pretty things

This Saturday, March 29, it will have been 3 months.  I anticipate this day with both relief, and dread.

Relief!

Because PRAISE THE BABY JEEBUS time does pass, life does go on, and I have survived this ordeal thus far.  It has been so, so hard.  It will continue to be hard.  But I am getting better.  Every week that passes is a triumph and a miracle and a step towards being a person who does not live in utter misery and pain.  I am so relieved to still be standing and still love myself and still have a great relationship with my husband.  Thank fucking goodness for him, for me, for US.  When we left St. Luke's the night of December 29th 2013 with the emptiest of arms, I had no idea what to expect.  I knew it would be hard.  I knew that I could not possibly fathom the pain I was in for.  I was terrified.  I worried that I might kill myself, that I might push away everyone who ever loved me, that I might just become totally unhinged, evolve into one of those poor women you hear discussed in hushed tones.  "... just a shell of a person now... never fully recovered... never the same..."  But HI GUYS I am alive, and relatively healthy.  It amazes me.  Do I still experience utter fucking misery?  YES.  Just yesterday I cried to Turner that I wish someone would smack me in the face with a two by four; anything to feel something different, to put me out of my misery.  I hate those moments.  I know that they will pass, as that one did, but this shit is HARD.  And to be honest, there is some truth to those hushed tones.  I am not shell of a person, and I do believe I can recover from this in a way, but I will NEVER be the same.  I am slowly figuring out what that means and how to incorporate this tragedy into the tapestry of my life.  I have survived thus far with a blind faith that if I wake up each morning, white knuckle through the most suffocating moments, laugh when I want to laugh, cry when I want to cry, and essentially just submit to the grief and its process, that I will survive and come out the other side.  That blind faith has given way to something more and more real, as I catch glimpses of joy and hope and feel more and more like a whole person again.

Dread.

Because NO.  No.  Please, no, don't let this really be happening.  Don't let me get any further away from holding my daughter's dead body, because every second that passes between then and now is another step away from her.  The chance that some miracle might happen and that I might find some way to go back in time and undo all of this becomes less and less plausible.  Some might argue that going back in time was NEVER plausible, and those people are... technically correct.  But tell that shit to a grieving mother, who reaches out to touch a bassinet by her bed that isn't there.  Who deeply breaths in the scent of a coming home outfit that was never worn.  Who has touched, smelled and even tasted her dead daughter's ashes in some attempt to be near her again.  Who lights a candle day after day in some futile attempt to express a mother's love.  I've done all those things.  The reality of being a bereaved mom is the only one that I know, yet it still feels wrong.

I wrote awhile back about book 5 of the Anne of Green Gables series, in which Anne's daughter dies.  Montgomery, the book's author, also experienced the tragedy of a stillborn baby, and holy shit, did she nail it on the head.  That feeling of experiencing the brightest and most blinding of joys, only to suffer a loss so suffocating and empty that all you can do is wail in agony.  It's cruel, this loss.  I hate to give the pain a personality, because I hate to give it more power than it should have, to make it seem personal, or to martyr myself in any way.  But I does sometimes feel like a villain that wraps you in a warm hug, only to stab you in the kidney.  Montgomery also talked about how Anne came out the other side; she does make it through, and she finds the ability to smile and feel joy again, but there is always something in her smile, after losing her baby.  Something that wasn't there before.

I can relate to that.

I can be filled with both relief and dread.  I can be happy and still be kinda sad.  I can have moments of despair sandwiched between moments of hope.  All of this is ok, and normal, and the reality of our lives after Nina-Lou.

Nina-Lou.  I fantasized about speaking that name.  Singing it to rouse her from a nap.  Calling from another room.  Even shouting it, firm, staccato, and fierce.  Now I just speak it wistfully.  I whisper it as I light a candle at night.  I say it aloud to myself, hesitatingly, sometimes feeling a slight presence on the other end of the words, sometimes feeling a huge, disappointing, dreadful nothing.  It's usually the latter.  She's dead.  It's awful, and man, it hurts.

I want to write about other things.  About the superficial things that day to day life is full of, the everyday things that make me happy.  Like the eyeliner I started wearing.  The exercise I have started doing.  The furniture I want to buy for the kitchen.  Color palettes.  Food.  Coffee.  Fashion.  A new purse.  I might start to write about these things more, if it feels right.  I do love these things, these pretty, delicious, thrilling, rich things.  But for whatever reason, this is not what falls onto the page when I sit down to write.

I am busy, busy, busy drawing and shading in the details and nuances of this new smile of mine, but the picture is still unclear.  I stand further and further back, squinting my eyes, trying to see the whole thing, but it's a blur.  When I'm not trying too hard, when I soften my vision and catch a glimpse of it out of the corner of my eye, almost by accident, I can see it.  The whole thing.  It is there and it is real, and all of the crying and the laughing and the screaming and the steps forward and the falling backward and the getting back up and falling back down is all worth SOMETHING.  Her life and her death and my life, it all may not have happened for a reason, but it has to be meaningful in some way.

I'm going back to school in two weeks.  I'm scared and excited.  Relieved and dreadful.  Happy and sad.

Moving forward, but always looking, wishing, and yearning backward.

happy birthday

Yesterday was my birthday.  I am 36 years old.  

I feel much, much younger than 36; I feel like I have eons left to live.  

I also feel far older.  I have lived through shit that most of my ancestors never experienced.  I am fucking ancient.

It's weird to be in this place and to be celebrating.  I did celebrate.  It was fun.  I received so many well wishes, which was also strange.  It seems terribly out of place to have people smiling at me and telling me "Happy Birthday!" when I'm living through what is undoubtedly the worst time in my life.  

But, always the attention whore, I liked it.  People were correct in assuming that I would want to find happiness on my birthday despite the tragedy of losing Nina-Lou.  I didn't feel guilty about it, like I might have a month ago.  I drank wine outdoors.  I skated in the park.  I laughed with friends.  I got sunburned.  I stuffed my face.  I indulged in expensive lattes and fancy chocolate.  All of this was truly GOOD.  

She was there, or rather the void she left behind her was there.  I missed her so much.  I had really looked forward to this first birthday as a mom.  I had planned on hosting a picnic, and inviting everyone I knew to come celebrate with us.  Bring your kids, bring your dogs, bring everyone.  Let's be grown up mom-women and enjoy ourselves and bask in the wonder and joy of our new lives.  

Things didn't turn out the way I had imagined.  It still takes me by surprise.  I still sometimes can't believe that we had a baby, that we ALL built this beautiful, welcoming space for her in our lives, and she died.  I can't believe she died.  

Turner took me to my favorite Ethiopian restaurant in Berkeley on Sunday night, the night before my actual birthday.  The food was great.  I enjoyed Turner's company immensely.  As we drove home, the sun had recently set, and the sky was a steely blue that reflected on the bay, and the lights of San Francisco twinkled in the distance, and the moon rose up full and yellow behind us as we crossed the Bay Bridge, and it was a beautiful night, and my heart broke all over again, like it does again and again every day since she died.  I didn't cry.  I am used to the feeling by now.  I'm a lot tougher than I used to be.  Or, at least tougher than I had to be.  I don't want any of this.  The universe takes what it will.  I am tiny, powerless, insignificant.

Here's to many, many more birthdays to come.  Birthdays better than this one.  I believe they exist.  

Here's to Nina, and all the other babies who died before they should have.

I miss Nina-Louise.  

I miss my old life.  

We are trying hard.  

We are doing ok.  

We are strong.

We are a mess.    

Cheers.

after

Last night I bought the Anne of Green Gables series.  I loved the books as a little girl, and I have been wanting to read them again.  I wanted to lose myself in something mildly familiar and comforting.  But what I really wanted was to read book 5, Anne's House of Dreams.  I am starting with this book because I know what happens: Anne marries Gilbert, moves into the house of her dreams, gets pregnant, and delivers a stillborn daughter.

I don't remember if I know this because I actually read this one when I was young, or if someone told me what happens.  I am not actually sure if I ever made it through all 8 of the books in the series.  But I have been thinking about Anne, and kind of... worrying about her, in a strange way.  Poor Anne, having to go through this.  The writer of the Anne series, Lucy Maud Montgomery, suffered a stillbirth.  She had three children, all boys, and the second was stillborn.  It really bothered me, upon reading her Wikipedia entry, that the stillbirth of her son is only given one sentence.  I am sure she was forever changed by the death of her son, like I'm changed by the death of Nina-Lou.  I saw my life going one way, and then it made an abrupt turn, not just in another direction, but into another reality.

Everything before is so different from everything after.

On Saturday night, I wanted to watch The Royal Tenenbaums, largely because I wanted to see how the person I am now would relate to the film.  I find myself wanting to re-experience all kinds of things in this new reality.  Life is so different now; sometimes more dull, sometimes more vivid.  Sometimes it is so vivid that I can't stand it and I have to look away, shield my eyes behind dark glasses and stare at my phone for too long.  And sometimes it's so dull that it smothers me in dry ash, stopping up my throat and caking in the pits of my eyes and I have to try desperately to drag myself through the day under the weight of it.  I admit that there are still times that I want to die rather than live in this.  But I know these moments will pass, and I have neither the true will or the stomach to hurt myself.  There are times when I think it would be nice to just lie down and let the avalanche of pain bury me, but no matter how long I lie, the pain fails to do me in.  So I get up and do stuff.  I prefer life, anyway.

I'm only about 9 chapters into Anne's House of Dreams, but knowing what's coming, and knowing that Montgomery also knew what was coming as she wrote it, the whole book becomes so heartbreaking.  Right now, I'm in Anne's "before".  When she knows that she is the luckiest woman in the world, to be with the person she loves, in a beautiful place, surrounded by things that make her happy.  Anne's before is a tad more romantic than my own, but I know what it is to feel blessed.  And I am so sad for Anne that she is going to find out that she really isn't, that no one is.

I don't believe in god, or believe that any deity blesses anyone.  The idea that some people might actually think that god or the universe or some sort of omnipotent being has chosen to bless them rather than me and my husband just really fucking pisses me off.  You are not blessed.  You are lucky.

The really fucked up thing is that I felt that way once.  Although we had little by way of money or material things, Turner and I have been lucky to find each other early in life, to both have been raised by parents who love us deeply and would do anything for us, to have been well educated and to be surrounded by a community of wonderful friends.  I suffered through my 3 miscarriages and then got pregnant with Nina-Louise and I thought that my suffering had served a purpose.  I thought that maybe the universe was bringing me what I needed at just the right time.  When I was about 6 weeks pregnant, when we knew the pregnancy could very well end up to be a miscarriage, we ate dinner one night at the little Vietnamese restaurant up the street, and I got a fortune at the end of the night that said "Luck is coming your way."  I saved it, and I still carry it in my wallet.  At the time, I was really hoping it was true, and there are times now when I still feel that way; when I hope that maybe I just haven't gotten to the luckiest part of my life yet.

I hope I haven't used up all my luck already.  I hope that the after can have times that are as good as the before.  I know it will be different.  I know I will always see things through the lens of bereavement.  But I want to feel lucky again.

absence and presence

I wake each Sunday knowing that another full week has passed since we lost her.  It has now been 9 weeks and 3 days.  When I think about where she would be right now, what she would be doing, what our lives would be like... to say it breaks my heart only demonstrates how inadequate our language is at expressing true grief.

I wish, with the most magical of thinking, that I did not have to be a mom to a dead child.  I wish I could look into her eyes, which I imagine would sparkle and crinkle at the edges when she smiled, like her dad's.  I can see her smile, goofy and mischievous.  I can feel her tiny grip on my finger, and picture how her dad and I would laugh and marvel at her amazing brute strength, despite her petite size.  

Turner and I went out to lunch last weekend at a small vietnamese restaurant near our apartment.  It's a little bittersweet, going to this place.  It is filled with neighborhood regulars; mainly couples and families.  It is brightly lit and bustling, but laid back and easy.  It's a good place to bring a baby or a toddler.  Pho is my favorite food, and I wanted to share it, along with all the other delicious and beautiful and funny things in the world, with Nina-Lou.  I knew she would love it all, like I do.  Turner and I sat and ate and laughed a little and slurped our noodles, and every once and awhile a moment of silence passed in which we knew that the both of us were feeling her absence, which is so palpable that it is almost a presence.  It IS a presence.  We feel her with us, all the time.  It's eerie, and comforting, and profoundly sad.  

The other day, I transferred her ashes to a small, airtight canister.  It's not fancy, but it's sturdy and won't shatter if it gets knocked down by one of our cats or in an earthquake.  Her ashes, the only physical remnants of her corporal body, are safe in there.  To keep them safe is the least I can do.  What is left of her amounts to about a quarter cup of fine ash and tiny chunks of bone.  I was deeply struck by their beauty; the colors of her burnt bones were a combination of the most delicate pastels and grays.  I feel lucky to have them.  When we first lost Nina, I wasn't even sure if I wanted them.  But having her remains, here in the apartment with us, we feel a weird kind of completeness.  We had considered scattering them, but we can't.  We need them close.  

It doesn't bring her back.  It doesn't bring her any closer.  We can talk about her and feel her presence and run our fingers through her ashes, but she is dead and will always be dead.  All we can do is miss her.  Some days it hurts more than others.  But it always hurts, at least a little, every minute of every day.