August 29, 2011--The Chair

I. am. having. a. bad. day.  Nothing really happened to make it bad other than that Max died 73 days ago, which I just realized is his number of days on earth inverted.  Hmmmm.  I’ve thought about him for all 73 days since then, and I’ll think about him for many, many more, I’m sure.  Today, I felt impatient, dull, and really, really, really angry.  I’ve been thinking about the idea of karma.  I wonder if a true believer in karma could explain to me what the hell I did.  What in the world could I possibly have done to make this come back around to me?  Sure, I’ve done bad things.  I haven’t always been the person that I wanted to be.  I haven’t always been proud of myself.  But still.  I would say I have been a pretty good person.  Not as good as some, but not nearly as bad others.  Am I having a pity party for myself?  Hell yeah I am.  I do feel sorry for myself.  The truth is, I think I should feel sorry for myself.  I would be sorry for anyone in my situation, and I am so sorry for other parents who have lost children.  I’m just having one of those days when my pity party is a much bigger event than normal.  If it were a real party, it would be the biggest, most extravagant party you’ve ever been to.  You would realize that you didn’t even know what a party really was before attending my pity party.  I want to scream and cuss and run and kick and cry and throw glass vases against sidewalks.  Don’t worry, I’m only really going to do maybe one or two of them.  I don’t feel like Max’s death was a punishment for some real or imagined wrong on my part or anyone else’s.  I don’t think I deserved it or caused it somehow.  It’s not any of those things.  Plain and simple, it’s that I’m just pissed that it happened.  I’m so angry. 

            I had a dream last night.  Please don’t judge me for it.  I don’t judge you for your weird dreams, and I know you have them.  I dreamt that I kidnapped a baby.  I feel that it is important to state that I would never, ever, no matter the circumstances, even if they included absolutely zero chance that I would ever get caught, kidnap another person’s child.  That would essentially be causing someone else the same pain that I’m in, and I wish this on no one.  No matter what you’ve ever done to me or said about me or thought about me, I would never wish this one you.  But in my dream, I was apparently a different person.  I didn’t feel bad for kidnapping this baby.  I felt like I was owed that baby.  I am an English teacher, so of course I overanalyzed the crap out of this dream.  In reality though, I do feel like I’m owed a baby.  I’ve been robbed of all the things that Max was supposed to do, and he has been robbed of those things too.  Ethan’s been robbed, and Scott’s been robbed.  So we’re owed, and I would like to collect.  For the record, I will go about collecting the good old-fashioned way.  I promise I will not kidnap a baby. 

            I just decided that this is going to be a ramble.  I’m entitled to it.  I’m feeling very entitled tonight.  I don’t go into Max’s room very often.  That’s something that I want to work on, but I am giving myself time.  I spent some time in there a few weekends ago with Lori.  We listened to this stupid song that I can’t seem to escape.  I don’t know what it’s called or who sings it, but I know the first line is, “If I die young…”  I don’t even care what comes after that.  That line is all that matters.  We sat around on the floor because Max’s chair is a sacred thing.  I was shocked to open the drawer to his changing table and find all of his clothes still there.  I had no idea.  I don’t know where most of his stuff is, but I know it’s here somewhere.  My sister packed it all up the day that he died.  I love her for that.  And I really love her for leaving his clothes in the drawer, whether she did it on purpose or as a sheer oversight.  I can’t describe that moment.  It was awful and wonderful.  It was so incredibly painful and so incredibly touching.  I loved it and hated it.  I remember buying every single item that was in that drawer.  Max was even with me when I bought some of them.  He sat in his car seat in the cart, and I talked to him the whole time.  He slept, but I didn’t care.  I imagined that me talking to him helped him stay calm and sleep well.  Other shoppers checked out the contents of my cart, including Max.  Some complimented him, some smiled, and some just stared.  It’s sad for me to think that other people can’t see him like that now.  What a difference a day makes.

            Like I said, Max’s chair is kind of sacred.  I usually head straight to it when I venture into his room.  It’s brown and soft and perfect.  Aaron took a video of me holding Max while sitting in it.  It was taken the day we brought him home from the hospital.  Aaron titled it, “Woman in War-Torn Country Begging for Potatoes.”  It’s a happy video.  I am beaming and playing the part of…you guessed it, a woman in a war-torn country begging for potatoes.  I don’t know why.  Aaron and I make quite an odd team.  Max sleeps silently and peacefully in my arms, a little too silently and peacefully for me now.  It sits at the very top of my email inbox.  It’s the first thing I see when I open my email at work.  Every time I watch it, I am engrossed by Max.  I don’t even look at myself.  I stare at Max, willing him to move or make a sound.  He doesn’t.  He just sleeps.  We have other videos, but for some reason that one really gets me.

            The chair is also sacred for me because it holds some of the tenderest memories that Scott has of Max.  Scott loved that chair.  He would rock Max in it, sometimes for hours after Max was already asleep, just to spend more time holding him.  That’s the kind of father Scott is.  It’s a beautiful thing to see.  I remember standing in the doorway on many occasions and just taking in that image.  I’m glad I did that now.  Scott would always smile at me, even if Max was crying or fussy.  He truly understood what a miracle he was holding.  I know that Scott goes into Max’s room more than I do.  I’ve put one of Max’s blankets in a Ziploc baggie to preserve the smell, and there are other things that hold his scent in that room as well.  His car seat, the sleeper that he wore when he took his last breath, and his Boppies.   I wish they made Ziploc baggies big enough to hold those things too.  One day, I went into Max’s room and made my way toward his chair.  A handful of coins were scattered on the cushion.  That image stopped me in my tracks.  It was heartbreaking and heartwarming to see that Scott had left a little reminder of his most recent visit.  The coins must have fallen from his pocket.  It reminded me of Hansel and Gretel, except that this time it was a devastated daddy leaving a trail for his dead baby.  I didn’t even bother moving them.  I sat down and let the coins tumble where they may.

            I spent some time in Max’s room after my friend’s baby’s funeral on Saturday.  The service was absolutely beautiful.  We were surrounded by love and compassion.  One of my students was there.  Strange.  He is my friend’s cousin.  I struck up a conversation with his mom, and she eventually got around to asking how I knew my friend, the mother of the dead baby girl.  I told her about Max and about the little support group that us mothers have formed.  I was shocked to learn that her sister’s daughter had given a baby up for adoption to a couple who lost a son to SIDS also.  Even weirder, she was AT the funeral.  We talked for a long time.  I can’t believe how small the world truly is sometimes.  Anyway, when I returned home I headed straight for Max’s room.  Scott joined me.  We’ve rarely been in there together.  We hugged in Max’s room, like we did many days and nights while he was still alive.  This time, we weren’t hugging because we felt so lucky or blessed, but the overflowing love for our precious baby boy was still there, stronger than ever.    

            

August 26, 2011--Collector of Sad Stories

My friend Eva said to me the other day, “People just want to share their sad stories with you.”  She was referring to one of the things that happens after you lose a child.  Eva had a stillborn son, Lincoln, last year.  This came after years of fertility treatments.  Lincoln was their miracle baby, so his death seems like an even worse robbery than mine.  They never got to see Lincoln alive, never felt his heart beating through his chest, saw his eyes blink and recognize their faces, or felt the warmth of his breath against their skin.  It’s true, what she said.  People do want to share their sad stories with you.  I understand it.  It’s their way of trying to relate.  A sort of attempt at saying, “I know a little of what you’re going through.”  I appreciate it, and most of the time I don’t mind.  Eva doesn’t either.  She followed her comment with a smile and said softly, “But it’s okay.  I kind of like it.”  Hearing other people’s sad stories is what she meant by “it.”  I’ll never forget the image of her saying that to me.  It was like an epiphany in a way.  It hadn’t occurred to me that I had become a collector of sad stories about other tragic, untimely losses.  I had already added to others’ collections too.  Of course my friends and family knew about Max, but I had also shared his story with several strangers.  They have since become my friends, but at the time I was just another mom sharing her sadness with them.  “They” are other moms who have lost babies.  They’ve lost them to SIDS, stillbirth, cord incidents, Potter’s Syndrome, Trisomy 18, and every other horrible condition, disease, or incident you can think of that should never ever happen.  I know that we are lucky to have each other, but our relationships are also a reminder of all the horrible things that happened to us and the heavy sadness that we all carry around.

            Just since the school year started, I’ve discovered two students whose families experienced the same loss as we did this summer.  One lost her baby sister, and one lost her niece.  Both were born very premature and died shortly after birth.  I’ll never understand how these students came into my life now of all school years.  For a week or so after Max’s death, I really felt like we were the only people who had lost a baby.  I mean, I knew that we weren’t, of course.  But I felt like it.  I thought for sure that other people who had lost babies lived far, far away in exotic places.  They led completely different lives than we did.  We would never meet them.  We’d never know their baby’s names or share Max’s story with them.  I might read about them in a book or online, but I never thought they would end up in my classroom, in my home, or as fixtures in my everyday life.  It astonishes me that all of these things happened.  I thought we would travel this road alone.  How stupid of me to think those things!  These women are some of my best friends now.  We email, text, and talk almost daily.  We know exactly what to say when one of us has a bad day.  We know exactly what it’s like to be on the verge of tears twenty-four hours a day.   We know our sad stories, and just like Eva said, we kind of like knowing them.   It reminds us that we aren’t alone.  There is someone else out there who is also living a “should-be” life and missing the hell out of their baby. 

            Shortly after school started, I learned about a friend of a friend whose wife gave birth to a stillborn girl.  Out of respect for their privacy, I won’t reveal our connection, but it in itself amazes me.  Not in a good way.  My friend asked if I felt like I was in a place where I could offer support to this couple.  Of course I do, and I would never ever want someone else to go through the loss of a child without others who know what it’s like.  I sent him an email, and I was surprised to hear back from him only a few hours later.  He and his wife were both adamant about surrounding themselves with people who had experienced the same loss.  I don’t know how people can make such sound decisions in such times of chaos and incredible pain.  I tried to remember what it was like in the first few days after Max died.  I wanted to be able to say or do something to help this couple out.  When I think back on it though, it’s really a blur.  I remember shaking my head a lot, crying nonstop, and wishing I could just go to sleep and wake up living a different life.  No one could have said anything to “make it better.”  So, I did the only thing I could think of.  I emailed him a list of things to keep in mind and consider doing to create memories for a child that will never have any herself.  Most of these things I only learned about long after Max’s death, so I don’t have them myself.  I only learned them from other moms who had been forward thinking enough to consider the future.  I admire that about them.  I haven’t heard back from this couple, but I continue to think of them daily.  I hope that I will hear from them because I have quite a few people who want to meet them and hear all about their little girl.

            I also have a friend who lost a baby on Monday.  Her loss was what is called “expected,” a term which really only tricks you into thinking that you can prepare for it.  She found out late in her pregnancy that her daughter had Potter’s Syndrome.  She told me to spare myself and not Google it.  I followed her advice, and I hope that you all will too.  From what I understand, Potter’s babies can suffer from a variety of developmental problems in utero, but it is 100% fatal.  They either die in the womb, during childbirth, or shortly after.  My friend originally wanted to spare her daughter the trauma of childbirth, and preferred that she pass before it.  As her body began preparing for childbirth though, she changed her mind.  She and her husband wanted to meet their baby.  They wanted to hold her and look into her eyes before she was taken from them.  I was so glad to hear that.  I only have my experience to go on, but I feel so thankful for the moments that I had with Max.  I wouldn’t have it any other way.  My friend was scheduled for an induction on Monday, which we all knew would also be the day that her baby died.  I thought about my friend and her family all week.  I hoped and prayed that they actually got to meet their precious baby.  I got the most beautiful email from her today.  Their baby lived for 2 hours, far longer than what is expected for a baby born with Potter’s.  She said that she has to believe that all of the thoughts and prayers of friends, family, and strangers made that extra time possible.  Even though her story is incredibly sad (two hours should never equal a lifetime), there is happiness, love, and hope in it as well.  You might ask, “Where?!?!”  I ask myself that too, but when it comes down to it, they got to experience the most unique and unforgettable parts of being a parent:  looking at what you helped create, seeing the life that you are completely responsible for bringing into the world, and feeling the overwhelming and explosive love that we have for our children.  My friend’s heart grew that extra chamber that I call the “Max Chamber,” and she filled it with as much as it would hold.  I am so happy that she and her family got to meet their baby, but I am also sad for them that they only got a short meeting.  It is so strange to have experiences that are full of complete sadness and happiness at the same time.  It seems unnatural and impossible.  I’ll be going to a memorial service for my friend’s daughter on Saturday.  It will be the first of its kind since Max’s, but it probably won’t be the last.  I guess that just comes with the territory now that I’m a collector of sad stories.  

August 15, 2011

I’ve been back at work for almost a week, but the real challenge comes tomorrow when my students show up.  I have been thinking about this day and planning for it for weeks, but I feel wholly unprepared.  I don’t have copies made, I can’t keep my new schedule straight, and I am absolutely dreading the here’s-a-little-bit-about-me part.  I debated about whether to tell my students about Max, and when I decided that I needed to, then I contemplated how to tell them.  Do I tell them that I have two sons, but only one that lives here with us?  Do I tell them that one only lives in my heart?  To be honest, I don’t know where Max is other than in my heart and always on my mind, so I can’t tell them with conviction that he is in heaven.  I hate that I don’t feel 100% confident in that, but there is nothing like the death of your child to make you question every thing that you ever believed in.  Ultimately, Nicole and my counselor helped me to come to what I feel is the right approach:  honesty.  I have really mixed feelings about telling my students still.  I know that I have to and that it’s the right thing, but I hate that I have to ruin some of their days with such shocking, unnatural news.  I do feel blessed in a way that I taught mostly seniors last year so that I don’t have to see the faces every day that remind me of my happy pregnancy and the joy that they shared with me throughout the whole thing.  My students all felt like they knew Max, and that a little bit of him belonged to them.  They took guesses on whether he was a boy or a girl, they suggested names and smiled broadly at the suggestion that maybe I was pregnant with twins.  They bought Max gifts, made him cards, and threw a party for him on my last day of school.  They prodded my long-term substitute for information, pictures, and updates while I was gone.  They were a huge part of my pregnancy; I spent most of my awake time with them.  So, it would be very hard to see them walking the halls and either giving me sad, knowing smiles or naïve, unknowing ones.  In a way, it’s good that most of my students this year don’t know.  I have a fresh start with most of them.  In other ways, it’s bad.  I worry that they won’t understand how much I loved Max and how much I miss him.  I worry that they won’t be as forgiving as my old students when I have really tough days.  I’m just worried about a lot of things.  Nothing new, I guess.

            This weekend, Ethan turned six.  This weekend, our cat, Bonnie, also died.  I can’t say that it was a horrible weekend because of Ethan’s birthday, but I will say that it was hard.  We’ve had Bonnie for almost 8 years.  She disappeared for almost an entire year when we first moved to Kansas City, and then she magically reappeared and settled right back in.  Bonnie was a cat that Scott didn’t want at first, but she was also the cat that convinced Scott that cats were every bit as loving, fun, and rewarding to own as dogs.  He loved that cat, and the feeling was mutual.  Bonnie slept with Ethan nearly every night.  On nights when she didn’t, she slept with us.  She was the only cat that we gave that privilege to.  Bonnie was the cat that everyone loved; she was secretly and not so secretly everyone’s favorite.  I mentioned last week that we had gotten a dog.  His name was Benjie, and we were starting out just fostering him.  We hoped that he would become our pet, but we had a lot of things to work on with him.  On Friday night/Saturday morning, I walked into our bedroom to find Benjie mauling Bonnie.  I’ll spare everyone the details, but I will say that it was horrific, violent, and unforgettable in all the wrong ways.  Bonnie must have been hiding somewhere in our room because we never let Benjie loose in a room unless it was cat-free.  Scott was in the shower the whole time.  I’m sure that will haunt him for a long time.  We are so lucky that our friends Ellen and Paul were here.  They cleaned our bedroom, the dog, and me.  Thanks to Ellen, the dog was taken away immediately.  We buried Bonnie beside our house, and I think I’ll plant some zinnias to mark her spot.  She loved flowers—not looking at them, but eating them.  It always bothered me, but that didn’t stop her.  I think she would approve of the flowers.  And zinnias are my favorite.

            I do want people to know that we had Benjie cat tested before we allowed him in our home.  Supposedly he barked but displayed no aggressive behaviors toward the cat.  After what I saw on Friday night, I’m going to call BS on that.  I’ve never seen a dog act so viciously.  I’ve seen dogs bite people and fight with each other, but I have never seen such ferocity.  I had to use a lot of force to get him to even let go of Bonnie.  It mostly just makes me angry, and it makes me feel so sorry for Bonnie.  The next morning we got to wake Ethan up to tell him happy birthday.  We also had to tell him that his dog and cat were gone.  We’ve lost a child, a little brother, a dog, and a cat so far this summer.  I hope we don’t add anyone else to that list because I’m not sure that I’m strong enough for that.

            So, maybe tomorrow will be worse because of this weekend.  Maybe it won’t be as bad as I think.  I know that telling 170 teenagers about the death of my son will be hard, especially since I have to do it five times in one day.  I know that I’ll be exhausted tomorrow night, and I know that I will feel like a zombie at some points.  I’m just so sick of death and everything that comes along with it.  I’m sick of what life is like after someone dies.  It feels like a big waiting game.  I have no idea what I’m waiting for though.  Peace?  Another death?  Happiness?  I wish I knew.  Sorry this has turned into such a negative post.  It is very indicative of how I’m feeling now though, so I guess I’m really not sorry.  I’ll relax for a few hours tonight, and I’ll get through tomorrow as best as I can.  Maybe I’ll be in a better mood tomorrow night and I’ll post about something happy, like our last few trips to the fire station or some of the funny things that Ethan has been telling me about kindergarten.  You just never know what you’re going to get with me these days.

August 11, 2011--Pieces of Max

            I returned to work yesterday.  Oh boy.  It wasn’t as hard as I thought it would be, but in a lot of ways it was hard.  I had a few breakdowns, but I think I did pretty well over all.  My coworkers handled me well too.  I dreaded walking in to the annual “Welcome Back” breakfast, but my coworkers were sitting right there waiting to welcome me.  Nicole even came to the front door to meet me and give me a big hug.  I needed that.  I think it gave me the courage and reassurance that I needed to walk into a room full of over a hundred people who may or may not have known that my baby boy died this summer.  I made it through our morning meetings with the help of my friends.  Nicole and Pam insisted that we go down to Nicole’s room after breakfast, and I don’t tell those women no under any circumstances.  Nicole had brought two blue balloons for me.  See, yesterday was also the two month “anniversary” of Max’s death.  Talk about bad timing for my first day of work.  We let off one blue balloon on July 10^th, so we let off two blue balloons yesterday.  Pam also gave me a new charm to add to my growing “Max” necklace.  It was a little blue baby shoe with Max’s name engraved on the bottom.  I absolutely loved both gifts.  I also got a pretty little box full of goodies from another friend.  One of the goodies is a patterned notepad, and she had attached a note that said, “For your lists…”  It might sound silly, but I don’t know how the day would have gone if Laura, Nicole, and Pam hadn’t started it by giving me some incredibly thoughtful, meaningful gifts.  There was kindness, reassurance, and love in all of those gifts.  They gave me confidence and made me believe that I could get through the day.  They let me know that I’m not alone or forgotten; I have wonderful friends who also won’t let Max be forgotten.  I love them for that.

            I did have a little meltdown a little bit later, but it was good in a way.  We have a few new teachers in our department this year, and one of them pulled me aside after our department meeting.  She explained to me that she knew all about Max and that she has been reading this website.  She told me how sorry she was and how helpful the website had been to her in trying to understand what I’m going through.  She was so genuine and articulate.  I really admire people like her, and I am in awe of the courage that she mustered up to approach a complete stranger and pour her heart out in such an eloquent way.  I also appreciate her helping me avoid an awkward moment.  I wasn’t sure if she knew about Max or not, and I wasn’t sure how or if to approach it.  She also happens to be pregnant, so I might have just avoided telling her all together.  I remember how troubled I was when I heard about my new friend, Brie, having a stillborn little girl when I was pregnant, so I really might have just tried to spare her from that.  In the end, I’m glad that she knows.  And I’m so thankful that she talked to me about it, even if it made me cry.  They were good tears.  What I mean is that they were the kind of tears that feel good to get out, the kind that make you feel a sense of relief when they come.

            By the time I finally made it up to my room, I had survived almost three hours at work.  But to be fair, I was sobbing when I got to my door.  It was right after my new conversation with my new, pregnant coworker, and I just couldn’t stop the tears.   My long-term sub from last year was actually in my room getting books organized and cleaning up a little.  She sent me an email earlier in the week asking if she could come help me.  I don’t know how it does, but it still amazes me that people can be so selfless and thoughtful.  I chatted with her for a bit, and then I sat down at my desk.  One of my friends, Donna, had gone into my room earlier in the week and left me a card and a huge bag full of red Starburst candies.  Whenever I walk by her desk, I steal a red Starburst from her candy bowl, so she and another coworker, Linda, had spent days opening new packages of Starburst and picking out all of the red ones.  I was amazed and touched.  Do you see how incredible my friends are?  The card was absolutely perfect.  It talked about all of the positive things that I’m doing and planning on doing in Max’s memory.  It was nice to hear someone affirm to me that I’m doing good things in the wake of such a horrible event in my life.

            After I popped a few red Starbursts, I started looking through my drawers.  Man, I was not ready for what was inside.  List after list of things to do to get Max insured, paperwork to turn in for maternity leave, classes to enroll in at the hospital, things I had ordered from Babies R Us.  

The List of Things Found in My Desk Pertaining to Max:

1.  Notes about maternity leave

2.  Lesson plans for my sub during maternity leave

3.  List of steps to complete to add Max to our health insurance

4.  A website for help in finding a daycare provider for Max

5.  My FMLA paperwork

6.  Receipt for an online order from Babies R Us

7.  An unopened picture frame with “BABY” at the top of it—a gift from a co-worker

8.  The decaf coffee that I drank while I was pregnant

9.  A gigantic card from some of my students

It’s funny that my blog post from the night before had been a bunch of lists.  I’ll take that as a little sign from Max.  It was hard seeing these things.  Really, really, really hard.  It made me want that life again.  The life that I still think that I should be living.  It made me want that naïveté back.  I guess I just want that life that doesn’t involve the death of my child.  It made me remember how happy I was, and how excited I was to be completing my family with our second little boy.  It made me remember how proud I was that Scott and I had chosen the most perfect name for our little boy.  I’ll probably never feel exactly that way again because even if I have something promising to look forward to, I’ll always know exactly how easily things can go wrong.  I hate the thought of never being able to enjoy unconditional happiness again.  I really hate that Max isn’t here making me feel unconditional happiness and love.  I really, really hate it.

During one of my stops in the office, I saw a student.  I’ve never had her in class, but I know her.  She is so sweet.  She is thoughtful, polite, soft-spoken.  She is just plain nice.  Oddly enough, I had just had a conversation with another person about how sweet this girl is.  She smiled and said hi, and then she asked me the question that I’ve been dreading for exactly two months:  “How’s your baby?”  She said it with a huge smile on her face, surely expecting me to smile in return and say, “He’s doing great!” and maybe even show her some pictures.  Instead, I had to walk over to her and explain that Max died in June.  I felt horrible that I had to be the one to tell her.  I hate that I made such a happy, nice, innocent girl feel so terrible.  Sure, it was awful for me, but think about how horrible it must have felt to be her in that moment.  I’m really hoping that doesn’t happen very often.  I know that it will happen, but I hope that won’t be a regular thing.

I went back up to my room that was full of reminders.  I sat down and tried to do some more work, but my heart wasn’t in it.  Neither was my brain.  Still, I pressed on.  I pulled another stack of papers out of a drawer and started organizing them.  On one of the sheets of paper, I found three quotes that I had typed up last year at the beginning of my pregnancy.  They were from The Book Thief, a book that I absolutely admire and love.  It’s also incredibly sad and heart-wrenching.  And it involves death.  Lots of it.  It is actually told from the point of view of Death.  In the book, Death actually has feelings.  He hates his job sometimes, especially when he has to take children.  I copied maybe twenty quotes from the book in different fonts, and I used them for an activity in Writer’s Workshop, a class that I teach on creative writing.  For whatever reason, I hadn’t used the three quotes that I found yesterday.  Instead, I had folded that piece of paper and placed it in my desk drawer for me to find months later, after ten months of pregnancy, the birth of a beautiful baby boy, and then his death.  When I found them yesterday, I decided to call it a day.

The Quotes I Found in My Desk:

1.  “Don’t punish yourself,” she heard her say again, but there would be punishment and pain, and there would be happiness, too.  That was writing.

2.  Where was Max’s comfort?  Where was someone to alleviate this robbery of his life?  Who was there to soothe him as life’s rug was snatched out from under his sleeping feet?

No one.

There was only me.

3.  I wanted to explain that I am constantly overestimating and underestimating the human race—that rarely do I ever simply estimate it.  I wanted to ask her how the same thing could be so ugly and so glorious, and its words and stories so damning and brilliant.

            The second quote actually contained a _______ where I’ve placed Max’s name, but I decided to fill in his name.  I think my reasons are obvious.

            On a side note (it wouldn’t be a typical post without a side note, right???), I am not at all in the habit of starting books and not finishing them.  I can probably count on one hand the number of times I’ve done that.  This habit has led me to completing some pretty awful books, but I just can’t stand the idea of not finishing something.  There is one book that I started reading this summer that I won’t be completing, though.  It’s the book I was reading when Max died.  It’s called A Lesson Before Dying.  Not interested.

August 9, 2011--The "Nice" One...Lists!

I wrote a post earlier, but my magical touch with technology came into play.  Not only did I manage to not post what I had written, but I also managed to delete nearly everything from the home page of my website.  It’s not the first time it’s happened, so I’ve been backing everything up like crazy.  Still, it was frustrating and time consuming to fix.  I decided to take my new dog for a walk with the family instead of working on it.  When I came back, I fixed it, but I didn’t really like what I had written.  I wrote it in a hurry, and I was really searching for words instead of just letting them come to me naturally.  I decided to scrap what I had and start from scratch.  I had a few ideas—write about my most recent trip to the fire station (I only went once this time), maybe share the events of my day (aforementioned dog was obtained today).  In the end, I went back to an old favorite:  lists.  I have always loved making lists.  I usually keep them in my purse and then throw them out months or years later.  I rarely use them, and most of them would make no sense to anyone other than myself.  I make lists of things to buy at the store, books to check out at the library, events in chronological order (I have a bad memory), conversation topics to bring up during phone conversations, and decoration ideas.  I love lists.  There’s just something cleansing about getting what’s in your head out on to paper.  Interesting then that I’ve started this blog since that is exactly what I’m doing now—transferring from my head to the screen.  The interwebs, if you will.  Without further adieu, my lists…

Things I See Daily That Remind Me of Max:

1.  Blue Valley Recreation Center—the week that Max died, he and I took Ethan to an Outdoor Explorers class every day.  My mom took him the day that Max died.  I don’t think I’ll ever step foot in that building again.  It represents the immediate “before” and the sudden change to “after.”  We also took Ethan to Open Gym there.  Every one gushed over how beautiful Max was and asked me a million questions about him.  I wouldn’t be able to stand it if anyone recognized me and asked about Max.

2.  Max’s bedroom door—it stays closed, but I see if every day.  It’s still exactly as Max left it.  Scott threw away Max’s Diaper Genie a few weeks ago.  That was hard for him.  It was full of dirty diapers, and there was a wet diaper in the trash can that he carried gently down the stairs and into the garage.  He cradled it as if Max were still in it.  How heartbreaking.  I really admire him for doing that.  We aren’t putting pressure on ourselves to change anything just yet.  I know moms who have moved hanging clothes belonging to their dead babies to guest bedrooms when a new baby arrived.  I have a feeling I’ll be following in their footsteps.  I also decided that I don’t want to paint the walls.  Ever.  Max peed on the wall beside his changing table at least ten times.  The funny thing is that I never got mad or frustrated or annoyed when he did it.  I laughed and cleaned it every time.  I’m glad for that now.

3.  The Back Seat of My Car—the dents from Max’s car seat are still visible in my back seat.  In a way, I hope they’ll always be there.

4.  Max’s Strollers—these are in the garage next to my car.  One of them is a jogging stroller that I never even got to use with Max.  He needed to be 6 months old or able to sit up on his own in order to safely ride in it.  I feel like an idiot for buying it now, but how was I supposed to know that he wouldn’t live that long?

5.  Scott’s Hair—it’s thick, soft, and black, just like Max’s.  It’s one of my favorite things about Scott, and it was one of my favorite things about Max.  When I touch it, I can still imagine touching Max’s hair sometimes.  I hope Scott never goes bald.  J

6.  My Reflection in the Mirror—everything about me reminds me of Max.  My body-the visible signs that I carried Max inside me for 10 months; my face-he had my eyes, nose, mouth, EVERYTHING; the sad look in my eyes-it’s me missing Max; even when I smile-that’s how Max saw me most of the time.

7.  Music—okay, so I don’t technically see music, but this is my list, so I make the rules.  There was something about music that calmed Max down.  Not lullabies, real music.  Specifically, rock music.  There were many days and nights when you could find Scott rocking Max with his iPhone playing classic rock or me holding him in our bathroom singing songs from the new Foo Fighters album to him.  We took our little iHome with us wherever we went and played what our little man desired.  He would stare up at us, wide-eyed and curious.  Sometimes he would fall asleep.  The night of the Foo Fighters concert was going to be Max’s first overnight stay with grandma and papa.  I imagined how worried we would be to leave him for the first time.  It would have been hard, but it would have made coming home to Max that much more rewarding.  I think that night will be hard for different reasons now.

Another list…

My Nicknames for Max:

1.  Maxi-poo

2.  Maxi

3.  Maxi-Max

4.  Max Man

5.  My Little Man

6.  Baby Max

And another…

Things NOT to Say to Me (or Scott):

1.  He’s in a better place—There is no “better” place for a baby to be than with his loving, nurturing, protective parents and big brother.

2.  At least he was only 5 weeks old—A parent’s love isn’t measured by how long her children live.  Do parents begin with no love and then build more as their children get older?  Do you love your 18-year-old more than you love your 12-year-old?  

3.  At least it wasn’t Ethan—It shouldn’t have been either of my children.  Or anyone else’s.

4.  Things happen for a reason—Even if they do, I’m having a hard time finding a “reason” for Max’s death right now.  Keep this one to yourself for now.

I’m sure there are many more offensive and insensitive things that have been said to parents who have lost children, but I’ve been lucky.  I have been comforted, supported and uplifted by the words of friends, family, and strangers.  I’m lucky to count my coworkers among my closest friends, especially since I return to work tomorrow.  I’m feeling anxious and apprehensive, but I also feel ready.  I wouldn’t say that I’m excited, but I’m ready.  That’s pretty darn good for me right now.

August 9, 2011--Back to Work...

I am returning to work tomorrow.  Students don’t come back until next Tuesday, but teachers report tomorrow.  The first few days are always spent in meetings and in-services, so there is usually nothing to be worried about.  This year, I’m pretty anxious about going back to school.  I think I have pretty good reasons.  I am still having an impossible time focusing and concentrating, I’m teaching a new grade level that I have absolutely no experience with, and I’m obviously still riding an emotional roller coaster.  I never know how I’ll react to anything, which is not a good trait for a teacher to have.  The only “known” about this school year is that it will be incredibly difficult for me.  I was part of a huge baby boom among my co-workers, so I know there will be pictures, milestones, funny stories, and visits galore.  I also know that I won’t be sharing any of Max’s with my co-workers.  I do, however, have a great support system at work.  I work with my best friend in the world and several other very close friends.  These people have been at my house every day over the summer, taken me to lunch and dinner, and brought me incredibly thoughtful trinkets and mementos.  I always knew that our staff was special, but the love and support that my family has received after Max’s death really gives me indisputable evidence of that.  Still, my co-workers are human.  I know that some of them will hear the news of Max’s death tomorrow morning for the first time, and I might get a few of their raw reactions.  I also know that many of them will have no idea how to treat me.  I get that.  I anticipate a lot of eyes staring my way during the all-faculty meeting in the afternoon.  Some of them will look away when I make eye contact, some will make funny faces to make me laugh, and some of them will give me that half smile that says, “I’m so sorry.”  All of these reactions are normal.  I just don’t know how I’ll react to them.  That’s what scares me and makes me anxious.

            I do have a few suggestions for my co-workers, though.  There really isn’t such a thing as etiquette in a situation like mine; there are no rules whatsoever.  There are, however, tactful and meaningful ways of approaching me.  There are also classless, insensitive ways of doing it.  I don’t expect many of the latter, if any.  Like I said, my co-workers are pretty darn awesome.  If you aren’t sure, though, here are some ideas:

            1.  Don’t ask me how my summer was, unless you are ready for the truth.  Teachers ask this questions 8,000 times on their first day back at work.  I feel really badly for the person who lets this one slip with me not because of how it will make me feel, but because of how it will make him/her feel.  I promise that I won’t hold it against you, but I also promise that you’ll probably never forgive yourself for asking it.  I know it’s only natural.

            2.  Don’t avoid me.  If you would normally talk to me, then talk to me.  My son died, yes, but my personality didn’t.  I can still joke around, keep up with most small talk, and answer basic inquiries. 

            3.  Please don’t avoid saying Max’s name.  Like I said before, I will never hear a more perfect name than Max McFall.  Most of the time, I’m okay talking about him too.  I realize that you think there might not be a way to work his name into a conversation, but it’s okay if you tell me that you are so sorry that Max is gone.  Or that Max was a beautiful baby, or that Max sounded like a really special part of my life.  I would never, ever cringe at hearing those things.  I’ll actually probably smile.  And if I cry, don’t worry about it.  I’m not ashamed of my love for him and how sad it makes me feel to not have him here any more, so you shouldn’t be either.

            4.  Allow me to talk about Max.  I know that you might involuntarily tense up when I mention his name, but take the cue from me.  If I bring him up, then it’s definitely okay.  The best thing that Nicole does is to keep asking me questions when I bring up a memory.  When I told her the nicknames that I had for him, she kept asking me what else I called him, what else I remembered, etc.  I love her for that. 

            5.  Share your memories of Max with me (if you were privileged enough to meet him anyway).  It’s funny how parents forget little things.  One of my best friends, Casey, spoke at Max’s funeral.  She recalled being at my house during Max’s first bath and how I had looked into his eyes and said, “He is beautiful.  He is seriously beautiful.”  I hadn’t remembered saying that, but it’s a memory that I’ll treasure forever thanks to her.  My friend Drew also told me that he thought that Max looked like a little British rock star.  The fifth Beatle maybe.  He also told me how lucky he felt to have met Max and seen how special he was.  I can’t tell you how much I love hearing things like that.

            6.  Avoid saying offensive things.  These include:  at least he wasn’t older, at least it wasn’t Ethan, he’s in a better place, etc.  Does a parent’s love start as nothing and get stronger only as a child gets older?  Do you love your 18-year-old more than your 13-year-old?  I think not.  And losing a child isn’t easier when the child is younger.  I’m obviously glad that Ethan is alive and well, but Max should be too.  And there is no “better place” for a baby to be than with his loving, nurturing, protective parents and big brother.  You might be surprised; you might not, but we’ve heard all of these things.

            I’ll finish by saying that I really do understand that people don’t exactly know what to do when they see me.  I wouldn’t either.  I gave one of my friends that same half-smile full of pity when she came back to work after suffering her own tragic loss.  I feel horrible for that now.  The least I could have done was to suck up my pride and tell her how genuinely sorry I was and how much my heart was breaking for her.  No one has the perfect words or the perfect actions because they don’t exist.  A simple “I’m sorry” goes a long way for me right now though.

August 5, 2011--The Max Chamber

I recently got together with some moms who are walking this same shitty road with me.  Most of them had stillborn babies.  That was always one of my biggest fears during pregnancy.  It’s horrifying and scary, especially when there is no explanation.  Now that I think of it, stillbirth is sort of like the pregnant version of SIDS.  Hmm…  Even though we all share the same general loss, we are still having different experiences.  For them, giving birth to a living, breathing, healthy baby only to have it die 37 days later is unimaginable.  For me, giving birth to an otherwise healthy baby boy with no heartbeat is unimaginable.  It’s not like we’re comparing losses or having a contest to see whose loss is worse; we’re trying to understand what the other side feels like.  It was interesting to hear their perspectives.  They just couldn’t imagine losing a baby who was healthy, active, and thriving.  I couldn’t imagine their loss and never getting to experience the things that I did with Max—his smile, his laugh, his eyes full of life, his body growing outside of mine, even the smell of his farts (they were toxic).  We’ll never completely understand the other side.  At least, I hope we don’t because the only way to completely understand it is to experience it.  Even then it’s hard to understand, honestly.  Despite that, we know what the pain is like for each other.  Our loss is the same—it’s the loss of the life that we had planned for not only our dead children, but for ourselves too.  It’s the complete and utter defeat and surrender to the unfairness and vulnerabilities of the world.  It’s the loss of hope, innocence, promise, and the naïve idea that good things will happen to you if you just live your life decently.  We understand each other’s anger, frustration, and annoyance with everything pretty and innocent in the world.  We understand when one mom reveals that she’s been avoiding a certain co-worker who does nothing but complain about the living baby that she has at home.  Doesn’t she realize that our babies are dead?  The truth is that other people move on; they get over our losses.  Sometimes they might even forget about them.  We’re the ones who don’t.  And we can’t be expected to.  Actually, there would be something seriously wrong with us if we just “got over” our child dying.

            I got an email from an old friend the other day.  He and his wife just had their second baby.  This friend is one of the “best” people I know; he is honest, kind, loyal, and good-natured.  Simply put, he is a good person.  His email was very sympathetic and articulate.  He wrote about reading this website, and the part that stood out to me is this:  “your words encouraged me…and you reminded me to fight through life’s craziness and my own exhaustion and soak up every minute with my little ones.  What a critical reminder!” That is what I want people to take away from my experience.  His message is the greatest gift that anyone could have given me.  To know that my pain and loss and Max’s short life may have caused someone to think twice about complaining when his baby poops for the 32^nd time in a day or vomits right down the front of his freshly changed shirt is astounding.  To know that there are parents out there who have really tried to understand my loss and have made a conscious effort to apply what they’ve learned to their own lives is rewarding in a way.  Life isn’t guaranteed.  We all intuitively know that, but we don’t do anything about it most of the time.  It’s more instinctual to react with annoyance or complaints when our babies don’t sleep as long as we want them to.  It takes conscious effort sometimes to realize that when your baby wakes up early from a nap, you’re really being given the gift of more time with him.  It’s hard to fight past the exhaustion and find enjoyment in moments of inconsolable crying, crankiness, and leaky diapers.  I promise that it’s there though.  Take it from someone who doesn’t have those moments anymore—they are precious and every bit as rewarding as the quiet ones.

            I appreciate people trying to understand the way I feel.  It is hard, I know.  It’s also hard to explain.  That doesn’t mean I’m not going to try though.  : )  Here goes.  When you have a baby, it’s like an extra chamber is added to your heart.  That chamber is reserved only for your baby.  It contains all of the feelings that you have for your new child—love, pride, protectiveness, a need to nurture, anxiety, hope, etc.  Your heart tells you how to express those emotions outwardly with your child; it helps you turn those emotions into actions.  Each time you have a new baby, your heart grows another chamber and it’s filled with the same feelings.  I swear that you can physically feel this happen the second your new baby is placed in your arms or you hear its first cry.  When Max died, the chamber of my heart reserved for him didn’t die with him.  It’s still there, and it’s still filled with all of my feelings for him.  I just don’t have him to shower with those feelings.  That extra chamber will always be there, and it will always be full.  When I have another baby, I’ll grow another chamber.  It will be right beside Max’s.  So, if you care to imagine, I am walking around in the world with this heart that is made very heavy by the extra chambers it carries.  And it’s especially heavy now because I can’t just cut that full chamber out and forget that it was ever there.  I wouldn’t do that even if I could.