I switched to a new website that is both free and much less frustrating than the old one, which will expire on July 6, 2012. I can't tell you how many posts I lost, how many hours I spent trying to post things, or how many nasty words spewed from my mouth using the other site!
Older blog posts are still here, but you will find them all under "May" posts in the archived post section. I labelled them by month, so they should be pretty easy to locate. The first post is from early July if you are trying to start from the beginning.
And pregnancy updates...I am 36 weeks and beginning the weekly appointments. Quinn is still transverse, so hopefully she'll make the right decision to get into place soon. I just posted pictures from the 3D sonogram on Facebook, so check them out! Scott will not be getting his look alike child in Quinn...she looks exactly like Ethan and Max, which is to say that she looks exactly like me. She has lots of hair, big pouty lips, and keeps her legs crossed at all times. We're looking forward to meeting her sometime around June 26, but we have made the decision that there will be no inducing this time. Her arrival will be her choice alone!
The "anniversary" (I wish someone would come up with a better term than that) of Max's death date is coming up quickly...June 10. We will be spending a week away from home at Table Rock Lake (near Branson) with my parents, Scott's parents, my sister, her boyfriend, her son, Scott's brother, his wife, and their daughter. I'm nervous about traveling that close to my due date, but I'm hopeful that it will work out. I'm looking forward to being away from home on a day that I'm really dreading.
I also finished my last day of work, although I did receive a work email AND phone call today. Hmmm...I'm looking forward to actually being done with work and focusing on what's coming next!
We have nailed down a date and location for the fundraiser: October 19 at Drexel Hall. Boulevard is providing the beer, and my awesome friend Steve Spacek is smoking lots of meats for a barbecue dinner. There is a lot of planning still to be done, but we're excited to team up with SIDS Resources to support a cause that is obviously very close to our hearts. If you have something to donate for the silent/live auction, if you would like to help plan/organize the event in some way, or if you just want to make sure that you are on the guest list, please email us at: maxandbofoundation@gmail.com
Wednesday, May 30, 2012
May 30, 2012--Max's Birthday
Max’s first birthday has come and gone. Most of the time, I
find it almost impossible to believe that I should have a one-year-old child to
take care of. There are moments of intense clarity, though, when I realize just
what this means. It is during these moments when I can feel just how great my
loss really is. I think of all of the “firsts” that we’ve missed out on. It’s
too painful to go through all of them, so I’ll spare you and myself. It’s just
hard to imagine all that we could have
experienced over the past year, and then to think of what we actually have experienced in the past
year. I also have a hard time picturing Max. Would his hair still be dark and
full? Ethan was also born with dark hair, which has since been replaced with a
soft mop of sandy blond hair. One thing I feel very sure of is that Max would
be big. Very big. He would probably look much older, and I like to imagine that
he would act much older too. He just always seemed so mature and so much older
than he was. I know people probably think that it’s torturous to think of these
things, but it isn’t. Not at all. It makes me feel like I’m staying caught up
with him in the only way I can. Ultimately, I don’t know what he would look
like or act like, but I know that my life would be different in many ways.
On Max’s birthday, we had friends and family over to create
a memorial garden for Max. My mom came up with the idea, and, I’ll be honest, I
wasn’t sure that it could become a reality. She suggested clearing out a
sloped, lightly wooded area in our backyard and planting perennials there.
Scott’s dad built a bench for Max to put back there, and so we started
planning. Here is what it looked like before:
It took two days of very hard work, but this is what we have now:
I am, admittedly, a bad photographer, so you'll either have to trust me or come for a visit to see how beautiful it really is. The back of our house is full of floor-to-ceiling windows, so this is what I get to see when I walk in the front door, wash dishes at the sink, or sit down at the kitchen table to eat dinner. Our friends and family brought enough plants to fill much more space than we had planned for Max's garden, so we have beautiful plants everywhere that will bloom each year around Max's birthday and remind us of what a blessing he was to have known. It was, and still is, surreal to see the results of everyone's love, support, and hard work. I've never enjoyed watering, but I head out pretty happily every afternoon to water Max's garden. It gives me time each day to reflect on the good things that came from Max and to remind myself that beauty can spring from ugliness, hope from tragedy. It is not lost on me either that the people who "saved" our backyard and made it peaceful and serene are the same people who "saved" us after Max's death. If not for their selflessness, love, and generosity, I don't know that we would be navigating this journey with as much hope as we are. Even people who couldn't be here physically found a way to be involved, from sending plants to supplying us with floral arrangements and baked goods. We even got a gift certificate for a couples massage from a (too) generous neighbor!
Emotionally, Max's birthday was difficult, but for the most part I was able to view it as a celebration of one of the best days of my life. A recorded phone call from Geoffrey, the Toys R Us giraffe, wishing Max a happy first birthday and "many more to follow" was an unwelcome intrusion that pushed me to tears for a while, but even that couldn't take away from the beauty of the day. I did want to tell Geoffrey what I thought of his ill-timed message, but I can't hold it against a fictional character, I guess. I will never be able to express how grateful I am to everyone who participated in Max's birthday. I felt so enveloped by love all day, and I needed that. Each plant is marked with a river rock bearing the donor's name so that we can remember every day just how surrounded by love we really are.
One other very special addition to the day was a piece of artwork that everyone took part in. An art teacher from work painted a beautiful tree with two cardinals sitting in it and Max's name draped across it. Everyone who came over added a "leaf" to the tree in the form of fingerprints. It is hanging beside one of the large windows that line the back of our house, and it is more perfect than I could have imagined. Here is the finished product:
Again, please excuse my photography skills...
So, was Max's birthday hard? Yes. But it was beautiful, filled with love, and worth every bead of sweat. I feel the same way about Max. Losing Max has been heartbreaking, anger-inducing, and infinitely painful, but I would go through it all over again just to experience life with him.
April 29, 2012--Detours
Thoughts of Max flood my brain lately. Not that I don’t think about him all
the time anyway, but lately he’s all I can think of when I wake up in the
morning and when I go to bed at night.
There are so many more things that I start to remember as we approach
the day that should be bringing us so much joy: his first birthday.
I remember the look on his face when that first bit of water hit his
little body in the bathtub; it was a look of confusion, but not annoyed
confusion. Just confusion. As if he was thinking, “How the hell
did I end up in here?” It was
adorable and made me smile a little every time I saw it. I got used to seeing that face, and I
have no doubt that the look would have evolved as he grew into a toddler and
then a young man. I pictured him
giving me that look when trying new foods, experimenting with words, or seeing
something strange out in the real world.
I wish I had a picture of that look or even a video to capture the body
movements that went along with it—flailing arms, fingers spread wide. The snapshot in my mind will have to
do, though. I still can’t bring
myself to watch any of the very few videos we have of Max. Something about seeing him alive in my
head versus alive on the screen is more comforting for now. I hope that I will be able to watch
them at some point, and I believe that I will. It’s not something I’m rushing into, but I wouldn’t mind if
it happened tomorrow. I miss my
little guy.
Since my last post, Scott and I finished packing up Max’s
room. We turned it into Quinn’s
room, but I still can’t help but call it “Max’s room.” Sometimes I call it “Max’s old room,”
but even that sounds strange to me.
I don’t see this as being totally unhealthy. Ethan’s room will always be “Ethan’s room,” even after he
moves out and it’s turned into a guest room or whatever type of room it’s
destined to become. I’ll always
think of it as his room because he was the first inhabitant. We painted it for him, we decorated it
for him, and he’ll live there for a lot of his life. We say goodnight to him in that room every night, we play
with him in that room, and we measure his amazing growth in that room. Calling it anything other than “Ethan’s
room” takes all of the significance of those things away from the room and
turns it into any other room in our house. I feel the same way about Max’s room. A lot of things happened in that room,
and Scott and I smiled and laughed more times than we can possibly remember in
that room. We sat in the chair in
Max’s room for hours of his life, rocking him, feeding him, singing to him, just
being with him. So, I don’t think it’s such a big deal
that I still think of it as Max’s room and probably always will. He will always be a part of our family,
so he deserves a place in our house.
Just like that confused look would have evolved with Max, his room is
evolving too. Its origins will
remain the same though, and I choose to acknowledge those origins.
It is very strange to think that on this day last year, I
was five days away from giving birth to Max. I can’t believe that he would have been a year old in just a
few days. My labor with Max was
painful, of course, but it wasn’t unnecessarily long or nearly as trying as
Ethan’s. I didn’t take any medicine
for pain until I got my epidural.
This was very different from my experience with having Ethan. I was pumped full of various
painkillers, which did lead to some funny commentary by me. (So I have been told; I really don’t
remember.) I barely remember
having Ethan. I had been in “false
labor” for nearly three days by the time Ethan came for real. I was having full-blown contractions
just minutes apart, but labor wasn’t actually progressing. On the third day, I was finally
admitted to the hospital. I had
barely eaten, I couldn’t sleep through the pain, and I was exhausted. And I hadn’t even started labor
yet! When relief was offered in
the form of an IV drip, I didn’t hesitate to say yes. My epidural came several hours later, and I finally slept
for a few hours before Ethan was born.
I couldn’t feel a thing when he was born. Max’s delivery was a much different experience for me. I didn’t take an IV drip of
anything. I still had an epidural,
but the effects were very different.
My legs didn’t go numb, and I still had feeling everywhere. I could actually still walk, which was
completely impossible when I was in labor with Ethan. I was not too happy at the time about being able to feel
everything, and it definitely made the birthing part more difficult, but any
ill feelings I had about the epidural went away when the nurses placed Max on
my chest. I began to see that it
was a good thing to have felt every
bit of his delivery. I wasn’t in a
drug-induced haze when he was born; every bit of me was conscious and focused
on that baby boy who needed so much attention from me now. I was ready and anxious to give him
every ounce of love and attention that he needed. We kept Max in our room for the remainder of our hospital
stay; neither of us looked forward to when the nurses would take him for
check-ups or bathing. We truly
soaked up every minute of his existence.
Unfortunately, there were far too few minutes in Max’s life to soak
up. That realization hits me like
some supernatural force sometimes.
Sure, I can always take comfort in knowing that I really took advantage
of my time with Max, but what do I do with the knowledge that his life was cut
far too short, that the entire world was robbed of Max McFall?
I know Max’s birthday will be hard for us. April 4th was hard for
me. I felt like life was moving
along so slowly and that we had all of this time to prepare for Max’s first
birthday, and then boom! April 4th
was here, and we only had one month to go. I had to leave work that day. I just couldn’t hold it together. My friends at work banded together and afforded me the
opportunity to go home and “let it all out” in a more appropriate
environment. I know I’ve said it
before, but I am so grateful to be surrounded by such thoughtful, selfless,
caring people every day. I will
miss that next year. For Max’s
birthday, we’re going with an idea that my mom had a long time ago. She listened patiently to my pipe
dreams for Max’s birthday, and then suggested a perfect idea: plant a memorial garden for him. So that’s what we’re doing. It’s not a food garden; it’s just a
memorial garden. I don’t know how
to define it in any other way so that its full meaning will be captured. Essentially, we are landscaping, but
that sounds too boring and everyday for what we have planned. All of our friends and family are
invited, and most are bringing some sort of perennial plant that will go in the
garden. Our hope is that the
plants will bloom every year around Max’s birthday and that we will be able to
look out on his garden and be reminded of Max’s life—of the beauty of it, not
the one ugly part. The blooming of
Max’s garden will represent a lot of things for us: his beauty and perfection, the love that always surrounds
us, the impact of his life on others, and the constancy of his presence in our
lives. I know, maybe it’s a little
to English teacher-ish, but I can’t help it. I really mean all of these things. It’s impossible to explain the power that a simple blooming
flower, a fluttering butterfly, or a perfectly placed Cardinal has on a grieving mother. These things will never again go
unnoticed or unappreciated by me.
So, on Max’s birthday, we envision being surrounded by all of the people
who surrounded us will love and support last year, and who continue to do
so. In a sense, the garden will
represent all of their combined efforts to leave something beautiful in the
wake of such ugliness and horror.
While May 4th is a day that I am dreading in a sense, it is
also a day that holds a lot of hope for me. I have to keep in mind that May 4th was a day of
immense happiness for me. It was
the culmination of months of anticipation and planning. That day held the promise of new life
and new happiness, and even if those promises were broken, I have to be
thankful for ever having had them.
On a (not unimportant) side note, I want to say that while
my posts may not always show it, I am
healing. My friends and family
help with that, Quinn helps with that, even Max’s memory helps with that. Most of all, the people who surround me
every day and who aren’t afraid to say Max’s name help me with that. I cannot tell you how relieving it is
to hear someone else say his name sometimes. I know many people imagine that it hits my heart with a pang
or takes me to a terrible place, but this couldn’t be further from the truth. When I hear Max’s name, it warms my
heart. I see his beautiful face
and remember his smell and his smile and his goofy laugh. If I have to live in a world without
Max, at least I can live in a world full of my memories of him. I am so thankful that the people around
me let the world be a reality and that I don’t have to create it my own
mind!
Max’s death has, of course, left me with a great sadness
that I know will never go away. It
makes it hard to fully enjoy things sometimes, but that doesn’t mean that I
don’t enjoy them or feel happiness every day. I have a feeling that the rest of my life will be a process
in learning how to deal with new situations after having lost a child. I am about to get all English-teachery
again. so bear with me. I take the
same route to get home from Ethan’s school every day: Antioch to 69-South.
Last week, the ramp to 69-South was suddenly and without warning (to me,
at least) closed. This made me a
bit frantic because there are not many options for detours. I could either get on a totally
different highway, or I could go the wrong way on 69. I chose to get on 69-North, take the first exit, and then
get immediately back on to 69-South.
This detour might not be the most effective, it takes extra time, and
it’s full of curves and merging and stoplights, but it gets me to where I need
to be. I felt panicked when I
realized that my exit was closed, and I had to make decisions that I wasn’t
prepared to make. I don’t like
this detour, but it’s necessary.
In the end, it might take a little longer, but it still gets me
home. I know this story seems
pointless, but I promise that it has a point. In many ways, I feel like this story is a metaphor for my
life. I was happily headed one
direction, and then all my plans were nixed with a roadblock. I had to make a lot of tough decisions,
and it was not pleasant. I had to
take a detour that I hated. It was
full of obstacles and ups and downs and just plain unpleasantness. Through all of this, though, I’m still
headed down the road that will lead me home. I don’t quite know what “home” represents
yet—happiness? fulfillment? healing?—but I know that I’m headed
that direction.
March 18, 2012--Just a Mom Without Her Son
Today has been a tough day. It started out that way. It’s been brewing, I guess. I know that I’m bound to have good days and bad ones, but I
guess I still struggle with realizing that this is my reality. I have to wake up every single morning
and remember that my son is dead.
And then I have to figure out a way to face the day. Some days, it’s just easier than
others, and unfortunately today wasn’t one of those days.
I’ve been talking a lot with a mom who lost her daughter to
SIDS almost two months ago. She’s
devastated, obviously. We share so
many of the same thoughts and ideas, and I can’t help but remember what it was
like in those first few months. It
is painful to wake up in the morning.
It is literally painful.
The pain is everywhere, but it starts in your chest. It’s the pang that comes along with the
realization that you’re awake now and that your child is still dead. Grief is painful in so many ways. I never realized how sore it makes you. My muscles and bones ached for months
after Max died. My head never
stopped hurting. My eyes were dry,
the skin around my nose raw.
Sometimes I was sick to my stomach. The physical pain is really the least of it. I could deal with that. It was the pain inside that was so
unmanageable at times. I mean,
there are only so many distractions to be found and undertaken in a single
day. Sometimes I would just
sit. I would sit and stare and
sometimes cry. Sometimes I was too
exhausted to cry. Sometimes I was
too pissed off to cry. Every day
was unpredictable. While I have
managed to get past the all-consuming grief that made it impossible to
accomplish small tasks like going to the grocery store or cleaning a bathroom,
I haven’t gotten past the unpredictability of it all. I suppose I never will.
This new mom is so fresh in her grief. It is heartbreaking. I’ve never met her, but I don’t need to
have met her to know that what she is dealing with is beyond what any parent
should ever go through. She also
has an older child, another little girl.
We share so many similarities, even our hometowns. She has a lot of support from her
family and friends, and I know firsthand how crucial that is. I also know how important it is to have
people around you who can relate.
That’s a nice way of saying that you need other moms who have lost
babies to lean on. I felt my first
glimmer of hope after talking to another mom who has lost not one, but two
children. If she can get through
this, then I can too, I thought.
And it was true. I can get
through this, and I will.
I originally started writing about Max’s death and my feelings
because I had to get it all out somehow.
Writing about it gave me a sense of release that nothing else had given
me. I started sharing my writing
because I hoped that it would help those close to me understand what I was
going through. I also hoped that
it might help other parents. I
know that this mom has read my blog, and she told me that it has helped
her. She appreciates knowing that
another mom has been exactly where she is and has been able to find some peace
and feel some hope. I know that
she is probably reading this, so I want her to know that she will get there
too. It’s hard work, but it has to
be done. I want her to know that
it’s been such a relief to have someone ask me about Max. It’s been so good to be able to say his
name and to share things about him.
I love hearing about her daughter, even though I know how it ends. I like to picture her in those happy
moments, and I hope she knows that those will be the memories that will stand
out in the end. Those are the ones
that really matter. What I really
want her to know is that she has been as helpful to me as I hope I have been to
her.
I mentioned that today has been tough, and then I got
sidetracked. What’s new? I went to breakfast with my family
today. My parents, my sister and
her son, and Scott and Ethan. I
noticed a newborn boy brought in by his parents as we sat down at our
table. I’ve actually been okay
lately with babies. I still don’t
like seeing newborns that belong to strangers, but I don’t burst out in tears
or feel anxiety like I did before.
We ordered and ate our food, and then I just happened to look up as the
mom carried the baby boy out of the bathroom. I remembered doing the same thing with Max last year while I
was out to breakfast with my parents.
This baby had a full head of black hair and beautiful skin, just like
Max. I held my breath a
little. The sight of that baby
stopped me in my tracks, but I held it together. Until he started crying. Of course, as is my life, his family was seated at the table
directly behind us. He cried and
cried. Each sound brought me
closer to bursting, but I was confident that I could keep myself together. Obviously, I wasn’t upset or annoyed
because the baby was crying; it was the familiarity of it all that was
upsetting. It was hurtful. It was just another reminder of what
was missing at the table and what will always be missing in my life. I reached a point where it became
pointless for me to sit in the restaurant any longer. I (not so eloquently) told Scott I needed to go to the car
and got up and left. I was already
sobbing, and I’m sure people thought that my tears were the result of some
domestic disagreement. Scott and I
laughed about that later. Poor
Scott. I am not hard on myself
when I have breakdowns like this.
I know that it’s natural and healthy and that it’s just going to
happen. I’m fine with that. I guess what it really shows is that
I’ll never be immune to the emotional reaction that can accompany the sight of
a newborn baby with black hair or the familiar sound of that baby crying. It doesn’t matter how old I am, how
long Max has been dead, or how hard I try not to cry. I’m always going to be a mom without her son.
March 5, 2012--A New Path
I’ve been thinking about writing this post for a while now,
but the timing never seemed quite right.
It’s not anything potentially offensive or intensely emotional or
anything like that, but it is kind of a big deal for me. This post is essentially about yet
another way in which my life has changed since Max died. Before Max died, I was planning on
going back to work in August and was in the process of finding childcare for
him. I imagined myself dropping
him off in the mornings before I went to work and picking him up right after
school with Ethan. I would head
home with my boys. I would get
them dinner, make dinner for Scott and me, and then immediately start our
evening routine of baths, dishes, homework, diaper changes, and then
bedtime. In my perfect world, I
get to do enjoyable things after the boys are in bed, but in reality I would be
grading or doing lesson planning the majority of the time. And then I would go to bed and get up
and do it all over again. Before
Max died, this life was fine with me.
It was a necessary means to an end. The “end” is the weekend, summers, vacations, retirement,
etc. Since Max died, this life
isn’t okay with me. It’s not
fine. I’m not okay with being a
full-time teacher and a part-time mom.
I’m not okay with spending a few hours maximum with my kids every
day. I’m not okay with giving up
these years of their lives that I can never, ever get back. So, I’m not going back to work next
year. I’m venturing into the world
of stay-at-home-momness and filling my days with class parties, working with my
husband, and being the full-time mom that I need to be.
Before I got pregnant with Quinn, I would imagine myself
getting pregnant. It was one of
the few images I had in the aftermath of Max’s death that brought me happiness
and hope. I would imagine our
lives being filled with the joy of parenthood again, and I would imagine Ethan
beaming with pride again during his first meeting with his new little
sibling. Even these images were
followed with a sort of horror, though.
Would Ethan wonder when or if this sibling would die too? Would Scott and I ever be able to feel
the sense of permanence that should accompany a new life? How would I ever trust another person
to watch our new baby for a night out, let alone for five days a week while we
worked? I don’t have the answers
to many of the troubling questions, and I can’t control them either. I know that. But I can control some of them, and I fully intend on doing
that. Losing a child makes you
realize just how little control you really have in the grand scheme of things,
so controlling the things that you can is more important than ever. In the end, though, it’s not entirely
about control, at least in the sense that most of us think about it. My decision is about taking advantage
of every moment that I have with my children. My decision is about knowing what it feels like to have
those future, imagined moments ripped away and not wanting to give up any of
the ones that I could have as a result.
In a way, I feel like I’ve been given a chance at a life
that could be fulfilling in a totally different way. I love teaching.
There is a lot to love about it.
I work with people whom I respect and truly connect with. I work for administrators who are funny
and make my days enjoyable. I work
with students who are genuine and curious and open-minded. I tell them to give Hamlet a chance, and they do. And they like it. I ask them to
share their opinions with me, and they are articulate and mature and
surprising. Not every day, but
most days. Some of my former
students have become fixtures in my life.
I feel as proud as their parents must feel when they realize their dream
of attending the Boston Conservatory, are selected for prestigious leadership
programs at K-State, or give up all of their Christmas presents to make a
donation to Max’s memorial fund. I
watch them in awe every year as they connect their lives to the material we
study, win prestigious writing awards, and raise tens of thousands of dollars
for local charities. Yes, my job
is fulfilling. It is incredibly
rewarding. These things made it so
hard to give up. The people that I
know because of teaching make it hard to give up. There is one “job” that can exceed this fulfillment and
sense of reward, though:
parenthood. So, that will
be my job for the foreseeable future.
This decision, like so many others I’ve had to make since Max died,
creates a mixture of emotions:
nervousness, excitement, worry, stress, anticipation, and
happiness. It is stressful for
obvious reasons. We are a
two-income family, and I may not make a ton of money, but I make enough to be a
significant contributor to our lifestyle.
In the end though, I would rather stress about money than about whether
I can spend enough time with my children, whether I will miss Quinn’s
milestones, or whether Ethan notices that I’m one of the moms who never shows
up for his parties at school.
One of the many things that Max’s death has taught me is
that you truly never know what will happen. I’m approaching the next phase in our lives with that in
mind. I’m embracing the changes
that are coming, and I’m not expecting anything about it to be easy or as
expected. I could end up having to
go back to work after one year off, but at least I will have had that year with
Quinn and Ethan. I will be working
part-time for Scott in his newly established solo practice, and it could be
that my impact will be even greater than we anticipate it will be. Maybe I’ll work with him for the rest
of our “working” lives. I’m also
venturing into the world of higher education and teaching some college classes
online. Perhaps that will turn
into more than a part-time venture.
Any or none of these things could happen, and I can’t control that. I refuse to try to control that. What I do know is that I’m making the
right decision for myself, for Scott, for Ethan, and for Quinn. And I have Max to thank for giving me
the clarity and the strength to be able to walk away from something that I
truly love in order to enjoy something that I love even more, my family.
February 29, 2012
Scott and I still go to counseling once every other week,
and we probably will for a while.
There was a point when we went every week, and I still went to
individual grief counseling every week as well. When Ethan was still in counseling, this meant that I spent
the majority of my days either in counseling or sitting in a waiting room at
Solace House while Ethan completed a session with his counselor. Eventually, Ethan didn’t need counseling
anymore, and I didn’t have a huge need for individual counseling either. It wasn’t that we were “healed” or
anything like that; it’s that we took the techniques that we learned from our
counselors and figured out how to use them in our daily lives on our own. I guess we were ready to give it a try
on our own. That’s the whole point
of counseling: to teach you how to
cope on your own. For good
reason, Scott and I have continued to go to counseling together. We’re not really trying to “fix”
anything, but we are trying to learn how to grieve together and also how to
heal together. We have always had
a pretty strong relationship. Yes,
we disagree and we argue, but somehow we have both been able to keep the bigger
picture in mind. We aren’t good at
fighting, and we don’t do it often.
We are, however, very good at compromising, so we do that often. I don’t just feel lucky to have a
husband like Scott; I know that I’m lucky. I know that I’m blessed, and sometimes I have felt that I
got way more than I deserve with him.
No matter what has gone on or what issues we’ve had, I have always known
without a doubt that Scott loves me to the core and with everything he
has. I know that he would do
anything for me and that he would never do anything to risk what we have. He listens, he understands, he cares,
and he gives. Scott is the most
selfless person I know. I can’t
say enough good things about him.
That is why we go to counseling.
Because he means too much to me to not do anything and everything in my
power to make sure that we are on this journey together. Because he deserves all of my
efforts. Because he is my partner
in everything, including losing a child.
Because I need to know that he will be okay.
At our last counseling session, Scott told our counselor
about his day with candor. He had
a bad day, he said. She wondered
what made it bad. Was there
something in particular? It turns
out, there was something. A pretty
big something, in my opinion.
Scott has gotten into the habit of “checking on” Ethan since Max
died. He is terrified that Ethan
will die. I am too. For most people, this fear can be
written off as irrational or unfounded, but we aren’t “most people” anymore. Ethan usually wanders into our bed at
some point in the early morning hours, so checking on him has become a little
bit easier, but it’s not done any less frequently. On this particular morning, Scott woke up and looked at
Ethan in our bed. He looked too
still. Scott touched him, and he
was cold to the touch. He picked
up Ethan’s arm, and it flopped back on the bed. Scott was sure that Ethan was dead. He put his hand near Ethan’s mouth and
nose to feel for breathing, but he felt nothing. Panic set in, and Scott picked Ethan up, just as he had
picked up Max on June 10th.
Ethan still didn’t react.
Scott said his name and shook him a little. Still no reaction.
Finally, Scott said, Ethan opened his eyes and looked at Scott. In Scott’s words, Ethan’s facial
expression seemed to say, “WTF, dad?”
That’s the only funny part of the story. On a side note, I do think that we will become quite
accustomed to that look in the years to come. Scott is the one who woke up to find Max unresponsive and
not breathing that morning, and this event echoed all of his findings that
morning. Obviously, the end result
was quite different. I cannot
imagine how Scott must have felt in those moments when he was convinced that
Ethan too was dead. I cannot
imagine how he even got out of bed that morning and went on with his day, but
he did. Of course, the day was a
wash from that moment, but he still did everything that he was supposed
to. He took a shower, got dressed,
got Ethan ready, helped him brush his teeth, and then dropped off his little
boy at school and said goodbye. He
did all of this just a few hours after reliving the worst day of his life and
convincing himself that it was all happening again. I think I forgot to mention how strong Scott is. And if he is the husband I described
earlier, then can you imagine him as a father? He’s amazing.
Truly.
Hearing Scott talk about his morning made me realize how
different our world is now. June
10th marked the beginning of a completely new world to us, one that
is scary at times and one in which your worst fears sometimes become your
reality. It is a world in which
you look at your child and picture him dead. It’s a world in which that thought isn’t even remotely
impossible. In fact, sometimes it
seems more possible than impossible.
One of my friends, a fellow SIDS mom who is also pregnant, posted on
Facebook the other day that she yearned for the innocence of new parents whose
only worry is when they will sleep.
I yearn for that too. I
live in this world where it’s not silly anymore to think that my child could
die. The idea of a plane crashing
into my house isn’t even a laughing matter anymore. When I worry that Ethan’s growing pains are really the early
signs of bone cancer, it’s not as easy to laugh it off and push that thought
out of my mind anymore. I used to
be comforted by the fact that the odds were in our favor. Do you know what the odds are of having
a baby die of SIDS? Now, odds
don’t matter. Anything can
happen. In this new world, no one
is safe. Every stranger, every
co-worker, every friend, and every family member is a potential victim. It gives the saying “It’s your world;
we’re just living in it” a whole new meaning. Usually I try to end on a positive note, but I think I’ve
kind of dug myself too deep of a hole here. I’ll just end by saying that this “new” world is quite
unsettling and scary and sad, but I’m learning to live with it. So is Scott. It’s just a new part of our new life, and that’s okay. We’ll never stop worrying that Ethan
will die. We’ll always worry about
Quinn and any future children that we may have. We’ll worry about our families, our friends, even complete
strangers. We’ll worry about each
other. Unfortunately, we’ll always
know that we could be right for worrying.
This worrying, though, comes from a place of deep loss, but of deep love
too. It comes along with knowing
that what you hold dear might be ripped from your arms tomorrow, so you better
enjoy holding on to it while you still can.
February 12, 2012
Once again, way too much time has passed since my last
post. I don’t have a good excuse,
but I have plenty of excuses. I’m
in that stage of pregnancy when “tired” is how you describe your daily
mood. I’m busy at work, and I’m
all too good at letting that dominate my thoughts and actions. I’m not sure what to write, which isn’t
a new thing, but how I have been responding to it sure is. I get down on myself because I do
exactly what I demand that my students NOT do: give up when I don’t know how to do something. My brain just feels like a big old
circus of ideas lately, but I can’t seem to find the words to express those
ideas. Isn’t it strange how that
happens? I can explain them
perfectly in my head; I know EXACTLY what they are, but I can’t give them
meaning externally. It’s
frustrating. Maybe that’s what
they call “writer’s block?” I NEED
to write something, so I’ll just do what I urge my Writer’s Workshop students
to do when they hit an impasse:
write whatever is in your head, even if it seems pointless. Most of the time, a pattern emerges and
something wonderful happens. Other
times, you spit out a bunch of pointless, meaningless garbage, but at least
it’s out of your head then, right?
We found out that we are having a girl. The sonographer wouldn’t confirm the
gender, but he gradually increased from “60% sure” to “98% sure” that there is
a little girl growing inside of me.
As the mother of two boys, I know that there are telltale signs, and I
know how to spot them. An unborn
child doesn’t know enough tricks to be able to hide a penis and testicles. I remember getting my first sonogram
with Max around 13 or 14 weeks. As
soon as his image came up on the screen, we noticed that he was spread eagle
and therefore revealing his sex to us.
Scott and I both looked at each other with big smiles. We knew he was a boy before the
sonographer said a word. This
time, as soon as the image of our unborn child came up on the screen, we also
noticed the spread eagle position.
What we DIDN’T see is what let us know that we were dealing with
something totally new here. With
girls, you are supposed to see three lines, but they are difficult to see until
later sonograms. With girls,
sonographers are forbidden to confirm the sex until these later sonograms. Although I probably should feel that
the gender of our baby is still a little unknown, I don’t. I have the images to prove it, one of
which clearly shows three lines.
Nicole has confirmed this.
She may not be a doctor, but she is one of the smartest people I know,
so I take what she says as the absolute truth. My mom and Scott were in the room during the sonogram; they
both know that it’s a girl too. If
my next sonogram shows the “twig and berries” that I’m so used to seeing on the
screen, then I will be truly amazed and probably begin to question my
sanity.
We’re having a girl.
I thought we were done after Max, so I envisioned my life as the mother
of two boys. That’s how it was
going to be. Always. Sometimes a lifetime is much shorter
than you expect, though, and then your “always” ceases to exist. Nothing is guaranteed to “always” be
the way it was going to be, the way that you thought it would be or should
be. Our “always” includes a girl
now. It’s strange. I very clearly remember the moment when
I realized that I could end up having a girl instead of the boy that I did have
and should have. It wasn’t long after
Max died. I wasn’t pregnant, but I
wanted to be. I wanted to be
pregnant with a boy. If I’m honest
with myself, I wanted to be pregnant with Max. I desperately wanted another chance. I wanted to do it all again, to change
a few tiny things that would maybe give him a few more days, weeks, or, just
maybe, much longer. Grief isn’t a
mental state that encourages logical thinking. Anyway, I had this image in my mind that I would have
another baby, and of course it would be a boy. What else could it be?
I guess maybe I was desperate to hang onto the thought that my life
still could be what I had begun to imagine it would be before Max died and
everything changed. The thought
never crossed my mind that I could end up having a little girl. Until one day, when the thought did
cross my mind. It wasn’t a good
moment. It was a sad one. A weird one, even. Why hadn’t I thought of that
before? Maybe my brain just
wouldn’t allow me to since it was so contrary to what I wanted. Maybe it did cross my mind and I just
pushed it away until the moment when it came rushing back with such force that
it couldn’t be ignored. Who
knows. I remember feeling a little
bit of horror. I’m ashamed to
admit that I was so turned off by the idea of having a girl, but I’m also proud
at how far I’ve come since that moment.
I realized that I clearly wasn’t ready to have another baby. I mean, who gets pregnant, determined
that they are going to have one sex over the other? Let me revise that question: What kind of logical person gets pregnant determined that
the only happy outcome is to have a baby of a specific sex? Those are some pretty lofty shoes for
an innocent baby to fill. One of
my areas of focus in therapy became preparing myself to have another baby. My goal, our goal, was to reach the
point where we felt ready to have a baby of any sex. After months of working on it, here we are.
Things are obviously going to be different. We realize that. We won’t really understand it until our
little girl is born, but we’re expecting a whole new experience. I never thought I would say this and
mean it, but having a girl is a relief in many ways. If that sounds heartless, please let me explain. Max’s room is full of things. It’s full of HIM. His bedding, his clothes, his car seat,
his blankets, his diaper bag. We
struggled for much of my early pregnancy with what to do with these
things. Do we let a new baby wear
clothes that Max wore? If not,
then can the new baby wear the clothes that Max never got to wear? Do we change the bedding in the crib
that Max was barely old enough to use?
Can the new baby use his blankets?
What about the diaper bag?
Is that Max’s or is that mine?
Can we bear to put a new baby into the car seat that still smells like
Max? Do we dare do any of these
things? These are decisions that
we would have to make, and they would be much harder if we were having a boy
who could actually use all of Max’s old things. Since we’re having a girl, many of these decisions are made
for us. Max’s clothes are clearly
boy clothes. Max’s bedding is
clearly boy bedding. Max’s
blankets are pretty boyish. So, it
is a relief to not have to make these decisions. It is a relief to be able to agree to store all of these
things instead of wonder how we will react if we see our new baby wearing a
piece of clothing that we can only associate with Max. It is a relief to have to buy new
things, although I still hate going to the baby section of any store. I don’t suppose that will change. In so many ways, having a girl gives us
a fresh start and a new experience that we could really use right now. It gives us a chance to really live the
life that we have been given instead of constantly feeling like we are living
the life that we wanted with Max.
I’m not going to lie and say that having a girl makes everything
better. Being pregnant has been
hard for me emotionally. It has
been a mixed bag for me. Pregnancy
has brought anticipation and apprehension, excitement and anxiety, and
hopefulness and a heightened sense of my loss at the same time. It has been a challenge, but then I
look at how far we’ve come as a family, and I can’t help but feel like this
could be our reward. We’ve worked
hard at allowing ourselves to feel sadness as well as happiness. While this baby will probably magnify
both of those things, she is such a welcome addition to our “always.”
January 16, 2012--Nothing Will Ever Be the Same
Nothing will ever be the same. I’ve known this
for a while, but I think it’s just starting to sink in…almost 8 months after the
moment that ensured that nothing would ever be the same. People say this all the time without
really thinking of everything that “nothing” entails. For me, it really does include everything. I make brownies, and I think of
Max. He would be almost 9 months
old. Would I let him try a little
piece of the brownies? Probably
not because I made peanut butter brownies, but that leads me to realize that I
wouldn’t have made peanut butter brownies if Max were alive since it’s
generally thought to be unsafe to give peanuts to young children who could have
a severe allergy to peanuts. That
leads me to realize that my life is totally different in even the smallest of
ways. I made peanut butter
brownies in my real life, but I made regular brownies in my “fake” life, the
life that I sometimes feel that I should
be living. These things happen all
the time. They happen every day,
hundreds and maybe even thousands of times a day. Every time I buckle Ethan into his booster seat, I see the
empty seat next to him. Max’s car
seat should be there. I should be
racing to the other side of the car in the cold weather to get Max into the car
while Ethan gets settled into his seat.
But I’m not. I’m just
buckling Ethan in. When I get home
from school and sit on the couch, I think that I should be getting Max out of
his car seat and probably changing his diaper. I should be putting him into a highchair that (thankfully)
we don’t have and giving him something to snack on. What foods would he like? His personality was already very different than Ethan’s, so
I often think that he wouldn’t like the foods that Ethan liked as a baby. I think that we would have had fun at
the grocery store picking out new foods for Max to try. I think that he would have smiled and
laughed when I showed him some of the strange-looking fruits in the store. Maybe he would have demanded to try
some of them, and then I would have learned something new—how to cut and serve
something new, a dragon fruit, for instance. Maybe I would have liked dragon fruit too. In those ways, my life would be
different.
It
means something a little bit different for nothing to ever be the same
though. It means that shopping for
diapers will never be as mindless as it once was, smiling at a young child
won’t be as natural as it once was, and watching TV shows or movies will never
be as easy and innocently entertaining as it was before. Even TV shows remind me of Max. Last night, we watched one of our
favorites, Sons of Anarchy. If you’ve seen this show, then you
would probably recommend it to us as a pretty effective distraction. How in the world would a show about a
motorcycle gang remind me of my innocent little baby who probably never even
got to hear a motorcycle in his short life? In the episode, a man finds his dad dead. His screams and pleads to his dad to
wake up reminded me of my own upon realizing that Max was dead. I understood entirely what that
character was thinking—I knew that my
son was dead, but there is a part of me that wouldn’t allow it to be possible
yet. We live in a world where
almost anything can be fixed; certainly my baby can be fixed, I naturally
thought. I could hear myself
screaming, but it was the sort of mindless screaming that is more of an impulse
than a planned reaction. I’d only
seen that in movies before, and now I understand that people familiar with
death must have been the ones to first coach actors on how to portray it. In another scene of this episode, the
dead man’s body is cremated. Max
was cremated, so the connection there is pretty obvious. Unfortunately, watching the scene
forced me to consider things that I’ve been able to force out of my mind
before—the heat, what the flames must have done to his perfect body before it
turned to ashes, how the person operating the crematorium must have felt to
watch such a small box be reduced to so few ashes, how horrible it all really
is, and how I can never again watch a scene like this without thinking of
Max. Cooking will never be the
same (what would I be making for Max, what dish would he have requested on his
birthday every year, etc.), reading the news will never be the same (I can
relate to the sadness and tragedy that many articles contain, I can’t be an
uninvolved observer in some cases anymore), getting ready in the morning will
never be the same (I should be waking up earlier, I should be taking breaks to
help Max get ready, I should be leaving earlier to drop him off at daycare),
even getting the mail will never be the same (I would be pushing Max in a
stroller to the mailbox, we wouldn’t be getting mail for Max’s foundation, and
Babies R Us mailers wouldn’t be so hurtful). This is what people mean when they say that their lives have
changed so much that nothing will
ever be the same. It means that
they can longer do anything without thinking in some way of the loved one who
is no longer here. It means that I
can’t function without thinking of Max and that simple things are made more
difficult by reminders of what is missing. Things like walking up a set of stairs are more difficult
because I remember what it was like to hold Max while walking up those
stairs. I remember how careful I
was and how I thought with horror of all of the potential accidents that could
happen on those stairs if I wasn’t very careful while holding him.
We
did something yesterday that seems simple, something that parents do all the
time for children who are still alive and growing—we put away some of Max’s
clothes. Obviously, this is made
difficult by many factors, not the least of which being that Max is dead, so we
won’t be replacing the old clothes with new, bigger ones. We’ve been working on a plan for Max’s
room with our counselor, and we have already decided that most of Max’s things
will go into storage. We aren’t
ready to make any permanent decisions regarding his things, so they will all
stay here with us for now. If we
decided in five years to donate his clothes, then so be it. For now, though, we just cannot stand
the thought of another child, even our own, wearing clothes that belong to
Max. We started in the closet
where there is a dresser full of clothes that Max never got to wear, clothes
that are bigger than he was. It
wasn’t easy to see those clothes.
I remember buying some of them and receiving others as gifts. I remember picturing Max wearing them as
an older baby. Those clothes, in a
way, represent the hopes and dreams that we had for Max, the future that we
thought we could guarantee him.
They represent everything that I still feel was unfairly and unjustly
ripped from him and from us. They
represent the anger that I still have and the confusion and the frustration and
the loss. But I’m glad we started
there because it only got worse.
When we moved to Max’s changing table, I was a little surprised to find
the bottom drawer still full of his clothes. These were the clothes that fit Max and that he still
wore. I don’t even know what to
say about this drawer other than it was hard and emotional and I’m glad it’s
done. I did pull some things aside
to keep more accessible than the others:
a blanket embroidered with Max’s name, a few of my favorite onesies, the
outfit that Max wore home from the hospital (shirt, shoes, hat), and a tiny
little “Peepee Teepee” that we learned to use since Max was a bit unpredictable
during diaper changes. Finally, we
took the bedding off of Max’s crib and put that in a container with the
clothes. In all, we filled up two
containers before we decided to call it a night. We both needed a break, so we took one. We still have a lot to do, but I feel
good that we at least started it.
Cleaning Max’s room and getting it ready for another baby is a task that
has been hanging over my head, waiting to be finished. Starting it at least gets us closer to
finishing than we ever have been before.
Still, it feels as if packing up Max’s room is just one more way to say
goodbye to him and to make him a little less accessible in our lives. It is one more way in which I realize
the impact of Max’s life and death and that, truly, nothing will ever be the
same.
December 27, 2011--Big Announcement...
This post is going to be a bit different than the
others. It’s going to be happier,
probably easier to read, and less reflective than most of them. This difference in tone is because I’ve
been keeping a secret for a long time.
It’s a good secret. One
that I desperately wanted to share, but one that I just couldn’t share for
reasons that are probably both obvious and a little bit less obvious at the
same time. The secret, which is
not such a secret any more, is that I’m pregnant. It’s been hard for me to write posts for the past 11 weeks
because my mind has been pretty focused on the pregnancy and everything that
comes along with having a child after losing another. What you might not know is that I actually keep two
journals—this one (which I do consider a journal, even though it’s very public)
and a private one that is full of things that I don’t share with everyone for
various reasons. My private journal
has been getting a lot of action lately.
I have plans for the private journal. I hope that I can make it public someday because it’s what that journal holds that would really be
of value to other parents struggling with their own losses. I’m not ready to share it with everyone
just yet, but I feel that a time will come when that will feel right.
The pregnancy…I am about 13.5 weeks pregnant right now,
which makes me due in late June.
If this baby is anything like Ethan and Max, though, then I will surpass
my due date and end up being induced in early July. This is what I fully expect to happen. I haven’t fully imagined what it will
be like to have a baby just a few weeks past the one-year “anniversary” of
Max’s death. I haven’t fully
imagined what it will be like to bring a new baby home and use Max’s old room
as his/her nursery. I haven’t even
begun to think about what we will do with all of the things that are in Max’s
room now that we haven’t been able to bring ourselves to even touch. As has always been my nature, I’m just
taking it day-by-day. What is
different now is that I have to really try hard not to freak out
sometimes. As I’ve written before,
I’ve always known that death (my own or a loved one’s) could happen at any
moment. I’ve imagined a thousand
ways in which it could happen.
I’ve even imagined what it might be like afterward. Imagining is, as you can probably
guess, completely different than actually living it though. One of my oldest friends recently wrote
to me about how losing a child happens in books and movies, but not to people
that you really know. And it
certainly never happens to you.
It’s just a thought that we use to remind ourselves that we are lucky
and we are blessed and we are alive. Now that losing a child has ceased to
be something that separates me from others who aren’t as blessed me, I freak
out even more about things.
Forgive any graphic images, but I expected to see blood every time I
used the restroom for the first trimester. Hell, I still do, really. I expected an early sonogram that my doctor thoughtfully
ordered for me to show that I was not, in fact, pregnant, but that the positive
pregnancy tests were a result of some form of cancer growing within my
body. I expect the worst in
everything, but how could I not?
My worst fears came true the day that Max died. I have firsthand knowledge that I am
completely vulnerable. Nothing can
protect me. And the worst thing
that I can imagine can happen. And sometimes it will.
I feel like I’m getting a little off track here, so let me
go back to something happy. I’ll
tell the story of how I found out that I am pregnant. I think it’s a pretty good one. Scott and I decided very soon after Max died that we wanted
another child, maybe even two more.
We decided not to put a lot of pressure on ourselves though; we had a
trip to Mexico for Nicole’s wedding coming up, and we wanted to be able to
enjoy it. It turns out that the
key to getting pregnant is saying “let’s not put pressure on ourselves to rush
it” and booking a trip to an all-inclusive resort in Mexico. Toward the end of October, my grandma
came to visit. The night before, I
had a dream that I was pregnant. I
told my grandma about it when she came over, and she told me that she felt very
strongly that I would be pregnant soon.
I’m not making us out to be undercover psychics or anything, but we
definitely seem to have pretty great intuition. Later that day, we went to Wal-Mart with my mom. As I wandered around the store, I found
myself near the pregnancy tests. I
decided to buy some since I would need them anyway. I didn’t have any signs of pregnancy and really wouldn’t
know for a few more days, but I couldn’t just put the tests in my closet; I had
to take one. Much to my surprise,
it was positive. I happen to be
pretty well versed in pregnancy tests because of some confusing results that I
got when I was pregnant with Ethan (there was supposed to be a plus sign for
positive and a horizontal line for negative; I got a vertical line), so I knew
what it meant. You rarely get a
false positive with any sort of pregnancy test; the degree of inaccuracy is
represented by false negative results.
Still, I had a hard time believing that I could be pregnant. I took many more tests over the next
few days, and gradually I began to believe that I was pregnant. I didn’t really believe it, though,
until I had a sonogram and saw the baby and its heartbeat. What was on the screen was most
certainly not a cancerous tumor!
It’s hard to say where I stand emotionally as a result of
the pregnancy. I am excited, but I
am hesitant to be too excited at the same time. I am nervous, but trying hard to not be too nervous since
it’s not good for the baby.
Sometimes I feel absolutely 100% pregnant, and sometimes I feel like I
can’t possibly be having another baby.
I feel happy that Ethan gets a chance to be a big brother again, but I
feel so sad that Max doesn’t. I do
think that the pregnancy helped me get through Christmas a little bit easier
because I have something to look forward to, but it is also a reminder of how
much hope and happiness I felt last year at this time. Being pregnant definitely reminds me
that I don’t know what the future holds, but that I have to be ready for
anything, good or bad. I can’t
expect that this baby will be healthy or that it will even survive labor and
delivery. One thing that I have
been adamant about since Max died is that even if I knew how it would end, I
would do it all over in a heartbeat.
Even if I knew that he would live for only a little over a month and that
our hearts would be broken and our lives shattered into a million pieces that
can’t be put back together, I would still have him and love him and take care
of him and somehow say goodbye to him.
So, I know that whatever happens with this pregnancy and this child,
I’ll feel the same way; I’ll do it
all over again a million times.
That’s just what a child’s love will do to you.
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