lavender oils, "grief relief" flower essence spray, vitamins, bath salts, cards, board games, tea, fudge, organic produce deliveries (we have a dear friend who works on an organic farm and every sunday she has brought us a huge box of produce, for 3 months now.) Brought us a christmas tree and set up the lights on it. Sat with us while we sobbed. Taken us out and let us laugh, cry, or just be - without commenting that we haven't showered or aren't dressed for public...

And of course there is the amazing support of the community here, of my blm mama friends and my old bloggy friends. The comments on my blog posts often show up in the middle of the night, thank god I have friends who live all over the planet - because there are times that I wake up, scared, sad, shaking - and I check email on my phone and there in the middle of the night, I am reminded I'm not alone.

We are so blessed to have this support. Because honestly, it's a very very very thin line that separates me from the woman in the parking lot, doing whatever she can to block out her pain, to forget, to disappear.

Thank you for helping me not to disappear. Thank you for reminding me of me. Thank you for holding me up when I can't hold myself up.

Yes, you. Every single one of you.

A good coupla days

Though of course I hesitate to say that because it seems everytime I pause to breathe and reflect that it's been fairly OK for me, the other shoe drops and I'm met by a streak of really crappy crappy crappy days.

But I'll say it anyway, because these can't be taken away from me, no matter how awful the future days might be: the last few days have been really nice.

I even went so far as to say the other night to E as we lay in bed, (following a 2:30 am panic attack in which I sobbed my lungs out, mind you), "I like the person that I have become since Otis came into our lives so much better than the person I was before him. I really like who he is changing me into..."

When I'm not crumpled on the floor of my closet, sobbing and screaming and pounding the walls, I can notice how this journey is making me more of who I've always wanted to be. I am more compassionate, with myself and with others who are suffering. (I've yet to find compassion for that neighbor B!#@* who yelled at me about not picking up after my dog, when, in fact, I had. And I still flip off a lot of undeserving mothers and fathers who so seemingly smugly hike "our" trail with their babies in their baby wraps. But they don't see me flipping them off, so it's not THAT bad, right? OK, yes, I'm working on the compassion for all beings. Haven't quite made it there yet.)

Many of my friendships have developed and grown in ways I didn't think were possible since Otis died. Old friends have emerged out of the woodwork and shown up for me in ways I never would have expected. I recognize, and appreciate, how loved I am. I love E more than I ever imagined possible. I appreciate him so much, and I have such an incredible sense of respect and adoration for him - it surprises me sometimes, even. I love what our marriage is now. I love the closeness we share. I love that Otis is in many ways like the most special little secret that no one else can ever know the way we do. E often says to me, "Otis is my superpower." I am pushing myself to face longheld fears and knock them down. As is E. Knowing Otis, losing Otis, loving Otis - all of these things challenge me to be a better woman, in ways I didn't know I could. It's pretty fucking phenomenal.

But, of course, there's that caveat in the first sentence of the paragraph two paragraphs above - because, well, yes, there are still a lot of moments that find me just absolutely and completely gutted. Moments where I am completely overcome with panic, with anxiety, with anger, with rage, and at the bottom of all those, sadness. Pretty much every "outburst" I have - whether it be a panic attack, an anxiety attack, a raging fit or yelling at a person on the freeway - when they are distilled - all the outbursts end in flurries of tears, and this deep longing for Otis to be back here, alive, in my arms. And make no mistake - I have outbursts pretty much every day still. So even when I title this post "A good coupla days" - I say that with the asterisk that will accompany everything in my life from now on - *all things considered.

But there were so many breathtaking glimpses of hope, of beauty, of Life, in my world in these last few days. My heart is full, except for that big gaping hole, of course.

Reposting from Glow comments - gratitude

So that I have it here as part of the "historical record" - a repost from a comment I left at Glow, on the topic of gratitude and "what are you thankful for..."

Gosh, I find myself writhing and wrangling and kicking and screaming about commenting here - like a two year old with a temper tantrum, "I DON'T WANT TO BE THANKFUL. I AM NOT THANKFUL FOR ANYTHING! MY BABY IS DEAD!" But, if I stop and connect to my breath, I can find that in fact, there are a few simple gratitudes...and honoring those does not dishonor the tremendous loss of my beautiful baby boy...thank you, eric, for bringing this question to a place where it doesn't feel "wrong" to be grateful, where it doesn't somehow erase my boy's presence, where I can hold the two - gratitude and grief - and it doesn't feel like "look at all the blessings from my son's death" because I simply refuse to look at it that way, if that makes any sense. Without further ado:

I am thankful for Glow, for connecting me to this world of other grieving parents, for helping me to see I am not alone, for helping me to find my voice.

I am thankful for my husband, that he is emotionally mature and verbally adept, that we are finding our way through this together.

I am thankful for my family, for my brother especially, that they have not abandoned us or forgotten Otis.

I am thankful for the care team at the NICU and for the way they handled Otis's birth, short life, and death; with dignity, with honor, with wisdom, with love.

I am thankful for my community, for my friends, for the many ways in which they have shown up and loved on us in this horrible time. For the many meals delivered, for the donations for Otis's funeral and our other financial burdens, for the ways in which they continue to show up for us.

I am thankful for my dogs, the way they cuddle in and remind me of all my mother-ness.

I am thankful for my body, despite my wanting to just hate on it for not being enough to carry my son out of it alive and healthy. I am thankful I have the physical strength to hike in nature, to breathe deeply, to dance again someday.

I am thankful for my beautiful, beautiful baby boy Otis. That he came into my life. That my pregnancy connected me to my body and its power in ways I never imagined possible. That I got to feel him kick and turn and wiggle and hiccup, that I got to hear his mighty heart beating, that I learned just how much I can love someone. I am thankful for his soft skin, his pudgy thighs, his full head of luscious locks, for his squishy little hands and his perfect nose. I am thankful for the ways he continues to make my heart bigger and my life more expansive, even in his absence.

sisterhood

I've been initiated into a sorority I never wanted to join. What makes this unique, I suppose, is that none of us ever dreamt of joining, and nobody joins by choice.

I wander through the world of the babylost moms and find myself awed, and devastated, by our sheer numbers. In my first few days navigating the countless blogs, I found them overwhelming. Now I've settled into a bit more of a familiarity with them. For the most part, I know whose child belongs to whom, and I recognize the mamas as we cross paths in comment sections around the blogosphere.

There are some of us that are so new to the game that our wounds are fresh, gaping open, raw and exposed. We walk through confused, anxious, struggling to complete sentences or thoughts.

Others are a few months down the road. Still struggling with the rawness of emotions from time to time, but living with the wound has become more familiar for them. Their steps are not far ahead of my own, and I find comfort in reading accounts of their "normal" days. Some of their days seem remarkably like my own, drowning in the grief; other days for them they seem more able to dance in the light. Or at least walk through the "normalness" of it all without falling apart - which, right now, is my daily challenge.

And then there are the wise sisters who are years down this road. Some of whom have gone on to have living children, some who have not. They grieve their children's deaths with the same fervor that a mama always will, but they have learned how to live with that grief in ways so that the grief is not the dominant emotion of every day, every moment. Their children continue to be important, be remembered, be honored, be celebrated. These women give me hope that someday I too will be where they are - where the pain is no longer so ferocious that I wake up every night in tears, where the simple words of another's pregnancy announcement don't sting and rip my wound open anew, where I can be with babies, children, mothers, without being knocked breathless by the injustice of it all.

I feel a little bit like a freshman in high school right now. Overwhelmed, stumbling through hallways and corridors and drowning in the workload. I see the seniors, hanging out across the quad, and they just seem so cool - they've got it all figured out, right? I want to be one of them. Now. I hang on their every word like they hold the keys to my sanity. Their reassurance and kindness is all I have to get me through each day.

(Now where the high school analogy goes awry is that in high school nobody really has any sort of anything figured out by their senior year, whereas I really do believe that some of you Senior Medusas (yes you know who you are) have true wisdom. Plus, when were senior girls ever really friendly to the freshmen? In my case, it only happened because I had an older brother who was a senior so if a girl liked him, then maybe, just maybe, she'd be nice to me. And, unfortunately, I also realize, even being the wee freshman that I am, that none of us ever really get to graduate from this high school, so again, it's an imperfect analogy. Bear with me.)

I have been reflecting on the generosity of women and especially the amazing mothering qualities that we all bring to this awful world of grieving a child's death over the last week or so. The ways in which we reach out and support one another, as if we all know that our very lives depend on this sisterhood. I have infinite gratitude for each and every one of you, for every comment that has been left here already - for the "Yes, I've been there" comments, for the "You're in it" comments, for the "Hang on, sweet sister" comments and every. single. gesture. of love, of support, of solidarity.

I know I am so new to this game. And I don't have much to offer in terms of "been there, done that" wisdom. I have no idea how this game is going to play out for me. I can only hope that one day I am able to repay the favor, and support a woman wandering into this world in her first few months, lost, grieving, feeling as if she is losing her mind. I hope that my reaching my hand out to her holds as much hope and as much love as the hands that have reached out to me in the last two months.

Thank you, sisters. Thank you.

Spots around the house

A friend was supposed to come over today, and then she couldn't, as her daughter was napping, and she asked me to come to her. I couldn't leave the house. Not in that so-depressed-I-can't-leave-the-house sort of way, but rather just that I've been really feeling safest here. I think it's because it's where I connect to Otis, and have that sense of mama love the most. I took some photos today to remind me of the spots I feel him the most sweetly around me.

This table set up is what I see when I lie in bed. I stare at the shadows that the trees outside cast upon our shades. I stare at that big fish tail. The wood piece is off the beach from our honeymoon in Tulum. I spend a lot of time staring at this table in the morning, as I lie in bed and think about Otis. After Otis died, there were always fresh flowers on the table, and I learned to love seeing them there, so now I try to keep that table stocked with fresh blooms.

This is the top of Otis's dresser, also in our bedroom, but around a cornerish type thing, so not easily viewed from bed. Right next to this dresser is where we put the elliptical, now that we took the crib out from that space. The dresser is pretty much exactly as we had it before Otis was born, except his clothes and cloth diapers have been removed from the insides, and they sit empty, and now his ashes sit there in a tiny little box. This is where I stop every night to kiss my boy goodnight, and to tell him how much I love him.

Finally, our bed, and Otis's baby blanket. In some cruel and awful twist of fate, the blanket we fell in love with for him before he was born has a Day of the Dead motif with skulls across it. I loved the fabric. My mom gave us the blanket at one of our showers. I sleep with it every night. Even though Otis's little body never got to touch it, it's one of the ways I feel closest to him. Note the various sleep aids on our bedside tables. E and I always ask each other when we're making the bed who wants to have the Crab pillow and who wants to have the Octopus pillow. ("Are you a crab or an octopus today?" I am usually the crab...) I always slept on the crab side until I got pregnant, and then slept on the Octopus side because it was easier to get to the bathroom from. And there's the Woo, source of constant cuteness and a lot of comfort for me these days.
The bedroom is as close as I can get to him these days. I spend a lot of time in there, it's my sanctuary. When Otis first died, we put the TV down there with the idea that the distraction might somehow help me. Four days later, I was going nuts, sobbing at the idea that I destroyed my sanctuary. It felt like the distraction was pushing Otis out of the room. I woke up the next morning and practically threw my back out dragging that old piece of crap TV out of there.

Before Otis, I never cared much about making the bed, or keeping the room neat down there (though I always liked it when it was made.) In the days after his death, our friends made it a point to go in every day and make the bed, change out the flowers, and straighten up. Now it's become a bit of a "thing" for me - I have to have the room cared for. It's where I feel his presence the strongest.

And for the record, I do see the inherent wrongness that I am posting pictures of furniture and spots around my house where I "see" my baby instead of posting his 9 week old photographs of him in his new outfit or doing whatever it is that 9 week old babies do that make moms want to take photos. Shit like this has been occurring to me all day, pretty much every day. Yesterday I was holding the Woo (my 15 pound dog) on my lap and he was restless and I couldn't figure it out, but I picked him up and held him and he let out this big burp. "For fuck's sake, I'm burping my dog instead of my baby," I thought, "it really doesn't get any more pathetic than that."

ps - to those of you who get this as a feed, sorry for all the edits post-publishing. and to all of you, I apologize for the fact that I can't think or write for shit these days.

Gratitude

Hey, thanks. Yes, you. And you too.

Your comments on my last post (well, actually, on all of these posts) are more helpful than I can really express. I really, really, really need connection right now, and the Real Life connections are harder to navigate for me, and I really appreciate you all coming here and your comments here - both from mamas who are in my shoes (or have worn a similar pair) and have walked these awful lonely dark roads and from my friends from around the bloggy cul de sac of what feels a lot like a past life right now...I don't know how better to express it than letting you know that when I wake up in the middle of the night and can't get back to sleep, I pull out my phone and read and reread what's been shared here, and it wraps me a little like a blanket and helps me get back to sleep. During the day, your virtual hands reaching out to hold mine have pulled me out of some serious dark spots. Or just held me while I thrash about in my dark place. Thank you.

Not sure if it was the sun coming out in full force today, getting to see my therapist this morning, the Giants winning the World Series, or some random combination of those events and more, but my mood has shifted a bit today.

I did get a good cry in this morning, in the car on the way to see my therapist. A Dave Matthews' song that spoke to me so much throughout my pregnancy came on - I think it's the first time I've heard it since Otis died. This line, "When the kids are old enough/we're gonna teach them to fly/You and me together/We can do anything..." And it was this beautiful love song, I felt like it was just for me and E and I would get me all giddy about the prospect of parenting with him. I was so excited to do this, to embark on this parenting journey...not just for myself, to become a mother, but because WE were going to do it. Together.

Today, hearing it again for the first time since Otis died, of course it shattered me. I pulled my car off the road so I could sob. And then the chorus came through the second time, and I heard it differently...You and me together we can do anything...

Anything. We can do anything. But this? Why this? Never ever would I wish this journey on a couple. And yet, there it was, a glimmer of hope, a flicker of light in those lyrics this morning. I actually felt lucky there, that I am married to this man that I love so completely, that we are wandering mostly hopelessly through this crazy terrifying forest/cavern/abyss together. E and I are doing this, together. I am a better woman because of how I love him, and because of how he loves me. I love him more than I ever thought I could. I look at him and my heart soars and swells - 7 weeks ago I couldn't imagine loving him this much - and I look at him and my heart shatters because it hurts me so right to my bones that he doesn't have Otis in his arms right now. As robbed as I feel that my baby boy isn't here with me, it is equally devastating to recognize the emptiness for E.

It is one of those blessings that I never wished I had been put in a situation to recognize that I have so clearly gotten to see Erik's ability to be a dad, to parent so completely, to love unconditionally and with no end through this loss.

(Oh my gosh, the schmaltziness of this is about to make me gag. Apologies. It's late and I'm tired and want to get my thoughts in print and don't have energy for editing or revision. Please note that I also reserve the right for any and all future frustrations with him...)