Optimism. It comes...and goes. Boy does it ever GO.
I was looking back over my posts, noting the ups..and downs...and downs....and dooooowns.
Those downs make the ups seem like wishful thinking. A bleep of gold in the big picture of gray. Like a struggling heartbeat pulse that tries to keep you alive in spite of the flat line in between.
I know people are reading here...lots of people. 325 people read this blog in the past two weeks. 2 comments appeared. Not that I write FOR comments...but, if 325 people are going to read my thoughts, I wonder why only 2 felt to comment. It makes me feel....flat....and curious. However, I know that I don't always comment on the blogs I love to read. Like so many others, I am busy...too busy to do more than read poignant understandings and wipe empathetic tears away in response.
Speaking of tears...
We went on vacation last week...a beautiful, refreshing, healing vacation. It was so wonderful to be with my family without any other agenda. We got addicted to it. The pain of having vacation end was acute for all of us. The idea that we wouldn't be spending every day, all day long together....hurt.
We bought a tiny pair of baby shoes at the zoo. Made of hand felted purple wool sewn together with yellow thread. When we went to the check out, my husband squeezed my hand hopefully. Perhaps we would have a happy ending after all. Of course...we still don't know anything about that aspect of life. Too soon to know. Too soon to even hope really.
And yet...we do. Hope.
He asked me this morning if I should take another test. He wants to KNOW something...wants to know if spirit was on our side this month...or if we get to keep trying....wants to know if I was vomiting because of illness or pregnancy...wants to know if I'm tired because of depression or pregnancy....
He just wants to KNOW. Something.
I shook my head.
We will know soon enough.
My gut says that hoping is for silly folk that want to get hurt again.
My heart wants to hope and trust that if it's not to be NOW...it will be soon.
But...I've seen it happen again and again.
The hope. The joy. The loss. Repeated loss.
It happens.
a lot.
I've also seen rainbows appear. Beautiful vibrant rainbows with baby laughter and tiny toes perfect for the little shoes that are sitting up on our memory shelf.
I suddenly realized that even when...even if.......
I will never be the woman that is blissfully anticipating it all to work out exactly as it should. Because I know that it doesn't always happen like that.
I am thinking about the woman who shrugged off worry, who believed that pregnancy was inevitable, and that a baby in arms is expected if you take care of yourself. Oh how I always took care....so much care.
I realize that I'm afraid of taking another pregnancy test.
I'm afraid of only seeing a single line.
I'm afraid that I might never see two lines again in my lifetime.
What if I'm broken?
I'm afraid of seeing two lines.
I'm afraid of nine months of worry...
and then...a lifetime more of worry.
Because, they are never really safe. Not really.
I wonder if my nervous system can take it. Either senerio might be too much. Again.
I never used to wonder about my nervous system. I never used to panic if I thought I couldn't squeeze hot yoga in. I never used to panic about pregnancy. Or child rearing. Or money. Or space. Or...anything.
Yesterday, my 9 year old cut himself with a knife when he reached into the sink to grab something. There was a lot of blood. As I applied pressure and got out the first aid kit, I found myself trying to breathe...my heart was pounding. I wanted to scream. So much blood. I couldn't believe that I was so panicked. Did I ever think I wanted to be a doctor? How much blood had I dealt with in my lifetime? Why was this bothering me SO much??? I looked at my little boys face and tried to remember how old he was before I said "Wow sweetie...you are being so brave for an eight year old." He looked at me strangely..."Mom...I'm nine...remember?"
No...I didn't remember. I was in a dense fog when he turned eight last year...and just coming out of it when he apparently turned nine. I felt the lump in my throat rise and I worked hard to swallow it. I keep thinking he is eight...or seven. I looked up at the other boys, who were staring at the blood....they were all older than I wanted to realize. 14?? 11?? 9?? 6...only to turn seven in two weeks??? What the HELL!!!! I lost a year of my children's lives. They lost a year of having a "real" mom. Do I really want to risk any more lost time? Is it only selfish to hope for a happy ending? What if it ISN'T happy? What if I bring more pain and loss into my home? Is that really fair for any of us?
It's amazing how much blood can emerge from a tiny slice. It's gruesome really. It was everywhere. One would have thought an artery had burst open from the scene I cleaned up. But, really...it was simply that a tiny little slice can produce a huge amount of evidence. Imagine what a big slice would do.
It was then that I understood that my heart has not only been sliced a bit...it has been turned into chopped liver. It's gushing and bleeding is profuse...and it's hard to apply enough pressure to ease the bleeding. There is a massacre inside of my being...hot yoga soothes the pulse...but I'm still bleeding.
I still stand by what I said before...I am open to "YES"...but, I'm afraid too. That open door sure does hurt when it gets slammed on your fingers. Especially if they have been broken before. I'm standing in that open door looking at the memories of blood and tears that have stained the walls around me. It's hard to be optimistic. It's a silly lie to say I'm ready for it to slam on me again. It's also a silly lie to say I trust that all will be well. And yet another lie to say I don't believe in miracles.
I suppose all I can do is stand...breathe....hope...and know that 325+ people are witnessing my struggle while silently watching...waiting....wondering.......
Friday, August 27, 2010
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
An open door...
I often think about how "funny" it is to make a decision about life. In all honesty, I tend to believe that we don't really have a lot of choice in how things might or...might not...go. It's not that I think we have NO choice, but rather...that we have limited choice.
For example...I would have chosen that my firstborn son would go through his tumultuous teen years unscathed and able to look back and scoff at all the worry he caused us. I would have chosen that ultimately, he would emerge whole...safe...sound.
It wasn't to be. Yes...he IS alive. He's still beautiful and funny. At times. In many ways, one would look at him and see a normal young man--but it's within that the damage has been done. Deep within the brain. Where memory fails. Where names, dates, times...and logic...are largely absent. The damage of three years ago rears it's relentless face and laughs "He will never be the same...ever."
Of course, we always hope for improvement, and the brain DOES heal----slowly. But, I know too much about brains. I know too much about the particular damage of HIS brain. I know the limitations. I know the reality.
I would have protected him. I wasn't given the choice. And, neither was my son. Now when people ask him what he wants to "be"...I cringe a little when I hear him say he wants to study micro-biology. Not because I don't think it's a great thing to study, but because I know he has some serious deficits that don't meld well with the flied of micro-biology. I want him to succeed...and I'm not sure he can in that area. Maybe life will surprise us all. Maybe.
My pregnancy with Simon and Alexander...wow...it was a surprise. I accepted that the choice of that pregnancy wasn't mine alone. I embraced the gift. But it was stolen before I could unwrap it's beautiful contents. No choice in the matter...it wasn't about what I wanted; not in the beginning...nor in the end.
Today, I stand here in front of a little strip of paper. It only has one red line on it. I knew it was too early to test of course. WAY too early. But I know that on the first night of Ramadan, a beautiful spiritual holiday for many around the world, I had a dream of a beautiful baby in my arms...I could hear audible laughter in my ears, and woke up with it's tinkling sound resonating around me. My husband came to me after a similar, simultaneous dream and an agreement was found in our love. We were ready to make a choice. We chose Yes.
Ever since that night, there have been an unusual amount of obstacles preventing further encounters...very strange for a couple that rarely misses a chance to love each other. But, we would just shrug, laugh, and know that it simply seemed....beyond our control.
But, I was ovulating two days after that night. It could have happened.
So, I stand here...with that little paper in front of me. Only one line.
Why did I test too early? I knew it wouldn't show me two lines, even IF that beautiful magic of baby creation did in fact take after only one sweet, beautiful, deeply spiritual encounter. I'm not Muslim...I don't celebrate Ramadan, but, I AM aware of it and I honor it's profound place in the spiritual community of life. If I had the choice, I would say that I'd like for it to be true that our next child had been conceived under such a beautiful phase of the universe. I would like to believe that the laughter I heard so clearly was the tinkling of bells I will hear again soon.
I had another dream 2 days ago...I was on a beach walking. I found a perfect rippled shell and I opened it to find a beautiful silver necklace. It had a single name on it. I woke up smiling..."Oh....I DO like that name...."
And so...I will test again...later. Late enough to understand that if I see another single line that I didn't really get to choose, but that I can always try again...and again....and again.... Late enough to know that if I see two lines...I still don't get to choose the outcome of life. My eldest son has shown me that even when you think all will be well...it can all change in one life altering moment. Simon and Alexander have shown me that pregnancy doesn't always end with a beautiful baby to cuddle. My other children have shown me that being open to life is...truly a gift.
But, it will be o.k....one line or two lines. It will be o.k., because one thing that the universe cannot control is my attitude. And right now, the attitude my husband and I are sharing is one of being open to "Yes." It's about opening the door. Maybe no one will come through it. But, at least it is open....and he...or she...is welcome.
For example...I would have chosen that my firstborn son would go through his tumultuous teen years unscathed and able to look back and scoff at all the worry he caused us. I would have chosen that ultimately, he would emerge whole...safe...sound.
It wasn't to be. Yes...he IS alive. He's still beautiful and funny. At times. In many ways, one would look at him and see a normal young man--but it's within that the damage has been done. Deep within the brain. Where memory fails. Where names, dates, times...and logic...are largely absent. The damage of three years ago rears it's relentless face and laughs "He will never be the same...ever."
Of course, we always hope for improvement, and the brain DOES heal----slowly. But, I know too much about brains. I know too much about the particular damage of HIS brain. I know the limitations. I know the reality.
I would have protected him. I wasn't given the choice. And, neither was my son. Now when people ask him what he wants to "be"...I cringe a little when I hear him say he wants to study micro-biology. Not because I don't think it's a great thing to study, but because I know he has some serious deficits that don't meld well with the flied of micro-biology. I want him to succeed...and I'm not sure he can in that area. Maybe life will surprise us all. Maybe.
My pregnancy with Simon and Alexander...wow...it was a surprise. I accepted that the choice of that pregnancy wasn't mine alone. I embraced the gift. But it was stolen before I could unwrap it's beautiful contents. No choice in the matter...it wasn't about what I wanted; not in the beginning...nor in the end.
Today, I stand here in front of a little strip of paper. It only has one red line on it. I knew it was too early to test of course. WAY too early. But I know that on the first night of Ramadan, a beautiful spiritual holiday for many around the world, I had a dream of a beautiful baby in my arms...I could hear audible laughter in my ears, and woke up with it's tinkling sound resonating around me. My husband came to me after a similar, simultaneous dream and an agreement was found in our love. We were ready to make a choice. We chose Yes.
Ever since that night, there have been an unusual amount of obstacles preventing further encounters...very strange for a couple that rarely misses a chance to love each other. But, we would just shrug, laugh, and know that it simply seemed....beyond our control.
But, I was ovulating two days after that night. It could have happened.
So, I stand here...with that little paper in front of me. Only one line.
Why did I test too early? I knew it wouldn't show me two lines, even IF that beautiful magic of baby creation did in fact take after only one sweet, beautiful, deeply spiritual encounter. I'm not Muslim...I don't celebrate Ramadan, but, I AM aware of it and I honor it's profound place in the spiritual community of life. If I had the choice, I would say that I'd like for it to be true that our next child had been conceived under such a beautiful phase of the universe. I would like to believe that the laughter I heard so clearly was the tinkling of bells I will hear again soon.
I had another dream 2 days ago...I was on a beach walking. I found a perfect rippled shell and I opened it to find a beautiful silver necklace. It had a single name on it. I woke up smiling..."Oh....I DO like that name...."
And so...I will test again...later. Late enough to understand that if I see another single line that I didn't really get to choose, but that I can always try again...and again....and again.... Late enough to know that if I see two lines...I still don't get to choose the outcome of life. My eldest son has shown me that even when you think all will be well...it can all change in one life altering moment. Simon and Alexander have shown me that pregnancy doesn't always end with a beautiful baby to cuddle. My other children have shown me that being open to life is...truly a gift.
But, it will be o.k....one line or two lines. It will be o.k., because one thing that the universe cannot control is my attitude. And right now, the attitude my husband and I are sharing is one of being open to "Yes." It's about opening the door. Maybe no one will come through it. But, at least it is open....and he...or she...is welcome.
Sunday, August 8, 2010
Remembering Something Beautiful About Loss
There they are...
Both of them. In a golden sunset to rival all others. Just as I remember them.
Last night while brushing my teeth I noticed something on the wall. Something...icky. When you have multiple sons it's not too unusual to encounter things of questionable sanitary status, so I wasn't shocked or anything. But still...it was...gross. I thought about how many times I've suggested that boogers needed to NOT be wiped on a wall. Especially not the bathroom wall when only inches away sat a roll of perfectly nice toilet paper. Apparently one of my lads likes to absently dig for treasure whilst on the toilet...and tends to wipe the remains on the closest wall. Whomever he is...he keeps forgetting to use the available toilet paper.
According to my sons, they do not do this. None of them believes that they are "the one." So...we must have a booger picking ghost...or something.
Anyway, when I saw the smear I got out my tea-tree spray to clean it up and I felt myself tearing up. Simon and Alexander won't ever wipe booger smears on the wall. They won't ever look up at me in complete innocence declaring that they would never wipe a booger on the wall. It was then that I noticed it. . .When you've lost someone...they become...perfect. They have no vices...no flaws....nothing. Only the beauty of love surrounds them. Golden...warm...always wanted....treasured. For all time. You never sigh over the chore of cleaning up your dead child's booger. NO! In fact, all you want in the world is to be able to wipe those damned boogers that SHOULD have been there away, and then hug the little rascal for feigning innocence.
Carly Marie Dudley from "To write their names in the sand" sent me these photos yesterday...and Jill Alderman added Simon and Alexander to her "Vermont Angels" only days before....
When I look at these expressions of beauty and remembrance, it touches me to think that all I'll ever have to remember of Simon and Alexander are images of poignant beauty. They will never "accidentally" do anything annoying. They will never stay up past their bedtime trying to catch glimpses of the movie mom and dad are watching with the snippets of raw humor inappropriate for young viewers. They will never whine about having to get in the back seat of our car. They will never draw silly pictures in the columns of their homeschool books when they should be studying. They will never have a food that they pretend is poison to avoid eating it. They won't act jealous over how much more ice cream their brother seems to have gotten. They won't complain. They won't argue. They won't....do anything. Anything at all.
They will only stay perfect...beautiful...and yearned for.
Remembered in the sky, with flowers, near water of all kinds in all places, riding on the wings of exquisite butterflies....and in golden perfect sunsets. Sunsets wherein I wish with all my heart that the photo contained the footprints of my babies next to my own where we might have walked hand in hand...if only.
Friday, August 6, 2010
Walking a Tight-rope
It comes.
And goes.
And comes again.
And all the while I know inside that which ever way it is, is completely transient...impermanent...fleeting...
Just like the reason for all of it in the first place. Transient. Impermanent. Fleeting.
On one level, it might be comforting to know that whatever it is we go through is actually only a moment. A speck. A flash of reality...or dream. Something that won't last. Not forever anyway.
On another level...the fact that nothing is lasting...nothing permanent...nothing even SOLID...well...it bothers me sometimes.
There's the person...the "me"...that wants something I can rely on. Even if it were to be devastation in my feelings for all time.
Then, there is the person that is grateful that things move forward...onward...ever changing...so that we can heal. As if...as if we can ever really heal....as if we could ever forget.
As if we want to forget.
My birthday is coming. I say that with a flat affect. My birthday is coming. A reminder of my age. Or rather...a reminder of the age of my eggs. The age of my waning fertility.
My birthday is coming. I'm not old...but my eggs are getting older. Older than I wanted them to be if I was still wondering if my family was really complete.
I need time to wonder. Time to assess. Time to figure it all out.
Even if it's only time to accept that it's over. That it all ended with a quadruple stint with death. Simon's, mine, Alexander's, mine....death...four times...in two months. Last year at this time I was just coming to terms with the fact that I had had twins, that I was the mother of the twins I'd always wanted. Always. And...that I'd never have them again.
So, as I wonder about the yes's and the no's regarding my fertility and the outcome of my family I know we might have another sweet little boy...or a little girl (go ahead...laugh...it could happen....couldn't it??) but most likely...even less likely than having a little girl...we wouldn't have twins. And even if we COULD...it wouldn't be "them". So that's really what I have to come to terms with. If I'd never become pregnant with Simon and Alexander...if my idea that we "were done" had actually played out...would I be thinking I wanted to try once more? Most likely...no. And yet, things change. People change. Situations change. Lives change. Had this all happened 100 years ago I wouldn't have to think about any of it, because having more children would just BE what was...but as my husband reminds me...I'd also be dead, so, you win some, you lose some--right?
Now things aren't so clear. Now things aren't so solid. Now...nothing is permanent. And...in truth...nothing has ever been permanent.
And because of that impermanence...that fluidity...that big question mark in my gut....
I am questioning. Everything.
I am wondering.
I am crying.
I want someone to tell me what to do. And I want it to be the right answer. The one I know I want, but can't seem to find a way to so that I can figure out what it is I really want. The answer I will feel good about when I'm 98 years old. The right one. The solid one.
The one...that makes sense. On every level. Materially, Mentally, Spiritually and Emotionally.
The funny..or not so funny thing is this. There are two sides. The material and mental...and the spiritual and emotional. They don't concur. And so I am divided. Divided in a world that is fluid, transient, ever changing, and impermanent.
In the end, what I do or do not do matters very very little in the big schema of our tiny speck of a planet. My personal choice won't make or break anyone.
Except...maybe me.
And goes.
And comes again.
And all the while I know inside that which ever way it is, is completely transient...impermanent...fleeting...
Just like the reason for all of it in the first place. Transient. Impermanent. Fleeting.
On one level, it might be comforting to know that whatever it is we go through is actually only a moment. A speck. A flash of reality...or dream. Something that won't last. Not forever anyway.
On another level...the fact that nothing is lasting...nothing permanent...nothing even SOLID...well...it bothers me sometimes.
There's the person...the "me"...that wants something I can rely on. Even if it were to be devastation in my feelings for all time.
Then, there is the person that is grateful that things move forward...onward...ever changing...so that we can heal. As if...as if we can ever really heal....as if we could ever forget.
As if we want to forget.
My birthday is coming. I say that with a flat affect. My birthday is coming. A reminder of my age. Or rather...a reminder of the age of my eggs. The age of my waning fertility.
My birthday is coming. I'm not old...but my eggs are getting older. Older than I wanted them to be if I was still wondering if my family was really complete.
I need time to wonder. Time to assess. Time to figure it all out.
Even if it's only time to accept that it's over. That it all ended with a quadruple stint with death. Simon's, mine, Alexander's, mine....death...four times...in two months. Last year at this time I was just coming to terms with the fact that I had had twins, that I was the mother of the twins I'd always wanted. Always. And...that I'd never have them again.
So, as I wonder about the yes's and the no's regarding my fertility and the outcome of my family I know we might have another sweet little boy...or a little girl (go ahead...laugh...it could happen....couldn't it??) but most likely...even less likely than having a little girl...we wouldn't have twins. And even if we COULD...it wouldn't be "them". So that's really what I have to come to terms with. If I'd never become pregnant with Simon and Alexander...if my idea that we "were done" had actually played out...would I be thinking I wanted to try once more? Most likely...no. And yet, things change. People change. Situations change. Lives change. Had this all happened 100 years ago I wouldn't have to think about any of it, because having more children would just BE what was...but as my husband reminds me...I'd also be dead, so, you win some, you lose some--right?
Now things aren't so clear. Now things aren't so solid. Now...nothing is permanent. And...in truth...nothing has ever been permanent.
And because of that impermanence...that fluidity...that big question mark in my gut....
I am questioning. Everything.
I am wondering.
I am crying.
I want someone to tell me what to do. And I want it to be the right answer. The one I know I want, but can't seem to find a way to so that I can figure out what it is I really want. The answer I will feel good about when I'm 98 years old. The right one. The solid one.
The one...that makes sense. On every level. Materially, Mentally, Spiritually and Emotionally.
The funny..or not so funny thing is this. There are two sides. The material and mental...and the spiritual and emotional. They don't concur. And so I am divided. Divided in a world that is fluid, transient, ever changing, and impermanent.
In the end, what I do or do not do matters very very little in the big schema of our tiny speck of a planet. My personal choice won't make or break anyone.
Except...maybe me.
Saturday, July 31, 2010
Come and See!!!
Can you believe what a Beeeeaauuuuutiful job my sweet friend Jay Jay did on my blog??? I had some ideas, and she just flew with them! Thank you sweet lady-bird...I'm enchanted with your ability to weave such beauty. If anyone wants a blog makeover...this is the woman to do it! Don't be shy!...go for it! It's worth it on every level. Love you Jay!
Thursday, July 29, 2010
Double Scoop Please...
The hot yoga is helping. My sweet shaggy Ferdinand is helping. My boys and darling husband are helping. Writing is helping.
But it isn't enough.
It doesn't make it stop hurting.
I keep making the movements. I keep working hard to smile. But isn't it such a strange thing to say that I'm working "hard" to smile? I have to think it first--- "Smile Sara!" and I do....because I want "them" to know or at least, think, that I'm doing better; That my daily yoga, miles of walking and reams of typing...are helping. And they really ARE. But...when I note the presence of relief in the fact that I'm "doing better", it's a co-occurring unspoken statement that I'm not allowed to fall back into my tears. Not allowed. Not allowed....to feel the pain.
Yet, it isn't about being ABLE to NOT feel that pain. I'm just trying to live in SPITE of the pain.
And...it's working.
But some days are easier than others...much, much easier.
I kissed the boys goodbye yesterday as I went to hot yoga. They screamed the scream they always scream when I go--- "BYE MOM! YOUR THE BEST MOM IN THE WORLD!!!"--- and ran off to play the Wii while I was absent. With the age range of children I have, I can leave Mr. 14-year-old-going-on-30 in charge without any inner qualms while I go to hot yoga for a few hours. I admit it...it's nice to have a kid you can trust to be so mature and loving to the younger kids...who, in fact, get older every day. I hopped on the bus and settled into my seat. We cruised down the mountain....and as I watched out the front mirror...a precious baby dear with little soft white spots darted in front of the bus. I screamed internally as his mother rushed to him and he squirmed in agony on the side of the road....dieing....in pain....the bus driver didn't even slow for a second. He had a schedule to keep...nothing a baby deer would alter. In my mind...he had just hit a child...it was a hit and run. To the unflinching bus driver....it was just a stupid deer. In his way.
Then, a woman got on the bus. She had a neck brace and bruising on her face. She looked at me for a minute and then started to tell me about the man that had beaten her to a bloody pulp only 6 weeks ago putting her in ICU. He got five months in jail...for almost killing her because she broke up with him. Five months. Only five. She has (very possibly permanent) brain damage from being beaten repeatedly with a lead pipe. He got five months of jail time. I reached over to her and took her hand. We sat there holding hands while I tried to convey some places that might be able to help her. And then, she got off the bus. I had never seen her before and she told me that because of her memory problems, even if she saw me again, she wouldn't know me, even though she wanted to remember...I wished I had thought to give her my phone number, but I didn't. She walked off the bus in a daze and looked like she wondered where she was going. And the guy that did that to that 23 year old girl...got five months in jail.
I got off the bus downtown and walked to the Hot Yoga House that is my sanctuary. My wrist has been hurting so I couldn't wait for the soothing infrared heat to help heal it. Yoga....was good. It was healing...I could breathe...I tried to empty my mind of the image of the dieing deer and the battered woman...not because I didn't care, but because I cared SO much that it hurt.
I knew my husband would be a little late picking me up, so I took a stroll to "The Big Dipper". I walked over the famous river that runs through "it"...and enjoyed the cool breeze on my face that was wafting up from the river. As I walked off the bridge, I saw a homeless man. He asked if I had any change with a smile. He wasn't drunk or scary...just homeless. I would have helped him if I'd had anything more than my debit card in my bag, but I replied "I'm so sorry sir...I don't have any cash on me." I felt badly that I couldn't help, and that even if I had change in my pocket, it wouldn't have been enough "change" to give him a home. He smiled again and tipped his hat at me. "It's o.k. miss...it's a pleasure to be in the presence of an Angel...you KNOW your an Angel don't you?" I shook my head and laughed uncomfortably a little and waved goodbye. I could hear him calling after me..."I'm not kidding miss...your an Angel...didn't anyone ever tell you WHO you were before?" I felt a lump in my throat...and I didn't understand why. I keep encountering strangers that tell me I'm an angel. It's happened again and again. I always feel like crying when they say it. Now that my twins are gone...I wonder if what they are seeing now is that I am the mother of angels. I wonder... even though it doesn't explain years of being told randomly that I'm an angel. That's just....odd; and it makes me choke back tears.
As I walked into the ice cream stores lot, I saw a couple with their ice cream faced 2 year old that I had seen only a week or so before our loss. They had no idea that we'd lost that pregnancy. No idea. The woman came up to me with a smile and said "GAWD Sara! You look beautiful...but weird without babies! Aren't you supposed to have a baby or something?? Where's your little one?....Are you O.k.? you look sad...."
I froze inside. "Our twins died....last year...stillbirth..."
A horror struck look appeared on her face, joined by a deep sadness on her husbands. They know us as the care free family with tons of happy kids. When they were expecting, I remember the calls for advice and emotional support. Parenting had always been....my gift. It's something I love. It's something I've been doing for 20 years, and doing it beautifully in all honesty. I was a birth goddess.... a parenting diva.... whole... beautiful... and wonderfully patient... wonderfully confident.
There it was. She was right... I'm the mama that ALWAYS has a little one... or at least, I used to. All my boys were independent at home with a fun-loving big brother watching them. No babies... no one wanting to be with mama more than a video game. No one needing me every moment of every day.
She tried to brush it away by complaining about how her son kept wanting to run mindlessly into traffic... and the truth is that all I wanted in the world was to be like her again, chasing a little silly walker around to prevent him from running into traffic. Maybe it sounds crazy, but I preferred the stress of parenting a toddler to pleasurably walking down the road without any responsibility to ANYONE else with a yoga mat in tow. All I wanted in the world was to eat an ice cream cone with nursing twins in tandem while on lookers gasped in shock or admired my ability to "Just DO it!"
The husband hugged me goodbye, insisting that he owed Ty and I a favor and that he wanted us to call him on it. What was the favor? Ty was there to listen to him when he needed a shoulder to lean on in the earlier days of parenting...and I'd been kind enough to get his son a gift when he was born. It wasn't anything out of the ordinary for us, and we didn't feel that we'd done anything exceptional. He clearly wanted to give us something....anything...to ease the pain. So, he said "he owed us". They waved good bye and I waved back, longing to scoop that little huckleberry creamed face 2 year old into my arms to just smell his hair......but instead...I had a double scooper....for "them."
For them.
Because I should have had them with me....and instead...I only had ice cream, and the clear understanding that I don't look like ME without THEM. I chose a scoop of eggnog and a scoop of Mexican chocolate. I went over and sat on the side walk licking my homemade ice-cream cone thoughtfully. It was yummy....but it wasn't the only reason I chose a double. I needed double....I needed yin and yang....I needed my twins. The ice cream soothed the lump in my throat...the memory of hot yoga only a half hour before reminded me to breathe...and I AM doing better. But...I'm not me. Not the me I wish I was anyway. Not the me my hopeful friends wish I will be. Not the me I show everyone I am trying to be. Not really.
And...I think I understand that I never will be. Not without them.
I brought two hand packed containers home with me. Huckleberry and Eggnog. Purple and Yellow.
My 8 year old noticed..."You got purple and yellow for Simon and Alexander mom...that's really cool!"
I was suddenly surrounded by my boys hugging me.
Because they understand that I never will be the same.
Even with them.
Loss.
It's part of the whole of being alive.
You can't erase it's mark.
Even with ice cream.
Even with hot yoga.
Even with a kick ass Old English Sheepdog that rocks the world.
Even with a beautiful family of amazing kids and a loving, even phenomenal, husband.
And...especially....not even with time.
But it isn't enough.
It doesn't make it stop hurting.
I keep making the movements. I keep working hard to smile. But isn't it such a strange thing to say that I'm working "hard" to smile? I have to think it first--- "Smile Sara!" and I do....because I want "them" to know or at least, think, that I'm doing better; That my daily yoga, miles of walking and reams of typing...are helping. And they really ARE. But...when I note the presence of relief in the fact that I'm "doing better", it's a co-occurring unspoken statement that I'm not allowed to fall back into my tears. Not allowed. Not allowed....to feel the pain.
Yet, it isn't about being ABLE to NOT feel that pain. I'm just trying to live in SPITE of the pain.
And...it's working.
But some days are easier than others...much, much easier.
I kissed the boys goodbye yesterday as I went to hot yoga. They screamed the scream they always scream when I go--- "BYE MOM! YOUR THE BEST MOM IN THE WORLD!!!"--- and ran off to play the Wii while I was absent. With the age range of children I have, I can leave Mr. 14-year-old-going-on-30 in charge without any inner qualms while I go to hot yoga for a few hours. I admit it...it's nice to have a kid you can trust to be so mature and loving to the younger kids...who, in fact, get older every day. I hopped on the bus and settled into my seat. We cruised down the mountain....and as I watched out the front mirror...a precious baby dear with little soft white spots darted in front of the bus. I screamed internally as his mother rushed to him and he squirmed in agony on the side of the road....dieing....in pain....the bus driver didn't even slow for a second. He had a schedule to keep...nothing a baby deer would alter. In my mind...he had just hit a child...it was a hit and run. To the unflinching bus driver....it was just a stupid deer. In his way.
Then, a woman got on the bus. She had a neck brace and bruising on her face. She looked at me for a minute and then started to tell me about the man that had beaten her to a bloody pulp only 6 weeks ago putting her in ICU. He got five months in jail...for almost killing her because she broke up with him. Five months. Only five. She has (very possibly permanent) brain damage from being beaten repeatedly with a lead pipe. He got five months of jail time. I reached over to her and took her hand. We sat there holding hands while I tried to convey some places that might be able to help her. And then, she got off the bus. I had never seen her before and she told me that because of her memory problems, even if she saw me again, she wouldn't know me, even though she wanted to remember...I wished I had thought to give her my phone number, but I didn't. She walked off the bus in a daze and looked like she wondered where she was going. And the guy that did that to that 23 year old girl...got five months in jail.
I got off the bus downtown and walked to the Hot Yoga House that is my sanctuary. My wrist has been hurting so I couldn't wait for the soothing infrared heat to help heal it. Yoga....was good. It was healing...I could breathe...I tried to empty my mind of the image of the dieing deer and the battered woman...not because I didn't care, but because I cared SO much that it hurt.
I knew my husband would be a little late picking me up, so I took a stroll to "The Big Dipper". I walked over the famous river that runs through "it"...and enjoyed the cool breeze on my face that was wafting up from the river. As I walked off the bridge, I saw a homeless man. He asked if I had any change with a smile. He wasn't drunk or scary...just homeless. I would have helped him if I'd had anything more than my debit card in my bag, but I replied "I'm so sorry sir...I don't have any cash on me." I felt badly that I couldn't help, and that even if I had change in my pocket, it wouldn't have been enough "change" to give him a home. He smiled again and tipped his hat at me. "It's o.k. miss...it's a pleasure to be in the presence of an Angel...you KNOW your an Angel don't you?" I shook my head and laughed uncomfortably a little and waved goodbye. I could hear him calling after me..."I'm not kidding miss...your an Angel...didn't anyone ever tell you WHO you were before?" I felt a lump in my throat...and I didn't understand why. I keep encountering strangers that tell me I'm an angel. It's happened again and again. I always feel like crying when they say it. Now that my twins are gone...I wonder if what they are seeing now is that I am the mother of angels. I wonder... even though it doesn't explain years of being told randomly that I'm an angel. That's just....odd; and it makes me choke back tears.
As I walked into the ice cream stores lot, I saw a couple with their ice cream faced 2 year old that I had seen only a week or so before our loss. They had no idea that we'd lost that pregnancy. No idea. The woman came up to me with a smile and said "GAWD Sara! You look beautiful...but weird without babies! Aren't you supposed to have a baby or something?? Where's your little one?....Are you O.k.? you look sad...."
I froze inside. "Our twins died....last year...stillbirth..."
A horror struck look appeared on her face, joined by a deep sadness on her husbands. They know us as the care free family with tons of happy kids. When they were expecting, I remember the calls for advice and emotional support. Parenting had always been....my gift. It's something I love. It's something I've been doing for 20 years, and doing it beautifully in all honesty. I was a birth goddess.... a parenting diva.... whole... beautiful... and wonderfully patient... wonderfully confident.
There it was. She was right... I'm the mama that ALWAYS has a little one... or at least, I used to. All my boys were independent at home with a fun-loving big brother watching them. No babies... no one wanting to be with mama more than a video game. No one needing me every moment of every day.
She tried to brush it away by complaining about how her son kept wanting to run mindlessly into traffic... and the truth is that all I wanted in the world was to be like her again, chasing a little silly walker around to prevent him from running into traffic. Maybe it sounds crazy, but I preferred the stress of parenting a toddler to pleasurably walking down the road without any responsibility to ANYONE else with a yoga mat in tow. All I wanted in the world was to eat an ice cream cone with nursing twins in tandem while on lookers gasped in shock or admired my ability to "Just DO it!"
The husband hugged me goodbye, insisting that he owed Ty and I a favor and that he wanted us to call him on it. What was the favor? Ty was there to listen to him when he needed a shoulder to lean on in the earlier days of parenting...and I'd been kind enough to get his son a gift when he was born. It wasn't anything out of the ordinary for us, and we didn't feel that we'd done anything exceptional. He clearly wanted to give us something....anything...to ease the pain. So, he said "he owed us". They waved good bye and I waved back, longing to scoop that little huckleberry creamed face 2 year old into my arms to just smell his hair......but instead...I had a double scooper....for "them."
For them.
Because I should have had them with me....and instead...I only had ice cream, and the clear understanding that I don't look like ME without THEM. I chose a scoop of eggnog and a scoop of Mexican chocolate. I went over and sat on the side walk licking my homemade ice-cream cone thoughtfully. It was yummy....but it wasn't the only reason I chose a double. I needed double....I needed yin and yang....I needed my twins. The ice cream soothed the lump in my throat...the memory of hot yoga only a half hour before reminded me to breathe...and I AM doing better. But...I'm not me. Not the me I wish I was anyway. Not the me my hopeful friends wish I will be. Not the me I show everyone I am trying to be. Not really.
And...I think I understand that I never will be. Not without them.
I brought two hand packed containers home with me. Huckleberry and Eggnog. Purple and Yellow.
My 8 year old noticed..."You got purple and yellow for Simon and Alexander mom...that's really cool!"
I was suddenly surrounded by my boys hugging me.
Because they understand that I never will be the same.
Even with them.
Loss.
It's part of the whole of being alive.
You can't erase it's mark.
Even with ice cream.
Even with hot yoga.
Even with a kick ass Old English Sheepdog that rocks the world.
Even with a beautiful family of amazing kids and a loving, even phenomenal, husband.
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
Finding Breath
Walking into the room dimly lit with candle light and little white Christmas lights strung on the beams over head, I keep my eyes focused at the floor. The yoga mat I bought a year and a half ago during the training that was to make me a certified yoga teacher is rolled out in a swift crack of my wrist and a soft towel is carefully placed and dampened with peppermint and lavender scented water to prevent slipping in the sweat that is already starting to glow under the infrared heat lamps oppressive heat.
I lay on my back, inhaling the soft smell of incense and candle wax. Indian music softly fills the background as I hear feet with invisible faces enter the room around me. I listen for my breath. Somehow I can find it here even when its presence is elusive everywhere else. Somehow....I can hear my heart beating without choking under the reality that while it beats, "theirs" never will again. ever.
I look for my breath again...squelching the thoughts that are always trying to pound into my brain. Endless thoughts. breathe. breathe. breathe.
Her voice, like a butterfly's wings enters my mind. She reminds me to breathe, to find my core...to remember why I'm here. To remember why we are all here. Each one of us, here, at the butt-crack of dawn (or so my young teen would say...) for a reason known only to each of us....and to her.
Standing in mountain. The postures begin. The heat demanding solid breath. Not the little shallow breaths that one can get away with on any normal day. The heat DEMANDS solid breath. Breathe...or die. It laughs at the streams of water gliding down my forehead as I try to find stillness in the pose. Stillness. As my heart pounds and my breath....IS.
And then, there is a thought...I lose my focus, my breath. and my balance. Her voice gently reminds me to pull my breath in, to find my core balance....yes....there it is.....yes.....her hands guide me deeper, reminding me of what I used to be able to do. A lifetime ago. In the before time. She knows....because, she knew me then. She knows it all. She knows how I came to be the me I am today....
Her touch reminds me that there is love. friendship. hope. A reason for BE-ing....right now. The lump in my throat begs to release in sobs....and then, the breath soothes it again. There it is. The breath.
The breath they will never have. I am breathing for them. For all time.
Stillness. Corpse pose. Wet with the tears released by my body due to melting heat and deepening yoga postures. Always deepening. Always finding more depth. More breath. Was I ever really GOOD at yoga? Did I actually think I'd be able to teach this ability to balance? I watch myself teeter in the mirror...finding stillness. And breath.
The heat feels like God. Like golden fields and sunbeams. Penetrating blocked pores and....thoughts.
They really WERE here.....once. They really DID exist....once. They were my babies......always.
Her warm hands reach under my head, cradling it as skilled fingers massage and nurture...ever reminding me to forgive myself....to love myself.
I lay there until I feel ready. Till the silence is all I hear. Till the "others" have left.
I roll up my sopping wet towel and mat....drink all 7 cups of water that my bottle contains....and walk toward the door. Her voice reaches me..."Have a beautiful day Sara..." I look up and a smile finds my face. "Thank you" I say...and then I whisper..."for helping me to find myself." She doesn't know that I believe she may be an angel. She doesn't know I think of this place as my holy place. Or...maybe she does. Maybe she sees it in my face...or in the fact that I arrive every day without fail. Every day. To find my breath again. To find stillness of thought.
She nods with warmth in her eyes and begins to mop the floor of her studio. And I leave my new found healing place to begin another day with smiling children, furry pups, devoted husband, memories of golden fields where my twins wait for me to live until I die....and I find the words waiting for me to write them down....and I try to find the breath until I can go back into the heat. Looking for the breath.
Always...breath.
I lay on my back, inhaling the soft smell of incense and candle wax. Indian music softly fills the background as I hear feet with invisible faces enter the room around me. I listen for my breath. Somehow I can find it here even when its presence is elusive everywhere else. Somehow....I can hear my heart beating without choking under the reality that while it beats, "theirs" never will again. ever.
I look for my breath again...squelching the thoughts that are always trying to pound into my brain. Endless thoughts. breathe. breathe. breathe.
Her voice, like a butterfly's wings enters my mind. She reminds me to breathe, to find my core...to remember why I'm here. To remember why we are all here. Each one of us, here, at the butt-crack of dawn (or so my young teen would say...) for a reason known only to each of us....and to her.
Standing in mountain. The postures begin. The heat demanding solid breath. Not the little shallow breaths that one can get away with on any normal day. The heat DEMANDS solid breath. Breathe...or die. It laughs at the streams of water gliding down my forehead as I try to find stillness in the pose. Stillness. As my heart pounds and my breath....IS.
And then, there is a thought...I lose my focus, my breath. and my balance. Her voice gently reminds me to pull my breath in, to find my core balance....yes....there it is.....yes.....her hands guide me deeper, reminding me of what I used to be able to do. A lifetime ago. In the before time. She knows....because, she knew me then. She knows it all. She knows how I came to be the me I am today....
Her touch reminds me that there is love. friendship. hope. A reason for BE-ing....right now. The lump in my throat begs to release in sobs....and then, the breath soothes it again. There it is. The breath.
The breath they will never have. I am breathing for them. For all time.
Stillness. Corpse pose. Wet with the tears released by my body due to melting heat and deepening yoga postures. Always deepening. Always finding more depth. More breath. Was I ever really GOOD at yoga? Did I actually think I'd be able to teach this ability to balance? I watch myself teeter in the mirror...finding stillness. And breath.
The heat feels like God. Like golden fields and sunbeams. Penetrating blocked pores and....thoughts.
They really WERE here.....once. They really DID exist....once. They were my babies......always.
Her warm hands reach under my head, cradling it as skilled fingers massage and nurture...ever reminding me to forgive myself....to love myself.
I lay there until I feel ready. Till the silence is all I hear. Till the "others" have left.
I roll up my sopping wet towel and mat....drink all 7 cups of water that my bottle contains....and walk toward the door. Her voice reaches me..."Have a beautiful day Sara..." I look up and a smile finds my face. "Thank you" I say...and then I whisper..."for helping me to find myself." She doesn't know that I believe she may be an angel. She doesn't know I think of this place as my holy place. Or...maybe she does. Maybe she sees it in my face...or in the fact that I arrive every day without fail. Every day. To find my breath again. To find stillness of thought.
She nods with warmth in her eyes and begins to mop the floor of her studio. And I leave my new found healing place to begin another day with smiling children, furry pups, devoted husband, memories of golden fields where my twins wait for me to live until I die....and I find the words waiting for me to write them down....and I try to find the breath until I can go back into the heat. Looking for the breath.
Always...breath.
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
Sister from Another Mother...
I am standing here with tears of joy streaming down my face. Something wonderful has happened on this earth. If you peek here you will understand. This is the celebration of a beautiful woman whose only child was stolen away by a rare form of cancer....she has finally been given something to smile about.
I'm smiling with her.
Somehow, knowing that good things can happen after terrible things makes me feel like absorbing that sunshine radiating from the joy she is being blessed with. It makes me feel like waking up in the morning. It makes me feel like hope is, maybe, a good thing.
I've been doing hot yoga every day. Walking my beautiful dog every day. Writing every day. Loving my children and husband every day...and still...missing Simon and Alexander....every day.
Some people have asked me if I'm clinging to the pain. Silly people. Some people have asked me why it isn't enough to have ALL that I have. Silly people. Some people.....some people have accused me of being greedy. They are right.
I am greedy. Greedy for what was lost, and can never be returned.
Nevertheless...in spite of my yearning for twins that should have been cozy in my arms, in spite of having wanted twins since I was a little girl, only to come....so very close. I am beyond joyful for my friend...and I pray that her two little snowflakes are delivered to her safe, sound, healthy and vibrantly alive.
There is light in the world.
It's warmth is real.
I am grateful it exists for anyone....anywhere.
Especially for those who have been in such terrible pain.
To the Universe....I say "Thank you....Thank you...."
I'm smiling with her.
Somehow, knowing that good things can happen after terrible things makes me feel like absorbing that sunshine radiating from the joy she is being blessed with. It makes me feel like waking up in the morning. It makes me feel like hope is, maybe, a good thing.
I've been doing hot yoga every day. Walking my beautiful dog every day. Writing every day. Loving my children and husband every day...and still...missing Simon and Alexander....every day.
Some people have asked me if I'm clinging to the pain. Silly people. Some people have asked me why it isn't enough to have ALL that I have. Silly people. Some people.....some people have accused me of being greedy. They are right.
I am greedy. Greedy for what was lost, and can never be returned.
Nevertheless...in spite of my yearning for twins that should have been cozy in my arms, in spite of having wanted twins since I was a little girl, only to come....so very close. I am beyond joyful for my friend...and I pray that her two little snowflakes are delivered to her safe, sound, healthy and vibrantly alive.
There is light in the world.
It's warmth is real.
I am grateful it exists for anyone....anywhere.
Especially for those who have been in such terrible pain.
To the Universe....I say "Thank you....Thank you...."
Friday, June 25, 2010
Catharsis
What does it take to override the pain and aching of a broken heart? How does one soften the sting...soothe the soul?
It seems different for everyone...and no remedy seems to be a permanent fix. I think that, in part, it is the thinking that your on your way out of it that makes it hurt so much when you fall back in. However...that being said, I think I've found something that might help.
Hot Yoga.
I've been having a very hard time feeling completely broken. Every set back seems to plunge me back into darkness so thick that I can't imagine I will ever find my way out again. When I found myself on Monday kicking and screaming behind a locked bathroom door, and then leaving home to walk "away", not knowing if I'd ever come back...well...I knew that something had to change. SOMETHING had to change.
I had a dream that told me to do hot yoga. My initial response was "yeah...right." It's not that I don't like yoga...I loved it once upon a time. I even got my teacher certification the month that we conceived Simon and Alexander. But since we lost our little ones....I haven't been able to breathe steady enough to do anything even remotely yogic. The yogini in me....died.
I mentioned the idea to a friend of mine, who lit up and told me about the hot yoga studio she goes to. I happened to know the instructor. She has twins.
I thought about how I wouldn't be able to bring Ferdinand with me. I worried that I might have a panic attack in the yoga studio. But I thought about the dream....
could it be?
I went to the studio a little early, knowing that the instructor would be sure to recognize me from the past in spite of the ample amount of weight I've gained and the dark circles under my eyes. Sure enough, she greeted me with a smile. I tried to smile back, but wasn't very successful. She asked me how I'd been. I told her. Actually....I cried it out. She hugged me and then looked me squarely in the eyes. "Sara...I'm glad your here. This is a place to heal. Let your body heal and walk forward letting the past BE the past....see your future as you wish it to be." She had me light a candle for my beautiful lost twins, and a candle for the future filled with hope and joy.
I lay down under the infrared heat lamps, letting their healing energy work into my body. I heard people entering the room but I kept my eyes closed to keep my focus inward. The heat was scorchingly hot....104 degrees in fact. I was sweating without moving at all.
The practice began. As she moved around the room instructing, adjusting our postures I felt that she was talking only to me. "Let your anxiety evaporate into the heat. Breathe your sadness out. Let your body cry for you...let your sweat clean out your pain." She went around gently rubbing out stress...pain...grief while rubbing in the healing effects of a delightful yoga balm called "China rub" 90 minutes went by with sweat dripping in buckets off of my body. My towel was soaked.
But...I was present. I was in the NOW. I was with my heart, and my breath, and my sweat.
As I lay in the final corpse pose I felt the instructor gentle lift my feet. She rubbed them with lavander oil, pulling my toes and squeezing them gently. I lay still with the heat penetrating my body.
Free.
After laying there for 15 minutes, I opened my eyes. The class was empty...candles flickered under the heat lamps. I rolled up my mat and found my instructor in the lounge area. She smiled at me. "How was it?"
I smiled back at her..."I think I can find myself here."
The next day, I took my husband...I wanted to share the treasure I'd discovered with him. 60 minutes into the 90 minute class, I looked over and saw that he had melted into his mat which was oozing a puddle of sweat onto the bamboo flooring. At the end of the class he said "Sara...if you like that, you must be in need of a serious cathartic experience...I'm so sorry your in so much pain....I love you...and I don't think I want to go back. It was like being in hell." We laughed together. I don't need him to like it in the same way I do. All I need is for him to understand why I need to go everyday.
Some people need to take medication every day. Some people need weekly therapy. I need to do hot yoga. My husband is right. The intensity of the experience is a catharsis so deep that it has the ability to bring me into the moment without the pain of our losses. It has the healing balm of warming the body that has been in shock, shivering with the aftermath of losing my twins. It helps my nervous system to have a break for 90 minutes from the tears and internal screaming, while my entire body weeps from every pore with such abundance that it would take a lifetime of crying to equal it's mass.
Today, stepping into the heat of the room, I knew I'd found a place to rediscover who I am. I understand that it isn't the end....but, it is a beginning I am grateful for. And, in this moment...I am hopeful.
It seems different for everyone...and no remedy seems to be a permanent fix. I think that, in part, it is the thinking that your on your way out of it that makes it hurt so much when you fall back in. However...that being said, I think I've found something that might help.
Hot Yoga.
I've been having a very hard time feeling completely broken. Every set back seems to plunge me back into darkness so thick that I can't imagine I will ever find my way out again. When I found myself on Monday kicking and screaming behind a locked bathroom door, and then leaving home to walk "away", not knowing if I'd ever come back...well...I knew that something had to change. SOMETHING had to change.
I had a dream that told me to do hot yoga. My initial response was "yeah...right." It's not that I don't like yoga...I loved it once upon a time. I even got my teacher certification the month that we conceived Simon and Alexander. But since we lost our little ones....I haven't been able to breathe steady enough to do anything even remotely yogic. The yogini in me....died.
I mentioned the idea to a friend of mine, who lit up and told me about the hot yoga studio she goes to. I happened to know the instructor. She has twins.
I thought about how I wouldn't be able to bring Ferdinand with me. I worried that I might have a panic attack in the yoga studio. But I thought about the dream....
could it be?
I went to the studio a little early, knowing that the instructor would be sure to recognize me from the past in spite of the ample amount of weight I've gained and the dark circles under my eyes. Sure enough, she greeted me with a smile. I tried to smile back, but wasn't very successful. She asked me how I'd been. I told her. Actually....I cried it out. She hugged me and then looked me squarely in the eyes. "Sara...I'm glad your here. This is a place to heal. Let your body heal and walk forward letting the past BE the past....see your future as you wish it to be." She had me light a candle for my beautiful lost twins, and a candle for the future filled with hope and joy.
I lay down under the infrared heat lamps, letting their healing energy work into my body. I heard people entering the room but I kept my eyes closed to keep my focus inward. The heat was scorchingly hot....104 degrees in fact. I was sweating without moving at all.
The practice began. As she moved around the room instructing, adjusting our postures I felt that she was talking only to me. "Let your anxiety evaporate into the heat. Breathe your sadness out. Let your body cry for you...let your sweat clean out your pain." She went around gently rubbing out stress...pain...grief while rubbing in the healing effects of a delightful yoga balm called "China rub" 90 minutes went by with sweat dripping in buckets off of my body. My towel was soaked.
But...I was present. I was in the NOW. I was with my heart, and my breath, and my sweat.
As I lay in the final corpse pose I felt the instructor gentle lift my feet. She rubbed them with lavander oil, pulling my toes and squeezing them gently. I lay still with the heat penetrating my body.
Free.
After laying there for 15 minutes, I opened my eyes. The class was empty...candles flickered under the heat lamps. I rolled up my mat and found my instructor in the lounge area. She smiled at me. "How was it?"
I smiled back at her..."I think I can find myself here."
The next day, I took my husband...I wanted to share the treasure I'd discovered with him. 60 minutes into the 90 minute class, I looked over and saw that he had melted into his mat which was oozing a puddle of sweat onto the bamboo flooring. At the end of the class he said "Sara...if you like that, you must be in need of a serious cathartic experience...I'm so sorry your in so much pain....I love you...and I don't think I want to go back. It was like being in hell." We laughed together. I don't need him to like it in the same way I do. All I need is for him to understand why I need to go everyday.
Some people need to take medication every day. Some people need weekly therapy. I need to do hot yoga. My husband is right. The intensity of the experience is a catharsis so deep that it has the ability to bring me into the moment without the pain of our losses. It has the healing balm of warming the body that has been in shock, shivering with the aftermath of losing my twins. It helps my nervous system to have a break for 90 minutes from the tears and internal screaming, while my entire body weeps from every pore with such abundance that it would take a lifetime of crying to equal it's mass.
Today, stepping into the heat of the room, I knew I'd found a place to rediscover who I am. I understand that it isn't the end....but, it is a beginning I am grateful for. And, in this moment...I am hopeful.
Monday, June 21, 2010
In Ruins
Hope.
I feel like that word has somehow bi-passed my family.
Where am I supposed to see it?
A few days ago, I ran into a lovely woman from my past life as a functioning human being. I noticed her right away because she was dressed in a vibrant shade of purple from head to toe, accented with lovely gold earrings and a fine golden chain. Simon and Alexander's colors. She greeted me with her typical glowing smile and proclaimed that I give her "some news!". I knew she had no idea of the events of our life in the past three years...she had no idea that our eldest son, who used to play with her own son, was slowly recovering from a brain injury that has changed his future forever. She had no idea that our twins had died...or that they had ever been in the first place.
So, when she asked me to tell her "some news!". My heart stopped in my throat. I just shook my head...and the tears started to fall.
Being a lovely nurturing mother...the kind of mother I wish I'd been given...She grabbed me close and stroked my hair in the parking lot of the grocery store, ignoring the cars that tried to weave around my sobbing frame with uncomfortable glances in our direction. Ferdinand leaned up against me in an effort to comfort me. Again.
I told her about my life in a matter of about 10 minutes. Who knew that the traumas of the past 3 and 1/2 years could be condensed and edited into only 10 minutes? She looked at me with sparkling eyes and said "But sweetie...don't you see all the blessings?"
I shook my head. I felt the shaking and quaking that are the danger signal for a panic attack. I tried to breath, but felt like my head had been enclosed in a plastic bag. Kneeling down to bury my head in Ferdinand's fur and clutched at him; just trying to find my breath. She continued to coo in my ear that she didn't mean to dismiss my pain, but that she just noticed so much beauty and wonder in my story...that my near death experiences were beautiful, that the colors I saw in that spirit world were telling me something...that my writing career was a gift sought after by many...that there were gifts all around me that I seems to have failed to notice in my pain....
I looked at her and said "I see the gifts. I see the blessings. But none of them....not one of them...makes up for the loss of my babies. Not one of them makes it o.k. that my brilliant son has a damaged brain. These gifts feel like consolation prizes. My spirit has been broken. My nervous system is so shot that I can't go into public without my DOG for assistance. My children tell me they wish they had super powers so that they could save their baby brothers from stillbirth and erase their oldest brothers brain injury. My husband cries in the bathtub. We both cry at night when we think the other is asleep. How is any of that a gift? How do any of the gifts make what we've been through o.k.?"
Her reply? "You feel broken. But...one can't ride a wild stallion till he's been broken. You have something to give others now. You have a voice. That's why you have been chosen as a writer. It's not what you planned...but it was THE plan."
I love this woman. I always have. She is a picture of calm, reasonable, love.
It isn't that she has not suffered, for I KNOW she has. Deeply.
But somehow...she has found her way.
Maybe I'll look back at that meeting in a few years and nod my head in understanding....but all I could do at that moment was to shake my head and say..."It's not enough. I want more. I want the pain to stop. For my entire family. I want the tears to end."
She hugged me again. "Oh sweetie....they will. They will. Just hang in there. You can do it."
I believe that bad things happen to good people. The laws of Karma and the Golden Rule are laws that the Universe keeps forgetting---or ignoring. I see unfair situations all around me, and within me. I see beautiful people being broken down into a state of dysfunction and hopelessness. When a horse trainer tames a wild animal...they don't beat it into the ground until it can't stand anymore. Life is a cruel trainer....who overdoes the process until some of us are writhing in it's wake. People point to the story of Job when they see others suffering, as if a story about a man who was literally methodically tortured by a petty bet between a boasting God and a maniacal Devil should bring hope and understanding. How is that story a comfort???? How is it comforting to see that in the end, Job is given a bunch of blessings to make up for the losses of his entire family, children, wife, home....EVERYTHING? Does the new fortune, wife, and kids make up for the losses?
My friend says she can see my blessings like shining rays of light.
But, she's standing on the outside. She can't feel the razor sharpness of this pain. She doesn't have to hear her children wish they could bring back what has been lost. She doesn't have to hear her wonderful husband's muffled sobs. She doesn't have to feel the inner quaking that signals loss of control from a FRIED nervous system that would destroy a rector scale.
Hope.
Can I find it at the end of a rainbow? Is there meaning to ANY of this loss? Can we make it through without bitterness?
Will we ever really be alright again?
I feel like that word has somehow bi-passed my family.
Where am I supposed to see it?
A few days ago, I ran into a lovely woman from my past life as a functioning human being. I noticed her right away because she was dressed in a vibrant shade of purple from head to toe, accented with lovely gold earrings and a fine golden chain. Simon and Alexander's colors. She greeted me with her typical glowing smile and proclaimed that I give her "some news!". I knew she had no idea of the events of our life in the past three years...she had no idea that our eldest son, who used to play with her own son, was slowly recovering from a brain injury that has changed his future forever. She had no idea that our twins had died...or that they had ever been in the first place.
So, when she asked me to tell her "some news!". My heart stopped in my throat. I just shook my head...and the tears started to fall.
Being a lovely nurturing mother...the kind of mother I wish I'd been given...She grabbed me close and stroked my hair in the parking lot of the grocery store, ignoring the cars that tried to weave around my sobbing frame with uncomfortable glances in our direction. Ferdinand leaned up against me in an effort to comfort me. Again.
I told her about my life in a matter of about 10 minutes. Who knew that the traumas of the past 3 and 1/2 years could be condensed and edited into only 10 minutes? She looked at me with sparkling eyes and said "But sweetie...don't you see all the blessings?"
I shook my head. I felt the shaking and quaking that are the danger signal for a panic attack. I tried to breath, but felt like my head had been enclosed in a plastic bag. Kneeling down to bury my head in Ferdinand's fur and clutched at him; just trying to find my breath. She continued to coo in my ear that she didn't mean to dismiss my pain, but that she just noticed so much beauty and wonder in my story...that my near death experiences were beautiful, that the colors I saw in that spirit world were telling me something...that my writing career was a gift sought after by many...that there were gifts all around me that I seems to have failed to notice in my pain....
I looked at her and said "I see the gifts. I see the blessings. But none of them....not one of them...makes up for the loss of my babies. Not one of them makes it o.k. that my brilliant son has a damaged brain. These gifts feel like consolation prizes. My spirit has been broken. My nervous system is so shot that I can't go into public without my DOG for assistance. My children tell me they wish they had super powers so that they could save their baby brothers from stillbirth and erase their oldest brothers brain injury. My husband cries in the bathtub. We both cry at night when we think the other is asleep. How is any of that a gift? How do any of the gifts make what we've been through o.k.?"
Her reply? "You feel broken. But...one can't ride a wild stallion till he's been broken. You have something to give others now. You have a voice. That's why you have been chosen as a writer. It's not what you planned...but it was THE plan."
I love this woman. I always have. She is a picture of calm, reasonable, love.
It isn't that she has not suffered, for I KNOW she has. Deeply.
But somehow...she has found her way.
Maybe I'll look back at that meeting in a few years and nod my head in understanding....but all I could do at that moment was to shake my head and say..."It's not enough. I want more. I want the pain to stop. For my entire family. I want the tears to end."
She hugged me again. "Oh sweetie....they will. They will. Just hang in there. You can do it."
I believe that bad things happen to good people. The laws of Karma and the Golden Rule are laws that the Universe keeps forgetting---or ignoring. I see unfair situations all around me, and within me. I see beautiful people being broken down into a state of dysfunction and hopelessness. When a horse trainer tames a wild animal...they don't beat it into the ground until it can't stand anymore. Life is a cruel trainer....who overdoes the process until some of us are writhing in it's wake. People point to the story of Job when they see others suffering, as if a story about a man who was literally methodically tortured by a petty bet between a boasting God and a maniacal Devil should bring hope and understanding. How is that story a comfort???? How is it comforting to see that in the end, Job is given a bunch of blessings to make up for the losses of his entire family, children, wife, home....EVERYTHING? Does the new fortune, wife, and kids make up for the losses?
My friend says she can see my blessings like shining rays of light.
But, she's standing on the outside. She can't feel the razor sharpness of this pain. She doesn't have to hear her children wish they could bring back what has been lost. She doesn't have to hear her wonderful husband's muffled sobs. She doesn't have to feel the inner quaking that signals loss of control from a FRIED nervous system that would destroy a rector scale.
Hope.
Can I find it at the end of a rainbow? Is there meaning to ANY of this loss? Can we make it through without bitterness?
Will we ever really be alright again?
Sunday, June 6, 2010
ouch.
Days pass...minutes...hours....weeks....months....
years.
years.
Standing here. Listening. Listening for answers...clues to the universe. Wanting it to make sense.
But, it doesn't. Not really.
And, because of that lack of sense...all I can do is walk forward knowing--none of this pain makes sense except for the fact that it is pain.
I still do all the things one does when trying to move forward. I even smile and laugh. I make jokes.
I razz my family. We giggle....and while I'm smiling, I tend to look up, and I wonder if Simon and Alexander are smiling with us. And then, when I'm crying...I wonder if they are crying with me too. I wonder if they long for my arms the way I long for them to fill them. I wonder if they miss me like I miss them...I wonder if they wish they could cross that spiritual divide--the way I wish I could cross it.
I keep hearing McJaggars swanky voice "You can't always get what you want..." and I want to put my hand over his mouth and tell him to sing something else. I want to make him sing about a different kind of world, as if the music could change the truth if only it had a different message. Frankly, I'm pretty tired of knowing how often people don't get what they want....or need. I'm tired of understanding that pain continues all around us, and I can't do anything to stop it.
It makes me feel so angry....sad....
because I want to stop that pain. Not just for me and mine...but for everyone. I want to stop babies from dyeing from cancer and all manner of disease and tradgedy. I want to stop loved ones from being taken too soon. I want to end the pain of loss.
but...it's not going to happen. Loss is something everyone gets to have.
We all walk hand in hand in loss. Nothing is permanent except that loss is always there.
That permanence of loss keeps me standing like a deer caught in the blaze of headlights. Unable to move away...terror in my heart. The question resonating in my gut...."What will I loose next?" "WHO will I loose next??"
The silence is deafening.
There is no answer.
I can only wait and try to ignore the anxiety that leaks out of my body in the form of tears. I can laugh like a wild woman in defiance of the universe that so haphazardly steals loved ones away....I laugh and laugh in the hopes that living life fully will protect me in some way.
I don't know why I do it--it never helped before. There was no protection.
And yet...still I laugh. still I pray...knowing my prayers blow in the wind.
"Please protect my family...protect ALL the families....please." As if someone will grant that plea. As if it's that simple.
But I've always prayed for protection. And that's really what stings. My prayers...my wishes....
blowing in the wind.
Who will be next?? Who??
I stand in defiance in the wind with my laughter. "WHO will you steal next??"
Or....have I had my quota yet? Have I suffered enough in this life? Have you taken enough?
Standing in a mockery of defiance...crumbling into sobs because I know that as long as there are people that I love...there will be loss.
What a world.
I can say that with a smile....and with tears in my eyes. And it's the same either way.
What a world.
years.
years.
Standing here. Listening. Listening for answers...clues to the universe. Wanting it to make sense.
But, it doesn't. Not really.
And, because of that lack of sense...all I can do is walk forward knowing--none of this pain makes sense except for the fact that it is pain.
I still do all the things one does when trying to move forward. I even smile and laugh. I make jokes.
I razz my family. We giggle....and while I'm smiling, I tend to look up, and I wonder if Simon and Alexander are smiling with us. And then, when I'm crying...I wonder if they are crying with me too. I wonder if they long for my arms the way I long for them to fill them. I wonder if they miss me like I miss them...I wonder if they wish they could cross that spiritual divide--the way I wish I could cross it.
I keep hearing McJaggars swanky voice "You can't always get what you want..." and I want to put my hand over his mouth and tell him to sing something else. I want to make him sing about a different kind of world, as if the music could change the truth if only it had a different message. Frankly, I'm pretty tired of knowing how often people don't get what they want....or need. I'm tired of understanding that pain continues all around us, and I can't do anything to stop it.
It makes me feel so angry....sad....
because I want to stop that pain. Not just for me and mine...but for everyone. I want to stop babies from dyeing from cancer and all manner of disease and tradgedy. I want to stop loved ones from being taken too soon. I want to end the pain of loss.
but...it's not going to happen. Loss is something everyone gets to have.
We all walk hand in hand in loss. Nothing is permanent except that loss is always there.
That permanence of loss keeps me standing like a deer caught in the blaze of headlights. Unable to move away...terror in my heart. The question resonating in my gut...."What will I loose next?" "WHO will I loose next??"
The silence is deafening.
There is no answer.
I can only wait and try to ignore the anxiety that leaks out of my body in the form of tears. I can laugh like a wild woman in defiance of the universe that so haphazardly steals loved ones away....I laugh and laugh in the hopes that living life fully will protect me in some way.
I don't know why I do it--it never helped before. There was no protection.
And yet...still I laugh. still I pray...knowing my prayers blow in the wind.
"Please protect my family...protect ALL the families....please." As if someone will grant that plea. As if it's that simple.
But I've always prayed for protection. And that's really what stings. My prayers...my wishes....
blowing in the wind.
Who will be next?? Who??
I stand in defiance in the wind with my laughter. "WHO will you steal next??"
Or....have I had my quota yet? Have I suffered enough in this life? Have you taken enough?
Standing in a mockery of defiance...crumbling into sobs because I know that as long as there are people that I love...there will be loss.
What a world.
I can say that with a smile....and with tears in my eyes. And it's the same either way.
What a world.
Friday, May 28, 2010
Bleeding to death...
Bleeding to death isn't something most people get to experience in the United States nowadays. But...it still happens from time to time. And, as dying goes, it seems like a pretty dramatic way to depart. Hemorrhaging. I think of that word in a two part dissection... Heme is the root word for blood... raging is a flush of energy... Hemorrhaging... the action of blood raging forth in sudden energy.
Last year, on this very day, I bled to death. As I said, it's a dramatic way to go, so perhaps my father was right to have determined as a child that I was his little "drama queen." Frankly, at this point, I feel that drama is waaaaaay over-rated, and now when I pray, I pray for boredom- peace- mellow- even...predictable- to come my way. Lesson learned... No more drama for THIS lass thank you very much!!
Last year, at this time, I had no idea that I was a mother of twins. I knew that I'd lost a beautiful baby boy 5 weeks before, and my grief was heavy...concentrated. I knew that I'd walked every single day with my husband while we talked, cried, talked and cried. I knew that I'd told God he could "Fuck off" if this was the kind of thing he had planned for me; and I meant it. However...the very action of telling God to "Fuck off" is a statement that you do, in fact, believe in God...no matter how much of an asshole you believed God to be; which to be honest...I very much felt that God was acting like an asshole. A complete, and total...asshole...
So, I couldn't really become an Atheist or an Agnostic because in spite of how angry I was...I was still quite sure God was real. I was also sure that if anyone could take being told to "Fuck off"...it was God. I was also pretty sure that if God knew anything, it was that to be told to "Fuck off" was entirely deserved under the circumstances. I offer my apologies to anyone who might be offended by the idea of telling the Almighty that he can go take a flying fuck after stealing my baby from my womb..... but.... that's just my honesty talking. I'm willing to admit the power of my rage... That's how I felt it...and God, being Almighty, being EVERYTHING, is sure to be able to take that kind of powerful rage. Trust me on that.
Yes....the anger I felt was raging.
My baby had been taken away, and I was left with a heavy feeling inside of myself that wouldn't go away.
I felt....lost.
So, one year ago on this very day...my husband and I took a walk. Again. We talked about that heaviness. We talked about how assaulted by life I felt. We talked about our baby that I yearned for every day...and how deeply sad I was.
One year ago, I discovered that ritual is within everyone's grasp. I'm not talking about the rituals found in church...not the stale rituals that people practice without even thinking or feeling. I'm talking about authentic ritual. The ritual's that life brings forth into consciousness to deal with a personal situation. A ritual designed by spirit...just for you.
As we were walking...talking...crying....a ritual appeared to us. And because we are who we are, we went with it. Fully. And as Rudyard Kipling would say..."A magic was made". Something inside of me lifted...released....and I felt it in every corner of my being. I smiled for the first time in 5 weeks.
We went home in a tight embrace...feeling closer than ever before.
And then...
I began to bleed. Hard. Fast. With fervor. Raging.
When you are hemorrhaging like that, you know that you can't lose that much blood without consequences. That kind of bleeding makes a person aware that if they have any chance of survival at all, it will be at a hospital...so that is where we went. Quickly.
Just as I could see the blood that flowed from my hospital gurney onto the floor in a river that ran out of the door while rushing nurses tried not to slip in it, my life also began to drain from me. I could feel it leaving my body.
Suddenly, I was there. I had been there five weeks before and I recognized it right away. Admittedly, when I'd found myself in that golden field the first time, I half doubted it because I was having an allergic reaction to morphine (if you want to do me in, offer me opiates...ha ha!)
But, this time, there were no opiates involved, and I knew it was really real. A beautiful child ran up to me with arms outstretched and said "MAMA!" with such joy in his voice...as if he'd been waiting for me. I held my little one in my arms....and then....
I was back. I looked up at Ty and saw IV blood dripping into my veins..."I saw our baby Ty...I saw him again...but...he looked different this time. Why did he look different???"
The next day, after waking up from an emergency D&C...the lightness was there again. I felt so blissed out to know that the spirit world was indeed real. After all, I'd BEEN there. Twice.
Of course....it all made sense really...because I'd been carrying a twin that no one knew was there. waiting. It all made sense. Everything had come in two's for this experience. Even my midwife had wondered about twins due to my measurements...twins that couldn't be seen in the ultrasounds. We didn't know....until we knew. It took bleeding to death to find out the truth. I am the mother of twin sons. There really IS a spirit world that is open to everyone when we die; for I've not been "saved", confirmed, baptized, or otherwise engaged in dogmatic rituals required by any religion....and yet...it was there for ME too. I know that will be hard for some people to accept....but, I've been there, and I know. This isn't a secret club with a special code or handshake required to get it. It's just there. For all of us. period.
It's just there. It's beautiful. It's real. And...Simon and Alexander will be there to greet me when it's my time.
One year ago today, I bled to death.....and in that....everlasting life was revealed to me.
It doesn't take my sadness away...my grieving lingers on....I miss my twins....
but...it does help to know that they aren't really...gone. Just waiting. In that beautiful place of gold and purple light and brilliance.
Just waiting.
Last year, on this very day, I bled to death. As I said, it's a dramatic way to go, so perhaps my father was right to have determined as a child that I was his little "drama queen." Frankly, at this point, I feel that drama is waaaaaay over-rated, and now when I pray, I pray for boredom- peace- mellow- even...predictable- to come my way. Lesson learned... No more drama for THIS lass thank you very much!!
Last year, at this time, I had no idea that I was a mother of twins. I knew that I'd lost a beautiful baby boy 5 weeks before, and my grief was heavy...concentrated. I knew that I'd walked every single day with my husband while we talked, cried, talked and cried. I knew that I'd told God he could "Fuck off" if this was the kind of thing he had planned for me; and I meant it. However...the very action of telling God to "Fuck off" is a statement that you do, in fact, believe in God...no matter how much of an asshole you believed God to be; which to be honest...I very much felt that God was acting like an asshole. A complete, and total...asshole...
So, I couldn't really become an Atheist or an Agnostic because in spite of how angry I was...I was still quite sure God was real. I was also sure that if anyone could take being told to "Fuck off"...it was God. I was also pretty sure that if God knew anything, it was that to be told to "Fuck off" was entirely deserved under the circumstances. I offer my apologies to anyone who might be offended by the idea of telling the Almighty that he can go take a flying fuck after stealing my baby from my womb..... but.... that's just my honesty talking. I'm willing to admit the power of my rage... That's how I felt it...and God, being Almighty, being EVERYTHING, is sure to be able to take that kind of powerful rage. Trust me on that.
Yes....the anger I felt was raging.
My baby had been taken away, and I was left with a heavy feeling inside of myself that wouldn't go away.
I felt....lost.
So, one year ago on this very day...my husband and I took a walk. Again. We talked about that heaviness. We talked about how assaulted by life I felt. We talked about our baby that I yearned for every day...and how deeply sad I was.
One year ago, I discovered that ritual is within everyone's grasp. I'm not talking about the rituals found in church...not the stale rituals that people practice without even thinking or feeling. I'm talking about authentic ritual. The ritual's that life brings forth into consciousness to deal with a personal situation. A ritual designed by spirit...just for you.
As we were walking...talking...crying....a ritual appeared to us. And because we are who we are, we went with it. Fully. And as Rudyard Kipling would say..."A magic was made". Something inside of me lifted...released....and I felt it in every corner of my being. I smiled for the first time in 5 weeks.
We went home in a tight embrace...feeling closer than ever before.
And then...
I began to bleed. Hard. Fast. With fervor. Raging.
When you are hemorrhaging like that, you know that you can't lose that much blood without consequences. That kind of bleeding makes a person aware that if they have any chance of survival at all, it will be at a hospital...so that is where we went. Quickly.
Just as I could see the blood that flowed from my hospital gurney onto the floor in a river that ran out of the door while rushing nurses tried not to slip in it, my life also began to drain from me. I could feel it leaving my body.
Suddenly, I was there. I had been there five weeks before and I recognized it right away. Admittedly, when I'd found myself in that golden field the first time, I half doubted it because I was having an allergic reaction to morphine (if you want to do me in, offer me opiates...ha ha!)
But, this time, there were no opiates involved, and I knew it was really real. A beautiful child ran up to me with arms outstretched and said "MAMA!" with such joy in his voice...as if he'd been waiting for me. I held my little one in my arms....and then....
I was back. I looked up at Ty and saw IV blood dripping into my veins..."I saw our baby Ty...I saw him again...but...he looked different this time. Why did he look different???"
The next day, after waking up from an emergency D&C...the lightness was there again. I felt so blissed out to know that the spirit world was indeed real. After all, I'd BEEN there. Twice.
Of course....it all made sense really...because I'd been carrying a twin that no one knew was there. waiting. It all made sense. Everything had come in two's for this experience. Even my midwife had wondered about twins due to my measurements...twins that couldn't be seen in the ultrasounds. We didn't know....until we knew. It took bleeding to death to find out the truth. I am the mother of twin sons. There really IS a spirit world that is open to everyone when we die; for I've not been "saved", confirmed, baptized, or otherwise engaged in dogmatic rituals required by any religion....and yet...it was there for ME too. I know that will be hard for some people to accept....but, I've been there, and I know. This isn't a secret club with a special code or handshake required to get it. It's just there. For all of us. period.
It's just there. It's beautiful. It's real. And...Simon and Alexander will be there to greet me when it's my time.
One year ago today, I bled to death.....and in that....everlasting life was revealed to me.
It doesn't take my sadness away...my grieving lingers on....I miss my twins....
but...it does help to know that they aren't really...gone. Just waiting. In that beautiful place of gold and purple light and brilliance.
Just waiting.
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
Finding the words...
It's not always easy to find the words. At least...it wasn't always. Nowadays I realize that the words are flowing forth in an ever present bombardment of productivity. Last night in fact, I was telling my husband that the only real problem with being a freelance writer was that I simply don't have enough time to do all the writing I'm being given. Not if I want to write my book. Not if I want to actually get it done... and I DO.
See, I write for money...and I write for me. I write for money because it allows me to take care of my children without having to send them off to school (we home school) or daycare. I can arrange my days to play, cook, and educate...and clean from time to time...I can allow myself the protection of the hermit life that is allowing my healing from the theft of my babies lives, and the trauma that ensued. I can allow myself to cry as needed... I can walk here at my treadmill desk as Ferdinand and Felix hang out in a strange yin yang formation on my bed nearby. I enjoy earning enough to help make ends meet, to lift the burden from my husbands shoulders a little bit.
But...I also write for me. I write about my experience, and it's connection with society...a commentary on grief from a personal and psychological perspective. Now, some people would say that I'm still writing for money...because this is a book that I am going to sell when it's complete. But, I'm not writing for the money, I'm writing for Simon and Alexander who have given me the words. Given me the voice. I'm writing for the women whose breaths are taken away and hearts are broken only to find themselves in a world that doesn't understand. In a way, they aren't even my words....they are being given to me in a fervor of understanding and piecing together what was into what is. Yeah....this is writing in it's most beautiful form. . .because it's authentic and done for the process rather than the product alone.
Many of my dear babyloss friends are also talented writers...and I implore them at this moment to write....write...and write more! It is YOUR words that will change this loneliness into a place of understanding so that one day, when a woman loses a child, she will meet with faces that UNDERSTAND her pain, so that she will not find herself in a room with familiar faces that hold strangers behind their eyes. I recently read a book of a babyloss mama who started the ezine I write for, "Exhale"... Monica Murphey Lemoine has written Knocked up, Knocked Down and her story is compelling, surprisingly humorous and delightfully tear-jerking. I wanted to share it with everyone...because words matter.
So...on that note, keep writing. Even if your words never see a publishers desk, they have inherent value, because they are YOUR story...and that matters.
They really are a gift.
See, I write for money...and I write for me. I write for money because it allows me to take care of my children without having to send them off to school (we home school) or daycare. I can arrange my days to play, cook, and educate...and clean from time to time...I can allow myself the protection of the hermit life that is allowing my healing from the theft of my babies lives, and the trauma that ensued. I can allow myself to cry as needed... I can walk here at my treadmill desk as Ferdinand and Felix hang out in a strange yin yang formation on my bed nearby. I enjoy earning enough to help make ends meet, to lift the burden from my husbands shoulders a little bit.
But...I also write for me. I write about my experience, and it's connection with society...a commentary on grief from a personal and psychological perspective. Now, some people would say that I'm still writing for money...because this is a book that I am going to sell when it's complete. But, I'm not writing for the money, I'm writing for Simon and Alexander who have given me the words. Given me the voice. I'm writing for the women whose breaths are taken away and hearts are broken only to find themselves in a world that doesn't understand. In a way, they aren't even my words....they are being given to me in a fervor of understanding and piecing together what was into what is. Yeah....this is writing in it's most beautiful form. . .because it's authentic and done for the process rather than the product alone.
Many of my dear babyloss friends are also talented writers...and I implore them at this moment to write....write...and write more! It is YOUR words that will change this loneliness into a place of understanding so that one day, when a woman loses a child, she will meet with faces that UNDERSTAND her pain, so that she will not find herself in a room with familiar faces that hold strangers behind their eyes. I recently read a book of a babyloss mama who started the ezine I write for, "Exhale"... Monica Murphey Lemoine has written Knocked up, Knocked Down and her story is compelling, surprisingly humorous and delightfully tear-jerking. I wanted to share it with everyone...because words matter.
So...on that note, keep writing. Even if your words never see a publishers desk, they have inherent value, because they are YOUR story...and that matters.
They really are a gift.
Monday, May 24, 2010
YAY! He's BACK!
He's back!
One year ago, a beautiful book that had been carefully nurtured into existence for almost 10 years was born and delivered into our hands...right as we were mourning the loss of our twin sons Simon and Alexander. The book that my husband was so pleased to share with the world...met it's birth with an insistence of required dormancy. It was as if everything that was, wasn't. All attempts to reach out, stopped. All communications, halted. And that beautiful book waited for our hearts to heal enough to BE ourselves once more.
And now, after a year of mourning...healing, and holding our family together...trying to walk forward...I saw that sparkle emerge from my husbands eyes as a manifesto of strength born out of our tragedy sprang forth. He's back...He's talking...He's reaching out; and...it's beautiful! I took a copy of Being Ourself from the shelf down and re-read it last night. Wonder fills my heart as I look at the man standing by my side that wrote these inspired words and understandings; These are words to live by. Please take a moment to check out his revived blog and join the conversation and the re-emergence of Being Ourself. Thanks everyone...for your embrace on this journey.
Sunday, May 16, 2010
Superstition or Communication?
Some people believe that seeing an animal is natures way of sending you a message. It's an ancient idea really...and of course isn't limited to animals alone. It's about finding meaning in life and communicating with the undercurrent that presents itself to you.
I suppose that is where superstition might come in; don't let a black cat cross your path, ravens are a sign of doom...you know, Friday the 13th folklore.
But, taken from a more earthy, native perspective, it's not seen like that. It's communication. A message given from the minerals, plants, animals, earth, and sky. It's about listening. With your inner being. Listening...to the whispers.
I live on a cul-de-sac in the mountains of Montana. It's a neighborhood full of families, some I know fairly well, some of whom I know only by face...and others who I don't know at all. American modern life dictates that we often do not know our neighbors. We're all too independent to weave our lives together in community. (Or is it something else???) In any case...there are kids, cats, dogs, cars, lawns, gardens...normal semi suburbia living. But, if I walk half a block, I can dissipate into a mini wilderness that is recovering from the harsh pruning that happened earlier in the year, and I can pretend that I live in isolation from the world, which is something I've often wished for in the past year. In that isolation from people, lawnmowers, engines, music, and whatever other hullabaloo is common on a cul-de-sac, I encounter deer of all ages, foxes, hummingbirds, butterflies....and an abundance of flowers.
Sometimes I'll get the treat of seeing a bald eagle, red tail hawk, or even great blue heron soaring overhead. In those moments, I wish I could fly with them...
Today though, in my yard that is surrounded by the protective barrier of 6 foot tall bamboo poles, I was walking around the fruit trees inspecting the blossoms. In all honesty, I admit that I was whispering to these trees; last year, in the wake of losing Simon and Alexander, our entire yard went on a fruit strike. Not a single tree gave us fruit last year. Not only were the fruit trees on sabbatical, but the Raspberries were fruitless, the grapes didn't grape...and the strawberries....weren't. Not only was my womb barren, but my entire yard was barren as well. It was....abnormal. So, this year, when I saw all the blossoms, I went out to talk to my trees; to encourage them.
On one hand, I know that it's a little silly to think that my trees needed a pep-talk. But, because I know I've talked to these trees on a regular basis ever since I planted them 6 years ago, I am ALSO aware that last year...drowning in grief and devastation...I did NOT spend time talking to them, and they did NOT give me fruit. Maybe they were in mourning too. Maybe the entire vibe at my home was one of pulling in, and away. Maybe my fruit trees knew it wasn't time to put forth a bunch of fruit that I wouldn't have the focus to eat, or freeze for later. Maybe...they knew.
Maybe it was simply that it was a non-fruiting year for ALL of the trees in my yard alone. (my neighbors had fruit.)
In any case...I'm rambling...but, the point is, that I was communing with the energy of my trees, feeling very peaceful, quiet, and focused. Suddenly, as I stepped toward the plum tree that we planted last summer for Simon and Alexander, I saw that it had survived. Little green leaves were opening up. I caught my breath, and smiled. A warm feeling spread all over me and love poured forth onto that little tree. I closed my eyes for a moment, and when I opened them again, I noticed the grass was fluttering near my feet. A slender striped snaked was gliding near me. I didn't move. I didn't feel afraid. It slid right past my feet so close I could have bent over and picked it up.
I watched it.
It was beautiful.
I've NEVER seen a snake in my yard. ever.
I thought about messages being given by creation in it's many forms.
I pondered over the message of snakes... Snakes symbolize renewal, rebirth, and expanded development because they shed their skin during each growth cycle. Snakes are also cold-blooded which means they depend on their environment for their body temperature. This is seen as a symbolic message that we must be adaptive, flexible and adjust as best we can to our circumstances.
So...I confess that this is a message I need reminding of whether it's superstition or not. I have cycled through a year of grieving. A year of pain must be shed, for I am now, most certainly, a new person. I have been through too much to be able to fit in my old "skin". Admittedly, it is simply that my old skin no longer fits that often causes the tears to erupt. I LIKED my skin...I LIKED me. I didn't WANT to be forced into a new "skin".
And yet....here I am. Changed. In need of acceptance...renewal. My environment must be altered to fit my new persona. Thus, the 6 foot tall privacy fence...the freelance writing from home...a slower pace. A "me" pace.
It seems as likely as anything else that spirit would send me this message in the form of a graceful little garden snake that was hanging out near my babies memorial plum tree. It seems as probable as any other story...any other myth....any other version of truth.
So...I think I'll listen.
I suppose that is where superstition might come in; don't let a black cat cross your path, ravens are a sign of doom...you know, Friday the 13th folklore.
But, taken from a more earthy, native perspective, it's not seen like that. It's communication. A message given from the minerals, plants, animals, earth, and sky. It's about listening. With your inner being. Listening...to the whispers.
I live on a cul-de-sac in the mountains of Montana. It's a neighborhood full of families, some I know fairly well, some of whom I know only by face...and others who I don't know at all. American modern life dictates that we often do not know our neighbors. We're all too independent to weave our lives together in community. (Or is it something else???) In any case...there are kids, cats, dogs, cars, lawns, gardens...normal semi suburbia living. But, if I walk half a block, I can dissipate into a mini wilderness that is recovering from the harsh pruning that happened earlier in the year, and I can pretend that I live in isolation from the world, which is something I've often wished for in the past year. In that isolation from people, lawnmowers, engines, music, and whatever other hullabaloo is common on a cul-de-sac, I encounter deer of all ages, foxes, hummingbirds, butterflies....and an abundance of flowers.
Sometimes I'll get the treat of seeing a bald eagle, red tail hawk, or even great blue heron soaring overhead. In those moments, I wish I could fly with them...
Today though, in my yard that is surrounded by the protective barrier of 6 foot tall bamboo poles, I was walking around the fruit trees inspecting the blossoms. In all honesty, I admit that I was whispering to these trees; last year, in the wake of losing Simon and Alexander, our entire yard went on a fruit strike. Not a single tree gave us fruit last year. Not only were the fruit trees on sabbatical, but the Raspberries were fruitless, the grapes didn't grape...and the strawberries....weren't. Not only was my womb barren, but my entire yard was barren as well. It was....abnormal. So, this year, when I saw all the blossoms, I went out to talk to my trees; to encourage them.
On one hand, I know that it's a little silly to think that my trees needed a pep-talk. But, because I know I've talked to these trees on a regular basis ever since I planted them 6 years ago, I am ALSO aware that last year...drowning in grief and devastation...I did NOT spend time talking to them, and they did NOT give me fruit. Maybe they were in mourning too. Maybe the entire vibe at my home was one of pulling in, and away. Maybe my fruit trees knew it wasn't time to put forth a bunch of fruit that I wouldn't have the focus to eat, or freeze for later. Maybe...they knew.
Maybe it was simply that it was a non-fruiting year for ALL of the trees in my yard alone. (my neighbors had fruit.)
In any case...I'm rambling...but, the point is, that I was communing with the energy of my trees, feeling very peaceful, quiet, and focused. Suddenly, as I stepped toward the plum tree that we planted last summer for Simon and Alexander, I saw that it had survived. Little green leaves were opening up. I caught my breath, and smiled. A warm feeling spread all over me and love poured forth onto that little tree. I closed my eyes for a moment, and when I opened them again, I noticed the grass was fluttering near my feet. A slender striped snaked was gliding near me. I didn't move. I didn't feel afraid. It slid right past my feet so close I could have bent over and picked it up.
I watched it.
It was beautiful.
I've NEVER seen a snake in my yard. ever.
I thought about messages being given by creation in it's many forms.
I pondered over the message of snakes... Snakes symbolize renewal, rebirth, and expanded development because they shed their skin during each growth cycle. Snakes are also cold-blooded which means they depend on their environment for their body temperature. This is seen as a symbolic message that we must be adaptive, flexible and adjust as best we can to our circumstances.
So...I confess that this is a message I need reminding of whether it's superstition or not. I have cycled through a year of grieving. A year of pain must be shed, for I am now, most certainly, a new person. I have been through too much to be able to fit in my old "skin". Admittedly, it is simply that my old skin no longer fits that often causes the tears to erupt. I LIKED my skin...I LIKED me. I didn't WANT to be forced into a new "skin".
And yet....here I am. Changed. In need of acceptance...renewal. My environment must be altered to fit my new persona. Thus, the 6 foot tall privacy fence...the freelance writing from home...a slower pace. A "me" pace.
It seems as likely as anything else that spirit would send me this message in the form of a graceful little garden snake that was hanging out near my babies memorial plum tree. It seems as probable as any other story...any other myth....any other version of truth.
So...I think I'll listen.
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