Rainbow Weekend

Rainbow baby is the term for a baby after the loss of a previous child. It is the understanding that a rainbow's beauty does not negate the ravages of the storm. When a rainbow appears, it doesn't mean that the storm never happened or that the family is not still dealing with its aftermath. What it means is that something beautiful and full of light has appeared in the midst of the darkness and clouds.  

Several of us got together last weekend near Chicago.  Fourteen broken-hearted mamas and fourteen rainbow babies who helped us find our way back to life.  These are women who sent love and light my way when my world was as dark as it could possibly get.  And they did this while suffering themselves--almost all of us lost babies in late 2010 or 2011 and had our "rainbows" in 2012.  We were in the trenches together, slogging through the worst part of grief simultaneously, and reaching out to carry each other through it.

at the park

When I think about the path that I've walked in the last two and a half years, I know that the greatest loss of my life was coupled with an amazing gift of friendship and connection with people I would never have otherwise met.  It's no compensation for the loss of a child, and many times I heard someone mention over the weekend that we wished we could have all been there for some other reason.  But there is some consolation in shared sorrow, in knowing that you're not alone in your pain.

And there is far greater consolation in shared hope:  these women were also my pregnancy support team, encouraging and worrying and wishing and hoping alongside me in those anxiety-filled days of pregnancy-after-loss.  It's crazy because in some ways we are each other's horror stories--fourteen different ways a baby can die.  There's ten years' difference between the oldest and youngest of us.  We come from various cities, states, and countries (hello, Canada!).  We have different jobs, different backgrounds, different interests (and fall in various places on the "hippie spectrum"--the biggest hippie being the crazy girl with cloth diapers and backyard chickens.  Oh wait, that's me.).

We all experienced a life-shattering heartbreak, and somehow in the brutal aftermath of living with loss, we found each other.  And we formed real friendships, that started because of our losses and then moved beyond that to be something more, something good that grew out of the most terrible thing we could imagine.

speaking of something good - Bode, Zuzu, Kellan, and Grace

The magic of the interwebz allowed many of us connect through blogs, through Instagram photo-sharing, through e-mail and g-chat and Skype.  So meeting in person for the first time (or second time, for a few of us) was weird in the sense that it didn't feel weird at all.  There were very few introductions because we'd seen almost everyone (or at least their rainbow babies) before.  It felt more like a neighborhood block party (on what would be a tragically unlucky block).

B wonders how his home invasion occurred

And let me tell you this:  When hearts break, they do break open.  There was so much love in the room when all those babies were there.  There was chaos, yes, and some screeching, occasional tears, and a few throw-down fights among the bigger boys over a very desirable lawn-mower, but there was SO. MUCH. LOVE.

Some of us were more demonstrative than others!

The thing about rainbow babies is that they are unique individuals, totally lovable and adorable in their own right.  But they also offer a glimpse, a hint, of genes shared with a brother or sister who is no longer here, and we love them for that, too.

Addison's little brother, Mason

Our greatest gift follows on the heels of our greatest loss, and it's a fierce and complicated kind of parental love that grows out of those circumstances.  One of the awesome things about the weekend was seeing other rainbow babies that I've come to love, and seeing my friends love on Zuzu, understanding what she means to us in a way that most people can't or don't or won't.

Zuzu gets some love from Addison and Mason's mom

Being in a room with other people who were relatively close on the grief timeline was like having a kind of weight lifted.  There was no need for explanation--these people got it because they are living it, too.

Grace & Zuzu 

Every tear, every wail, every twinge of guilt, every full-belly-laugh, every prayer, and every doubt--we shared these things and we continue to share them.  This is the sisterhood that grief makes.  It's shitty and it's brutal and it's one we would have all avoided if there any possible way.  But it is also a beautiful thing to know that we're in this awful mess together.  I say this because I don't know how I could have survived it on my own.

My pregnancy support group - we e-mailed each other multiple times a day every single day while we were pregnant with these guys--all born within three months of each other

We had no agenda for the weekend.  We talked and hugged babies and laughed and cried.  We talked about grief and loss and spirituality and pregnancy and marriage and families and fashion and home decorating.  We did a lot of chasing babies and referring fights over pacifiers, sippy cups, and toys (the lawn mower!).

this toy was a huge hit

Zuzu & Catherine are wrestling over Grace's pacifier

three boys in a basket

We ate.  We drank.  We laughed and cried some more.  And then we laughed until we cried.  We joked and made fun of each other.  We shared our secrets, the inescapable guilt, the unavoidable fears.  We existed in a place without judgment even as we described our experience with grief in different ways.  We talked about jobs, about parenting, about food, about travel.  We lit candles for the babies we are missing, and for the other moms we wished could have made the trip, and for the babies that those moms are missing also (far too many candles on that deck).

We're all broken here, and we're helping each other hold the pieces together.  There was something amazing about the way a conversation could effortlessly move from deep grief to superficial commentary and back again, interrupted periodically by baby-chasing or nap time.  To have that sense of ease with so many women I'd never met before?  It was really incredible.

lots of talking

When I left on Sunday, I felt so sad to be so far away from what someone (I think it was Keleen?) had aptly called "the best friends I'd never met."  Because now I had met them.  And they were just as amazing in person as they were online.  And while it's unlikely that we ever would have met if our lives didn't share the same tragedy, I'm grateful for the opportunity to know them and to love them.

Zuzu, Ginny, & Harlow, all missing big sisters

I also felt a little lighter as I drove away on Sunday.  It kind of like we'd all shown up in Chicago with our diaper bags and suitcases, and also our heavy emotional dead-baby baggage and while we couldn't leave any of it behind, we'd been able to help each other shoulder that emotional burden.  My grief rests a little lighter now--I'm balancing it better after soaking up so much love and support.

At the same time, I grieve more deeply for all of the women who were there, whose babies were so loved and wanted and so tragically and traumatically ripped away from them by a fate none of us can understand.  It's hard to fathom all the pain in the world, and at this point I think I've compartmentalized a lot of mine so that I can function on a daily basis.  The empathy experienced when connecting with people who have endured the loss of a child is both exhausting and uplifting.

Being physically surrounded by people who love Eliza and love Zuzu and who understand intimately and intensely what it is to love two babies when one is here and one is not...  I can't find the words to do it justice.

Sonja gave all the babies rainbow hats that her mother had knitted.  Her mom wrote in the note she included that each rainbow baby is also reminder of the brother or sister who isn't here.  It's such a bittersweet combination of joy and grief, and that couldn't have been more vivid than in the moments we spent trying to capture a group picture of the babies in their hats.

This was probably the best picture we got!

Like herding cats.  Who also cry and try to poke each other's eyes out.

So much life and love can be seen in these snapshots, and those little caps represent the way these babies lit up our lives in the darkness of grief.

Our rainbow girl, Zuzu

Bear's little brother, Bode

I'm so sorry that we're members of this club, and I'm so grateful to have found each one of you.