by the brooke

Fighting the Fear

2012-01-30T15:31:00.000-06:00

I'm writing this in response to My New Normal's link-up that asked how you handle the fear in a pregnancy after a loss.

Unfortunately, I don't have any brilliant advice. The way I wrap my head around the devastating risks and the potential rewards on any given day changes from bursts of optimism ("This baby is going to be fine!"), to a stoic acceptance ("There's nothing I can do at this point"), to the same kind of hoping/wishing/praying/bargaining I did with Eliza ("Please, please, please let this baby be okay." You know, because that was SO effective the first time around...). So even though I'm not very good at convincing myself at any given time that everything is going to be okay, there are some specific things I do to try to keep myself from going totally batshit crazy.

1) I see two doctors.

I'm seeing my regular OB and a high risk maternal-fetal medicine specialist. This means I have had an appointment every two weeks since I got a positive test. I hear the heartbeat often, and I've seen the baby on ultrasound several times already. It also means that I get continuing reassurance from two different people, who are both highly educated and very experienced. At the very least, I can tell myself that I'm in good hands in terms of my healthcare.

2) I see a therapist.

It's the same therapist I started seeing right after Eliza died when I was sure I couldn't survive the death of my baby AND maintain my sanity (we're still working on that). She's great. She is easy to talk to, she validates the way I'm feeling, she disagrees with me if she thinks I'm wrong about something, she challenges me to articulate why I'm having a certain response to a person or situation, and she acknowledges that we've suffered a loss and a trauma and that it's really, really hard. For a while, going to grief therapy was seriously like the bright spot of my week (oh, that was a sad time). I always leave there feeling better, and often with a concrete plan of what I can do to make myself feel marginally better and somewhat in control of things.

3) I don't have a Doppler.

I know that in the world of people who have lost babies, this is crazy talk. I can't tell you how many times I've read on someone's blog that a Doppler saved her sanity or got her through her pregnancy. It's not that I don't want to listen to the heartbeat or know what the baby is up to (seriously, if there was an ultrasound app for my iphone, the Deuce would have absolutely no privacy in my uterus). I actually say to David a couple times a week, "I wish I had a Doppler." But I still haven't bought or borrowed one. I guess it's because I am clinging to some version of "normal" this time around. I think Dopplers can offer peace of mind, but I don't think that they save babies. So I have decided not to get one. Yes, it means I sometimes worry when I could just listen to the heartbeat, but it also means that I have to trust that things are still ok, even though I have no way to know for sure. And for me that's a big deal. It's one way that I try to feel like I am getting through the fear and acknowledging that so much of this is out of my control, but that it can still be okay. If that makes sense.

(And it might not make sense to you at all, which is fine. I'm certainly not saying that Dopplers are bad--I totally get why people have and use them--or use TWO of them, haha! It's just a decision that David and I made that feels right for us. At least most of the time...)

4) I go to yoga classes.

I know, so boring, yoga, blah blah, breathing, blah. But I leave my hour-and-a-half yoga class on Thursday nights, and I breathe easier than any other moment in my week. It's a time when I think about Eliza, when I think about the Deuce, when I think about my ongoing connection to both of them, and on a good night I'm able to do this with a sense of peace.

When I was pregnant with Eliza, I looked forward to prenatal yoga every Monday night. This time around, it kind of broke my heart that I wouldn't be attending a prenatal yoga class. But there was NO way I could show up at the YMCA and join those first-time moms who were so blissfully happy and inquisitive about MY pregnancy and how I was feeling... The mere thought makes me want to vomit. So I figured I'd just do my regular yoga until it got too awkward to do it anymore and then I'd quit.

Well, I was only 10 and a half weeks along when certain yoga moves (cobra) weren't working out for me. Not because my belly was bulging out (I still wasn't showing), but because my boobs were so freaking sore (and gianormous) that I couldn't lie comfortably on my chest. So I modified cobra, hanging out in child's pose, and my instructor came over to ask me if I had a spinal injury. At 10 and a half weeks, the only people who knew I was pregnant were David, my parents, and my therapist. So I kind of panicked and even though we were whispering, I wasn't about to announce that I was pregnant in front of the yoga class. So I just whispered, "I am just feeling kind of, um, tender here" (gesturing frantically at my boob region). My instructor nodded and said, "OK, well just keep modifying then." And I thought that was the end of it.

But no. After class that day, she stopped me on my way out, all sweet and concerned like the earth-mother hippie that she is, and she asked me if I'd had surgery (as she gestured at her own boob region). I immediately understood what she was getting at because I was totally at the porn-star phase of pregnancy where my boobs are HUGE and the belly just looks a little thick in the waist. So I starting laughing and said, "Uh, no. It looks like I've been augmented, but actually I'm just ten weeks pregnant."

Fortunately she was totally cool about it. She congratulated me, asked no prying questions, and then said she was glad I told her because she'll help me modify my workout. I asked if it was fine if I kept coming for the duration of my pregnancy and she said absolutely. So... prenatal yoga without any other pregnant ladies? But with incense and hippie chanting and affirmations? Yes, please! It's like a dream come true.

5) I'm picky about what I eat and the bath/body products I use.

I was already sort of zealous about this with Eliza, but I definitely use it as a way to feel a little bit in control of things with the Deuce. I'm not at all convinced that organic produce is always necessary, that a glass of wine would actually hurt the baby, that paraben-free cosmetics make any difference at all. But if it makes me feel the tiniest smidgen better about things? I'm all for it. So I splurge on the organic produce, I smell David's beer instead of tasting it (even when it looks delicious), I put mozzarella instead of blue cheese on my salad, and I only buy lotion that rates 4 or lower in the Skin Deep database. I know people have healthy babies all the time who pay no attention to any of that stuff (hell, I'm friends with some of them). But I also know that this is a way for me to take charge of a situation that is mostly out of my hands. So I do what I can. Organic produce never hurt anybody, right?

6) I'm quiet about this pregnancy.

I do not volunteer the information that I am pregnant to acquaintances or strangers or sales people or students. I'm still wearing loose fitting shirts and scarves to hide the bump when I'm teaching. If friends ask how I'm feeling, sometimes I just say, "I miss Eliza." Because sometimes THAT feeling is stronger than any other. I don't mind discussing this pregnancy with people who have fully acknowledged and shared the grief of our loss, but I don't have a lot of patience with people who want to be happy for us but are unwilling to be sad with us. If I talk about the future, I preface statements about this summer or next fall with, "If this baby lives..." or I follow up comments about a future baby with "hopefully." It's important to me to be honest and cautious as I proceed with this pregnancy.

7) I distract myself.

I read four novels while we were in Mexico. I now have three magazine subscriptions. I troll home decorating blogs like I'm a scout for HGTV. I scour Pinterest for little projects (you can follow me at pinterest.com/bythebrooke). I plan our evenings at home by the week so we have little things to look forward to (Monday: Blackthorn Pizza and Breaking Bad; Tuesday: massage and Mexican food; Wednesday: go to the movies; Thursday: coffee with a friend, etc.).

After we got home from Mexico, I still had weeks before my semester started. In addition to prepping for class, I cleaned out my closet, I worked on sewing projects, I researched furniture sales, and I reorganized our file cabinet with the help of a freaking LABEL MAKER (which I bought specifically for that purpose). All in the name of Distraction. Because sometimes (read: often) I need to think about anything but babies/pregnancy.

8) I read nothing about pregnancy.

Last time, I read everything I could get my hands on. Books, blogs, websites, magazines--if it was about pregnancy, natural childbirth, breastfeeding, parenting, baby products, children's toys, I wanted to read it. I thought the more information I had, the better prepared I'd be. Well, nothing prepared me for what happened. And while it's true that my brain can recall a whole lot of what I read while pregnant with Eliza, I just don't let myself think about it. I don't go to pregnancy websites, I don't browse for baby clothes, I don't look at pregnancy calendars, I'm not going to take another childbirth class. There is no way I could be more prepared than I was the first time around, so this time I refuse to do that stuff. After all, I've done this before.

9) I've scaled back on reading about grief.

There was a time when I wanted to read Everything Ever Written On the Internet Or In A Book about stillbirth or grief or loss or death or sadness. I wanted to hear every story. I wanted to know that I wasn't alone. It's still true that I wand and need to know that I'm not alone, but I no longer want to be immersed in that kind of story. I'm just in a slightly different place right now. I'm eternally grateful for the parents I've met who are struggling with the same grief that we deal with every day, but I think of ya'll as friends, not as grief-stories. I no longer troll the internet for blogs about loss, and I rarely (or never) visit some of the websites that were lifelines to me in the early days. It's not because I don't care about those stories, or because I don't want to connect with people who have experienced a similar sorrow, but because sometimes (lots of times) it's just healthier for me to spend that time baking banana bread or watching The Big Bang Theory or reading a book. At first I felt guilty and strange about that, but I'm trying to accept that my grief is evolving and this is where I need to be now.

10) I listen to '90s rock.

I know this sounds stupid, but usually I listen to NPR in the car (nerd alert! nerd alert!) and sometimes it makes me feel too anxious. Guess what? The economy is still bad. The environment is going to hell in handbasket. The Republican primary is going on and Newt Gingrich scares me. Nobody is confident that Barack Obama will get reelected. And if you think THAT's bad, let me tell you about the lack of education for young girls in Afghanistan, or transient teenagers dying in a warehouse fire, or Heidi Klum and Seal's divorce (I'm starting to think that renewing your vows is just asking for trouble...). Sometimes the world is just too much.

So instead I listen to the gen-x radio station. Because when these songs were cool, I was not tired and frightened and grieving. I was confident and young and unafraid of life. And, amazingly, even now those songs can transfer me right back to cruising around town in my 1968 Plymouth Valiant, with the Smashing Pumpkins and Radiohead and Alanis Morissette and Bush playing on my tape deck. There are a lot of wonderful songs I love to listen to that make me think about Eliza, but Green Day doesn't sing any of them and sometimes I need to turn off the Eliza playlist and turn on Pearl Jam. It's amazing how a soundtrack can alter your mood sometimes.

***

So that's how I manage the fear. It's an imperfect system to be sure. I just hope it's good enough to get me through the next 22-ish weeks. Any other tips or suggestions you can offer me? (Except I don't want to hear how much you love your Doppler, peeps.) Anyone else use a label maker? Anyone else sometimes feel guilty about or surprised by their way their grief evolves? Anyone else looooove '90s music as much as I do?

Another Good-bye

2012-01-29T07:22:00.000-06:00

As I said in the last post, David's grandpa passed away earlier this week. We're at his grandma's house now, dealing with the aftermath of the memorial service, hitting my limit of time with the in-laws, eating copious amounts of food, and wishing everybody was here for some other reason.

There's so much that could be said about Gene Whillock (he was funny and ornery and generous and kind), but I don't think I could say it any better than David did in the eulogy that he gave at the memorial service, so I'm just going to post the letter that he wrote here. He read this letter to his grandpa a few days before his death, and he shared it with everyone who attended the funeral.

To use his words, Gene Whillock was a good ole boy. He was a good friend, a hard worker, a great husband and the best grandfather a boy could ask for. As many of you know, my grandpa could tell a story. And before he passed away, I wanted to remind him of a few of my favorite stories, so I wrote him a letter that I would like to share with you.

Dear Grandpa,

Saying good bye is never easy, and too often saying good bye comes too late. So before we have to say our farewells to each other, I want to make sure you know how proud I am of you and how much I appreciate everything you have done for me. Grandpa, all my life I have looked up to you. And as I was growing up, I wanted to be just like you.

I remember as a child, your alarm going off in what seemed the middle of the night as you prepared for work that day. Later that morning I would go off to school, looking forward to you picking me up that afternoon. You would pick me up each day from school, take me McDonald’s or Arby’s, whichever was giving away the best toy, and we would go back to the house for a snack and my favorite, a game of catch.

When you worked second shift, I remember wanting to stay up late to see you when you got off work. I would often take a nap after school, just so I could be awake for some cheese and crackers when you got home. And on the weekends, you would always make time to hit me fly balls in the back yard.

Often you would take long trips to help on “special projects” for Boeing. Although I never looked forward to you leaving, I remember how excited I was to see you when you returned. Going to the airport to pick you up was like Christmas day for me. Not only because you brought me back something special from your trip, but because my grandpa was back. We would walk down to the local school yard with my bat a glove and you would hit me grounders for what seemed hours.

Through the years I have heard your many stories about Boeing and looked up to how hard you worked. You taught me to be the hard worker that I am today.

As a child I remember taking walks with you and Grandma around the neighborhood. Often I would ride my big wheel tricycle or you would pull me in my wagon (the one you gave me as an early Christmas present). What I remember about those walks the most was the time we spent together as a family.

I also remember our family vacations. I remember loading the camper in the back of the truck and going to the lake for the weekend where you taught me to fish. I remember trips to Saint Louis to watch a ballgame. My favorite vacation we took as a family was our trip to Walt Disney World. We loaded up the silver Lincoln and headed south. Although I ended up with terrible sunburn, it was a great trip.

Although our family vacations were memorable, it was our family dinners I will remember most. Grandma would be working hard in the kitchen and you would be out back on the grill and I would be in between, just watching and learning from both of you.

Fifty years is a long time, and I will never forget getting to celebrate your fiftieth wedding anniversary. Brooke and I went through pictures of you and Grandma, putting them together into a slide show to the Alan Jackson tune of “Remember When.” It made me realize you taught me not only to be a good person, but also a good husband.

Growing up, I wanted to be a major league baseball player. I would throw that old rubber ball against the house countless times pretending to be Ozzie Smith of the St. Louis Cardinals turning a double play to win the World Series. Other times we would stand in the back yard and play catch or you would hit me fly balls. I also remember learning the game of baseball as we sat around the radio listening to the St. Louis Cardinals or on those special occasions when we would get to see them on the TV. You would tell me about the players and explain the details of the game to me. You taught me the game was as much mental as it was physical.

As I got older, my dreams of a shortstop began to fade, but I turned into a pretty good pitcher. I always looked forward to looking up into the crowd and see you cheer me on. You traveled far and wide just to watch me play. And after a big win, my favorite thing to do was to flip you the game ball as a keepsake and a thank you for coming out to watch me play.

When my playing days in college days were over, you took me to Atlanta to watch the All-Star Game. That trip will always be one of my favorite memories. We loaded up the hertz rental car and headed to Georgia for the homerun derby and the 2000 All-Star game. Sammy Sosa amazed the crowd with his homeruns in the derby and we saw the likes of Derek Jeter, Chipper Jones, Randy Johnson, and Jimmy Edmonds shine in the All-Star game. When the 9^th inning was over and the fireworks went off, it was the American League who won the game. On our way home from that trip, I realized my dreams of playing in the World Series were coming to an end. Although I was moving into a new chapter of my life, I was prepared because I had you showing me the way.

A few years later, I asked you if I could borrow your car, and not just any car, your Mustang. I didn’t need it for a long trip, just from the Methodist church in Nevada to the 3M clubhouse as Brooke and I left our wedding. Some of my favorite pictures from that day are us in your Red Mustang, with you behind the wheel.

Somehow, this crazy life led me to St. Louis where Brooke and I started our future together. I will always remember your visits to St. Louis and our times at the ballpark, cheering on our favorite Cardinals to victory. In my lifetime, we have seen three Cardinals World Series titles. Not one was better than this year as our underdogs came out of nowhere to become the World Series Champs. I will always cherish sitting at your house, by your side, during Game Seven of the 2011 World Series as we watched our team win the championship.

As you know, the past year has been the hardest time of my life. Brooke and I lost our daughter Eliza, and now I have to say good bye to you. Before you leave, I want you to know how proud I am of you and I will make you proud of me. I will be a good friend, I will work hard every day, I will be a great husband, I will take care of Grandma, and someday pass on everything that you have taught me. I just ask one last thing of you, that you find my angel Eliza, and take care of her like you did for me for so many years. I love you Grandpa and I will think of you every day.

Your grandson,

David

David's Grandpa

2012-01-28T12:10:00.002-06:00

In memory of Arthur Eugene "Gene" Whillock.

December 31, 1933 - January 23, 2012

Husband, father, grandfather, great-grandfather, friend, and Cardinal fan.

Gene spent his childhood barefoot and wearing overalls. He looks so cute in this picture, but he actually had a very rough childhood. As David's grandma says, he just didn't have anybody to ever say they loved him. He left home at age 14 and made his own way in the world. He grew up to be the kind of dad and grandpa that he never had.

This is how he looked around the time he met David's grandma. Peggy remembers that little curl on his forehead. She found it pretty irresistible.

Our favorite picture of David's grandparents. His grandpa is such a flirt.

At their wedding. David's grandma embarrassed both of us yesterday by telling us that his grandpa was a "perfect gentleman" before their wedding. Unlike some of her other boyfriends who "just wanted to make out"!

David, his grandpa, his aunt Lana, and his grandpa's sideburns. Those sideburns can practically stand alone. I love David's little overalls. And his blonde hair!

Family photo, sometime in the early '80s. I love David's sassy hand on the hip, and his cowboy boots. He was so proud to be dressed just like Grandpa. The sideburns are still rocking.

David and two people who think the sun rises and sets in him. We love the pocket protector, too.

My miniature golf buddy.

Hanging out on the back porch after working in the yard. Little Mac claimed her own chair (typical).

Breaking the rules at Grandma's house--no dogs EVER allowed on the furniture! Sometimes Gramps makes his own rules.

53 years of marriage, sparks still flying.

Last year, David gave his grandpa a personalized bat from the Louisville Slugger factory. No grandson could have been prouder of his grandpa, and no grandpa could have been prouder of his grandson.

Two Cardinal fans, heading to another game.

There's just nobody quite like Gene. He was funny and ornery and generous and kind. He was quite the storyteller, and even though he couldn't always express his emotions, he was a tender-hearted guy who would have done anything for anyone in his family. We're all going to miss him, but I know that it's especially hard for David's grandma (they were married for 53 years) and for David, who had to say good-bye to his biggest fan, his fishing buddy, and one of his favorite people in the world. Thanks for keeping us in your thoughts and prayers.

Not Better, Not Worse

2012-01-23T14:19:00.000-06:00

A member of David's family made a comment over the weekend that hurt me a lot. I'm still rolling it around, and flinching at the way it continues to bruise. It was not mean-spirited, or said with malice. It was one of those things people say when they are trying to make sense of something that doesn't make sense, and they're trying to fit an unthinkable truth into a narrative that they are comfortable with, and they're speaking from their perspective instead of trying to understand how you feel, because inhabiting your perspective would be too hard and too scary and too painful.

This person said, in regard to Eliza, "If it had to happen, it's better that it happened when it did. Because it would be so much harder to lose a child when they are one or two and you've gotten to know them and their personality, you know?"

I wasn't actually part of the conversation. It was between David and this family member, and it was a major step that anyone was actually talking about Eliza, because his family has not been the greatest about that kind of thing, and I was sort of half-listening to the conversation while also messing around on the iPad (because Pinterest is a priority in my life, people). I was proud of David for the things he was saying about Eliza, and I was touched that this family member was saying her name and acknowledging our loss, and then suddenly he went on and said that, and my throat just closed up and my heart felt like a cold hunk of raw meat thudding against my chest.

I held my breath, waiting to hear what David would say.

He made a noncommittal noise, neither agreeing nor disagreeing, and deliberately shifted the subject to talk about her memorial tree.

I took a deep breath. And then I let it go. At that moment, I couldn't articulate an argument that made sense, even in my own head. But I wanted to scream "NO! It's not like that! It's not that easy! That comparison doesn't even WORK!"

I understood why David did not engage with this person. As nice as this guy is, he'd be the first to admit that he's opinionated and aggressive, and he's prone to talking about subjects at great length, and unless David truly wanted to engage in an hour-long pseudo-philosophical debate about the hypothetical "betters" or "worses" of child loss, there was no point in disputing his comment. I didn't blame David for not openly disagreeing with him, and I certainly didn't want to speak up.

But I wish he knew that he is wrong. That he is SO freaking wrong.

The problem is, I used to think the same thing. That it would be easier if you'd never known the baby. How attached can you get to a child you never actually met outside your belly? How attached can you get in just a few hours at a hospital? Certainly it would be easier to lose a baby you've barely known than to lose a baby to SIDS, or a toddler to leukemia, or a grade-school child to a hit and run car accident, right?

The truth is, there is no "better" time for a child to die. It would be horrifying to lose a child who is ten days old. Four months old. Two years old. Six years old. Sixteen. It would be stunning and traumatizing and soul-scorching, and the recovery would be arduous and agonizing. There is absolutely no disputing that. I would never suggest that my loss is harder or worse than someone else who has lived through the death of their child. Heartbreak is heartbreak, and there is no point in trying to compare.

Still, it was a revelation to me that it would be equally terrible and heartbreaking to have a much-loved and much-wanted baby who never got to come home. I know, because I tried to rationalize it in my own head in those early days, trying to figure out some way to endure what I'd always imagined I couldn't survive. I looked for that elusive silver lining. I tried desperately to believe that this horrible, darkened, depleted version of my life was somehow better than some other version might have been. Was this easier than having her die later? "At least..." I would think, "At least..." But there was no way to finish that sentence. Why did she have to die at all? "At least she never felt any pain." That was the best I could do.

We'd all agree in general that "quick and painless" is better when it comes to the type of death, but I cannot find a method of evaluating the timing of the loss of a child that makes it one bit easier or better than any other day or year. Two months. Twenty-six years. Any parent who outlives their son or daughter will tell you that they weren't given enough time.

What I'm trying to say is that the fact that she died before she was born did not, in fact, make her loss better or easier. Just different. But equally sad.

The truth is, there's a dark, twisty part of me that envies parents who have memories of live babies, laughing babies, quiet time rocking or nursing, bubble baths and pink pajamas, even if those babies later died. You see, I lost those things, too, but I never got to have them to begin with.

Our house felt so empty when we came home without Eliza, despite the fact that she'd never really been there. It would have been different, certainly, if a baby monitor had suddenly gone silent, if our kitchen was stocked with bottles or sippy cups, if there had been a load of her laundry in the dryer. But just because she hadn't ever slept in her room, or crawled across our floors, or splashed in our bathtub, that didn't make being home without her better or easier. It was as hollow and crushing and painful as any other loss. And anyone who thinks differently is wrong.

David and I can talk now about my pregnancy with Eliza, and remember some of the sweet moments with a smile. But we don't have shared memories of her alive. We don't have stories to tell about her with our families. We can't reminisce about the time she did this or that. We have no good times that include Eliza on the outside. It's such a lonely ache, to love a child who never got to live.

And it hurts to have that ache diminished by someone who insists that it's better or easier this way.

It comes down to this: There is no better when a child dies. Not for the people who are left behind.

Not knowing her personality does not make our loss easier to bear; it adds its own particular brand of pain. We'll never know. We're simply left to wonder. As long as we live. Far from making it easier to let her go, not having been able to know her is its own special brand of torture.

And we will so often encounter people--people who love us, people who would have loved Eliza, people who are kind and well-meaning--who will fail to understand or properly honor our loss because they want to believe it was better that it happened like it did.

I tell myself that it's not my responsibility to educate everyone I know. It's not my job to have to coach everyone and explain over and over again what we're feeling. I can't change people's minds, and I certainly can't change their world-view. Many people say that others will never understand unless they've been there, and while I disagree with that to a point (I think there are people who are incredibly understanding even though they've never suffered a loss like this), I get where they're coming from. So many people just don't GET IT, and they don't really try to. And you can't go around insisting that everyone respond to your loss exactly the way you want them to (exactly the way they should), all of the time. It would be impossible and exhausting and you'd make yourself crazy.

So I took another deep breath and sat quietly, staring at Pinterest until the knot in my throat loosened, and I half-listened as the conversation took its course and they moved on without this gross misperception being corrected or disputed.

I told myself that I do not need to assert my point of view all the time, that it's not my job to correct him. I told myself that ultimately it doesn't matter what this one person thinks, even if he is totally incorrect, and even if his comment seems to diminish our loss. Eliza was real and our pain is real, and I do believe this person understands that, and that's what is most important.

I told myself that staying quiet was a means of self-preservation and keeping peace in the family.

I told myself that keeping silent was not a betrayal of my daughter.

But still, a little bit, it feels that way.

I mean, seriously. Better? The only thing that would fucking be better is to have not lost her at all.

I Miss Her Still

2012-01-20T09:28:00.004-06:00

I visited my best friend last weekend and I held her new baby--just over two weeks old. Ellie Kate is positively adorable, all blue eyes and blond fuzz and soft skin, and she slept draped across my chest, milk-drunk and lovely. I held her and my eyes filled up with tears, and over the wheeze of the breast pump that my friend was using as she sat on the couch next to me, I patted that sweet, sleeping baby and said, "I'm so scared I'll never have this."

She told me that I will, and most of the time I almost believe her.

I am so, so grateful to be pregnant. I think we honor the love we have for Eliza by wanting to have another baby. She made us parents and it's a testament to her that we want so much another chance to raise a child, to have more of the joy of parenting and less of the sorrow. I feel so lucky--so dangerously, cautiously, fearfully lucky--to be able to hold on to the hope that we will have another chance to experience those simple pleasures (and, yes, even the frustrations) of having a baby.

But I'll never have that chance with Eliza.

And as much as I already love the Deuce, as much as this baby is wanted and welcomed, this pregnancy has not changed for one moment how much I want Eliza back.

I still want THAT baby, my first baby, my sweet girl.

I want us to have THAT life, the one I thought for sure was meant to be, the one where we're like everybody else and we watch our kids grow up and our heartaches are far in the future.

I want us to be THOSE parents, the ones who never cradled a dead child, who never cried themselves to the point of oblivion, who never tasted the metallic chill of that sort of fear and loss.

And I think to myself, if I could trade it, if I could have a thirteen-month-old baby girl and not be pregnant again, I'd take that deal in second.

I know I won't always feel that way. I've been assured by other moms who have endured a loss that a trade becomes unfathomable, and you just want ALL your kids (and really, is that too much to ask?).

I know that these hypothetical bargains with the universe are stupid and a waste of time and a kind of self-torture. And why? To prove how much I love Eliza? To make myself feel guilty (guiltier?) for all the mixed feelings that accompany The Deuce?

It's just that I miss her. And now that I'm pregnant, it's kind of like my grief has become more focused. It's not so much about what I'll never have (although that fear is still very real), but it's about what I'll never have with her.

And really, it was always about that. I wrote long ago about how even I was sort of stunned about how much I could love her as an individual and her own little person, when I'd never really known her outside my belly. I knew all along, as we all know, that children are not replaceable or interchangeable. But as my heart expands--cautiously, reluctantly even--to make room for the Deuce, as I let the hope of having another baby enter into my consciousness, I realize all over again how much we've lost that we can never get back.

Eliza is so many things to me, but she never gets to just be that sweet baby we brought home from the hospital, the one whose diapers we changed, and whose smile lit up our home. She never gets to assert her little personality and develop her own little quirks. She never gets to crack us up with her facial expressions, or astonish us with her brilliance, or delight us with her athletic prowess (as she undoubtedly would have, right?). She is a precious symbol of unconditional love, she is our firstborn daughter and our Baby Duck, but she doesn't just get to be what we wanted most. Our little girl.

As I've said before, I can't deny the many gifts that Eliza has brought to us. The way she has connected me to other people, the way she has opened my eyes to the suffering that happens all around us, the way she showed me my capacity for love was beyond what I had even imagined. I will be a better mom because of her. I will be a better wife and daughter and sister and friend because of her. I will be a more compassionate and understanding person because of her. My love for The Deuce is shaped by having loved her. I know that my life is richer and fuller and brighter and fiercer than it would be if I'd never loved and lost Eliza.

But my life will never be what it could have been if she were here.

Oh, I miss her.

No Answers

2012-01-19T11:48:00.000-06:00

I like to know things. I like to do research. I like to read many opinions and ideas about a subject before making up my mind. I like to find the answers. I like to analyze problems. I like to connect dots and draw conclusions and support them with evidence from the text. I spent the last ten years of my life practicing this skill.

I don't like it when I can't figure something out.

Unlike my pregnancy with Eliza, I have done very little reading and research this time around. I'm actually relying more on my doctors and less on Google (mostly because I don't need to be more worried than I already am). What I do know is that at this point in my pregnancy, all the statistics are in my favor. I know that I'm being closely monitored and there is what one of my doctors likes to call a "safety net" around my pregnancy this time. I know that I'll have high-tech ultrasound and non-stress tests and kick counts and we'll do everything we can to make sure this baby is okay. I'll take all the necessary precautions (and probably a lot of unnecessary precautions as well).

But I keep coming back to the same question: When you don't know what went wrong the first time, how do you prevent it from happening again?

I'm seeing two doctors for this pregnancy. My regular OB from last time, a very kind man who promised me that what happened last time won't happen again, and a maternal fetal medicine specialist who only takes high-risk patients (I know, I'm so special). She's the only woman in her practice, and she manages to be both warm and nurturing and also sassy and no-nonsense. I like and trust them both. Since I have two doctors, I have an appointment about every two weeks. Plus high tech ultrasounds (two so far, another scheduled for early February). Later in my pregnancy, I'll go in for weekly and then bi-weekly non-stress tests and bio-physical profiles that will track the baby's heart rate and movements and measurements and mood swings (ok, not really, but that would be interesting).

Our last ultrasound looked good. The doctor was encouraging and optimistic. The Deuce was measuring right on target, growth appeared to be exactly perfect, body parts were proportional (and adorable), heart rate was strong and steady.

But guess what? They said the same thing about Eliza at that stage. And at 20 weeks. And at 24 weeks. So "good growth" only brings me so much comfort.

Eliza was declared perfect at every. single. doctor appointment and ultrasound that I had. But at 34 weeks and 3 days, I suddenly and rapidly went into labor. By the time I got to the hospital (just two and a half hours after I first started having contractions), I was fully dilated and Eliza had no heartbeat. An hour later she was born. And NO ONE CAN EXPLAIN what happened. Not from my blood tests ("normal"), not from autopsy results ("normal"), not from the placenta pathology report ("normal"). There is no clear explanation for why a healthy, PERFECT baby died.

So once again, I ask: If you don't know what caused a baby's death, how do you prevent it from happening again?

My OB, bless his heart, the older gentlemen with the beard, is so soft spoken and gentle and kind. But when we first discussed trying to get pregnant again, I asked him that question, and he actually hit his desk with his fist as he said, "This will NOT happen again."

So here is what you do when you have no answers:

You try to trust your doctors and their medical equipment. You take a baby aspirin every day. You take extra folic acid. You take a lot of deep breaths. You wonder many times a day if the baby is actually still alive.

And you freaking hope you get lucky this time.

Because there's really nothing you can do.

I mean, seriously, a BABY ASPIRIN? You're telling me that's what stands between life and death for The Deuce? A pill I can buy over the counter without a prescription, in fact I don't even have to be 18 to buy it! A CHILD could buy this "lifesaving" drug! A pill that is so small I could swallow it without water if I had to? My doctor assures me that aspirin is actually a remarkable drug because it can cross the placenta and work for the baby as well as the mom. I asked her why they don't give it to all pregnant women--do you know how crazy it makes me to imagine that a fucking baby aspirin a day could have saved Eliza?--and she acknowledged the validity of my question--and probably the fury behind it as well. She said there are some risks involved with any blood thinner during pregnancy. Along those same lines, she didn't recommend that I do Heparin or Lovenox injections--believe me, I asked--which was somewhat disappointing because, as it turns out, Fear of Dead Baby totally trumps Fear of Needles. And OMG isn't there SOMETHING I can do besides take a FREAKING baby aspirin?

My doctors assure me that I should actually consider it to be a positive thing that I don't have a specific health issue, like a clotting factor or genetic abnormality that caused Eliza's death. But I think that would at least give me something specific to TREAT, something to FIX. I mean, give me something to work with here! They think that my perfect health history means I'm likely to have a successful pregnancy this time, but to me, it just feels like there's something mysterious and medically undetectable that could kill this baby just like it killed Eliza.

If Eliza's heart stopped beating sometime between 34 weeks 1 day (I felt her move for sure on Saturday the 4th) and 34 weeks 3 days (on Monday, when she was born), then who is to say that The Deuce's heart won't suddenly stop beating at 16 weeks, or 20 weeks, or 36 weeks?

Statistics are supposed to be on my side. The doctor who read my last ultrasound told me we have a 97% chance of bringing home this baby. He said (and I quote), "Diapers are almost certainly in your future." (Anybody else only hear the "almost" in that sentence?) But I just know that he would have said the same thing if he'd seen Eliza's ultrasound at 14 weeks. And that is what keeps tripping me up.

It all comes down to this: We have lots of questions. We have no answers. And if The Deuce lives (and it's likely The Deuce will live, at least according to all the information we have right now), we'll probably never know why this baby was okay and Eliza was not.

Unlike baby aspirin, I have a hard time swallowing that.

Introducing The Deuce

2012-01-17T12:33:00.003-06:00

So here's the deal. I'm pregnant.

Shocking, I know, right? I'm pretty sure most people guessed it from my not-too-subtle end-of-2011 post.

I'm just over sixteen weeks along. Yup, that means that the month after I posted this, I got a positive pregnancy test. It was not that easy, though, and I may write a little more about that later.

So now I'm pregnant. At least, I think I am. Let's be honest, I haven't heard the heartbeat since my doctor appointment on January 11th, so there's plenty of room to wonder--are you still alive in there, baby? (I freaking hope so).

Anyway, we feel exactly the way you might expect. We're thrilled and we're terrified. And we basically ride the waves of those emotions up and down on any given day.

We didn't know what to call this baby, since Baby Duck was already taken by Eliza, and if Eliza were here, asserting her toddlerhood, we might have space for another Baby Duck in our hearts and conversations, but, well, she is our Baby Duck. So this is... Baby Duck Number Two? And that was just too long to say over and over again. So that's how this baby became The Deuce.

(Also because we're very klassy and we can't come up with a nickname for our second child that is not also a synonym for poop.)

I've been waiting to post about this pregnancy because I still feel like every time I mention it, I'm just inviting disaster. But guess what my therapist told me? There's absolutely no correlation between talking about pregnancy and pregnancy loss. (It sounds so obvious in retrospect, but she said that and I thought to myself, "OMG. This is why I'm paying to talk to you. Because you say logical and rational things that I need to hear.") We also waited a while to tell people we know in real life, and I didn't want word getting around through the wilds of the interwebz (Where, you know, everyone is just ABUZZ about what might be going on in my uterus. It's like I'm Beyonce or something.)

So anyway, that's where we are. At this point, things appear to be going well. (But remember, says the dark, twisty voice in my head, things also appeared to be going perfectly well with Eliza). In all probability, this baby will be okay. But we know better to put complete faith in statistics (probability can kiss my ass), and we are still a long way from my official due date of July 1.

So wish me luck. Because I think we freaking need it.

Pool Attendants

2012-01-13T09:00:00.000-06:00

One of the glorious things about our resort in Mexico was that we could SO completely lazy. It is possible that my muscles slightly atrophied from doing nothing but walking from the room to the pool, back to the room, and then to the restaurant for dinner. It was just so deliciously lazy.

The pool was never crowded and it was always well-staffed by attendants who brought chilled bottles of water and any drinks or food that you'd like to order from the snack menu. We ate nachos and quesadillas for lunch a couple of days, I fell in love with their lemonade (which was more like a sparkling limeade) and David discovered his new favorite girly-beverage: The Miami Vice (half pina colada, half strawberry daquiri).

I have to say, though, it was weird for me to be the girl in the lounge chair being offered cool towels, fruit kebabs, and fresh bottles of water.

It was weird because it was Christmas and totally not like Christmas, of course. It was weird because I was desperately sad and missing Eliza but also grateful to be lying in the sunshine. It was weird because we have never taken a vacation that wasn't full of sight-seeing and scheduled-to-the-minute self-imposed itineraries.

It was weird because, once upon a time, I was not the girl in the lounge chair. I was the pool attendant.

I wanted to tell them that I sympathize with how heavy that bin full of wet towels is at the end of the day, and how you have to be careful as you push it to the laundry because if it gets a lot of momentum, there's no stopping it from careening off the sidewalk.

I wanted to tell them that I know it's not easy to balance a frozen drink in a plastic cup with a stem, because I definitely poured a banana cabana all over an old guy's feet my first day on the job.

I wanted to tell them that they deserve every dollar they make out there in the sun, waiting hand and foot on people who barely look up from the electronic reading devices.

Because I KNOW what it's like to be on the other side of that tray of nachos.

My friend Natalie and I decided one summer in college that it would be fun to spend the summer in Arizona. My aunt invited us (at least, I don't think we invited ourselves, but it is entirely possible) to stay with her, and we scored jobs at the Four Seasons resort that was about two minutes from her house. It was gorgeous, and we thought working at the pool would be fun!

So yes, the scenery was lovely. The job was... well, here's a fun fact: when you work outside all day and the temperature is 112 degrees Fahrenheit, you can drink all the water you want and barely have to pee because you just sweat it out. Also: When you have to wear all white shoes and you find all white shoes so unbearably uncool that you buy the cheapest pair of Keds possible and then you're on your feet walking on hot cement for seven hours a day, your feet will freaking hurt.

We weren't twenty-one yet, and we didn't know anybody else in the Scottsdale/Phoenix area. We shared Natalie's little car (a Toyota Echo named Eddie) and we spent almost all of our hard-earned wages at Fashion Square mall, buying shorts from Express and shirts from The Limited. Fashion was our outlet, you see, because the six days a week that we were hard at work, we were stuck wearing this:

Yes, it really was THAT hideous.

Natalie just might kill me for this.

It was enough to give a nineteen-year-old girl an existential crisis:

Should I have gotten an internship instead? What am I doing with my life? Why am I wearing this heinous outfit? What if I see someone I know?

Anyway, we somehow survived the summer. We became quite proficient at the NYTimes crossword, which we would each surreptitiously pull from the complimentary newspapers provided for the guests, and then work on furiously whenever we had a spare moment at our respective Pool Attendant Stations. Then we'd either call each other on our Pool Attendant Station Phones For Professional Use Only, or ask each other on our rounds around the pool--"four letter word for Cleopatra's reptiles?" (answer: ASPS).

We dealt with wealthy, privileged, crazy customers. The woman who had alarming rock-hard, softball-sized breasts and asked Natalie if it would be a problem if she sunbathed topless.

Natalie (blushing): Uh, I'll have to ask my manager!

(His answer: As long as there aren't any kids around, and none of the other guests complain.)

The woman who asked me if it would be all right if her dachshund swam in the pool with her.

Me: I'm sorry, we just can't allow animals in the pool. It's against hotel policy.

Dog Lady: But he is a very clean dog! And he loves to swim! Am I just supposed to leave him in the room and swim without him?

Me: Um, well, why I don't have you talk to my manager.

(His answer: No dogs in the pool, but we can arrange for someone from the daycare facility to stay with your dog if you don't want him to be alone.)

The family who let their kid poop in the kiddie pool, and then just left without saying anything, leaving poop nuggets floating. (I had to call the Engineering Department rather than Housekeeping to deal with this issue as it was a Sanitary Problem Requiring Chemicals).

Me: Hello, Engineering. We have, uh, a problem at the kiddie pool. Involving poop.

Engineering: Are you kidding me?

Me: I wish.

And then there was the week that the entire resort was rented out to an Australian bank. Some kind of working holiday for their employees. The resort went bonkers, stocking up on Fosters (you know, because it's Australian for beer?). The Aussies didn't want Fosters. They wanted Corona. Or Dos Equis. They drank all the Corona in the resort, and someone had to call for a special delivery of More Corona for the Aussies. (And these people loved to drink. You know what they did not love to do? TIP. Is tipping not part of Australian culture? Someone clue me in on this. All I know is that we pounded the pavement, serving Coronas and refilling water and nobody wanted to give us any cash for it.

In addition to drinking Corona, the Australians wanted to wear Speedos. Talk about a culture shock for a couple of Midwestern American girls. Almost all the Australian bank employees were men, middle-aged and paunchy, and the first day that Natalie and I looked up from our crossword puzzles to see a bunch of dudes wearing Speedos and strutting around the pool... Well, there was LOTS of giggling.

They were very friendly, though, jolly and joking around, and always calling us "Princess" or "Love" when they wanted us to fetch them another beer (which was constantly). I remember Natalie speed-walking over to me with a panicked look on her face. The old man with the white beard and the big belly and the Speedo with the British flag on the front and back? He had just asked if Natalie would "be a love" and rub sunscreen on his hairy back. (I can't remember if she did it or not...)

Oh, those were some times.

The outfit is worse with the hat, but at least we are more disguised as we offer guests ice water with citrus? Evian spritzer?

Every hour on the hour, we'd have to go around the pool offering the guests a special treat. Oshi-bori towel? (white washcloth, soaked in ice water, wrung out, rolled up tight, and stored in the freezer--preparing these was a much coveted job because you got to escape the heat for thirty minutes or so). Evian spritzer? (Evian water in an aerosol bottle that we would spray in people's faces. Seriously.)

In some ways, it was really the most absurd job ever.

Natalie is happy to serve you a complimentary fruit kebab. Or seven, if you're that one dude.

And we got to swim in that beautiful pool exactly once all summer long. When we scrubbed gunky sunscreen and oil buildup off the tiles (and rubbed our fingers raw at the same time!). After hours, of course.

As Natalie demonstrates, we were tempted many times to just jump in that water.

I think we learned some important lessons that summer, though. We discovered that neither one of us was AT ALL interested in going into the hospitality industry. We learned that if you go to the mall often enough, you will hit some great sales. There is no way to make a hideous uniform any more attractive. And we learned that if you're with the right friend, you can almost always find something to make you laugh so hard you collapse. No matter how hot it is outside, or what terrible outfit you're wearing.

The First Decade

2012-01-11T11:35:00.001-06:00

Ten years ago today, I was substitute teaching at an elementary school in my home town. It was winter break, my senior year of college. I was twenty-one years old. I was filling in for a second grade teacher and I had just lined up my students at the doorway of the classroom so they'd be ready when the PE teacher showed up to take them to PE.

The PE teacher was known as Coach Duck. I'd seen him earlier that morning in the hallway. He was cute. He had boy-band hair and a really nice smile. My heart kind of fluttered when he said hi to me.

I was wearing a jean skirt and a gray turtleneck and gray tights. He was wearing Adidas pants and a Nevada Tigers t-shirt. And tennis shoes.

When he got to the classroom, he said hello to me, told the kids to stand in line quietly, and then, with more cocky self-assurance than I could stomach, he strutted over to my desk and set down a small, folded piece of paper. "Why don't you call me sometime?" he said.

Then he left, and I slumped back in the teacher-chair. Did that just happen? Did Coach Duck just pick up my students and drop off his phone number? I was flattered, sure. But I was not about to call him. First of all, if you want to talk to me, ask for MY number, you arrogant jerk. Also you wear sweatpants to work and you're athletic, which is pretty much grounds for immediate disqualification from my pool of suitors. And I'd just gotten out of an intense and unhappy relationship, and I had been on a couple of dates with two different guys, both of whom were really cute and sweet and nice (although one reminded me of my high school boyfriend so much that it was a little bit eerie (I always wanted to call him Matt instead of Ryan) and the other one was too tall--I still refer to him as Too Tall John).

Anyway, I was home in Nevada for another week or so before going back to Columbia, and the last thing I needed was a date with some dumb PE coach (seriously, this was my judgmental attitude). So I put the number in my purse, knowing I would never call him, and figured I had a good story to tell the girls when I got back to school.

A couple nights later, I was exhausted from substituting for a kindergarten classroom. (Newsflash: Kindergarteners are super cute but totally incompetent. These kids had to be reminded to blow their noses when snot was like dripping into their mouths, and they sometimes needed help zipping their jackets--and their pants. I really thought children were more self-reliant by the time they got shipped off to school, but evidently not. I knew it would be a rough day for me when the teacher's friendly notes to the sub suggested that I use her magical fairy wand if I needed to get the kids to settle down. And THAT is why I teach college students.). Anyway, the phone rang at my parents' house, and it was for me.

Weird.

It was Coach Duck.

Weirder.

He had asked around, found out my mom worked at another school, and gotten my parents' number from the school directory. So he called me and asked if I wanted to go out on Friday.

I mean, after all that effort, how could I resist?

Plus, you guys, he was (is) really cute.

He drove me to the Olive Garden, and proceeded to be so cute and charming and just so freaking nice that I had to see him again. And again. And again.

We did the long distance thing for a semester, spent all our time together the summer after I graduated, did the long distance thing for another school year (brutal!) when I left for grad school in St. Louis, and then he moved to St. Louis, we got engaged, and ten years later, here we are.

Brokenhearted, yes, but more in love than ever. Here's to many more decades with the best guy I know.

And for your viewing pleasure: A couple snapshots (don't adjust your monitor--they are slightly blurry) of us ten years ago. Which do you love more? David's floppy hair cut or his earring? I can't decide. I found them equally irresistible. Obviously...

Resolved

2012-01-10T13:11:00.000-06:00

I have been making new year's resolutions as this fledgling of a new year has been rolling along.

I have found that rather than resolving things for myself and/or the benefit of my dog (Cooper needs to lose 5 pounds, therefore Brooke needs to walk Cooper briskly for 20 minutes at least 3 times a week), I much prefer to recommend resolutions to other people. Mostly just David. Which I'm sure is totally not annoying.

"You still don't have my cell phone number memorized? You should make that a New Year's Resolution."

"Ahem. Maybe you should make a new year's resolution not to look at your phone while your wife is talking to you. Just a suggestion"

"You're working late AGAIN? I think you should make a new year's resolution not to work late ever so that we can get more Netflix time in."

"OK, here is your new year's resolution. DO NOT throw unopened mail on my desk (where it gets buried under exams from last semester and magazines with articles I want to save) unless you want to unleash my wrath."

"I'm just wondering if you could make a new year's resolution not to walk around while brushing your teeth so that you don't drool toothpaste on the rug."

I mean really, my suggestions are endless. And I know David finds it SO INCREDIBLY helpful. (You are so welcome, honey).

But really, I'm well aware that I have MORE than enough room for self-improvement. (I'm sure David could suggest a couple resolutions for me... like "Look in the cabinets before you go to the grocery store so you don't have to text your husband asking if we have black beans. And enchilada sauce? And apple sauce? And orzo? Triscuits?" Or "Put clothes in hamper or back in closet instead of half-ass folding and setting them on top of the dresser to be determined clean or dirty at a non-specified later date.") But you know. Being married is all about embracing each other's idiosyncrasies and imperfections.

Last year at this time, I was unable to look far enough into the future to believe there might be some light after so much darkness. But I did manage to survive those dark months, and the gray ones that come after. And while I know that grief never goes away and that is is constantly evolving, I have also learned enough over the past thirteen months to know that there are things I can do for myself and for other people that will make me feel better even when I'm feeling sad.

(I actually have lots more to say on this, and really I want to hear from other people about strategies for making pockets of happiness in the midst of such great sorrow, but I think that will be a post of its own, so more on that later...)

So, without further ado, here are five things that I will try to do this year:

1. Walk Cooper at least 3 times a week.
It's good for both of us, it's free, and there is absolutely no reason why I can't do this. Plus, the way he dances with excitement when he sees me open the leash cabinet puts a smile on my face.

2. Continue to take yoga classes at least once a week.
I think the first deep breath I took after Eliza died was at the end of a yoga class, four or five months out. The first time I felt almost giddy with accomplishment (something I wasn't sure I'd ever feel again) after losing Eliza was when I managed to hold a handstand in class with minimal assistance. I still don't really get what it means to feel "centered," but I know yoga is good for me, mentally and physically. So I want to keep it up. This will likely necessitate a trip to Lululemon--but you know I'll do what it takes to keep my resolutions!

3. Less computer time, especially at night.
The internet has been a lifeline for me, and there's no way I want to walk away from the connections that I've made. But I have also let entire evenings get away from me as I blog-hop or browse shops online or google random queries or click "more pins" at the bottom of the Pinterest "Everything:" page--none of which add to my quality of life. So I'm just going to be conscious about doing a little less of that.

4. Give proofs of love.
This is one lesson I've really learned this year--good intentions are just not enough. It's actions that count. So this year, I WILL take time to send a note, to send an e-mail, to send a card, to give a gift, to make a call, to remember birthdays and anniversaries, to tuck a love note in the pocket of David's shirt after I iron it for him. I'm not saying I'll be perfect at this, but I know how much it matters and I really want to try. Also, it makes me happy to do nice things for people I love, so this shouldn't be all that hard.

5. Work by day and relax by night.
This will be the hardest one to keep. It is SO easy for me to get on my computer in my office and send e-mail and check the news and read a blog or two, and before I know it, my office hours are gone and I have gotten no grading done, and I still have to prep for tomorrow's class. So then that work comes home with me, which makes me feel tired and overworked when actually we all know the real problem is procrastination. I really want to be better at using my work-time wisely so that my home-time doesn't have to be spent working.

Notice that I'm not making any resolutions to think or feel differently. I wish that I could just decide to "Be more optimistic!" or "Have a positive outlook!" but we all know that's not going to happen. So I wanted to make resolutions that were important, but also realistic actions that I could do even if I didn't feel much like doing them. Maybe someday I'll be able to be a little more Pollyanna, a little less Dostoevsky. But I make no resolutions about that!

So that's it. I'm posting the big 5 on my fridge, and in eleven and a half months, we'll see how successful I've been (there will be no fudging Cooper's waistline!).

Winter (Break)

2012-01-06T09:37:00.000-06:00

Last winter was the snowiest one that I can remember. Which was fine with me. It was freezing and cold and I didn't want to be outside anyway. I didn't want to be anywhere but under a blanket on my sofa. I ended up teaching part time, two hours a day, three times a week, a class I'd taught several times before, and it was just the right amount of something to do and nothing too difficult to manage. I canceled class twice because of snow. David had several snow days, and I was so grateful to have him home with me. We hibernated and cried and watched more television than I would have thought humanly possible. It was a long, cold winter of my discontent. The snows came early (before Eliza's birthday) and they stayed late (all the way through March, eliminating the blooms on her tree).

Now it's January and we've seen no snow so far. (I guess maybe St. Louis got a few flurries while we were in Mexico, but nothing that stuck around). It's almost sixty degrees today and sunny. I walked the dogs yesterday without a coat. Global warming has made me want to hyperventilate since I was in fourth grade, but I have to say that I am not complaining about these temperatures. I do better with sunshine and without biting winds in general, but since freezing temperatures and snowfall are now associated with the greatest trauma of my life, I really like this pseudo-spring. It's almost like being in Puerto Vallarta.

Almost. But not quite. Let me show you what it's like in Puerto Vallarta:

a leisurely breakfast at the resort restaurant, which overlooks the pool

my pedicure - Turquoise and Caicos

the view beyond my pedicure

just outside the lobby

at the beach

sunset dinner at the beach club

salmon

the sunset

wearing a shirt my mom got me (thanks, Mom!)

David at the marina

missing Eliza

David trying to make friends with a peacock at the resort

dessert and a bottomless glass of pinot grigio

As nice as the trip was, the truth is that skipping the holidays and fleeing to Mexico kind of felt like the lesser of two evils. The holidays were going to be unbearable--the question was where did we want to be while we were hurting? Even so, it ended up being a wonderful trip, and I'm so glad we went. I still missed Eliza and the Christmas that should have been. I was a little homesick even while we were lounging poolside. But I'm confident that it was the right decision for us this year. We needed to pause and give ourselves a chance to rest, relax, and reset. Work was stressful for both of us this fall, not to mention life in general, and as I lay on the pool chair that first day, I could actually feel the tension start to evaporate from my shoulders. If vacations were medically and mentally mandated, this one would have been. It was the perfect getaway. Now if we could only fast-forward through the rest of winter all together...

grief book entry

2012-01-04T10:16:00.000-06:00

One of the little things I started doing in the early weeks after we lost Eliza was to make a "grief book." It was just a blank book or journal that I already had on hand (it happened to have a butterfly on the cover) but instead of writing my own thoughts in it, I copied down things that I read. Poems, quotes, passages from books I was reading, anything that resonated with me, or that I hoped would resonate with me in the future. If I found a picture or photo, online or in a magazine, that seemed to illustrate the way I was feeling, or match up with a particular text that I'd included, I'd cut it out and tape it in the book as well. It was mostly something to keep me busy, to give me something to do that felt productive but wasn't difficult. I still look at the book and I still add to it from time to time. I look for more hopeful things now, which maybe says something I'm not ready to say about the grief process and the passage of time.

My friend Sarah e-mailed me this poem back in the early days, and it was one of the first things I copied down in the pages of my grief book. It still touches a tender spot in my heart every time I read it. It's a poem I want to share every time I hear of a mama who has had to say good-bye to her baby.

If it's meant for you, I hope you get something you need from it. And if you know someone who needs to read it, I hope you'll pass it on.

Blessed sister, beautiful one
with broken wings.
Your journey is a difficult one
that no mother should have to endure.
Your path is steep, rocky and slippery,
and your tender heart is in need of gentle healing.

Breathe deeply and know that you are loved.
You are not alone,
though at times, you will feel like a
desolate island of grief
untouchable,
distant.
Close your eyes.
Seek the wisdom of women who have walked
this well-worn path before you,
before,
and before,
and before you yourself were born.
Those beautiful ones
with eyes like yours
have shared your pain and
weathered the storms of loss.

You are not alone (breathe in).
You will go on (breathe out).
Your wings will mend (breathe in).
You are loved (breathe out).

~Mary Burgess

Eliza's Tree

2012-01-01T17:39:00.001-06:00

Depending on how well you know me / stalk me, you may know that one of the nicest things about my little bungalow in the city is that it has a beautiful tree in the front yard. In the spring, this tree blooms with beautiful pink flowers and is the loveliest thing on our street. Honestly, we bought our house in March, and the tree is what sold me on this house.

Depending on how long you've been reading this blog and how closely you monitor the minutiae in my life, you may also remember that it didn't bloom this year. It stayed brown and gray and ugly all through spring because, like everybody else in our family, it was mourning Eliza. Love this tree.

Planting a tree to commemorate a loved one is not a new idea, but it's one that I love. I knew I'd like to do that for Eliza, but we weren't sure we wanted to do it at our house. I didn't like the idea of moving and leaving it behind, not to mention that our yard is by no means huge and, well, the three trees that we have (two in the front yard, one in the back), along with the deck and garden and garage kind of take up all the available space. I considered planting a tree at my parents' house, or out at their farm, but I mostly just felt unsure about what I wanted to do.

My friend Angie is another St. Louis girl, and she was sort of my grief guru this year. She lost her daughter Olivia in August of 2009, navigated a stressful, high-risk pregnancy before having her baby Lucas this past April, and in the midst of her own sadness and anxiety, she generously offered her guidance to me as I floundered in my grief for the first ~~several weeks~~ ~~months~~ year. She linked me to Carly Marie's sunset photography page, she sent me a link to the silver bracelet I ordered with Eliza's name on it, she encouraged me to attend the grief support group at a local hospital, she recommended doctors for me to meet with when I started freaking out about trying to get pregnant again, and she told me about a program with the City of St. Louis's Parks Department that allows you to donate a tree in memory of a loved one, and the tree will be planted in the city park of your choice.

They call it the "Tree-membrance Program," which sort of makes me cringe because it's such a terrible pun or play or words or whatever. But I decided I could get past that because we loved the idea. We wanted to donate a tree in memory of Eliza that would be in a public place, that could be appreciated by many people, and that would always be somewhere that we could visit.

When you fill out the form (which you have to print and mail in, old-school style), you can select whether you want a shade tree, an evergreen tree, or a flowering tree. I selected a flowering tree, I guess because I wanted the prettiest tree possible. I didn't think very hard about it, it just seemed obvious to me.

What was less clear was which city park we wanted to choose. We live close to a pretty little park called Tilles Park. I liked the idea of it being within walking distance, and being a quiet little neighborhood park. We sometimes play tennis there, or use the ball fields to practice hitting foam golf balls. I used to walk Cooper up to that park quite often, and I would imagine pushing a stroller up there and then watching our little one play on the playground equipment. After Eliza died, though, I found myself avoiding that park on our walks (too many mommies with strollers), and David joined a driving range for golf practice, so we haven't really been there much, even though we drive by it every day. Still, it was a place I'd imagined taking Eliza, and I thought it might be nice to see her tree each day.

In the end, though, we decided to put the tree in our most favorite park, even though it's a bit farther from our house, and it's the biggest and most public park in St. Louis: Forest Park. Forest Park is this city's best feature, in my opinion. It houses a zoo (free admission), an art museum (free admission), a history museum (free admission), an outdoor musical theatre (free admission if you sit in the way back), and other lovely attractions like pavilions, fountains, bike trails and walking trails, a golf course and driving range, baseball fields (where I watched David play ball one summer), and an ice skating rink.

The Boat House restaurant in Forest Park is where we had dinner and rented a paddleboat on our very first wedding anniversary, and it's also where David and I went to dinner to open the envelope that told us our Baby Duck was a little girl--we wanted to find out just the two of us before we shared with friends and family at our Daisy or Donald Party (the whole thing is documented here, in a post that's just too painful for me to read now).

I was eight weeks pregnant with Eliza when we went to Shakespeare in the Park on Art Hill and I fell asleep during the second half of Hamlet because even the Bard is no match for first-trimester-tiredness.

One summer we made the life-changing discovery that an entire bottle of wine will fit inside a large plastic Nalgene bottle, so many hot, humid summer nights over the past few years have found us with our beverage of choice at the Muny (you can bring your own snacks, but no glass containers), sitting in the free seats to watch Miss Saigon and Les Miserables and Meet Me In St. Louis and Damn Yankees and several other shows for cheap summer date nights.

Forest Park is across the street from Wash U, and my best grad school friends and I would bring tennis shoes and shorts to change into after teaching or grading on campus, and we'd escape our windowless basement office to walk and talk on beautiful, sunshiny days.

It's where I'd attended graduation parties and going away parties for friends. It's where we watched the sea lions at the zoo. It's where we like to take people who visit us from out of town. It's where David and I like best to walk the dogs, and where we've wandered the walking paths, talking about job opportunities and planning our family and our future. After we thought about it, we couldn't imagine planting Eliza's tree anywhere else.

We placed our order sometime last spring (fog of grief... timeframe is a little hazy) and if you order between January and July, your tree is planted sometime between November 15th and January 31st. All I could remember was "November," so it occurred to me after we got back from Mexico, when we were driving to see my parents, that I should try to find the copy of the form I filled out, because we hadn't heard anything from the Parks Department and I wanted to make sure our order hadn't gotten lost. (I may have gotten a confirmation from them back in the spring, but seriously, lost to the grief-haze, no recollection). So I said this to David and asked him to remind me of it when we got home, which is really just a verbal reminder to myself because I swear that maybe once or twice in the fifty million times I've asked him to help me remember to do something has he actually remembered to mention it again.

Anyway, we got home today and I sorted through the pile of mail that we'd had the post office hold for a week, and the last thing I opened was a manila envelope from the City of St. Louis. I saved it for last because I thought it was probably something to do with taxes. Instead, I found this:

I cried because every time I see Eliza's name it just fills up my heart.

And I'm no botanist, so I once I quit sniffling, I googled "saucer magnolia tree."

Would you believe it? It's the same tree that we have out front, with those beautiful pink springtime blooms (excepting the year 2011). We always thought our tree was probably some kind of magnolia, but I wasn't sure because it's not the traditional Southern Magnolia. David's grandma calls it a "tulip tree," and I'd never bothered to really try and figure it out.

But now we know. It's Eliza's tree. A saucer magnolia. Of course it is. How could it be anything else?

A map of the park was also enclosed in the envelope, with a little green dot labeled "Eliza Taylor Duckworth," marking the location of her magnolia tree. It's between the Muny and the Boat House, which made me cry big, tender tears. 2011 was a year of grief and sadness, but 2010 was a year of so much hope and happiness, and I spent many summer evenings in Forest Park, blissfully happy and pregnant with Eliza. It's a place where I like to remember her, and it's the perfect place to plant her tree.

Her tree:

It's still little and bare and sad right now. But I do believe that love is even bigger than grief, and that her short, sweet life will continue to make the world a better place and, someday, her tree will look like this:

Good Riddance to 2011

2011-12-31T09:44:00.001-06:00

I'm continuing to answer these questions every year. If you're curious (or you've got time to kill), you can click to see my responses in 2009 and 2010.

1. What did you do in 2011 that you’d never done before?

Got a full time real professor job. Attended a grief support group. Became good friends with people I've only met on the internet. Cried almost daily.

2. Did you keep your new year’s resolutions, and will you make more for next year?  

I did not make any resolutions last year. (Beginning of 2011: Not a good time for looking forward to ANYTHING). As for this year, I want to write more, worry less, do more yoga, help Cooper lose 5 pounds, and learn to do something new.

3. Did anyone close to you give birth? 

My new friend Sarah welcomed her second son, Owen. My friend from home, Megan, welcomed her second son, Hudson. My BFF Monica had her baby girl, Ellie Kate.

4. Did anyone close to you die?  

Not in 2011.

5. What countries did you visit?  

Canada (it's lovely there, and the people really are that friendly) and Mexico (also lovely, and just FYI, Puerto Vallarta is warmer in December than Vancouver is in July).

6. What would you like to have in 2012 that you lacked in 2011?

A baby. A lighter heart. Fewer tears. Bittersweet memories that lean more toward the sweet, less toward the bitter.

7. What dates from 2011 will remain etched upon your memory, and why?

January 11th--Eliza's unofficial due date and the 9 year anniversary of our first date. January 15th--Eliza's official due date.

8. What was your biggest achievement of the year?  

Surviving. Maintaining my marriage, friendships, employment. Also taking care of myself as best I could--eating, going to therapy, going to support groups, reaching out to friends online, and going to yoga.

9. What was your biggest failure?

I've failed to forgive or be as understanding as I could be with people who are uncomfortable with my grief.

10. Did you suffer illness or injury?

As I wrote last year, I've read that grief is a disease with specific symptoms like shortness of breath and loss of appetite. So yes, I am still suffering. But I also think I have done a lot of healing over the past year. Even though I sort of hate the word "healing" when it comes to grief. Physically, though, it makes sense to me.

11. What was the best thing you bought?

Monthly massages and a Prius.

12. Whose behavior merited celebration?

Everybody who reached out to us on Eliza's birthday.

13. Whose behavior made you appalled and depressed?  

People who shocked me by responding to our requests for specific types of support with silence or anger.

14. Where did most of your money go?

The usual... mortgage, groceries, gas. Also to travel. We visited Florida, Chicago, Vancouver, Whistler, and Puert0 Vallarta.

15. What did you get really excited about?

I'm not sure "excited" really fit in my vocabulary this year. I will say that I enjoyed and benefited from our vacations, I was relieved and pleased to get my new job, and I was pretty satisfied with a cute bag I scored at a Kate Spade sample sale...

16. What song will always remind you of 2011?
Adele, "Rolling in the Deep." That song was everywhere, but I never got tired of it.

17. Compared to this time last year, are you: 

– happier or sadder? I have to say, I am happier than I was at this time last year. I mean, I was three weeks out from the death of my baby at this time last year. Fifty-five weeks out, my sadness levels about that are still the same, but happiness levels about other things have risen considerably.

– thinner or fatter? Thinner. Lost the baby weight, hoping to gain it all back in 2012.

– richer or poorer? Financially richer, thanks to my new job. Actually, I'd say that I'm spiritually richer, too, thanks to the reading I've done, and the insight and experience I've gained over this last year, and the people I've met. I'm grateful for these things, but at what a cost, you know?

18. What do you wish you’d done more of?  

Thanking people who reached out to us, seeing more of my friends.

19. What do you wish you’d done less of?  

I wish I could have cried less, but everything would have to change to make that possible. So given the circumstances, I wish I would have done less fretting over not getting pregnant the moment we started trying again. But that really wouldn't have been possible, either. I guess I wish I would have been less hard on myself about most everything.

20. How did you spend Christmas?   In Mexico, just trying to ignore the holiday. (And seriously, it pretty much worked--except for free mimosas, Christmas morning at the resort was much like any other morning: sunny, warm, peaceful.)

21. Did you fall in love in 2011? I fell more in love with my husband than I would have thought possible.

22. What was your favorite TV program?   Dexter and 30 Rock

23. Do you hate anyone now that you didn’t hate this time last year?   Nope. But maybe only because my energy level is still lower than normal?

24. What was the best book you read? The Hunger Games. The whole trilogy, really. And I got really absorbed in State of Wonder by Ann Patchett and The Marriage Plot by Jeffrey Eugenides

25. What was your greatest musical discovery?  love the new Miranda Lambert album

26. What did you want and get? this needs an entire post of its own...

27. What did you want and not get? Eliza.

28. What was your favorite film of this year? Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows Part II, Sarah's Key, and Midnight in Paris

29. What did you do on your birthday, and how old were you? I cried. I sniffled and sobbed my way through refinishing and painting a console table for our entry way. David got home from work and dragged me out to have Mexican for dinner. Then we went to see HP but NOT because it was my birthday, just because we wanted to see the movie and I needed a distraction. I was 31 and I felt so incredibly old and so incredibly sad. It was one of the worst days of my life.

30. What one thing would have made your year immeasurably more satisfying?

We'll go with the obvious: Eliza.

31. How would you describe your personal fashion concept in 2009?Half-Assed Attempt to Look Like a Professional, Mostly Too Sad and Tired to Care Very Much

32. What kept you sane?  

David. My parents and brother. E-mails from friends. Monthly dinners with my girls. The kindness of online strangers. The optimism of my doctors. (Sanity still potentially in flux, however.)

33. Which celebrity/public figure did you fancy the most?

Prince William, of course.

34. What political issue stirred you the most?  

I was less involved/informed about politics this year than I've been since college. And I was so wrapped up in my own grief, I found very little to be "stirring." The Republican primary makes me grind my teeth, though. I'm just saying.

35. Who did you miss?  

Eliza. More than anything or anyone, ever.

36. Who was the best new person you met?  

In person--Brandy and Angie and another Brooke.

37. Tell us a valuable life lesson you learned in 2011.  

I've learned you can survive what you assumed was unsurvivable. In fact, you can survive things you never wanted to survive. I've learned there are people in this world who make life worth living, even when your heart has been shredded. And here's a secret: Almost everyone is carrying a burden of grief in some shape or size, and that's part of what connects us as human beings. As I said last year, these are valuable life lessons, but none of these lessons is worth what it cost for me to learn them.

38. Quote a song lyric that sums up your year.  

This Groove Armada song, "Hands of Time." It's on my Eliza playlist and it's just exactly true.

Keep looking through the window pane
Just trying to see through the pouring rain
It's hearing your name, hearing your name.
I never really felt quite the same
Since I've lost what I had to gain
No one to blame, no one to blame.
Seems to me, can't turn back the hands of time.

I'm relieved and somewhat astonished that the end of 2011 has left me in a much better place than I was at the end of 2010. But there's still more sadness in my life than I could have ever imagined. I love and miss Eliza as much as ever. I also have clear priorities, a real appreciation for the good things in my life, and a desperate hope that 2012 will bring us better luck and happier days. Wishing all the same for you and yours.

We Are Having Mexico Instead of Christmas

2011-12-24T16:01:00.000-06:00

We are here and it is gorgeous. High today was 80, not a cloud in the sky. Slept in, ate a delicious breakfast overlooking the pool and spent the day lounging. I finished the book I stated on the plane. The Marriage Plot by Jeffrey Eugenides. I could see how it's an acquired taste, but I loved it. We even ordered lunch and ate it while reclining in our cabana by the pool. It felt very decadent. Considering we spend most vacations following a strict, self-imposed itinerary, so as not to miss anything, this feels positively luxurious. And Totally out of character. Don't worry--I'm sure I'll learn to adjust.

Tomorrow we are heading to the beach club. I am reserving a spot in the yoga class for Tuesday morning. We may golf one day, if David can get over his reluctance to golf with rented clubs. It's nice here. Really nice. I'm a little homesick.

It's not that I don't want to be here. It's just that I miss everything that should have been this Christmas. I miss it so intensely, and still with such shock. It's as though I was holding it tightly when someone ripped it away fom me, and now I just have fiercely clenched fists and the inability to fully understand how it could have possibly slipped from my grasp. How has it been a year without her? How is it possible that I'll never get her back? How can these things be true and sunshine and warm breezes can still feel so incredibly good? It's complicated, and sometimes I am so freaking sick of my every emotion being complicated.

Our adults only resort is so peacefully quiet. It is almost strange, in its quiet hush, but lovely. I told David that I imagine this is what very expensive rehab centers are like. Only with less alcohol on the menu, I suppose. Most couples here are at least in their 50's. The music is soft and Spanish, not Christmas tunes. I had to laugh today, though, when an older European woman stood up from her lounge chair and nonchalantly tied her sarong under her arms, unconcerned about the fact she'd tossed her bikini top to the side while lying on her stomach. So my brother was right, we have seen a bit of poolside nudity. At this point I'd rather hang out with semi-nude middle-aged women rather than adorable, shrieking toddlers, so I am not sure what that says about me, except that we are glad we did the adults only resort.

We don't have cell phone service, and I am trying to the advantage of the opportunity to disconnect (you know, by blogging poolside on David's iPad). Who knows, I might actually feel somewhat rested and rejuvenated by the time the trip is over. I know that was sort of the idea all along, but December was so freaking hard, with the last couple of weeks being far more tear-sodden and grief-stricken than I had anticipated. So feeling like I can take a deep breath without my chest feeling tight? It's weird. And nice.

Also: Don't worry, Mom. We are reapplying sunscreen.

Butterfly

2011-12-21T13:18:00.001-06:00

A few months ago, I was at the post office. Most of the leaves were already turning their autumn colors, or just falling off the trees without even bothering to put on a show first. This bush was still green, though, and I noticed as I parked near it that the purple flowers were pretty.

As I walked by, I spotted a butterfly.

Some people say that if you've lost a child, their spirit will visit you in the form of butterflies. I'm not sure I really believe that. I'm hesitant to put a lot of stock into these "signs." I understand that many people find them comforting. I wish I could. I just don't want to invent things just to try and make myself feel better. I do know that every time I see a butterfly, I automatically think of Eliza. So if that's a way for her spirit to visit me, then I guess I should accept that truth for what it is.

When I came out of the post office several minutes later, the butterfly was still there. Evidently waiting for me to get out my cell phone and snap this photo:

Christmas is a time for celebrating friends and family, a time that we take stock of our blessings and hope for better days to come. It's also a time for remembering those we've loved and lost. Whether or not you believe in signs like butterflies, I hope you find a quiet moment in which you feel close to all your loved ones this year.

No Escape

2011-12-19T13:08:00.000-06:00

We'll be spending Christmas here:

I'm dreading it.

That's not exactly fair to say. The problem is, I've never been someone who wanted to do Christmas at the beach. To me, Christmas is about the same cheesy traditions in the small town where I grew up. We drive around to look at the lights. We meet up with old friends in town for the holidays. We watch National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation with my parents. We open gifts one at a time. We play Christmas trivia pursuit. We eat homemade Christmas candy. We go to my aunt Tammi's and have a noisy and chaotic Christmas dinner with the extended family. We play Dominos and listen to my Nana shout at people. We go to the eleven o'clock Christmas Eve service and at midnight, the whole congregation stands in a circle around the sanctuary, everyone holding a lit candle, all the lights turned off, and we sing "Silent Night," waiting for the bell tower to ring in Christmas day at the stroke of midnight. We hope for snow and rarely get it, so we learn to appreciate the way sparkling lights are set off by drab brown trees and damp, chilly nights.

Christmas has always been my favorite holiday, and one of the many things I looked forward to about being a parent was starting our own Christmas traditions and sharing the excitement of the holiday with our little ones. My grandma started an angel collection for my mom when she was little, and when I was born, my mom started one for me. I wanted Eliza to have her own angel collection. I wanted her to get an ornament every year, just like my brother and I did. I wanted her to write letters to Santa and choose a toy each year for a child in need. I wanted her to learn the Christmas story and to believe in the magic of Santa Claus. I wanted to read her The Night Before Christmas and teach her to sing "Away In the Manger." I wanted to buy her new pajamas each year to wear on Christmas Eve. I wanted my mom to make her a homemade stocking. I wanted to focus this Christmas especially not on gifts, but on how lucky we were to have each other and our baby girl.

I wanted a lot for Christmas this year. And obviously I didn't get any of it. It may seem childish and ineffectual, but my response to this great disappointment is that if I can't have the Christmas I want, I won't have any Christmas at all.

I will boycott it all together.

This is a great idea in theory. In reality, skipping it sucks. Not as much as it would suck to act like things are normal and go through the motions, but still. Not great.

I love Christmas. Unabashedly, cheesily, ridiculously love it. I love my family. I love our simple Christmas traditions. I love thoughtfully shopping for gifts that I think people will love. I love wrapping presents and tying them with real ribbons instead of stick-on bows. I love making cute gift tags. I love decorating the tree, and seeing all the presents under it, each one representing someone we love. I love stringing a ribbon across our dining room doorway and using mini-clothespins to hang Christmas cards from it. I love bustling stores at Christmas time. I love holiday parties. I love that David puts lights up on our house every year, and that he's a total perfectionist about it. I love setting the dining room table with Christmas centerpieces, I love hanging our square red-berry wreath on the door, I love substituting a Christmasy doormat for our regular one, I love sitting in our living room with just the Christmas lights on and candles glowing, drinking hot chocolate with a splash of Bailey's, or sipping red wine and watching movies with David.

This year, I am having none of it. There are no decorations up in our house. Our tree is put away. My angel collection is in the shed. We've received very few Christmas cards, and we're not sending any. We politely declined party invitations from our co-workers. We fastforward Christmas commercials, we avoid Christmas music, we're not making any foods that are specifically "Chirstmas-y." We're just ignoring the holiday all together. Honestly, it's not a great way to get through the holidays, but it's the only thing I have the energy to do this year.

Most people have been very understanding of this, but some people seem to think that we're letting our loss overshadow everything and we should be more thankful for things (and people) we do have in our life. I can sort of understand this perspective. I'm certainly very grateful for my family and our friends who have been so supportive this year. I understand that these people deserve to be appreciated and celebrated. I miss my extended family, whom I haven't seen since last fall. I hope they all realize that my absence from family Christmas is not because I don't love them or want to see them, but just because I can't bear to be there without my baby.

I just cannot imagine trying to have a traditional family Christmas this year. Not when it is so far removed from the Christmas we had hoped to have. I think that going through the motions would be really painful, and even though I adore my cousins and their cute little kids, it will break my heart to have to witness everything we're missing out on. I don't want to be that girl who's crying through Christmas, and I just don't see the point in putting ourselves through that this year. It just feels too hard. I think the people who love us most understand and accept that.

We decided to travel somewhere warm and sunny and different. People keep asking me if I'm excited about Mexico. I don't know how to answer that. Yes, I'm looking forward to having my husband all to myself for a week. I'm looking forward to 80 degree weather and sunshine. I'm looking forward to my daily agenda being "read book poolside." Or maybe "golf nine holes." I can't complain about the opportunity to take a tropical vacation from the dreariness of daily life. But am I excited to be spending Christmas this way? Not exactly.

I've never spent a Christmas away from my mom and dad and I already feel teary and homesick just thinking about it. I miss my brother and the way he staggers out of bed on Christmas morning, bleary-eyed and needing coffee and a shave. I hate missing out on all our usual traditions. I hate that I miss out on seeing relatives we just see a couple times a year. I'm sad because it just doesn't feel like Christmas at all. But that's the thing. I don't want it to feel like Christmas. I don't want Christmas without Eliza.

So we're going to the beach. Just the two of us. My parents are going to my mom's sister's house in Arizona. My brother is spending Christmas with a friend in Shanghai, China. I hate that I'm not going to see them at Christmas, but I also know that for us, this year, this is the best way to get through the holiday. By ignoring it all together. I don't think we could do this forever. I don't think this solution is the right one for everyone. But I just can't imagine doing anything else this year, when the pain and loss still feel so fresh.

The word "solution" is totally wrong, though. This decision doesn't fix anything, or make me feel any better. It's just one more distraction. It's our attempt to get through the day/week with as few grief-triggers as possible. It's certainly not a perfect way to get through the holidays. It's just the best we can do right now.

And I know, I can't really bitch about this:

But when you compare it to the Christmas I wanted to have this year, it doesn't even come close. And that's what everything keeps coming back to. I miss our baby girl so much. I don't want to have Christmas without her.

Where There's Smoke

2011-12-16T15:33:00.000-06:00

Yesterday I made pecan sticky buns. They were... mildly disappointing.

I KNOW, right? Pecan sticky buns! That require two sticks of butter! How could they go wrong?

Meh. I don't know. Maybe it's the fact that Karo syrup grosses me out (I love to eat pecan pie, but I've never made it and adding Karo syrup as an ingredient is just unappealing to me). Maybe it's that I substituted wheat flour for 1 of the 4 cups of flour the dough requires (I do this in cinnamon rolls with no problem and it makes me feel healthier when I'm eating my two sticks of butter). Maybe they just need to be microwaved a few seconds before serving. Sigh. I don't know...

Anyway, I followed a recipe to make 30 mini sticky buns but I don't have mini muffin cups (I do have a miniature kitchen, so perhaps that is why I don't have space for such nonsense) so I used regular muffin cups. It probably would have made 15 regular sized sticky buns. But my muffin tin only holds 12. So what do you do? You make it work, right?

Not quite. Although I was feeling quite proud of myself after cramming the dough into 12 muffin cups (these will be generous sticky buns!), there was a minor disaster. Turns out that dough GETS BIGGER when you heat it. And if you don't think this through, you just might find yourself in a situation where the dough and karo syrup/sugar/pecan mixture overflows the muffin cup pan and splurts onto the floor of the oven. Where it sits quiet and unassuming until it gets close enough to the coils of the electric oven that it CATCHES ON FIRE. Just as a friend of mine came over to have coffee and sticky buns with me. Welcome! Please do not mind the flames in my oven. That's just our sticky buns!

Anyway, the buns turned out okay (mildly disappointing, but really not so bad). The oven, though, was a sticky, doughy mess. So today I am making chili to take with us as we venture back to visit the grandparents and I decided since the oven was coated in a sticky pecan filling that I should use the self-cleaning feature.

Do you know how the self-cleaning feature of the oven works? It makes the oven so freaking hot that it burns away all the gunk inside and reduces it to a little film of ash that you can wipe away when it cools. It takes 3 hours. I started when I got home from work at 1:30, so that it would be all finished when David got home and he would appreciate me for the Stepford wife I pretend to be about three days out of the year.

So I was stirring the chili on the stovetop and mentally planning our packing list for the weekend, and reminding myself to bring the charger for my kindle when my eyes started burning. Smoke was POURING out of the oven. And, once again, there were SMALL ORANGE FLAMES inside the oven door.

I stood by nervously as the flames flickered themselves out, so disaster appears to have been averted. I just hope the smoke does not flavor the chili and make it taste like ass.

One time I was babysitting my cousin and I was making her macaroni. I left the packet of powdered cheese on the stovetop next to the pot of boiling water and the packet of cheese started smoldering. I noticed the bad smell. So I put out the (super tiny) fire with no problem and later ripped open the (slightly charred) bag of powdered cheese and stirred it into the boiled noodles. My cousin took one bite and said, "This tastes bad." I argued with her that it tasted just fine. Then she made me take a bite. It tasted like smoke and burned plastic.

Which is also how my house smells right now. I have the back door and windows open and the ceiling fans going. Good thing it's 50 degrees outside. Cooper and I are huddled together under a blanket. I should get up and go stir the chili but then I'd have to get out from under the blanket. I bet my hair stinks like smoke.

On days like this, I think I'm really not equipped to manage the level of grief that comes with the loss of a child. I mean, I can barely manage myself, let alone major kitchen appliances. How am I supposed to get through something like this?

And then I remember that I've been getting through it for over a year now and there's nothing to do but keep going. Wait it out. Keep in mind that time will make things easier if not better. It's a burden that never gets lighter, but you start to think you can manage it, that maybe you are competent, and maybe you are getting your shit together, and maybe you have learned a little something about yourself and the people who truly matter to you in the process. And THEN you have the kind of day when you can't even make sticky buns properly and your oven is flaming and and your house is freezing and your kitchen is full of smoke and all you can do is huddle under a blanket with the dog and wait for the worst of it to pass.

Winner, Winner, Chicken Dinner

2011-12-14T10:41:00.002-06:00

So I googled "Random number generator" and then I entered 1 and 22 since there were 21 comments on the Give Away post and one more comment on the Deadline post, which I made #22.

And the Random Number Generator generated number... 1.

Which I thought was a total fluke so then I redid it to make sure that it was actually working and it was (the second number it generated was 16), so I feel compelled to stick with the first number that it gave me, but also sort of torn, so I've decided that I'm also going to make a small donation ($10) to number 16.

This means that I will be taking Tiffany up on her suggestion to donate to First Candle (an organization that offers support to grieving parents and also funds research and prevention of SIDS) in memory of her sweet son Julius.

And I'll a small donation (every little bit helps, right?) to the Shriner's at the suggestion of Vanessa, whose husband benefited from their services when he was growing up. She said that I can make that donation in memory of Eliza.

(It occurs to me that if I were a legit blogger, I would have a picture of the random number generator inserted on this post so you would know it was legit but I have no idea how to do that so you'll just have to trust me.)

Thanks to all of you who made suggestions of different organizations and charities. In wake of such a great loss, and particularly around the anniversary of Eliza's birth, I know that it's easy for me to get caught up in the spiral of my own pain and fear and sadness. It's important for me to try to step outside that, even if it's just for a little bit, and feel that I can still contribute to a greater good. I have felt so sad and "needy" for so long that I really need to be reminded there are things I can to help other people (and animals) who rely on the kindness and generosity of others.

Congratulations to the "winners" Tiffany and Vanessa, and thanks again to everyone who suggested such great causes. Makes you feel like there really are good things going on in this world, you know? In spite of everything.

Deadline! (Almost)

2011-12-13T09:06:00.000-06:00

I was hoping to have several organizations or charities to select from for this little giveaway, so I want to extend the giveaway another 24 hours. Because people are BIZZAY and maybe haven't had time to comment, right? And obviously I'm a little short of the expected 40,000 comments or so (just like when the Pioneer Woman gives away a Kitchen Aid mixer). So I'm asking you to take just a moment to tell me about your favorite charitable organization and whom you would like to honor or remember with a donation. With all my mixed feelings about the holidays, I would love to hear about some good things that are being done. Oh, and to make things easier, please leave your comment on my previous post (this one).

Giving (and my first giveaway, sort of)

2011-12-09T07:56:00.019-06:00

One of the things I was overwhelmed with on Eliza's birthday was how many people made donations to worthy causes in memory of our Baby Duck, or performed other acts of kindness. Every single one of those made me cry tears of love and gratitude. Our baby girl was with us such a short time, and it's truly an honor to see the way her life and our love for her can still make a difference in the world.

Here's a list of causes that received donations in memory of Eliza over the past year:

* Share Pregnancy and Infant Loss Support (if you haven't watched the video on this website, take 10 minutes. It's beautiful.)

* Now I Lay Me Down To Sleep - photography service

* Ethiopian Orphan Relief (in particular, Children's Heaven, a service for little girls who have lost their parents to AIDS)

* Heifer, International (a flock of ducks and a hive of honeybees)

* Nothing But Nets - provides mosquito netting to families in Africa to prevent malaria

* The First Book Program in St. Louis - (a donation of Alice in Wonderland)

* Make a Wish foundation

* local food bank - diaper donation

* Blessings in a Backpack - providing food on weekends to kids who need it

* March of Dimes

* The Snyder Twins -much loved and wanted babies, whose mother died unexpectedly from c-section complications

We are so honored to have Eliza's name associated with these good causes, and we appreciate your kindness and generosity more than I can ever say. We also appreciate the prayers, memorials, and kind gestures--no matter how large or small--that were performed in honor of our baby girl. It is so bittersweet to see the way she is still loved and missed.

David and I also wanted to make a donation in Eliza's name, but I hadn't decided on exactly what charity or organization we were going to contribute to this year. There are so many, and they do such good work, and I wanted it to be something special.

Some of my favorite charities that we've donated to in the past include the Humane Society, St. Jude's Hospital, ALS research (in memory of our friend Curt's dad), Cystic Fibrosis research (in memory of my friend Jamie's cousin Megan), and the American Cancer Society (in memory of my Gpa Vance, and in honor of David's grandpa).

All of those causes are close to my heart, but I guess I wanted to find something different this year, something that would sort of speak to me and feel like the "right" place to put a little extra cash. I guess I wanted something different, and something that felt tangible, you know what I mean? I love the idea of participating in Christmas projects like toys for tots or shopping for a child in need, but I'm just not quite ready to buy clothes and toys for little ones... Maybe next year.

Anyway, Eliza's birthday went by, and I still hadn't come up with the "perfect" organization.

Today I got an e-mail from a PEO sister who is currently serving in the Peace Corps in Georgia (that would be the country, not the state). She is currently working on a project to expand a day care center and school. Here's what she writes:

Background Info on This Project: This center is run by the NGO I'm working with in Georgia and provides transportation, medical care, 2 meals daily, educational and vocational services to low-income children (and that's saying a LOT here). It's really an impressive center ...even by American standards and especially when you compare it to the "regular" schools in Georgia which are pretty horrific! We're trying to expand the center but need to renovate a room. If we expand we can add 4 more children that are currently "wait listed" to attend the center as well as provide separate rooms for older and younger children. All donations go directly to the project. I'm the one overseeing it so I submitted the budget and will be responsible for completion of the project. There are NO administrative costs and all donations are tax deductible. Any amount can help!!

We needed about $3500 and already have over $2100 in only 2 weeks ... over 1/2 way there. You have no idea how much difference this will make in the lives of these children and their families!!! If you you can give anything ... PLEASE DO!!! We'd love to get this funded ASAP. Once the project is fully funded it's removed from the Peace Corps website https://www.peacecorps.gov/index.cfm?shell=donate.contribute.projDetail&projdesc=242-075.

That was it. That was this year's Eliza Gift. I made a donation this morning.

And it made me feel so good that I want to do something more. We may be skipping the festivities of Christmas this year, but it feels right to honor the true spirit of the season by giving to those in need. So I want you to tell me what charities or organizations inspire you with the work they do, and I'll make another donation before Christmas.

(This idea was also inspired by Tiffany, who is doing a similar giveaway on her blog this month in memory of her baby boy, Julius. I hate to be a copycat, but I also figure when it comes to stuff like this, it's not like you can do TOO MANY good things, right?)

So (here's where things get THRILLING), please leave a comment with the name of your favorite, well-deserving charity, and the name of the person or persons you'd like to honor/remember (if you don't have someone in mind, then you can just name Eliza). Anyone can comment! I'll leave the post open until December 15th and then I'll select (RANDOMLY) from the suggestions and make a $25 donation to the charity of the winner's choice, in honor or memory of whomever he/she suggests.

Thank you all for abiding with us this year, and for performing a true act of kindness every time you reached out to David and me in comments, e-mails, phone calls, thoughts, and prayers. We'd never be able to pay enough to equal all the love we've received, but we want to give back a little something.

Worth a Thousand Words

2011-12-08T14:55:00.001-06:00

Thank you to everyone who lit candles, who sent photos, who whispered prayers, and who kept Eliza in your heart on her birthday.

One Year Later

2011-12-07T11:26:00.000-06:00

Well, it's here. We made it. An entire year without our girl. We kept waking up and going to bed and somehow we ended up here. It's December, and it's cold. It snowed last night--little flurries. Last winter was one of the snowiest I can remember, so snow will always make me think of Eliza, my winter baby.

I want to post (and I will) about all the kindness and the love that was extended to us. I want to write about all the sweet things people did in memory of Eliza, and the notes and cards and e-mails and texts that we received.

But for today, I just want to say that I don't really know how we did it, but we made it through the day. Hell, I don't really know how we got through an entire year of life after losing the one thing we wanted most.

To be honest, there was a relief in getting past the one year milestone. It felt a little bit like a promise that the gaping wound will continue to heal, that it will eventually become a tender place that only hurts when you really push on it (although you won't always be able to predict what or who will do that pushing, or when it will happen). It's a relief to know that 2011, a shitstorm of a year, is going to be behind us soon. And yes, there's a tiny bit of nagging guilt over the relief that the distance of a year brings, as well as an aching sadness that an entire year's worth of time has come between us and the last time we held our baby girl and marveled over her soft cheeks and long eyelashes and delicate fingers and perfect feet.

Today I'm in a place where I can hope that 2012 will bring good things our way, not because we deserve it, not because we're due, but just because sometimes things do work out. After all, hoping for the best doesn't guarantee disappointment any more than dreading the worst makes the opposite occur.

The one thing that surprised me about the anniversary was that in many ways, Monday, December 5, was the harder day. We both worked on Monday--I had to give a final exam, David put in a full day at school. We hadn't anticipated how hard it would be since our focus was on the 6th, but Eliza's birthday was a Monday, so Monday felt like That Day. Poor David really felt like he was re-living it, going through the same routine at work, whereas my day was much different since I have a new job. But that night was when it really hit me. I had papers to grade (which is what I was doing when I went into labor) and I refused to even pull them out of my bag. We were quiet that evening, both taking care of work-related stuff before dinner. After dinner, we were in the kitchen, making a sweet treat in honor of Andrew when David pointed at the microwave clock and said, "It was a Monday night last year at just this time."

Instant tears. It felt so long ago, but I could remember every terrible, terrifying moment in the most vivid technicolor details. We talked a little bit about the day, but tried not to spend too much time reliving it. The first time through was hard enough.

We stayed up later than usual that night. I think we didn't want to go to bed and bring the 6th any sooner than we had to. I cried in bed that night. Harder than I've cried in months. The kind of wracking sobs that make me gag and cough. The kind of tears that echoed the early days, when I thought I really might cry myself to death and I welcomed that idea. I sobbed and wailed and begged God and the universe and anyone who might be listening to please give me my baby, and I asked David over and over again, as he patted my back and tried helplessly to soothe me, why it had to be us, why it had to be Eliza, why our baby?

These are questions I try not to ask too often, because there are no answers and because why not us? Loss does not take merit or responsibility or effort or love into account. It's an equal opportunity villain, and I've yet to meet anyone who deserves this kind of loss. But on those dark nights, I just want it to have happened to anyone else but me.

Eventually, we fell asleep with the TV on because I wanted the noise and the light and the distraction of something happening outside my head.

The 6th was a quiet day. We both stayed home. Cooper stayed extra close to me, lying with his head on my lap every time I sat down (and let's be honest, I did spend a good part of the day on the couch). I didn't want to talk to anyone on the phone, but I especially appreciated the calls and voice mails that I got from Monica and Allison and my brother. I arranged the cards we received on the bar in front of a bouquet of flowers, just as we do (or have done) for birthdays, anniversaries, and Christmases past. David made another sweet treat that he's now dubbed "Eliza's Peanutbutter Bars."

There were a lot of tears on the 6th as well, but they were gentler, tender tears that spilled over every time I opened an e-mail or comment or text from someone who was thinking of us. They were love tears instead of grief tears, and believe me, there's such a difference.

I spent most the day sewing. Hand-stitching a little butterfly design (because I like to keep my nineteenth-century skills up to date). A couple of months ago, I bought some fabric and stuff at a crafts store, and I happened upon a little needlepoint kit with a butterfly design. I liked the colors and so, sort of on a whim, I added it to my basket, thinking that someday I could make it and frame it in our hallway.

I started that little project Monday night. It kept me busy, gave me something to do and something to focus on that required concentration, but at the same time didn't actually make me think too hard. Unlike reading, I could talk or watch TV at the same time, but I still felt like I was doing something productive, focused on my little project. When I woke up on Tuesday, it gave me something specific to get up and do, a reason to get out of bed, even if was a silly little project that only mattered to me. It was absolutely the best thing I could have bought for myself to get through the day, although I had no idea at the time I purchased it. (I'm almost finished with it--probably will finish tonight or tomorrow).

That evening, we went to the candlelight vigil that is held every year at the Angel of Hope statue. It's always on December 6th, which is a strange coincidence that I happen to love. We took candles and a single white rose and stood in the cold, black, starless night, listening to strangers sing songs and read poems and talk about the loss of a beloved baby boy twenty-nine years ago, a boy whose family still mourns and remembers him. It was beautiful and sad.

It was also freezing cold and occasionally interrupted by tacky people who couldn't be bothered to turn off their freaking cell phones (yes, baby loss happens to rude and tacky people as well as the rest of us). David and I also relieved the tension by making inappropriate jokes about being better prepared for next year by bringing spiked cider or hot chocolate. Except we weren't really joking.

Toward the end of the ceremony, as we were all being brought to tears by a lovely rendition of "Somewhere Out There," I suddenly felt like I was going to pass out. Just keeping the night interesting! As though a candlelight vigil on the one year anniversary of our firstborn daughter's birth and death was not dramatic enough, it seemed that I was now looking to go all out in my role as Grieving Mother by FAINTING in the middle of a crowd full of people holding burning sticks of wax. Brilliant!

I've fainted a few times in my life (because I am a delicate Victorian flower), but those fainting spells almost all involved needles. In fact, the only time I've fainted when a needle was not involved was in fifth grade when we were rehearsing for our Christmas music show and our music teacher told us not to lock our knees while standing on the risers or we would pass out. I thought that was the stupidest thing I'd ever heard, so I decided to do a little experiment. A few minutes later, I was lying, pale and dazed, on the floor, and the PE teacher had to help me hobble over to the bleachers and told me to hang my head between my knees. It's a good thing I was short, so I was in the front row of the risers and fell to floor. Lesson (reluctantly) learned.

The problem with fainting is that you feel so terrible in the moment that passing out feels like a delicious option--much better than the nauseating, dizzy, black-spotted vision that you're dealing with as you cling to consciousness. I have NO IDEA what caused me to feel dizzy and yicky at the vigil, except that we'd been standing up a while on a slope and MAYBE I had locked my knees? I mean, I was touched by the ceremony, but I didn't feel overwhelmed with emotion (I'd pretty well gotten that out of my system the night before). I just knew that I felt disgusting and like I'd prefer to pass out instead of take deep breaths.

However, I managed NOT to pass out, and instead said to David, "You've got to get me out of here, I feel like I'm going to faint." So he dragged me, staggering, over to a bench to sit down. I hung my head between my knees and, after a few minutes, I felt just fine. But by this point the official ceremony had ended and everyone had started forming a line to leave their flower in front of the statue, and we had totally lost our spot. We decided to just stay seated on the bench until the line died down. It took for freaking EVER because there were a lot of people and it's not like you can rush bereaved parents through a ritual of placing a flower at the base of a statue in memory of their child (even though I kind of wished someone official had been hurrying the line along because were were FREEZING). We almost considered leaving and coming back later, but I wanted to stay and leave her flower, so we stuck around. By the time we got up to the statue, I couldn't feel my toes or my fingers and I just felt so tired.

Still, I was glad we made it through and left Eliza's little white flower. It felt meaningful to participate in a ceremony that honored her on her birthday, and I think it will become an annual tradition for us. I know for sure that as the years go on, we'll continue to celebrate her birthday, and to find different ways to honor the love she brought to our lives. In some ways, of course, losing her in December makes the holidays more difficult (hence the skipping of Christmas entirely this year), but I know that no matter when she would have been born, holidays will always be different than they should have been, and that sadness will always be there. Having her birthday in December will, I hope, become a bittersweet opportunity not just to grieve our baby girl, but also to continue to pass on the kindness and compassion that have been extended to us since she came into our lives and left so quickly, and to incorporate her memory special traditions that will be part of our family's story for the rest of our lives.

Thank you for sharing that story, and for remembering our Eliza on her birthday and always.

In Memory of Our Baby Duck

2011-12-02T00:28:00.010-06:00

Earlier this week, we sent out memorial cards for the anniversary of Eliza's birthday. Mostly to our family and a few friends. I'm a big fan of the old fashioned correspondence, and David and I have sent out Christmas cards every year since we got married. (Except for last year, when our photo cards featuring our smiling faces and my pregnant belly arrived the day after our daughter died (Irony, you are a cruel mistress)). This year, I knew holiday cards were off the table and I never got to choose birth announcements, but I wanted to do something to commemorate our December baby, and memorial cards felt right for us. I owe special thanks to to Leslie and Brianna, whose memorial cards for Cullen and George inspired this idea, and from whom I borrowed some of the wording. Funny how I've been writing about Eliza here for almost a year, and when it came to writing these cards, I felt like I didn't know how to begin (except with tears--plenty of those to go around!).

I wish I had enough cards and postage to send one to everybody who reads this blog, so please consider this the online version. The cards featured the same photo I'm posted below, and I'm also posting the text we had printed inside. I mean every word of it, because the comments on and e-mails about this blog have been a real lifeline to me this year.

Several months ago, I posted this poem by Rabindranath Tagore, and this line still comes to mind every single time someone extends a kindness to me, especially when it's someone I wouldn't have met or someone I wouldn't have become close with if it weren't for Eliza: "They who love me do not know that their love brings you to my heart."

I hope you guys know it. How much it matters, what a difference it makes, how your kindness brings Eliza close to me. Every comment, every e-mail, every note, every gift. You've helped me hold my Baby Duck in my heart all year long, and you've listened to every whispered hope and every agonized cry that I've spilled out on this blog. I cannot thank you enough for keeping Eliza close in my heart and in yours.

In loving memory of

Eliza Taylor Duckworth

December 6, 2010

Please join us in remembering

our sweet Baby Duck

on the anniversary of her birthday.

Though we cannot hold her in our arms,

we carry her always in our hearts.

Thank you for the love and support we've been given in the past year. The sorrow we feel for our daughter's loss can only be matched by the love she brought into our lives.

You are invited to join us in celebrating Eliza's brief but beautiful life by lighting a candle, by sharing a moment of silence, or by performing an act of kindness in her honor.

We'd love it if you would share with us how you choose to remember her.

Dark and Ugly

2011-11-29T11:22:00.000-06:00

I am not where I want to be.

Of course, there are two levels to where I want to be. There's the want to be planning a first birthday party and buying a size 12 months Christmas dress and worrying about holiday travel and packing and naptime. Where I really want to be is impossible. What I want most of all is gone forever and there's no getting her back. I'm starting to absorb that truth, as much as I hate it, as much as it sticks and scratches on the way down. She's gone and all I want is to have her here. All I want to be is parenting an almost-one-year-old and watching her take her first steps. That can't happen. I know. I get that. I've spent a year of reckoning and I guess at some point I came terms with the fact that I'm not going to get her back. Not in this lifetime.

But even apart from that line of wishful thinking, I'm not where I want to be.

I want to be wiser, better, calmer, more peaceful, more spiritual, more compassionate, more giving.

I want my heart to be broken open and outward, not collapsed in upon itself into a ball of sharp and misfitting shards of anger.

I want to feel good about the way I have kept Eliza's memory alive in me this year. I want to know that I have grieved deeply enough, mourned intensely enough, loved her out loud enough to show how much she matters.

I want to be in a place where I feel sad, yes, but also hopeful. I want to hope for brighter days, for healthy babies, for a future that isn't what I thought it would be, but isn't entirely miserable either.

I want to be able to report that at almost a year from my daughter's death, she has changed and transformed me into someone who is strong and capable and kind and honest.

I DO NOT want to sound like I'm fishing for compliments. I'm just trying to say that I feel so far removed from where I want to be, from the way I want Eliza's life and death to have changed me.

I don't feel peaceful. I don't feel hopeful. I feel dark and ugly and sad and bitter and small. I am doing the ugly cry again--driving home from zumba class last night (which I thought would make me feel better), sitting in my office at work today (I just locked the door and turned off the light even though it's technically my office hours), when David walked in the door from work yesterday (which is just what he needs at the end of the day--bless his heart, he does manage to give me a big hug BEFORE he gets himself a beer).

I am so angry that my daughter died. I am so angry that there is no explanation for what happened. I am so furious that my body betrayed me. I am flabbergasted that all the research and reading I did failed to prevent her loss. I can't shake the sense that I failed her both intellectually and instinctively--that if I couldn't know something was wrong, at least I should have felt it.

Instead of mailing out birthday announcements, I'm sending out memorial cards tonight.

Instead of feeling better, I feel like I'm farther away and missing her more than ever.

I know there's no justice in this world. I watch the news, I read the blogs, I know that this life is grossly unfair all the time and to countless different people.

But I'm in a dark, ugly place where it feels like it's just me.

I feel so fucking sorry for myself I can hardly stand it. Because it's not about ME, it's about her. It's about a little girl who never was, because she was only and ever a baby. It's about a baby who never opened her eyes, or cried, or grabbed my finger with her tiny little hand. It's about Eliza, who was inexplicably denied all the joys and heartaches and jokes and birthday parties and swimming lessons and stuffed animals that should have been hers.

I really thought I was doing so well. But yesterday the weather turned cold. The month of November is about to run out. And I'm still the same girl who got her life pulled out from under her without preamble or warning on a cold, dark day in December almost a year ago.

I want to be better for having loved her.

But all I feel is angry and sad because I miss her so freaking much.

Home Is Where My Dogs Are

2011-11-28T08:02:00.003-06:00

My dogs stayed with my parents for a week so that we wouldn't have to kennel them when we went to Chicago.

For a week, my sofa was free of dog hair. The mailman's arrival was not announced with unmitigated ferocity of barking. Nobody burrowed under a blanket next to me only to fart (I've broken David of that habit, but haven't been as successful with Cooper). There was no Little Mac howling to be let out in the middle of the night. I didn't have to smell dog food with Parmesan cheese sprinkled on it (gag-o-rama). No click-click-click of doggy toenails scratching our hardwood floors. No growling when I open the closet door (near Mac's bed) in the morning. No forty-pound dog stealing the covers at night. No whining for treats. No guilt-inducing puppy dog eyes when I don't want to go for a walk on dark, chilly evenings.

But also, for a whole week, there was nobody dancing with excitement when I walked in the front door. No one trailed me around the house just so he could snuggle up next to me the instant I sat down. No one wiggled with delight when I opened a cabinet door, hoping desperately I'd produce a treat for him. No one fought the laptop for the real estate of my thighs. No one was there to keep me company when David worked late.

I forget what good company they are, these obnoxious dogs. I take for granted the way they abide with me, no matter how cranky I am, or how sad I'm feeling, or what I look like. I get irritated with the barking, and tired of the dog hair, and annoyed by their (relatively simple) demands. And then I live without them for a week and I just get lonesome for them.

So today, I'm so glad to have the dogs back where they belong. You know, shedding on my furniture and farting under the covers.

Thanks, Chicago

2011-11-27T09:52:00.001-06:00

Chicago treated us well. We kept ourselves busy and even managed to enjoy ourselves a little bit. We forgot the camera, so I now present my (slightly blurry) cell phone snapshots.

Proof that we were there.

This is why they call it the "windy city" - that's a rogue umbrella floating several stories up.

Oh, Eliza. Always in my heart and on my mind. Even when I'm just browsing in Crate and Barrel.

The Bean in Millennium Park, where we rested after we got weary of the Black Friday crowds on Michigan Avenue.

Models doing a photo shoot in Millennium Park. I found this very exciting.

A happy snap. Our third try. The first one was a close-up of David's chin, the second one I was snarling. This was the best we could do. See how nice and sunny it is? I don't know what people are talking about when they complain about winter in Chicago. It was gorgeous all weekend.

The Husband. What a dreamboat. His lapel pin says "Teach" and a random dude at our hotel recognized it as coming with a set of Penzey's spices and then we talked about how much we love Penzey's as we rode the elevator with him.

Chicago skyline. It's, like, a real big city. Which I already knew from my favorite movie circa 1990: Adventures in Babysitting.

Darling friend from the blogosphere, Brandy Wilson. Met up for lunch and found her just as adorable in person as she is online. Also? She has perfect skin and shiny hair. Unfortunately, this picture makes it look like I am wearing shoulder pads or like I am the hunchback of Notre Dame, but I swear it's just a weird angle.

Other highlights of the trip included our swanky hotel room (thanks, Priceline!), seeing a musical comedy at a theatre on Navy Pier, and going to IKEA on the way home. And, because it's a small, small world, we grabbed a bit to eat at Harry Caray's restaurant on Navy Pier after the show and ran into one of David's former students who was there with his family. He was thrilled to see "Coach Duck!" and joined us at our table for a few minutes, then continued to wave at us across the restaurant. It kind of felt like I was married to a celebrity.

So, yeah. It wasn't the Thanksgiving weekend it should have been, but it could have been worse, you know?

Hope you all found things to be thankful for this year.

Camelot

2011-11-22T12:27:00.000-06:00

Today is the anniversary of John F. Kennedy's assassination.

just before the assassination, picture from here

I fill up the empty time of my commute by listening to audio books (because I am a gianormous nerd) and one of the books I listened to recently was The Kennedy Detail by Gerald Blaine. To be honest, I was not enamored with the prose. It used a lot of stale phrases and got kind of repetitive, and the purpose of the book was essentially to explain (and defend) the actions of the secret service agents that day in Dallas, and to squelch the possibility of a conspiracy theory. But the story? Well, that was pretty fascinating.

I've been interested in Jackie Kennedy for a long time. I remember when I was about twelve years old and my aunt Peggy took me shopping. I tried on a pair of sunglasses at the Gap--big, dark sunglasses with round, navy blue frames that hid my face. She looked at me modeling them and told me I looked "Very Jackie O."

I took this as a huge compliment, and was delighted when she bought them for me. I'm sure that my dorky twelve-year-old self was totally channeling this level of style and sophistication:

picture from here

Lately, as you might suppose, I've become more interested in Jackie for other reasons. Mostly because of the tragedies she endured.

Her first pregnancy ended in miscarriage.

Then she had a baby girl who was stillborn. They named her Arabella. There isn't a lot written about this part of Jackie's life, and I imagine she did a lot of suffering in silence.

Caroline was born the following year, just as John F. Kennedy's political career was really ramping up.

Jackie was pregnant with John Jr. during JFK's presidential campaign in 1960--in fact, she gave birth to him in November of that year. I can only imagine how complicated it would feel to be pregnant and in the public spotlight, with all of the mixed emotions that come with a pregnancy after loss (even after having another healthy baby--it's not like the fear goes away, right?).

Jackie with baby John - image from here

It was three years later, in August of 1963, that she had another baby, a little boy named Patrick, who lived just two days. He couldn't breathe properly when he was born, and died from respiratory distress. (August was also the month that Arabella was born--a terrible coincidence).

By the time she was thirty-four years old, Jackie Kennedy had given birth to four children and buried two of them.

(And can I just say how much it must have stung to watch Ethel Kennedy popping out kid after kid? Ethel and Bobby Kennedy had ELEVEN kids. I'm just saying... it couldn't have been easy to be her sister-in-law.)

I knew most of this stuff about Jackie before I listened to the audiobook. I knew that she'd lost Arabella and Patrick, and I'd already admired her for the grace and poise and dignity that she exuded in the midst of these tragedies.

What I didn't realize was that she lost her husband three short months after her youngest child died.

I didn't know that after burying Patrick in August, she accompanied JFK to Dallas in November to help him campaign. That parade in November of 1963 was her first public appearance after the death of her youngest child.

I remember what three months out was like. I remember how raw and fragile and vulnerable I felt. I remember how I could hold myself together to teach class for two hours, and once I was alone in my car after class, all the tears I'd been holding back would come rushing out and I'd lean on the steering wheel, in the parking garage on campus, and sob. David and I were still surviving on take-out food and frozen pizza because once we were both home from work, all we wanted to do was sit on the couch and hold on to each other. It was still so incredibly hard to get through the day and I felt like a zombie so much of the time.

Would I have wanted to go out on the campaign trail and smile for pictures with my presidential husband? People, even NOW I hold back from events that would require me to socialize with strangers. But Jackie was three months fresh into her grief when she went to Dallas with her husband and watched helplessly as the back of his head got shot off.

In the days after Eliza's death (and even now), my greatest fear was losing someone else I loved. She had felt so certain to me--a living, moving, kicking baby in my belly, sure to be bundled in a blanket and passed around to friends a family in just a few weeks' time. And then, suddenly, with no warning, she was gone. If my entire life could change so quickly--and so horribly--in the span of a single sentence: "I'm sorry, we can't find a heartbeat," then what was to stop it from continuing to fall apart?

Everything suddenly felt shaky and uncertain. If Eliza could die for no reason, when I'd been trying to take such good care of her, what was to stop everyone else I loved from dying also? If my sleeping dogs weren't snoring, I'd check to make sure they were still breathing because it seemed just as likely that they wouldn't be. Why wouldn't I lose my (healthy, active, young) daughter one day and my (healthy, active, young) husband the next? Strokes and blood clots and heart attacks and car accidents, these suddenly all seemed so frighteningly possible--likely, even--that I could scarcely breathe if I thought about it, and I sighed with relief every time David walked in the door. Exhausted, broken-hearted, but still intact. I could still hold on to him.

The book I listened to detailed the blood and the gore of the shooting (which may have been therapeutic for the secret service agents, who got no counseling or personal leave after the assassination). The secret service agent assigned to Jackie ran unbelievably fast to make it from his position on the running board of the agents' car to the presidential limo. He leaped to the ground and started running when the first shot was fired, and got to the car just after the third (and fatal) shot was fired. It took all of seven seconds. He flung himself up onto the trunk and held on desperately as the driver of the limo sped up to get away from the square. Meanwhile, Jackie was clutching her husband, covered in blood, pieces of his brain in her hands. The secret service agent managed to climb his way into the backseat, throwing himself on top of the president and the first lady as the limo careened toward the hospital.

It was an absolute horror. It makes phrases like "worst nightmare" feel trite and ridiculous. To be so freshly grieving the death of your baby, and then sit next to your husband when the back of his head explodes from the rifle shot of a madman... How do you ever recover from that? How do you find it in you to go on?

I have to tell you, I don't know where Jackie Kennedy got to strength to survive the death of two children AND the trauma of witnessing her husband's murder. But I would bet that she has no idea where she got that strength either. None of us think we can live through such unimaginable horror until--holy shit--it's our life and we can't NOT live through it.

It was Jackie's idea to put the eternal flame on JFK's grave at Arlington Cemetery. It was also Jackie's idea to have her two babies transferred from the Kennedy family plot to be buried next to their father. A lot of heartbreak on that hill in Arlington, and Jackie Kennedy seems to have shouldered more than her fair share of it.

So today I remember Jack Kennedy, whom I think was a great president (as well as a handsome man). It's a travesty that our nation lost him as a leader, and it's a tragedy that his children lost their father, that his wife lost her husband.

Today I also remember his wife, who endured so much on this date in history, who must have felt herself pushed beyond the breaking point, and who managed to hold herself together through it all.

image from here

I realize now there were probably a lot of tears behind those famous Jackie O sunglasses, more tears than most of us will have to cry in a lifetime, but there was a remarkable woman there, too. She might have started as my fashion inspiration, but Jackie Kennedy means something very different to me now. While I doubt that she (or anyone) would ever have chosen to be admired for the way she endured such sadness, I'm grateful to her for demonstrating that it can be done. And I'm so sorry that she had to do it.

Ms. B's Advice on Baby Shower Invitations

2011-11-20T13:17:00.000-06:00

Dear Ms. B,

One of my good friends lost her baby nine months ago. Now a mutual friend of ours is pregnant and I'm co-hosting a baby shower for her next month. I want to invite my friend whose baby died because she's such an important part of our close circle of friends, and I want her to know that we love her and miss her and want to include her in everything. But I also don't want to upset her or make her feel like we expect her to be there if it's too difficult for her. We (the pregnant mom and other hostesses) have talked about how we understand if she can't attend. In fact, we're not really expecting her to be there, but we also wish very much that things were different and she could come. Do we go ahead and send her an invitation? Or would it be better to avoid mentioning the shower to her at all?

Sincerely,
Shower Hostess

Dear Hostess,

The fact that you are worried about this speaks volumes to the sort of kindness you're extending to your friend who lost her child. The best way to handle this may depend on the geography of the shower, on the personality of your friend, and on various other personal issues. But in Ms. B's experience, open lines of communication are almost always the best option.

Ms. B would suggest sending an e-mail to your bereaved friend saying something similar to what you've said here. She's obviously aware that your mutual friend is pregnant, and realizes there will be a baby shower for that friend. She may or may not plan to attend it, but I think the kindest thing you can do is explain that you want her to know she's welcome, and straight up tell her that you don't want to upset her if an invitation would be what they call a "grief trigger."

Your friend may respond that she would rather not see the invitation, in which case you can simply follow her wishes. Or she may thank you for the e-mail and tell you to go ahead and send the invitation.

If she responds with the latter, one of the nicest ways to do this is to enclose the invitation with another note or card addressed to the bereaved mother that offers a few words of sympathy or encouragement. You don't have to go over the top, but doing a little something to acknowledge that you didn't just slap a stamp on it, and that you were thinking of her personally when you addressed the envelope, would be appreciated by the bereaved mom.

As the hostess, it would also be very nice of you to offer to split a gift with the bereaved mother and tell her that you'll take care of all the arrangements if she'll just send you a check for X amount. She may want to get something personal for her friend if she can't be there; on the other hand, she may feel sick at the thought of looking at a baby registry or picking out gifts, and sending you a check would be a a relief for her.

Of course, Ms. B is assuming your friend will decline the invitation and not attend. The truth is that everyone feels differently about this, and your friend may decide she wants to be there. Do keep in mind, though, that many (most?) bereaved parents find themselves unable to go to those kind of events for a couple of years after their loss. Baby showers are a huge grief trigger for many mothers who crowed over beautiful gifts that then sat unused in an empty, silent nursery. Seeing other moms receive similar items and plan to use them for their babies, well, it's incredibly difficult. But it's also true that moms who had earlier losses, and perhaps did not get to have a baby shower for their little one, would find the idea of attending someone else's shower to be really hard--a reminder of everything they missed out on.

Not attending the shower isn't exactly a relief either--the bereaved parent will probably feel a lot of guilt about being a "bad friend," and a lot of sadness about missing out on "normal" life experiences. Your sensitivity in this matter is really important, and Ms. B is confident that your bereaved friend will appreciate your kindness even if she cannot join you in the baby shower celebration.

Kindly,
Ms. B

Readers: Do you agree? Or would you rather be left off the invitation list all together? Do you think there's a time frame of when it would be appropriate? Two months out, for example, just skip the invitation? Several months later, maybe you can send it with a note attached? Does it depend on how close the friend is? Those of you who are further out--can you comment on when (if ever) you felt comfortable attending a baby shower after your loss? Did those kind of events get easier after a "rainbow baby"? Or do you find they continue to be a grief trigger for you?

Brag Book(shelves)

2011-11-17T20:07:00.053-06:00

So... I like to read. And I have a lot of books. Somewhere along the way, I collected a set of five cheap, mis-matched, particle board book cases. I got three of them at a Container Store clearance sale, and two of them at an Office Depot clearance sale (I swear I got those two for $20. For the both of them.)

Anyway, they did the job, but they didn't look especially great. I shoved them all together in our back room and tried to pretend it had a "built-in" look. They did the job of corralling my books in one place (and displaying a crapload of framed photos) but when I looked at them with a critical eye? They did not please me. I wasn't sure what to do about it, though. I mean, I love the books, and the look of full bookshelves. Buying nice, real wood bookshelves looked like it would be more than I wanted to spend, and the truth was these bookshelves were serving their purpose. I just wanted them to look purdier.

THEN I discovered Pinterest, and not ONLY did I suddenly want everything in my house to look cuter, I also wanted to DIY it into looking that way (behold the power of Pinterest).

So I did some research (by which I mean pinning), and I did some measuring and scheming, and I consulted with my in-house handyman about how confident he felt in his ability to use a miter saw to cut corners, and we decided to tackle this project.

Haphazard, mismatched bookshelves. The three in the middle are from the Container Store, the two on each end are from Office Depot. All of them were purchased at least five years ago.

I had a vision of crisp, white built-in bookshelves, complete with crown molding and trim. I also had a budget of $100, but truth be told, the entire project (counting all paint, primer, supplies, and trim) blew right through that budge and ending up costing us a total of somewhere around $250. Still MUCH less than the cost of a single built-in unit! And the whole project took about a week from start to finish, since we were working on it when we weren't working on our real jobs.

First, David took the shelves out and moved the bookcase frames and the shelves all out to the garage, where I primed everything with an oil-based primer. I used Zissner's from Lowe's (because it was recommended on Pinterest). It was kind of stinky, but actually not as bad as I feared. I used a foam roller that I could just toss when I was finished, because I didn't want to mess with using mineral spirits for clean up. I did all the priming and painting with the doors and windows open so it would be well-ventilated, but I also wore a mask. And I wore my favorite old pair of yoga pants which I would still wear to yoga if I hadn't ripped out the butt of them (my mom sewed them for me, but they're still not really serviceable for downward dog) and my Thespians t-shirts from high school ("Act well your part, there all the honor lies" - Alexander Pope). Oh, and because I wanted to avoid oil-based primer in my hair, I wore a very cute bandana doo-rag. I assure you, I looked adorable.

I did two coats of primer, and then two coats of paint. It took longer than I wanted to, but it turned out pretty well, considering that I was skeptical about how well I'd be able to paint particle board. I also got to listen to NPR's Wait, Wait, Don't Tell Me TWICE, as they play it on Saturday and Sunday.

Once everything was primed, painted, and dried, we lined the shelves back up on the wall.

We decided to alternate the three matching cases with the pair of slightly smaller bookcases because I thought it would make the whole piece look more cohesive than having the two skinnier bookcases stuck on the ends. David boosted the height of the two smaller cases a little bit by building a sturdy platform for them to sit on that raised them an inch or so off the ground. The idea was to make the height even enough that we could cover the discrepancy with trim (you can see the unevenness in the above photo). We had to be careful, because we couldn't raise the bottom so high it would show above the baseboard trim, but we needed to make it high enough that the trim across the top would cover everything. Plus we needed to think about how we'd put the shelves back in so that we could try to make the variation in the levels of the shelves look deliberate. It really took a LOT of brain power and some use of the tape measure.

A few years ago, I had taken the cardboard backing of the old shelves and covered it in wrapping paper in an effort to spruce it up. But since I wanted these to look like real "built-ins," I decided to leave the backs open so the wall would serve as the back of the bookshelves. I actually cleaned the wall with a magic eraser because it was kind of grody back there, having been hidden by the bookcases for five years. We ended up removing the baseboard so the bookcases would sit flush against the wall, and we also attached all of the bookshelves to the wall, for extra stability. It was definitely worth the extra trouble to get it all lined up and nice and even.

And (after I primed and painted all the trim), David busted out his trusty nail gun (seriously, that thing makes me flinch every time he uses it) and we attached trim around the top, around the bottom, running down the corners, along the sides that meet the wall, and we used a small piece of trim 1.5" wide to run down the front in between each bookcase so you wouldn't see the seam. Oh, and I also used some white spray paint I had on hand from the frame project to spray paint the little plastic clip-things that hold the actual shelves in place (remember: these are cheap bookshelves!).

See how the trim makes it look like one seamless piece? Honestly, it turned out even better than I expected. I was not quite sure whether David's handyman skills would match my Pinterest-inspired vision, but he did a fantastic job.

We bought a board to go across the top of the entire case ($20, but worth it), to add to the feeling that it was one solid piece of furniture, and to provide a smooth, even surface for displaying the old family photos I love so much. I was really pleased with the way it all turned out in the end:

And the view from the dining room:

In this photo, I think it kind of looks like the floor is discolored in front of the bookcase, but it's actually just the glossy white being reflected in my gleaming floors. I'm sure by now that reflection is muted by dog hair and grime.

The shelves are still what I like to think of as "comfortably cluttered"--I couldn't bear to put away many of the framed photos I have (although I did pare down the display), and the books are (nerd alert!) organized by time period and genre instead of size or color. Victorian novels? Right here. British Modernism? On the shelf above twentieth-century American literature. Harry Potter? Front and center, just above the four-volume Norton Shakespeare, and to the right of our travel books. So yes, I chose practicality and sentimentality over aesthetics. But I'm still pretty thrilled with the result. It looks like a real bookcase, instead of like a bunch of cheap crap I bought while I was in grad school! (By the way, the basket on the bottom shelf holds CDs (about half of our collection), because even though I only listen to music on my ipod, I'm still unwilling to part with the CDs I bought in high school and college. It's a mild hoarding problem. I get it from my dad.)

Once again, for your viewing pleasure, the before and after:

BEFORE

AFTER

One of these days I'll tackle the other side of the room (where my desk is). For now, I'm happy to curl up in that comfy red chair and troll Pinterest to get inspired for my next project...

Good News

2011-11-16T20:06:00.001-06:00

You may remember that in early September, David's grandpa was diagnosed with cancer of the gallbladder and the liver. And the prognosis was not good. The doctors gave him two to three months, tops. We did the math. September, October, November. We cried.

The doctor suggested he try chemo. So here's the (vastly oversimplified) medical breakdown in my (very limited) understanding: a normal liver has 39,000 healthy cells. David's grandpa's liver had 119,000 cells. The extra 80,000 were (obviously) cancerous. The doctor hoped that with chemo, they could get the overall cell count down to 100,000 or so, and maybe hold it steady. But of course, all of this would depend not just on how his liver responded to chemo, but on how it made him feel physically. No point in having a treatment that would make him feel worse than the disease, since the doctors weren't talking about the possibility of a cure.

In spite of the terrible prognosis, he went ahead and tried the chemo, and has been going every week or every other week. Remarkably, in these last few weeks he's been feeling considerably better, even having enough energy to take walks in the evening (back in late September, this would have been absolutely impossible for him). We weren't sure how to account for his boost in mood and energy level. I mean, he's nowhere near what we would have said is "normal," but he's been doing better in the last few weeks than he has in probably the last year.

That snazzy red convertible is the Mustang that was also the getaway car at our wedding--it's currently for sale and on display in a car museum in Branson.

So he went to the doctor yesterday, hoping to get an update on how the chemo was actually going, and make sure the doctor approved of their plans to go out of town for Thanksgiving. And they found the cell count on his liver is down to 50,000.

Unbelievable. That's the kind of surprise you like to get from the doctor.

The doctor was really surprised, as he did not expect him to respond so well to chemo, given that his cancer appeared to be so advanced.

It's what the old me might have called a "miracle." And, hell, it really is a miracle. We don't know why it happened, or how, or how long it will continue, but we were so, so happy to hear that news. We're kind of attached to this guy. And we'd like to keep him around for a while.

Life-long Cardinals fans, celebrating the big win after game 7. Go Cards!

The English department at my grad school always puts together a Relay for Life team for the American Cancer Society, and I had just made my donation to it shortly before David's grandma called to tell us the good news. I also bought luminaries in memory of my Grandpa Vance, in honor of my great-uncle Lee (also known as Uncle Lee the Great), and in honor of David's Grandpa Gene. Because cancer sucks. And those three men are three of the best guys you could ever know.

And one of these days, I really think we'll find a cure for this awful disease.

If you're interested in donating, and/or buying a $5 luminary in honor or memory of someone you know, the English department Relay Team and anyone who has a loved one with cancer would welcome the donation you can make by clicking here.

Ms. B's Advice on Friends Who Don't Write Back

2011-11-13T13:34:00.002-06:00

OK, Ms. B. I've had something eating at my brain for a long time, and if you're really taking questions, I've got one for you: In spring 2010, my friend lost her baby. She had one girl, who was about 3, and she was expecting another little girl that April. I was also due with my second girl, in March. Oh, and to add insult to injury, her best friend was due with her second girl in April.

Let me explain our friendship a bit. We were really good friends all throughout middle and high school. Once college started, we naturally drifted apart, but we tried to see each other about once a year. So unless we see each other on the very odd occasion, we’re like twice-a-year email buddies. But – we’re old friends. And we’re bonded. I feel like, even though we rarely talk, we’re still friends for life. If that makes sense. Anyway, we had met each other’s first children in 2008, when she came to town to visit her parents. Her daughter was 2, and mine was a newborn. It was great catching up. We emailed pictures of our kids over the next year or so. And when I sent her an email to tell her I was pregnant with my second, I just KNEW she was pregnant too. And with a girl. Sure enough, she sent me a response telling me so. OK, so both of us – and her best friend, who I’m also friends with – are all pregnant at the same time with our second girls. Isn’t life grand?

Fast forward to March 2010. I email her to say I had my baby. I send a picture. I explain how my daughter got sick at 2 days old and we were in the hospital for 3 days in a row. It was the worst days of my life. Blah blah blah. Poor me. No response. Whatever – no big deal. In mid-April or so I email her, sure she’s had her baby by now. No response. And just as I just KNEW she was pregnant…I knew something was wrong.

She finally responded and told me they had lost the baby a couple months back. I’m guessing the pregnancy was about 7 months along. I of course extended all my condolences and apologize for going on and on about my baby and how rough it was for me, when clearly she was going through the worst pain ever. We exchanged a few more emails, and she was actually (oddly) upbeat. She tells me the other friend had her baby and is really excited. So that’s how it goes. Emails drop off. But I’ve sent her probably three emails over the months. Just wanting to know how she’s doing. Letting her know that I remember her baby. Saying if she ever wants to talk, I’m here. And I have never heard back.

I talked to our mutual friend, who said that apparently she just really doesn’t want to talk about it. So now I feel bad, that I’ve pushed her and bugged her. That’s fine if she doesn’t want to talk about it. I just wanted her to know she COULD. I figured that mentioning it isn’t going to make her pain worse – it’s already as bad as it can be! Did I send one too many emails and push her away? I don’t want to be that friend who abandons their grieving friend. I’m not a BLM, but I’ve read many BLM blogs and have taken everything to heart. Your pain is palpable. Hers must be to. I know from reading these blogs that BLMs need their friends to stick by them and talk about their baby and acknowledge what happened – not just ignore it. But I guess I’m not sure what to do next. Thoughts?

Lainie

Dear Lainie,

I'm so sorry to hear about your friend's loss, and I'm sad to hear about the way it has complicated (and seems to be thwarting) your friendship.

Ms. B's assessment of the situation is that the action that you've taken is appropriate and kind, and she would assume that it has been appreciated by your friend. For whatever reason, your friend is not currently responding to your e-mails and it seems like she doesn't want to discuss her loss. There are lots of possible explanations for this, although none of them may feel especially satisfying. Maybe she's hit a point in time that's triggering a strong grief reaction. Maybe she is trying to get pregnant again and has not yet been successful. Or maybe she is pregnant and doesn't want to make an announcement, so she's avoiding people. Maybe it's taking her so much energy to go back to work or deal with a new (non-baby-related) issue in her life that she simply doesn't feel that she has the time or energy to respond to you.

It's unfortunate, but it isn't your fault. I don't think you should feel that you've pushed her or bugged her by expressing your sympathy and getting in touch with her. It may be that she's simply not comfortable discussing her loss with you, which sucks, but is her personal issue and, again, not your fault. Maybe she only feels comfortable talking to other bereaved parents, maybe she only discusses it with her husband, or her therapist--hopefully she's talking to someone. Maybe she's tired of hashing out how sad she feels, maybe she feels like there's nothing new to say, or maybe you're simply not her closest friend and you had a baby girl who lived and for those reasons (which you obviously can't control) she doesn't feel as comfortable discussing it with you. It's not your fault that you had a baby, it's not your fault that you shared that news before you knew what happened to her, and it sounds like everything you've done so far has been out of a genuine sense of concern for you friend. It sounds like you wish you could do more to ease her pain, but as the terrible old adage goes, only time will help with that.

Ms. B would advise that it's fine for you to continue to send occasional "thinking of you" e-mails if you'd like to do so. If you want to wait to contact your friend until she makes the first move, at this point I think that would be understandable as well. You have let her know you care and sympathize with her, you've let her know that you remember her daughter and are open to talking about her. It would be very kind and generous of you to make a small charitable donation or do some other kind of memorial in honor of her daughter on her birthday, and that would offer you another opportunity to reach out to your friend. There's honestly not much else that you can do.

As the last few blog posts here have acknowledged, the collateral damage that comes in the loss of friendships after the loss of a child is one of the saddest and most complicated aspects of this grief circus. Bereaved parents (in general) can be pretty unforgiving if we think people are ignoring or diminishing our loss. But sometimes our friends do everything right and we still can get so consumed in our grief that we neglect those relationships we need the most, and we don't realize until much later how much we'll regret that.

So, if you feel capable, I think the best gift you can give your friend right now is patience. If you feel that you are the life-long sort of old buddies, despite your relatively infrequent encounters in more recent years, then I think the kindest thing you can do is to realize that you can't quite understand where your friend is in her grief, and remember that it's not about you. Most people really have a hard time with this, because friendship is generally a mutual endeavor. But if you are really interesting in maintaining your friendship, then it may be that the only thing you can do is not feel offended if it's a long time coming before she's ready to contact you. Ms. B knows that it's asking a lot to be patient with someone who is unresponsive to your efforts, and the fact is that a lot of people are unwilling to put up with a friend dropping out of their life after a certain point in time. If you can be relaxed about this, and not put a timeline on your friend's grief, then hopefully the two of you will be back in touch eventually. Ms. B believes that life-long, old-school friends can absolutely make up for lost time, and she wishes you and your friend brighter days in the future.

Sincerely,
Ms. B

Readers? As always, Ms. B welcomes your contributions. Would you offer Lainie alternative advice?

On Friendship and Making an Effort

2011-11-11T08:00:00.550-06:00

The comments yesterday really got me thinking about the other side of the letter. I (in my standard obstinate fashion that I swear everyone who knows me finds charming and endearing, no, seriously!) still stand by what I think the bereaved parent should be able to expect from her New Mom friend (namely, patience and conversation topics that move beyond babies--at least, I know this is what I personally need and expect from my friends), but what didn't get covered is what New Mom should be able to expect from her bereaved parent friend.

What went unspoken in the advice to New Mom is the expectation that bereaved parents should try to be open and honest with their friends about their grief. Certainly, at least once the darkest fog of grief has lifted, New Mom should be able to expect kindness and sensitivity from her bereaved friend, just as her friend expects the same from her. I mean, we all know that friendship requires mutual effort.

So what is our responsibility, as bereaved parents, in regard to maintaining friendships and getting back into the routine of everyday life? Is it enough to say "My baby died and you need to be okay with whatever I feel/say/do (or don't) from now until I say so?"

We may WANT to say this (in fact, I may have actually said this to one of my friends when I felt like she was being insensitive), but we all know it doesn't work that way. Not if we actually want to maintain our friendships. I mean, I know that I wanted everyone's lives to come to a crashing halt, just like mine did. STOP EVERYTHING. No one can move forward, no one can get pregnant, no one's baby can have a birthday, NO ONE CAN DO ANYTHING until I say it's okay.

Yeah. That didn't happen. So given the shitty reality we find ourselves in, what do we do?

In both Ms. B's reply and my post yesterday, I made the argument that bereaved parents deserve special treatment from their friends. Honestly, I kind of thought that was a no-brainer. But I don't exactly know what that means or how long it can last. How long can I expect my friend not to talk about her baby? How long do I get a free pass from participating in family holidays? At what point do I need to get my shit together and get back in the land of the living, even if I have to grit my teeth and make it look like a smile? And would that timeline be different if I had a living child before I lost Eliza?

I have no idea. But I *do* think there's a point where we just have to deal with it by confronting the issue head-on, and having open discussions with our friends. And I didn't say this in the reply to New Mom, because I don't think it's New Mom's responsibility to start that conversation. I think that's the one thing we really owe our friends--an honest assessment of our grief and how it has changed things and how we feel about that. For me, it's usually an apologetic e-mail that says something like, "I hate the way I'm feeling right now and I'm sorry I can't be the kind of friend you deserve. Please stick around. Other people who've been there promise me it won't be like this forever."

And yes, there comes a point in time when we can't just continue to avoid every child under the age of three who is of the same gender as our dead baby. We can't get away with not knowing what's going on in our friends' lives. We can't use our grief as an excuse to get out of every personal and professional obligation from now until infinity. And most of us don't want to! I think the vast majority of us want to reach the point where we can be a friend as well as have a friend. In the meantime, we need to acknowledge it's a long road.

So I'm wondering what the time frame is? When do we have to get over ourselves and remember that the world does not revolve around us and our grief?

Even as I ask these questions, and I know there aren't straightforward answers to them. I think we all know that. It's not about crossing a line and being ready to jump back into your old life. It's not about some subjects being completely off limits, and others being okay. Really, it's about the kindness and empathy and mutual understanding that every good friendship requires.

We do not have to put up with those friends who completely check out in our time of greatest need because their own lives are demanding. We need to cut our losses and move on from those people, and those are personal decisions we may or may not have full control over. But I would say that even with bold talk about weeding out friends from our gardens of life, most of us find ourselves continually tolerating insensitive remarks and quickly forgiving unintentionally hurtful comments. We do this because it's what friends do, and I think that most of us understand, even in the depths of our grief, that we're asking our friends to tolerate a lot of crap from us as well.

So rather than declare what I think people SHOULD do (don't worry, we'll save that for another day!), I'll just write about my personal effort (meager, I'm afraid, but earnest) to maintain one particular friendship.

My best friend from high school is pregnant with a baby girl and due in January. As she said in one conversation we had about it, "I know, the timing is SO not ideal." We both laughed ruefully at this, because seriously. I think the reason our friendship has not suffered, as it SO easily could have, is because we openly and directly talk about my grief, her pregnancy, and how hard it all is. We acknowledge that her pregnancy is difficult for me, and my loss is scary for her. She says Eliza's name every time we talk and I guessed exactly right what she was going to name her baby when she found out it was a girl (and if you want further proof of our mind-meld, you should challenge us to a game of Taboo, because we would STOMP you).

Do we talk about her pregnancy a lot? Um, no. Not really. Certainly not NEARLY as much as we would have if Eliza were alive (oh don't even get me started on how different this would all be if Eliza were alive...). I don't think it's condescending or unreasonable to expect that she'll be able to think of other things to talk about when she talks to me, now and after her baby is born. When I was pregnant with Eliza, she was trying to get pregnant, and I tried to be sensitive about her fertility issues and concerns, even though she made me feel like it was a non-issue for her in celebrating my pregnancy. I may not have always done a stellar job, but I know I made a concerted effort. I mean, I think that's what friends do.

Fortunately for us, subjects of conversation have never been in short supply. But at this point in my grief, I'm capable of realizing that she also needs me to talk about her pregnancy at least sometimes because it's a huge thing in her life. So we DO talk about it (in small doses). To her credit, she almost always waits for me to bring it up first. To my credit, I do. Not because it's my favorite subject, but because she's my BFF, dudes. And she's pregnant. And I don't just want to drop out from her life.

I'm at a point in my grief--almost a year from Eliza's death, remember--where I can handle it (to a certain extent), and I can be honest with her about what's too much. I can't be all "SQUEE!" with excitement, but I DO feel genuinely happy for her. So I just try to be honest about how happy and sad and conflicted I feel, and she does the same.

I think for a while, even just a few months ago, I felt like I didn't need to do that because my friends who were new moms (or pregnant) didn't need my support. They had everything that I wanted, and I had nothing. They were happy and I was utterly bereft. I had nothing to offer. But my best friends have helped me feel something like myself again. They've helped me remember that my identity extends beyond Bereaved Parent of One, even though that's obviously part of who I am. And they let me know that even though my new self has changed, it doesn't totally suck. I'm aware enough at this point to see that my friend has been making an enormous effort for me and I owe her the same, or, at least, the best I can offer, given where I am now.

So I asked her what she was going to name the baby (and then guessed correctly because I am a totally awesome psychic), and then I told her, surprised at the discovery, "It's actually easier for me to think about your baby now that I know her name and she's her own person, instead of a girl baby in January."

She has said to me, "I don't mind talking about Eliza, because that's your story and your baby, but it's hard for me to read your blog right now because it makes me think about all the other people you know and all the different kinds of losses."

It's not that either of us really likes hearing that stuff from the other person. I'm sure she is sad about the fact that it's difficult for me to think about her baby sometimes, especially because she was so freaking excited about mine. I hate that my blog makes her sad and scared. But we survive this mess because we continue to be open and honest with each other about how shitty and complicated it is. It's very meta, to have conversations about how we're handling loss and grief and pregnancy, in the middle of a conversation about loss and grief and pregnancy. Fortunately, we try not to take ourselves too seriously. I mean, we take the situation seriously, of course, but we can laugh (and cry) at the way we fumble through it.

But sometimes I don't want to have those touchy-feeling conversations, dammit. I want to avoid my grief and their babies all together and just talk about the housing market, or Kim Kardashian's divorce, or what I'll want to pack for Mexico, because I don't want to acknowledge that I feel bitter or jealous or just plain sad. I hate being the person who feels like that, and I'm so tired of processing how I'm feeling or thinking about my emotions, or just missing Eliza that I don't want to deal with it. My friends and I had plenty to talk about before we had kids, and I think it's okay for us to talk about anything but kids, at least some of the time.

Most of our conversations involve lots of stuff besides babies--our parents and siblings, our jobs, our marriages, and all the things friends who have known each other forever talk about. Sometimes we talk philosophically, sometimes we talk about our husbands' inexplicable bromances with Jamey Johnson. Does this affect the closeness of our friendship, that I'm not all up on what's going down in her uterus? Sure. I mean, I'm unable to fully participate in a HUGE, life-changing event. I hate that. So I acknowledge it, and how much I hate it, and how sorry I am. And so we stay friends and wait for things to get better and talk about superficial stuff in the meantime. I mean what the hell else is there to do?

I know that I owe it to my friends to be honest about what I'm feeling so they'll know how far I've come, and so they see how far I still have to go. They owe it to me to be patient and kind and sensitive, and to keep showing up for me, even when things are way less fun than they used to be. And I owe it to them to try to reach out and meet them where they are, just as I expect them to reach out to me.

We talk about grief and loss to the extent that she can handle it (and she will say "I can't talk about this anymore right now.") And we adjust our conversations to accommodate whatever baby stuff I feel okay with (and I will say, "Oof. Let's talk about something else."). I can't talk about birth plans and doulas, but I find that I can ask about plans for maternity leave, work, and daycare. I can't talk about baby clothes, but I do want to know what books she's gotten so far, and we can talk about that without my stomach twisting up in knots. Everybody's limits are different, but you have to figure out what they are and, sometimes, you have to make an effort to push up against them.

My pregnant friend texted me one day, "Do you want to see pictures of me pregnant?"

I thought about it, and replied, "Yes, but no ultrasound pics, please."

Do pictures of my friend all pregnant and adorable make me jealous and wistful? Mm-hmm. Do they bring back with a jolt exactly how I felt a year ago at this same time? Yes. Could I have avoided all those complicated feelings if I'd just said I didn't want to see pictures? Yes.

But do I want to completely miss out on my friend's experience of her first pregnancy? Can I just pretend none of this is happening and expect that we'll always be the best friends we've been since high school? Nope. I'm already missing out on too much as it is. She's kind and patient and understanding, but she's also pregnant and super excited. I have to be able to look at those pictures and text her to tell her how adorable she looks. As my friend, I think she deserves at least that. Really she deserves much more (like me co-hosting her baby shower). But I'm doing the best I can here, and I need to make sure she knows that.

Would this all be different if I were three months or six months out from my grief instead of almost a year? Would it be different if I were five years out? Would it be different if my friend weren't so totally amazing? Yeah, it probably would. In fact, my response to my friend is much less about my own ability to extend myself and more about me responding in kind to the love she has shown to me. But all I can do (all any of us can do) is be honest about where I am in the moment and what I'm capable of doing, and what I want to try to do better in the future. And I do think we owe that to our friends.

To be honest, sometimes talking to my best friend is uncomfortable. Sometimes it seems like our conversations are tiptoeing through minefields, so then we acknowledge that and try to laugh about it, or I just cry about how I wish things were different. She'll say, "I don't want to upset you," or I'll say, "I don't want to make you feel scared," and we'll move forward. We both try to remember that it won't be like this forever. Grief will soften, families will grow, friendships will evolve. I try to be honest with her about how much I hate the limitations that my grief puts on me, and how grateful I am that she's sticking around. And I don't obsess with guilt over being a bad friend, because I know that if our roles were reversed, I'd do the same for her.

In the end, did I attend her baby shower? No. I couldn't do it. Do I feel bad about it? Yes. Did I call her crying and tell her how bad I felt about it? Yes. Did she make me feel guilty about it? No. Did she miss me at the shower? Well, I like to think so. Even though that also makes me sad. Things are hard right now. We both get that. But it's not worth losing a friend over. So we both keep trying.

I'm lucky that I can say to her, "How was the baby shower?" and she will respond, "It was good. Really nice." And we each recognize the huge effort the other person has made--me to broach the subject, and her to not describe every detail of it. And then, I either find it in me to ask a follow-up question (nope, I didn't, because I'm a sucky friend!), or we start talking about something else (her little sister was voted queen at the last high school dance!).

My grief made it impossible for me to handle the idea of shopping for a baby gift (which sucks, because normally shopping for gifts is my favorite), so I just contributed money to a big gift that the hostesses were getting her. BUT I'm also working on a handmade baby gift. (Maybe I'll have it finished by the time she's actually born...)

This is actually a big deal, because after Eliza died, I thought I'd never touch my sewing machine again. For months I'd only used it to make baby things. The thought of picking out cute fabric and cutting out the pattern and making a gift for a baby when my own baby couldn't use any of the things I'd made for her, it just ripped me up inside. It still could, if I let myself dwell on it. But this is my best friend, dammit, and she deserves a handmade gift for her sweet new baby, and I'm going to make that for her even if it makes me cry. Could I have done that six months ago? Honestly, I doubt it. It's not super easy to do it now. But I'm sure it's not easy for her to not blab about her pregnancy (as she likes to tell me, "Pregnant women are the most narcissistic people in the world." She's probably referring specifically to me during my pregnancy.)

I guess I'm like the guilty divorced parent when it comes to my friends these days. Because I've been emotionally and physically absent from my friend's lives, I try to make up for it by giving thoughtful, well-meaning gifts.

So I've been totally out of the loop for your whole pregnancy! Please accept this handmade treasure as proof that I've been thinking about your baby in my own way, even while I'm forcing you to talk about Kate Middleton's shoes and this Penn State craziness instead. * I'm sorry I cannot bear to discuss your adorable son! Here, please take these Puma tennis shoes and charming children books as an indication that I still love you and want to be your friend! * I'm sorry that the last time you mentioned your daughter, I made that weird face and awkwardly changed the subject! Here, please accept this Crew Cuts dress as an apology and birthday gift for your toddler!

I used to be the chatty phone friend, and I suck at that now. In fact, I know I'm failing as a friend on a lot of fronts, so I look for other ways to show I still care. Here, please take these coasters I made for you. I know it's totally random, but I've entered the crafty phase of my grief. It comes somewhere between anger and acceptance. And these are the only way I can say I'm thinking of you because I suck at actual conversation! So please, put your beer on this coaster and think of me.

I figure, if I can't be involved in the daily minutiae of their lives the way I used to be, I have to do something else to show I care. My friends aren't saints, after all. They deserve a little something. Like a set of coasters!

At the end of the day, I think it's okay to expect (and sometimes demand) special treatment from our friends and family. I really do.

But I also think at a certain point (one that's different for everyone, but for me it's happening around 10-11 months out), we have to force ourselves to do things that feel difficult, or maybe even totally shitty, in the midst of our grief. We have to be really honest with ourselves (Is it impossibly hard? Or just uncomfortable? Do we owe it to our friends? Is the dread of it worse than the reality?) and we have to be really honest with our friends. I can be here for this, but not for that. I want to know if your ultrasound was good and the baby looks healthy, but not if the baby was waving at you. I'm here anytime you want to talk about the stress of your father-in-law's illness, but we're going to have to lay off your struggles with breastfeeding. It's much easier for me to talk about your baby if you're willing to acknowledge that mine existed.

It sucks to have barriers and limitations, but I personally haven't found a way to avoid them. So we have to recognize they exist, and then demonstrate that we're making an effort to overcome them. The question is what kind of effort we can make when we're still swimming in grief. For me, since I couldn't attend the baby shower, and the holidays (and her due date) will probably make it impossible for us to get to hang out, just the two of us, I'm hoping she'll see this gift (and the accompanying note) as a symbol of everything I wish I could have been for her during this pregnancy. It certainly doesn't come close to making up for all I've missed, but I think I'm incredibly lucky to have a friend who will see it for what it is--a real effort on my part, and the best I can do right now. She gets that grief makes me a crazy freak, but that's not ALL I am. At least, not forever.

In the past eleven months, I have done a spectacularly TERRIBLE job of telling my friends what I need, but I'm VERY good at getting upset when I don't get it. And I'm a total FAIL much of the time at expressing how much I love and appreciate them.

In fact, I've spent a lot of time thinking to myself that it's really NOT FAIR that my best friend has to pregnant on the EXACT timeline I was on last year. It's NOT FAIR that she's having a GIRL when I wanted her to have a BOY. It's NOT FAIR that her baby and Eliza won't be BFFs. It's NOT FAIR that she gets to be so happy and my baby died.

I know she'd agree with every single one of those statements. Because it's not about being fair. None of this will ever be fair.

But you know what? She's my best friend. And she's pregnant. And she's not taking it for granted. And I've gotten better at handling my grief after eleven months of practice. So I have to make a choice to do the best I can to celebrate her daughter (even if I can't attend her baby shower). I have to make a conscious decision to make her pregnancy exactly that: her pregnancy, and not a personal affront on me and my loss. As a self-absorbed, grief-stricken, hypersensitive individual, this is not always easy for me--and it would have been impossible in the early days of my grief. But just as my grief isn't about her, her pregnancy isn't about me. It's about a sweet baby that I'm going to love just as my friend loves Eliza.

So instead of being angry about the unfairness of it all, I think about our friendship, and how much I admire her, and how funny she is, and how well she knows me, and how much we've both changed and grown since high school, and how much I love her family, and how we laugh at the same stuff, and how I am absolutely going to adore and treasure her daughter, even though I'll be perfectly honest that I don't know when I'll feel ready to meet her baby for the first time. So then I pick up the phone, or I send a quick e-mail, or I sit down in front of the sewing machine, and I do what I can do to be a good friend to her, even if it doesn't seem like much right now, even if it's not the way things "should" have been. I do the best I can to accommodate my grief and our friendship. Not because it's easy, and certainly not because I'm an amazing super awesome martyr of a friend, but because she's my BFF and I love her, so I have to (and want to) make some kind of effort. I mean, I already lost my daughter. I don't want to lose my best friend, too.

On Unfairness

2011-11-10T12:44:00.000-06:00

Several of you responded (in comments or in e-mails to me) to one commenter's observation that Ms. B's advice seemed somewhat "unfair" to the New Mom.

I wanted to address that here, because I know the commenter in real life, and I know he respects both my opinion and my grief, and I know that he knows if he'd given me feedback on any writing that I disagreed with, I'd track him down and we'd hash it out, and it might end with me admitting that essay was a B+ at best, or it might end with him admitting he was mistaken in his initial judgment. He's cool like that.

And so I say this.

Was Ms. B was totally unfair to New Mom? Well, it's true that New Mom is in a totally shitty and unfair position. She was thrilled, excited, delighted with the arrival of her new baby, and almost as excited about the fact that her best friend was going to be right there with her. They were supposed to be walking down this path together, foraging through the adventures of being new parents, and keeping each other company in the madness that is those first few months of babyhood.

In fact, it's completely unfair for New Mom to be in the middle of her postpartum hormones, finally the hang of breastfeeding, and suddenly--WHAM--she gets whopped with the news that her best friend's baby died. That fucking sucks. Not only does she have a new baby who needs her attention every waking moment, she now has a best friend who is basically AWOL, disappearing in a spiral of selfish grief. And, assuming she's not a sociopath, she probably grieves deeply for the baby who died, and feels intense sympathy for her friend. Now New Mom is stuck in the completely unfair position of being really happy for herself, and really sad for someone else. At the same time, she's trying to figure out life with a new baby, and cope with the disappearance of her old friend. That's not easy. Especially because the friend is saying things like, "Although I am happy for you, I am so overcome with sadness for myself that I can barely breathe. Therefore, I cannot talk about your baby without it feeling like you are gleefully rubbing salt in the raw, open, festering, bloody wound that is my heart."

Life with a six month old is no doubt all-consuming. I personally have no experience on this subject, but I did a shitload of reading about it before my baby died, so I think I can reasonably assert that sleep patterns can change unexpectedly as a result of growth spurts, teething can reek havoc on a previously-laid-back baby's personality, and any of this would be exhausting for a parent. The transition to cereal or baby food from formula or breast milk can make for messy meal times, disgusting diapers, and anxiety about allergies. Crawling babies suddenly mean a baby-proofing frenzy, because now baby can reach the bucket of filthy dog toys, the computer cord plugged into that outlet, the flip flop you slipped off by the front door.

I believe all this is absolutely true, and it makes perfect sense that a New Mom would be consumed by the subject of her child.

But I say this: More consuming than a six month old baby is five month grief.

Going back to work, watching television, doing crafty projects, reading novels, writing novels, running marathons, doing volunteer work, these are not really distractions, although we call them that. These are things we do simply because otherwise the day feels unlivable.

Talking to someone who is five months out from the loss of their child is not easy. Because the only thing they want to talk about? Is their child. They are just as consumed by that baby as any parent is who has a living child.

The difference is that by the time I was five months out from my grief, I was painfully aware that other people don't want to hear me wail, "I want my baby! I just want my baby!" over and over and over again. Preferably while keening back and forth, and clutching her hospital blanket to my chest.

That kind of scene tends to make people uncomfortable. It might even make them sad. And as a bereaved parent, a parent who misses my child so deeply that I am never NOT thinking about that loss, I have the good sense and good manners to avoid subjects that my friends might find especially disturbing. I save those things for my blog, for my therapist, for conversations my friends who have also lost children, and (of course) for my husband (lucky man).

I find other things to talk about, NOT because I'm not consumed by my grief, but because I recognize that if I want to maintain some level of social function, I need to find more appropriate subjects to discuss with people who--for whatever reason--don't want to hear about my grief. I respect and accommodate their needs.

But even while bereaved parents are forcing themselves to act "normal," and find something pleasant to say (or remain silent, so as not to say something awkward), they are expected to smile and nod and make excuses for people who insist on talking about the one conversation topic they find incredibly painful. That, to me, seems pretty unfair.

As far as I'm concerned (and let's face it, I'm coming up on one year out, so I'm basically an expert on the topic), dead baby unfairness trumps every other kind.

Therefore, no matter how consumed the new mom may be in her six month old baby, she doesn't get a free pass to check out on her friend, and to be completely absorbed in her own world. (She can, and very well may, choose to do this anyway, but she'll be doing it at the cost of their friendship, which isn't FAIR but is REAL). It may not be fair that she needs to turn on the Today show or subscribe to a magazine just so she has something else to talk about, when she has a perfectly suitable subject of conversation cooing right their on her lap. But what's really unfair is that her friend doesn't have her five month old baby here.

Here are the facts as I see them:

The mom with the dead baby can't bring her baby back life. The New Mom, with the six month old, can--and should--make a conscious decision to find something else to talk about. Ms. B stands by that assessment, and so do I.

Fairness be damned. My expectation of fairness died with my daughter.

Ms. B's Advice on Baby Talk

2011-11-08T08:08:00.001-06:00

An actual, real-life submission! Ms. B feels very official.

Dear Ms. B.,

I had a baby a month before my friend, whose child was stillborn 5 months ago. I wish she would ask about my baby more, because I really want to talk about him, but I don't know how to appropriately broach this topic. We used to be so close (talked daily) and now I feel like she doesn't care about my baby at all. I'm about to just tell her I can't talk to her anymore because it's stressing me out to have to watch what I say about my son, but I'm wondering if that's the right approach. Can you help?
Sincerely,
A New Mom

Dear New Mom,

Ms. B. recognizes the stress that comes along with being a new mother, and but she simply cannot agree with your assumption that your friend "doesn't care about [your] baby at all." From what Ms. B can tell, you have no evidence of this whatsoever. In fact, your letter suggests that your friend does ask about your son, just not as often or as extensively as you would like.

Ms. B would wager that this alone is sufficient indication that your friend cares deeply about both you and your son. The problem is that every conversation about your baby is a brutal reminder of everything your friend has lost with the death of her baby: the day-to-day experiences of parenting, the milestones of a baby growing up, the small victories and big celebrations, even the frustrations and sleepless nights. Your friend feels isolated and set apart from all of that, and it was just five short months ago that all her hopes and dreams were suddenly and tragically thwarted.

While the collateral damage of close friendships in the wake of baby loss cannot be denied, it would behoove you to keep in mind that your friend has lost all the same things you've lost this year--the closeness of your friendship, the conversations about milestones and parenting strategies, the ease of talking to you every day. On top of that, she has lost her child.

Five months may feel like a long time, but it's not. Ms. B has been around long enough that she can assure you things will not be like this forever. Your friend must work through her grief at her own pace. Five YEARS from now, it's quite likely that you'll be able to call up your friend and brain-dump about everything on your mind without thinking twice about upsetting her with the mention of your children. But the question is whether you can be there for her in the meantime, so that when your friend's life is easier and she's back in the swing of things (and she will get there, eventually, in her own time), she will actually be interested in maintaining a friendship with you.

Ms. B wants to be very clear that as a new mom, you are undoubtedly facing challenges and struggles for which you need and deserve support. You absolutely deserve a friend who can give you the support you need. But your friend whose baby died? Sweetie, she is NOT that friend. She cannot reasonably be expected to provide support for you (or anyone) when she has been gutted by grief. Moreover, the last thing she needs is for you to make her feel guilty about not being the kind of friend you wish she could be. Ms. B hopes that your friend is seeking out other people who can support her in her grief (online, in support groups, etc.), and Ms. B hopes that you are seeking out people who can be the kind of friends that you need as well.

Even though she's not capable of being the kind of friend you need at this time in your life, it's NOT okay for you to check out and not the be kind of friend that she needs. Why? Because she is dealing with the greatest unfairness EVER: the death of her baby. You are dealing with the MINOR inconvenience of not being able to crow (or bitch) about your good fortune.

Good friendships are all about give-and-take, and in this instance, it's your turn to step up and give. Although Ms. B. would never downplay the stress and anxiety that comes with being a new parent, she can assure you that your friend's emotional needs are far greater than your own. Your friend is still struggling to get through each and every day without her child. She desperately needs the emotional support of friends who will assure her that her baby won't be forgotten, friends who will remind her that her grief has not transformed her into someone unrecognizable, friends who will extend a modicum of human kindness and do everything in their power not to cause her further pain in an already impossibly difficult time.

As for a solution to your "stress" problem, Ms. B would like to kindly suggest that before you call your bereaved friend, you call someone else so that you can chatter for fifteen minutes about your son and how great (or difficult) things are. Then, when that's out of your system, call your friend. Ask her how she's doing. Ask follow-up questions to truly express your concern. Talk about work. Talk about your husband. Talk about your wardrobe. Talk about your in-laws. Talk about current events. Talk about celebrity gossip (anything but Beyonce's pregnancy, please). Talk about home improvement projects. Talk about what to get your sister for Christmas (assuming your sister's not pregnant). Talk about the finale of Project Runway. Talk about work. Talk about yoga or Zumba or Pilates. Talk about a new recipe that you think she'd like. Talk about the new haircut that you hate (or love).

Ms. B would also like to quietly observe that if you find it stressful and/or difficult to avoid discussing your son, it may be that you need to expand your horizons. In fact, she wonders if perhaps you shouldn't be feeling stressed out as much as you should be feeling dull and boring. For heaven's sake, read a book, read a blog, turn on NPR, subscribe to a (non-parenting) magazine, leave the house. If you fill your life with interesting things, you'll have interesting things to talk about. Ms. B believes that this will help your sweet little cherub be one conversation topic among many, and she also hopes you'll gain the perspective and the wherewithal to consider your friend's needs above your own.

Sincerely,
Ms. B.

It's the Holiday Season. So Whoop-dee-do.

2011-11-07T08:00:00.006-06:00

I've been thinking a lot about how this will be our first Christmas without Eliza.

And then I remembered, oh yeah, except for last Christmas.

She was born on December 6. So this will be our second Christmas without her, our first Thanksgiving without her. In fact, last Thanksgiving, she was alive and well, hanging out in my belly at my family baby shower, kicking happily as I unwrapped baby quilts and a car seat and those little Trumpette socks that look like mary-janes.

I'm not ready to face a family holiday without Eliza. After spending so much time imagining her there with us, being there without her would be impossibly hard. Even though I know how much my family loves us (and loves her) and even though I miss them and I haven't been home since last Thanksgiving, I just can't do it. I think they will understand. At least, I hope so.

I was so excited for everyone to meet her, for her to be the baby that everyone fussed over and wanted to hold. I could just see it in my mind, how this year's holidays would be. And I am so not ready to have the family and the food and not have my baby there. The whole idea makes me want to puke.

So our plan for the holidays this year is to ignore them completely. As I told David's aunt, when she sent us "Merry Christmas!!!" and "Happy New Year!!!" texts last year (yes, I'm serious), we are not celebrating the holidays. We are simply trying to survive them.

We're going out of town for Thanksgiving--taking a drive up to Chicago. We'll drive up on Thursday (you know, like it's any other day of the year), stay in a hotel downtown, go shopping on Michigan Avenue, see a show, have lunch with some friends on Saturday (Mexican!), and hit up IKEA on the way home. (It is quite possible that IKEA was the source of inspiration for this trip.) Or it may be that shopping feels too "Christmasy" and fun, in which case we'll spend the weekend holed up in our swanky hotel room (thanks, Priceline) watching TV. Whatever.

We're also ignoring Christmas all together. I'm going to send gifts to David's family, but my family has opted not to exchange gifts (meaning, my mom and I made an executive decision). Some of my girlfriends and I normally exchange, but we're skipping it this year, although a little bird told me they're going to get me an Eliza necklace, which I will gratefully (and probably tearfully) accept. Otherwise, I am NOT PARTICIPATING in Christmas.

Instead, we're going to go to Mexico and spending a week touring Juarez. I hear it's really nice this time of year. We're hoping to pay for our trip by offering to carry a few duffle bags back over the border with us.

OK, not funny.

Really we're going to Puerto Vallarta, and spending a week at an adults-only all-inclusive resort. The website looks really nice, and we opted for adults-only to avoid the agony of looking at adorable toddler thighs in swimming suits, but my brother said that "adults-only" means nude beach and a resort full of pervs. (Perhaps he has experience with this?). So then I told him that we chose this resort precisely because the swimming pool is Nudes Only and the only thing we like more than being naked is being naked in front of a bunch of naked strangers. And I invited him to join us because I'm totally cool like that.

OK, not funny.

I mean, we actually had that conversation, but as far as I know, we'll be wearing swimsuits to the pool and I have no desire to be naked in front of naked strangers or my naked brother (ooh--gag reflex just kicked in).

I'm sure the resort will be blaring Christmas music and doing the lights and the trees and all the Christmas hoopla, but we're just going to do our best to ignore it. We'll probably spend Christmas day ordering room service and playing gin rummy. Or maybe we'll hang out by the pool and see who can take the most tequila shots before they puke! Just making some ~~Christmas~~ memories.

I am currently accepting advice on how to survive the holidays, what I can expect from an adults-only, all-inclusive resorts, and how best to plan for a shopping spree at IKEA.

Ms. B. Reeved's Advice Column

2011-11-05T08:31:00.054-05:00

I'd like to introduce Ms. B. Reeved, my alter-ego who will occasionally be dispensing advice on this blog, intended to give well-meaning strangers some idea about what to expect and how to deal with a bereaved parent. She has experienced the loss of her infant daughter, so she knows whereof she speaks, but she also is able to respond objectively, since these are situations and questions posited to her by readers and NOT necessarily from her own life. She will accept letters and queries sent to bythebrooke (at) gmail (dot) com. Or she will just make shit up and respond to it. Either way, here we go.

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Today's letter:

Dear Ms. B. Reeved,

My college roommate had a stillborn baby about six months ago. We had not really been in touch very much, and we live in different cities, but I e-mailed her right after I heard about it to offer my sympathy, and we've been e-mailing occasionally back and forth since then. I am now fourteen weeks pregnant, and I am going to "come out" on Facebook. My friend is no longer on Facebook, but I guess she might hear about it through mutual friends. Should I tell her before I make the Facebook announcement? Should I send an e-mail or give her a call so it's more personal? I don't want to cause her pain, but I don't want her to think I was keeping this a secret from her either. What should I do?

Sincerely,
Trying to be Tactfully Pregnant

Dear Trying to be Tactful,

Kudos for you for considering your friend's feelings and wanting to do the appropriate thing. In my experience, bereaved parents feel many conflicting emotions when they hear about other people's pregnancies (particularly other people who have not suffered a loss). They are happy for their friends (at least for those friends who have not been douchebags); they are jealous of those who have healthy babies and/or easy pregnancies; they are worried because they know that not every pregnancy ends in a healthy baby; and they are sad for themselves. Although a pregnancy is a joyful thing, and a bereaved parent would never want to diminish that happiness, it's also a reminder of what the bereaved parent is missing, and it may make her feel like she is falling farther "behind" her group of friends. In other words, it's a difficult matter, and the way you handle this will make all the difference in the future of your friendship.

In my experience, the best thing you can do is to send a brief e-mail to tell your friend your news. Avoid exclamation points and phrases like, "I'm going to be a mommy." (A problematic expression for mothers who have given birth but don't have a baby to show for it). E-mail may seem impersonal, but it's kinder to your friend to let them absorb the news privately, without feeling obligated to put on a happy face for you, or be embarrassed if they can't control their tears.

Do not give more details than absolutely necessary. Your due date is fine. Anything else is superfluous. Your friend does not need to know if this pregnancy was planned, how long you tried, whether you're feeling nauseated, whether your baby is a boy or a girl, or whether you're planning to quit your job and stay home when the baby is born. Your friend may feel up to asking you those questions, in which case you can certainly answer them. But you should follow her lead and only mention the pregnancy when you're responding to a direct inquiry.

After telling her you're pregnant, and when you're due, let her know that you wanted her to be informed because you are going to start telling people outside your family and you didn't want her to hear from someone else and be surprised by the news. As you close the e-mail, mention her baby by name, and express your sympathy again, and let her know that you continue to think about her and her baby. You've probably already said this to your friend--that's okay, go ahead and be repetitive. It doesn't get old.

Don't worry if she doesn't respond to you immediately. Don't worry if she responds and doesn't mention your pregnancy. In all likelihood, she will write back and congratulate you, but she's probably not likely to comment further or ask many questions about your pregnancy. As you continue to exchange e-mails, remember to only offer information about your pregnancy if she asks for it (this may be really challenging, as your pregnancy will be the center of your world, but push yourself here--read some celebrity gossip or browse on Pinterest so you have something else to write about.). Things may feel a little sticky or forced, particularly if your friend struggles with infertility as well as loss, but you cannot blame your friend for having complicated emotions anymore than she can blame you for having a baby.

Above all, remember that your friend's sadness is for her own situation, and it is not a reflection of how much she cares about you or your baby. As long as you're kind and respectful about her emotions and her boundaries, your pregnancy should not be an obstacle for your friendship. You will need to proceed with caution, but I hope that you consider her friendship to be worth the effort.

Warmly,
Ms. B.

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Dear Readers,

Is there anything else I should have told "Trying to be Tactfully Pregnant"? What advice would you add?

Thanks,
Ms. B

Distraction: AKA NaNoWriMo

2011-11-04T09:59:00.000-05:00

Yeah, it's November.

I'm a month and two days away from the the one year anniversary of the worst day of my life. I know that it's stored in my brain. Although so much of December and January is a black blur (seriously there was a moment last week when I was trying to remember what we did for Christmas last year... Oh, that's right. Our baby died and I spent Christmas wishing I were dead, too.) I know that day is recorded in my mind in vivid technicolor. And you know what? I lived through it once. I am so not ready to go back there again.

So distraction is the name of the game. And while to many people November is the start of the holiday season, it is also National Novel Writing Month (also known as NaNoWriMo).

The idea is that so many of us sit around thinking, "Someday, I will write my novel." And then because we have our entire lives to do it, it never gets done. Even those of us who are uncomfortably aware of how fleeting life can be have trouble scheduling time to write, what with being very busy talking about commas to college freshmen who are patently uninterested in commas, grading essays full of comma errors, preparing lessons about comma usage, conference with students about papers full of said comma errors, wondering if we really understand how to use commas ourselves, and then getting home, happy to not think about commas, only to deal with the needs of two high-maintenance canines and a very demanding television-watching schedule. Somehow the idea of writing a novel remains just that--an idea.

So the purpose of NaNoWriMo is to give you 30 days to write a 50,000 word novel (roughly 200-ish pages). That's not enough time to obsessively edit or revise or fret about dialogue. You just have to get it out. Move it from your brain to your computer.

So I'm doing it. Even though I have exams and essays to grade. Even though I have to read Chaucer (ugh) for Monday. Even though it's getting cold and it's getting dark so early and all I want to do when I get home is curl up on the sofa and watch The Good Wife.

And I'm talking about it here because I am supposed to make a public announcement that I'm doing it so that I will be shamed into finishing it when I want to quit 'round about the week before Thanksgiving. I am making a pledge on this blog that I will finish this novel. And if I don't, you guys have to harass and verbally flog me in the comments.

I can't promise I'll ever let anyone see it. But I can promise it will get written.

Oh, you want a brief plot summary? OK. Graduate student working on her master's thesis in English has bad break-up with long-time boyfriend. Heads home to spend the summer at her parents' house in a small (FICTIONAL) town in rural Missouri, where she hopes to get some research done for her thesis on the Ku Klux Klan in her local area (which, gasp!, turns out to still be active in the present time!). She ends up uncovering a murder plot, discovering deep dark family secrets, and getting herself involved in a love triangle. And one of the boys in the love triangle wears Wranglers.

It's a light, fun novel. Well, except for the murder and the Klan research. I take that back. Let's just say that it has nothing to do with dead babies.

I'm already 5,000 words in, but I'm still sketching out the plot. I gave David the long-winded version of it as we walked the dogs earlier this week. I kept saying things like, "I think that her parents are out of town on business, but I'm not really sure," and he would say, "How can you not know? You're the one writing it." Lots of details to figure out, but I'm having fun pondering them. I came up a great idea for one scene while getting a massage on Tuesday, and thought of another subplot last night as I was drifting off to sleep.

And the truth is that NaNoWriMo couldn't come at a better time. I've spent the last 11 months sorting through my thoughts and trying to articulate my emotions, struggling to come to grips with my grief and my luck and my love and how the hell this ended up being my life.

And honestly? I'm a little freaking sick of myself.

Time to get out of my head and get into someone else's for a while (in this case, a twenty-five year old girl named Harper Mills, whom I picturing looking like Kristin Bell). I'm not looking forward to winter, and I really need a distraction (that is NOT work- or comma-exercise-related). I'm pleased to say that so far, this is doing the job nicely. I'll keep you posted as the month goes on...

Ms. B's Advice on Expressions of Sympathy

2011-11-03T14:39:00.001-05:00

Dear Ms. B,

I just found out that a friend of mine from high school lost her baby almost eleven months ago. We we pretty good friends in high school. Our lives went different directions in college and after, but we were still friends, if not especially close. I went to her wedding, and she couldn't attend mine but sent a nice gift. In the last two years, we've really only kept in touch on Facebook. My husband and I spent some time living overseas and now we've moved back to the states, but we're on the East Coast while my friend lies in the midwest. I can't remember the last time I've seen her, but I still care about her very much and when I heard about her baby (just a few weeks ago), my heart was broken for her. I have a small child of my own, and I hate to think of anyone I know going through the pain of that kind of loss. I just feel so terrible. I remember I congratulated her on Facebook when she announced her pregnancy, and it was just a few months ago that I noticed that she no longer had a profile. I just thought that she was too busy and "grown up" to bother with it anymore, but then I happened to talk to a mutual friend who told me that her baby was stillborn.

I'm not sure what to do at this point. I mean, her loss was almost a year ago. I don't want to send a note that would dredge up emotions and sadness that she's trying to move past. I'm also embarrassed that it took me so long to find out what happened. I don't know if I should get in touch with her, or just keep her in my prayers and hope that she'll reconnect with me when things get better. What should I do?

Sincerely,
A Belatedly But Truly Sympathetic Friend

Dear Belatedly But Truly Sympathetic,

Send a card. Send an e-mail. You're not dredging up anything. Your friend has not forgotten at any single moment in the last eleven months that she had a baby and that baby died. Your card will not be an unwelcome reminder; it will be a much-appreciated acknowledgement of her baby and her grief.

All you have to do is be honest and explain that you just found out what happened. Express your sympathy, just as you did in the letter you wrote to me. Your friend may respond, or she may not (grief is a tricky business), but either way she will appreciate the gesture on your part. Remember, "There is no love, only proofs of love." All of the prayers and kind thoughts and good intentions in the world are relatively meaningless to to your friend if she doesn't know that you're sending them up on her behalf. Plus, she may think that you must have known all along and didn't care enough to contact her. Ms. B suggests that you set the record straight and express your sympathy to her. Sending a sympathy card (or e-mail) is never inappropriate or bad etiquette, even if it's several months (or years) later. The hurt doesn't go away. Notes from old friends are a reminder that love doesn't go away either.

Kindly,
Ms. B.

Halloween Date

2011-11-01T09:20:00.001-05:00

Honestly, I've tried not to spend too much thinking about what Halloween should have been this year. Not that we would have taken Eliza trick-or-treating, but there would have been a fuzzy yellow duck costume. We would have been able to attend the get-together that our friends had, everybody bringing their babies in costume. We would have made crafty Halloween cards to send to family. We would have gone to a pumpkin patch for a photo session. We would have carved a jack-o-lantern and let Eliza touch the smushy insides (although, if she were anything like me, she wouldn't like to have gunk on her hands so that wouldn't have lasted long).

And so much for not thinking about it...

It's the downside of a vivid imagination. I can see with such clarity how things ~~would~~ should have been.

Instead, we skipped Halloween this year. No hanging out with the neighbors around a fire pit in the front yard. No handing out candy to the kids who traipsed by. (St. Louis tradition is that you have to tell a joke to get a piece of candy, so it makes the whole process a little more entertaining.) We didn't get together with friends to watch Buffy and eat frito chili pie. We didn't go to the elaborate costume party that someone in the English department always hosts. We definitely skipped the Sunday afternoon kiddie-party with all our friends who have little ones. We just wanted to avoid the whole thing.

So we went to dinner at a local brewery. The only person dressed up was the hostess, who was a teenager wearing cat ears and a tail. We sampled a flight of five beers, and I ate pretzels and salad and cheesy beer soup. Then we went to the movies and (FINALLY) saw the Woody Allen movie Midnight in Paris, which you know that I totally and unabashedly loved.

We were that cheesy couple who squeezed each other's hands and grinned every time there was a familiar Paris landmark, somewhere that we'd visited together when we went for our anniversary trip a couple summers ago. I laughed out loud at the way the character of Gil Pender and his fiancee's father-in-law "agree to disagree" about politics. I was completely charmed by the literary references and the way Hemingway and the Fitzgeralds and Pablo Picasso all came to life.

After the movie, David commented on what a good night it was, and asked why we don't go out for Monday night date nights more often. Maybe we need to start a new tradition, get the week off to a good start.

Halloween wasn't what it should have been. But it was the best that we could do. And for the millionth time, in the thick of this grief, in the flickering darkness of the movie theater, I was so glad to have David next to me. I still can't think of anybody else that I'd rather go to the movies with, or go to Paris with, or make a baby with, taste microbrews with, or live through a heartbreak with, than that crazy guy I'm married to.

The Heartache of Infant Loss by Laura Schubert

2011-10-26T09:35:00.000-05:00

Josh posted this on his blog today, and I had to re-post it here.

December 6 is just over a month away. It is unbelievable to me that I am just a little more than a month away from the one year anniversary of my daughter's birth and death. I still wonder how this could be my life.

I use this blog to sort through my thoughts, to try and articulate exactly how I'm feeling. To name the pain, and pin it down with words, so maybe I can keep it from suffocating me, to explain to people who couldn't possibly understand but, God love them, they try to, and to connect with people who, unfortunately, do understand.

David and I have been talking a lot lately about what almost-11-months without our baby feels like. "Shitty" is one word that gets thrown around a bit. It doesn't quite account for the fact that shitty now feels a lot different from shitty last winter. So much has changed in these past months. The ache has not diminished, but I've gotten better at lugging it around, at keeping it hidden when necessary. It's hard for me to reconcile how I can be so changed, and also still be the exact same person I've always been. It's hard for me to explain how my day to day life has gotten easier (and even fun sometimes), but life without Eliza is still so impossibly hard.

I think this article says it perfectly.

Infant loss is nature's cruelest practical joke. It's investing all of the required time and effort into pregnancy, only to be robbed of the result. It's cradling a body that grew within your own and trying to reconcile the cold, lifeless form in your arms with your memory of the baby who turned double flips in your womb.

It's worrying that you'll forget what your child looked like and snapping an album's worth of photos that no one will ever ask to see. It's sobbing so hard you can't breathe and wondering if it's possible to cry yourself to death.

Infant loss is handing off a Moses basket to the nurse who's drawn the unfortunate duty of delivering your pride and joy to the morgue and walking out of a hospital with empty arms.

It's boxing up brand new baby clothes and buying a 24-inch casket. It's sifting through sympathy cards, willing your foolish body to stop lactating, clutching your baby's blanket to your chest in hopes of soothing the piercing ache in your heart.

It's resisting the urge to smack the clueless individuals who compare your situation to the death of their dog or who tell you you'll have another baby, as if children are somehow replaceable.

Infant loss is explaining to your 7-year-old that sometimes babies die and being stumped into silence when she asks you why. It's watching other families live out your happy ending and fighting a fresh round of grief with every milestone you miss.

It's being shut out of play groups for perpetuity. It's skipping social events with expectant and newly minted mothers because, as a walking worst-case scenario, you don't want to put a damper on the party.

It's listening to other women gripe about motherhood and realizing that you no longer relate to their petty parental complaints because, frankly, when you've buried a baby, a sleepless night with a vomiting toddler sounds something like a gift.

Infant loss is pruning from your life the friends and relatives who ignore or minimize your loss. It's recognizing that, while they may not mean to be hurtful, the fact that they don't know any better doesn't make their utter lack of empathy one whit easier to bear.

My baby girl would have been 5 years old this month. I don't know what she'd look like, what her favorite food would be. I've never had the privilege of tucking her into bed, taking her to the zoo or kissing her boo-boos. I will never watch her graduate or walk down the aisle.

Infant loss is more than an empty cradle. It's a life sentence.

- Laura Schubert, The Heartache Of Infant Loss

Verbal Altercation at Local Retail Store: Woman Speaks Up For Justice, Plaid-Wearing Hipster Flees

2011-10-25T15:42:00.002-05:00

So I went to Tar-shjay yesterday, to get some various odds and ends, including cotton balls and goat cheese spinach pizzas. As I was getting ready to check out, lines were ridiculously backed up. Those of us who were in line were blocking the main aisle of the store, so we were backing up into clothing racks in order to let people pass by. But soon red-shirted employees were on their walkie-talkies and a couple more lines opened up. Those of us waiting with our carts reallocated ourselves appropriately and the lines started moving forward.

BUT THEN, one young man took this opportunity to step into line in front of me AND the guy I was standing behind-- a dad who was there with his four year old son.

The little boy was holding a mermaid Barbie doll and looked totally thrilled with it. I was wondering whether his dad was actively thwarting society's tendency to emphasize gender differences in children, or if he was just cool with his son wanting a Barbie, or if it was a gift for someone else.

Anyway, this guy in a plaid shirt jumps in line in front of both of us, and I glanced at the dad to see if he would say something, but he just sighed. About the guy in plaid? Or his son's obvious excitement about the mermaid doll? I am not sure.

Plaid Shirt's girlfriend was still out in the main aisle, unable to slide into line next to him because she was pushing their cart full of stuff (lots of stuff, not just like a few items). She seemed uncertain about butting in line in front of dad/son and me, so she was really wishy-washy about it, and they were doing that silent communication thing couples do where they barely move their lips and raise their eyebrows at each other while using the tilt of their heads to gesture. He was silently pantomiming that she should get into line next to him and she was indicating her uncertainty with shrugs in the direction of me and the father/son duo. I observed this all, openly staring at them, waiting to see if she'd actually do it, and seething at the nerve of this kid.

Finally, Plaid Shirt reached out and grabbed her cart and pulled it over in front of us. He had officially BUTTED IN LINE.

At which point I smiled politely and said, very calmly, nodding as though I were answering a question he had asked me, "We were standing in line here. Both of us." I gestured toward the dad/son/mermaid.

Plaid Shirt glared at me defiantly from behind his hipster glasses (which I am not criticizing, I happen to love hipster glasses), and said, "Yeah, I have been standing here too. In this line. The whole time. Didn't you see me standing here?"

Now, my friends, this was TOTAL bullshit because I watched Plaid Shirt and Girlfriend push their cart up and figure out what line to get into after more registers had opened and we were all moving forward toward the checkout. Also he said this looking wild and defiant, just like my students do when they lie to me about why their paper isn't finished and they're daring me to call them out on it.

But what was I going to say? "Excuse me, little boy with the mermaid doll, could you please hold my earrings while I take this guy DOWN?"

I was not going to get into an "Un-uh!" "Uh-huh!" conversation with this dude. I knew it was time to maintain my dignity and let it go. So I said, in a very calm and polite voice (my most professorial tone), "Oh. Well, if you think that's true, then I'm sorry."

I said "I'm sorry" as though I were apologizing for my error, not as though I was sorry that he was mistaken, but I guess it was somewhat open to interpretation, since I might have emphasized "you think," but I swear I kept my tone very pleasant.

But it turns out the guy could lie to my face, but he didn't have the balls to stand in line in front of me after he did it. Instead, he said, "No, it's fine!" in a super irritated tone. Then turned to his girlfriend and snapped, "Where do you want to go?" and made her choose another line.

Huzzah! Victory was mine!

David would say that I have no patience. He thinks that when I have to wait in check out lines, I feel the same fight or flight response in me that my dad feels when he has to sit in traffic. He might even suggest I picked a fight with Plaid Shirt just to see if I could get through the line faster.

But then I would remind David of the time that we were standing in line to kiss the statue of St. Peter's feet at St. Peter's Basilica in Rome and somehow three little old Italian ladies butted in the queue and separated David and me and he was so pissed he tried to get confrontational with them and I was MORTIFIED because we were in a CHURCH and they were OLD LADIES and they didn't speak ENGLISH and in my experience, Europeans simply do not respect the order of queues the way Americans do. In that instance, I shushed David and politely let the old ladies kiss St. Peter's feet before I did. David maintained his righteous indignation since the line was really super long and we'd been waiting forever before these ladies sidled up and invited themselves in alongside us, but I just don't think you should fight with old ladies in churches. As a general rule.

Hipsters wearing plaid shirts in Target? Totally fair game.

I mean, if this guy had a cart full of medical supplies and someone was bleeding in the parking lot, I totally would have let it slide. But that was most decidedly not the case. I could have stood there and said nothing and waiting an extra five minutes and it would have been no big deal, right? But it's the principle of the thing!

There is so little justice in this world. Therefore, I will step up and fight for it at appropriate times, such as in the Target check-out line!

Take that, Plaid Shirt.

There Are Moments...

2011-10-21T10:37:00.000-05:00

When I feel lucky.

When I eat a hot bowl of chili and sip a cool bottle of hard cider and appreciate how delicious it all is.

When I snuggle up on the couch with David to watch TV, and Cooper clamors on top of us and pushes his way under the covers and I feel so happy that they're both mine and I get to hang out with them every day.

When Little Mac's antics make me laugh.

When I have a conversation with a friend and afterward I feel like I can take a deep breath for the first time in days, and I'm grateful for these people.

When I leave a yoga class and I'm so stretched and relaxed and focused that I ride that high all the way home.

When I grade a quiz and see how much one of my students has improved, and I feel like I am actually teaching them something.

When I watch Parks and Recreation and it's so funny I laugh out loud, really loud.

When I redecorate our backroom a hundred times in my head, entertaining myself for hours as I rearrange furniture and imagine how it might all turn out.

There are moments when my life isn't just bearable, it's actually enjoyable. It's a good life. Almost a great one. My sadness for Eliza exists right alongside all of those moments, but it does not wholly overshadow them.

I have grieved for that baby girl as intensely as I could possibly grieve for anyone. I continue to mourn her loss, as I will do every day until forever. But the truth is, there are moments when life gets a little of its sparkle back--a glimmer, a sheen. It might be gone in an instant, but I'm trying to appreciate those moments for what they are. Not signs that I'm "over it" or that I'm "okay again," but signs that life is full of gifts to help balance our heartaches.

I'm learning we need to clutch our joy at least as as tightly as we hold our grief. Because the hard part never goes away, and if that's all we focus on, we miss out on so much of the good.

In the early days, that lesson was wasted on me. I lived and breathed my grief and it was all-consuming. These days, I'm trying to appreciate the good that comes my way. It will never be good enough. It will never make up for what's been lost. But life can be terribly, horrifically, unbelievably shitty. So if a bowl of chili and a bottle of hard cider gives me a reprieve from the sadness, I'll take it. And I won't feel bad about it, or guilty that I'm somehow being disloyal to her memory, because I know that no matter what happens, I'll never, ever in a million years have enough joy to make up for the sadness of Eliza's death. But I'm starting to see that this doesn't mean I can't have any happiness at all.

The poet Jack Gilbert writes, We must have the stubbornness to accept our gladness in the ruthless furnace of this world.

I've never had a problem being stubborn. And the analogy of a ruthless furnace seems a pretty apt description of the world I'm currently living in. So this is where I am--try to accept my gladness when it comes, and trusting that when it goes, it will return again. Life is hard. But there are moments when it's a little softer.

Hello from the Land of Dive Bars and Serial Killers

2011-10-20T14:51:00.001-05:00

I saw this on Pinterest and decided to repost it here, mostly because I thought it would make my brother laugh, and he's not following me on Pinterest (yet).

Some stereotypes are just undeniably true...

Don't be shy--leave a comment with greetings from whichever stereotype you reside in (and ignore my dangling preposition. I don't even know how I would begin to restructure that sentence).

Go Ahead, Make Me Cry

2011-10-14T09:54:00.000-05:00

Someone asked me the other night if I would appreciate it if other people who knew about Eliza, but with whom I'm not super close--people I don't know very well, or someone with whom I had a professional relationship, like my doctor, or dentist, or financial advisor--would mention Eliza or acknowledge her birthday when it gets closer. She wanted to know if I would want them to say something to me, or if that acknowledgement would upset me.

The answer was yes to both.

Yes, of course I want people to acknowledge my daughter.

Yes, talking about her upsets me, in the sense that it makes me cry. But it doesn't make me angry or sad (-er than I already am). It just allows me to acknowledge those feelings. And that's a gift.

We know it's bad to make people cry. We don't want people to be upset. We are culturally and biologically conditioned to feel bad when we hurt someone, physically or emotionally. We see that hurt when it shows up in the form of tears, so, naturally, we want to do everything we can to avoid making people cry.

A few years ago, I was at a wedding for one of David's cousins. David's dad was there with his then-girlfriend, now-wife, and I knew that her dad was really sick. I hadn't gotten the chance to talk to her all day, so as we were walking through the buffet line at the reception, filling our plates with caesar salad and potatoes au gratin, I asked Michelle how her dad was doing. She set her plate down on the edge of the buffet and burst into tears.

Her dad was dying. And I had just made her cry.

I felt terrible.

She had been fine all evening. She seemed to be having a good time. And then there I went and opened my big mouth, bringing up a "sore subject," upsetting her in the middle of a nice reception, when she should be enjoying herself. I felt so bad. I told David later that I didn't know what I was thinking, but I never should have said anything. I hated to see her so upset. And it was all my fault.

Yeah, I see now how stupid that was. Her tears had nothing to do with me. Maybe my question brought them to the surface, but they'd been there all day long, through the ceremony, through the picture-taking, through the introduction of the wedding party. They'd been there for weeks--ever since her dad got the cancer diagnosis.

My question did not remind her of something she had forgotten. Yes, she might have held the tears in all night long if nobody had mentioned her dad, but that question came from a place of sympathy and concern and it was the right thing to ask, even though I didn't realize it at the time.

The truth is, I was embarrassed by her tears, and I felt like I'd done something wrong. But why shouldn't she cry? Her dad was dying! He was young and the only parent she had left and she was terribly sad. Of course she would cry about it. Maybe the timing was awkward (I seem to have a knack for tearful encounters at the salad bar), but all my question did was open the way for her to release a sadness and emotion that had been building up all day long.

Here's what my therapist says: Crying is not a negative reaction. It releases sadness; it does not create it.

Too often, our friends, co-workers, acquaintances, are often so worried about not wanting to upset us, not wanting to see us cry, that they avoid mentioning any topics that might be upsetting (just like I did with Stephanie and her mom).

But the people who are truly concerned for us, they don't try to keep our tears away. They sit there in the midst of them with us. As uncomfortable and awkward as it might feel.

Being truly kind to people who are grieving isn't about not making them cry. It's about letting them cry.

I really wanted to communicate that to the person who asked me if it would be appropriate for an acquaintance, casual or professional, to mention Eliza.

So this was my answer:

I would appreciate any acknowledgement of my baby. It might make me cry, but that doesn't mean that it was inappropriate. It means that you are acknowledging the greatest tragedy of my life and I am responding to it the only way I can--with a grief that is as deep as my love for her. I am grateful that you gave me the chance to do so.

(Perhaps I should get this printed on business cards, so I can hand them out to people while I dig around in my purse for a tissue and choke back sobs.)

I can't show off a parade of photos, I can't tell you how much she's grown, I can't tell you how many teeth she has, or how close she is to walking.

But I can show you that I love her so much, the mere thought of having to exist without her here brings me to tears every time.

I'm not going to lie--sometimes I feel totally embarrassed after I've cried in front of someone. I've cried in front of the chair of the English department at my new job. Twice. I've cried in front of my advisor from graduate school. On the phone with insurance companies. In the office of every doctor I've seen since I lost Eliza, and sometimes in the waiting room. I cried in line for security at the airport when we were leaving for Canada because I was so sad we weren't taking our baby with us. There are moments when I am afraid I will be perceived as crazy or weak or out of control because I can't keep from crying, and that frustrates me.

Most of the time, I can keep my tears in check. These days, I don't typically walk around blubbering in public (airport incident notwithstanding). I still want and need to be somewhat private in my grief. But I've also gotten more comfortable with my tears, and with letting people see them. Crying doesn't set me back, it doesn't tear me apart, it doesn't make me depressed. Tears just spill over sometimes, because that's how freaking hard this is. And if someone else witnesses that? Fine. After all, most of the time, I do a pretty damn good job of making it through the day.

What I want other people to understand, when they mention Eliza and my eyes fill with tears, is that crying does not mean, "I can't believe you mentioned her name and I hate you for making me sad."

Crying means, "I love her and miss her so much, and I'm really touched that you are thoughtful enough to say her name and ask how I'm doing."

So please, go ahead and make me cry. The real kindness isn't avoiding the subject. It's abiding with me and my tears.

Hallway Frame Gallery

2011-10-13T09:24:00.000-05:00

So one more part of the living room painting project was to re-do the gallery of frames in the hallway. I'd had silver frames up there, and I decided I wanted to put up an all white frame gallery (thank you, Pinterest). But I didn't have enough white frames. So I busted out some spray paint. But then I had decided that my gallery didn't have to be perfect and could just be mixed and match silver and white. So here's what I ended up with:

It took forever for me to figure out how I wanted it to look.

First I laid it out on the living room floor.

Then I laid it all out on our bed in the bedroom. Then I edited, rearranged, removed.

Then I tore out pages from an old phone book so I'd have the size and shape of all the frames and laid it out on the wall.

Then I started hammering.

It took me an entire afternoon. Seriously. Like at least 3 hours. And if I had it to do over again, I might edit a bit more (I'm not sure what I would take out though...) It still seems a little crowded in spots. I'd make the top and bottom a bit more uneven, I think, so it's not such a perfect rectangle. But over all, it makes me really happy.

For perspective, this is the hallway that leads from the living room to the bathroom and bedrooms. It's directly across from the bathroom, so if you pee with the door open (for example, if you're the only one home and you don't bother shutting the door because your dogs will just sit outside the door and whine for you because they are codependent little beasts), you can look at the frames while you pee.

Or you can observe them at other times, when your pants are on. Whatever makes you feel more comfortable.

But! If you are long distance and cannot see this in person, do not fear! You will now get the guided tour of my hallway gallery with individual pictures of each framed piece (or you can stop reading here before your eyes glaze over from boredom).

Our Eliza sunset photo, created by Carly. It's the biggest frame on the wall, and such a lovely picture.

A postcard I bought in Seoul, South Korea when we visited the North Seoul Tower. I was pregnant with Eliza at the time. I like that the postcard is whimsical and colorful and a happy vacation memory.

Can you tell we're related? My aunt, me, and my mom. This was taken a while ago (before I got bangs), but I like any picture that features white wine.

White water rafting in Canada.

These are lots of pictures of the sky all put together. I cut it out of a magazine. I liked the soft blue color and I know a little something about this cloudy sky feeling.

Another vacation photo -- at Stonehenge.

The little crafty print that I created. I noticed a spacing error but I'm pretending to embrace imperfection.

David snapped this artsy shot of streetcars when we were in San Francisco a couple of years ago and since I'm always giving him a hard time about being a terrible photographer, I wanted to make a big deal out of a good picture he took.

Oh, the wedding. Not only are we young and blissfully happy, the wedding car was borrowed from David's grandpa's Mustang collection, and my best friend Monica hand-lettered the sign for me and created all of the tissue-paper pom-poms (with the help of her little sister). So it makes me think of lots of people we love.

I have another project I'm working on to go in this frame, so I just cut this head out of a magazine as a placeholder. Because I really like her necklace.

My parents when they were engaged. I think this photo is adorable and hilarious.

There's no story behind this except I liked it.

The brother. This was taken ages ago, when he graduated from UT Austin. Hook 'em horns! I stayed at his frat house that weekend (what the hell was I thinking? I have no idea) which was disgusting but also pretty fun. I couldn't keep up with them, though. After going out to the bars, they dropped me off to go to bed while they kept the party going.

My dad and me at my wedding.

A butterfly. Butterflies make me think of Eliza. Legend says that if you lose a baby, their spirit may come to visit you in the form of a butterfly. I don't always think I believe in that stuff, but every time I see a butterfly it makes me smile and feel like crying at the same time.

This one didn't photograph well, and in person it's really dark, too. But it's a picture of a night sky and you can just see the stars peeking out in the darkness, with trees and a fallen log in front.

A fortune I got a long time ago. It had been up on our fridge with a magnet and I moved it to a frame. It's been true, even though those friends are not always whom I thought they'd be.

A tiny watercolor of the Ponte Vecchio in Florence, bought from a street vendor for just a few Euros.

A shadow box containing a champagne cork from the bottle of champagne that was waiting for us in the flat we rented in Paris a couple of summers ago. We lugged our suitcases up four flights of winding stairs, flung open the windows, and popped the cork.

The aforementioned BFF Monica, pictured at her wedding, where I was the matron of honor and she was a gorgeous bride who looks like she stepped out of old Hollywood.

View of the hallway when you walk in the front door. I wanted Eliza's sunset to be visible the moment you step inside.

So there you have it. Hallway gallery, finished.

Not to worry, though. I won't be sitting around with nothing to do. I've got my sights set on a new home improvement project. I'm collecting supplies for it this weekend, and we'll start on it next week. I'll keep you posted.

Chili Recipe

2011-10-12T16:23:00.000-05:00

I'm making chili today. We're visiting David's grandparents again this weekend and in an effort to make things a little easier on them, I'm bringing chili and cinnamon rolls (Why do these things go together? I don't know, maybe you should ask the people who designed school lunches when I was in grade school and cinnamon rolls were always the dessert on chili day.)

I like to brag about this recipe because (1) it's delicious (2) I'm not great at cooking, but I have mastered this and (3) even meat eaters like my chili.

So here is my ingredient list:

big can of tomato puree
black beans
kidney beans
chili beans (are kidney beans and chili beans the same thing? I have no idea)
green pepper
carrots
tempeh (for those of you not in the know, tempeh is vegetarian deliciousness, pronounced "tem-pay." It's a combination of grains and who knows what else, and it packs lots of protein.)
garlic
onion
salsa verde
plus a SECRET INGREDIENT. (Now you're intrigued, right? Keep reading.)

Chop your veggies. I use a big knife, but it's not very sharp. Because I'm clumsy and I don't want to slice off a digit while making chili.

Drain your beans. As I'm draining beans, I always think about how I wish I had that Pampered Chef tool that fits over the tops of cans and drains them easily, but then that would be one more gadget to store in the limited space of my kitchen and I want to be one of those people who doesn't buy lots of material objects, but that's not really happening, so maybe I should just give in and buy one, and then I wonder if my old college roommate is still selling Pampered Chef, and by the time I get done thinking about all that, the beans are drained and I promptly forget about the can-draining gadget until the next time I'm opening a can of beans.

Get out your big ol' chili pot and put the burner heat on medium. Sautee the onion and garlic in a little bit of oil until they're nice and fragrant and the onions are translucent.

Add your peppers and carrots to the pot to soften them up a bit. At this point, I always mentally pat myself on the back because my chili has vegetables in it and is therefore very healthy, which is why it's totally fine to bury it under a pile of cheese and Fritos before eating.

Also at this point, I usually remember to turn on some music. For making chili, I really like Jeff Buckley and also old Tim McGraw. Something homey and nostalgic.

While your veggies are softening, chop up your block of tempeh. You can also use Boca or Morningstar soy crumbles, but I prefer the tempeh. It just feels less processed or something.

You want your tempeh to crumble up, kind of like ground beef, except BETTER, and a cow doesn't have to die for this pot of chili. Win-win! Add your tempeh to the pot, stir it all around, and then add whatever chili powder floats your boat.

I really like Penzey's spices and I live near a Penzey's, so I usually stock up. But I have not yet replenished my chili spices from last fall! So I'm going old school with my favorite grocery store brand of chili powder: Williams.

Williams was the last name of my great-grandparents, so as I sprinkle it in, I pretend it's an old family recipe. Is that weird?

The tempeh will take on the flavor of whatever it's hanging out with in the pot, so now you have a delicious mixture of onion, garlic, pepper, carrot, and chili seasoning, and the texture is somewhat close to ground beef. At least, from what I remember. I haven't eaten ground beef in ten years, so my memory could be fuzzy. At any rate, tempeh doesn't have the "tofu texture" that David complains about, so he likes it.

Time for your beans. Dump 'em in. Sometimes I only use two cans of beans, but this time I am feeling crazy! Also I originally got this recipe from my friend Natalie, and she says that every cook makes a chili recipe his or her own. So here I am, personalizing it.

It's looking pretty chunky now, and so healthy and full of veggies! So it's time to add the tomato puree.

I also stir in some salsa verde. Except my neighborhood grocery store didn't have salsa verde in stock. What the what? We live a block away from "The Hill," which is the Italian section of St. Louis, meaning that it's a neighborhood of Italian restaurants and Italian grocery stores and Catholic churches. Evidently even the chain grocery store has been influence, so Mexican food gets the short shift. If I go the opposite direction, there is an adorable little Mexican grocery store within walking distance of my house, but it's raining today. So we're going with this green taco sauce! Because it's green! Verde! And it has roughly the same ingredients--green chilies. And Natalie gave me permission to improvise!

Dump in about half of whatever green Mexican sauce you have on hand and stir. One time I made this with real salsa verde that my uncle in Arizona had made himself from super hot peppers he'd grown in the desert. It was so spicy and delicious!

Then it's time for the SECRET INGREDIENT!!!!

That's right. A bottle of beer. The darker the better, but any kind will do. I'm using Dunkelweizen, an Amber beer from Trader Joe's. If you have the option, adding one at room temperature is the best idea, but I've popped the top straight out of the fridge and it's fine. Just fizzes a little more.

Pour it in.

Watch the chili foam! And froth! And smell delicious!

Stir it all up really good. Crank up the heat and bring it all to a rolling boil. Let it boil for a minute or two, then take the heat way down.

Now the hard/easy part. Let it simmer for as long as you can. Let it infuse your home with delicious chili smell. I try to let it simmer for two hours. Why? Because I like my chili to be delicious, that's why. It also gets thick (soupy chili = gag) and all the flavors mix perfectly.

It's best to let it simmer uncovered, but that's totally impractical because it sputters and bubbles and makes a big chili mess. So I put the lid almost all the way on, allowing space for the steam to escape. I also stir it occasionally. Like whenever I walk by the kitchen, or during a commercial break, or in between student essays, or at the end of a chapter, or at that point when you realize you've been staring at Pinterest so long that you've forgotten to blink and you need to step away from the laptop.

Once it's simmered to your preference, it's ready to go. Ladle it into cute bowls and serve with extra sharp cheddar cheese grated on top to make it extra good. I also like to serve it with beer bread (because it's a THEME!) but it's great with Fritos, tortilla chips, or Saltines.

Enjoy!

OK, now here's the short version of the recipe without my commentary. It occurs to me that my commentary is probably not as cute as the Pioneer Woman's and that's why she's written a famous cookbook and I have not. Or maybe it's that this is really my only successful recipe and a one-recipe cookbook does not a cookbook make...

Ingredients
onion
garlic
pepper
carrots
tempeh
chili seasoning
chili beans and/or kidney beans
black beans
tomato puree
salsa verde
SECRET INGREDIENT (beer)

Instructions
Chop veggies and drain beans.

Sautee onions and garlic until softened.

Add carrots and peppers, stir until softened.

Chop tempeh and add to veggie mixture. Stir in chili seasoning.

Add beans. Stir.

Add tomato puree. Stir.

Add half a jar of salsa verde. Stir.

Add the SECRET INGREDIENT - a bottle of beer.

Stir well. Increase heat and bring to boil for 1-2 minutes.

Turn heat down to super low. Let simmer, not fully covered, for 1-2 hours. Stir occasionally.

Serve with bread, chips, or crackers, and grated cheese.

Laundry Day

2011-10-08T08:17:00.000-05:00

Little Mac is eleven and half years old, nearly blind, and obsessed with the idea that the world is out to get her. As a result, she is careful to avoid putting herself in vulnerable positions. For example, we have never rubbed her belly and she growls if anyone comes near her bed when she is resting/snoozing/plotting to kill us all. Therefore, we could hardly believe that she took a leap of faith up into a basket full of dirty clothes.

Where iz I? Wut did I do?

I luv the dirties. I risk all for the dirties. Plz do not approach me.

Perhaps Cooper bribed her to dig him out a pair of panties? I tell you, these two are a formidable team:

Who, me? Say wut?

Remember my bathroom?

2011-10-06T21:05:00.000-05:00

The one I painted with stripes? Like way back in July? And then I said I'd post pictures but I never did?

Of course you do. You've all been sitting around waiting patiently, just hoping for the day when I post the pictures of the stripes I painted in the bathroom.

Or you've been quietly assuming it was a total flop and you're just too tactful to mention it.

The truth is, I was waiting to post pictures until I got pictures hung up in the bathroom and it took two months to make that happen. I can't explain why. I re-used frames I already had on hand. I did not have to order pictures or buy prints. I think it's just that I use up on my energy on the stuff I absolutely have to do to get through the day and then I have nothing left over for hammering and nailing.

At any rate, I managed to get motivated yesterday. I wanted to post before and after pictures, but I absolutely cannot find the "before" pictures. Just keep in mind that "before," the bathroom was the lighter beige color and it had a striped shower curtain in bright, shimmery jewel tones of blue and purple and green. Now we have this:

view from the doorway

shower curtain (from Target)

opposite the sink

up close view of the stripage

The stripe is pretty subtle, but in addition to being slightly darker than the original wall color, it has a nice metallic shimmer that appeals to the side of me that loves all things sparkly.

David thought the following picture was my grandma:

Grandma?

While flattering for my grandma, I was dismayed to learn that not only did he not recognize the actress in the picture, the name Vivien Leigh did not clarify things for him.

"Um, you know, Scarlett O'Hara."

Blank stare.

"From Gone With the Wind!"

Unconvincing nod of recognition.

"What is the matter with you? How do you not know Scarlett O'Hara?"

Turns out, he's never seen Gone With the Wind. Are you KIDDING me? Not to worry, Netflix to the rescue.

Which brings me to another question: Is it weird to have a picture of Scarlett O'Hara in your bathroom? I'm not sure she's a permanent addition; she was intended to be more of a place holder. This frame had been displaying a picture of David and me in front of the Golden Gate Bridge, but somehow it seemed weird to have us smiling cheerfully at whomever was sitting on our toilet. So I decided to have Scarlett O'Hara smirk coyly at whomever was sitting on our toilet instead. At least temporarily.

And while you're peeing, you can also look at this:

Hey LADIES Get Funky; GENTLEMEN Prefer Your Sister

I took these photos of signs at a public restroom in London. They made me snicker when I first saw them, and as far as I'm concerned, they still haven't lost their appeal.

postcards I bought in Florence--the photos I would have taken if these places hadn't been full of annoying tourists like us

map of the London Metro -- a romantic adventure for David and me back in 2009

I guess I forgot to take a close up picture of the collage above the toilet, which you get to look at if you pee standing up at my house! It's photos I actually took in Verona and Florence. Because I guess I wanted our bathroom to represent London, Italy, and the Confederate States of America.

Anyway, the real deal is the stripes, which I still like pretty well. I think they kind of look like wallpaper. How did I do it? I just left the old color up there (a kind of beige color that I think is called Keystone by Benjamin Moore) and I added a metallic stripe with the Martha Stewart metallic paint from Home Depot in Bone. I also had to buy the specialty roller that went with the paint, except my Home Depot was out of the Martha Stewart rollers so I had to buy the Ralph Lauren one. It did the job just fine.

I measured the height of my walls, divided it by 8, and then penciled up and down each end of the wall. Then I used green Frog painter's tape (it's the best for sealed edges with no paint leaking through) and carefully stretched it from one pencil mark to another. I eyeballed this a little bit, and my stripes probably aren't quite perfect, but they turned out pretty sharp. The tricky part was putting the paint on the outside of the pencil line and then the inside. It looked like this:

And I ran out of green tape, so had to use blue at the bottom. Turned out okay with the blue tape, too. So once it was taped off, I just rolled on the paint. It was a super liquidy paint, like much more watery than any kind of paint I've used before. But it covered okay, and I was planning on doing two coats, which I definitely needed. The whole project took two days because the metallic paint was supposed to dry 24 hours between coats, but the actual painting process went super fast because the area of the stripe wasn't very big at all.

So there you have it. My bathroom is now striped! Come over to admire it and allow Scarlett to watch you pee.

Abide With Me

2011-10-04T15:16:00.000-05:00

A day or two after we lost Eliza, when I was home but everything was numb and foggy and my milk had come in and I didn't know how it could be possible that my body failed my baby and then somehow still thought that there was a baby to feed and it seemed like the worst and most cruel and unfair thing that had happened yet--to be so ridiculous and so uncomfortable, and literally, actually, for the first time in my entire life, wishing that I were dead, as I lay on the couch, staring into space, looking blankly at David or my mom when they would say, "What can I get you?" because there was only one thing I wanted and nobody could get it for me, somehow in those dark, horrific blur of days, I sent an e-mail.

I managed to find Glow in the Woods and I clicked through the website, trying to find a human being. Anyone who would write to me and tell me how this could ever get better, get easier, get just good enough that waking up in the morning was bearable instead of a crushing disappointment. I wanted to send an e-mail to someone, and I wasn't brave enough yet to post on the message board. I couldn't even tell you where I found the list of e-mails, or why I chose the one I did. Maybe because I've always liked the name Kate?

At any rate, I sent an e-mail to Kate Inglis. I knew nothing about her except there was her e-mail address on a website for parents whose baby has died. I don't know what my e-mail said. Something along the lines of "My baby died three days ago and now how am I supposed to keep living?" except with lots more details and run on sentences, as is my style.

And bless her heart, she wrote me back. Almost right away. I still have her reply saved in my e-mail in a folder labeled "Baby Duck." Her response was so kind, so perfect, no platitudes but real compassion, and in it there was a promise that Eliza would be remembered but that memory would not always be so painful. There was assurance that I would find myself again and even if I were different, I wouldn't be ruined. And she told me that I was not alone.

Over this last weekend, she spoke at a walk for remembrance, in memory of her son Liam, who died four years ago. She posted her speech on her blog. I wish I had been there to hear it in person, to fight my tendency to be shy around people who intimidate me and leap out of the crowd to hug her and tell her that she was the first person outside my family who shone a light on that terrible, bleak darkness. I would tell her how sorry I am that Liam's not here, and how grateful I am that his mother reached out to me in the worst days of my life. I would cry and tell her thank you. I'd tell her she's a brilliant writer, and I'm lucky that she took the time to write to me.

Just as they were almost ten months ago, the words she shared at her city's walk for remembrance were exactly what I needed to read today. They address all the complexities of grief, the sorrow that sucks away your will to live, and the unexpected gifts such sorrow brings--the compassion, the clarity, the people. These gifts can never make up for the loss of a child, but they can't be ignored either, because they are so real and so meaningful and so wonderful. If you are one of those people who continue to abide with us as we grieve for our daughter, you are one of those gifts.

Please take a moment to read Kate's words here. Find the part that's meant for you, whether you deserve my thanks or forgiveness, and know that I mean it, too.

Angel of Hope

2011-09-29T09:10:00.001-05:00

Here in the St. Louis area, there is a park with a special area devoted to families who want to honor the children they've lost. There is a beautiful statue of there called the Angel of Hope. Every winter, they hold a candlelight vigil there in memory of the children we miss so much.

via the Share website

The tradition is that when you visit the angel, you leave a white flower in memory of your child.

The angel is surrounded by a brick patio, with paths that lead around the garden. You can order bricks through Share and have your child's name engraved on them.

We did this last January, still in a daze of grief. I remember stressing out because Eliza has a pretty long name (twenty letters plus two spaces!) and I didn't know how I'd get her whole name on the brick, plus her birthdate, plus some short phrase about how much we loved her.

I wanted to write "Our Baby Duck" on the brick, because before she was Eliza, she was still our Baby Duck.

I wanted to write "We love you and miss you forever."

I wanted to write, "I'm so sorry, baby, I'm so sorry."

I wanted to write, "My heart is broken and I don't know how I am supposed to keep going without you."

I wanted to write, "I wish I'd died instead of you."

I had to put something perfect. Something that expressed everything I felt and showed the world how much we loved her. And something that was no more than 15 characters, counting spaces.

After fretting about this for days, David finally told me to just stick with her name and date. After all, we couldn't fit our love for her on a brick. It was impossible.

So Eliza's little brick just has her name and birthdate. Almost all the others have a sentimental message, but there was nothing we could have added that would have been enough.

A dear friend of mine visited the park yesterday. She left a pink and white rose for my Eliza, and she sent me this picture:

Oh, Baby Duck. I would have done anything to keep you here with us. I could pave the entire ~~park~~ world with bricks saying how much we love you and miss you. And it still wouldn't be enough.

When In Doubt

2011-09-28T08:11:00.000-05:00

Repeat this:

via Pinterest from http://sweetandlovelythings.tumblr.com/