Birth, A Team Effort

 My role in nursing has changed in the last couple of years and one of the things I find myself doing relatively frequently is teaching prepared childbirth classes. I really love this aspect of nursing and I'm grateful to have had the opportunity to meet patients before delivery and to discuss ways in which we can work together to get them the experiences they want. 

One of the things I mention in every class I teach is the role of social media in birth experiences. I actually love social media in many ways because it gives people access to information that wasn't available in previous years. However, like most things, you have to know what to do with that information when it's received. Is the content creator credible? Is the person trying to sell you something and using fear mongering to do so? Do they acknowledge and recognize all parts of the healthcare teams/support entities as being important? These are things I stress to new parents. For some reason, it has become acceptable and even expected for people to tell you all about the trauma they experienced during their own births. We do that at an alarming rate in the U.S. And don't misunderstand, I very much believe that there is a time and a place for those who have experienced traumatic birth to share those experiences, if for no other reason than to find community and comraderie among their fellow survirvors. That's incredibly important. 

The other piece that I think maybe needs to be a little louder is the one in which we champion these delivering people and the capabilites of their bodies. Stories of empowerment and strength even in the face of deviation from a birth plan is equally important. It takes incredible strength to experience a c-section and then stand up hours later to sustain the life of another human. The resilience and selflessness it takes to do that is amazing. 

And maybe the thing that is missing most is the desire to work TOGETHER to effect real change in birthing stories. It takes a village, from the very start, to truly support and encourage new life. The patient/delivering person/mother is first of course. The desires, fears, and plans of that person must be paramount to the decision making. Next is the family/friend support for that person. And then equally as important to a birth experience are the doulas/birth advocates and healthcare team. The thing I see most often in the "fear mongering" mindset is the idea that those of us in healthcare desire forcing things on our patients. And in my experience that simply isn't true. We want what you want! We want a healthy and happy family. We want skin to skin, delayed cord clamping, cultural practices acknowledged to the best of our ability. I believe in order to effect true, lasting change in maternal healthcare in America, it is going to take significant bending and learning from one another. It isn't enough to simply rely upon healthcare to professionals knowledge and practice. It also isn't enough to completely disregard the science, education, and experiences obtained by those same people. It must be a multi-faceted conversation, and all parties need to be willing to listen and learn. 

Birth stories are some of the most important in our history. They're the beginnings of every person you'll ever meet. No one on earth escapes a birth story. My hope is that the future of birth in America is one of collaboration, setting aside of ego, and effecting change in a way that honors those who bring us into the world. 

Come On In

 She gave a speech that brought tears to my eyes and also made me laugh. 

He graduated college and is starting a job for which he's very well-suited. 

She stayed true to herself and cheered on her team until the bitter end, and then shed real tears as the last pitch was thrown. And they were both there to support her as she left the ball field for the last time. 

He has his own apartment, a relationship that truly makes him happy, and a future that keeps him smiling. 

All of this happened while you were supposed to be turning 15. You were supposed to be watching them move those tassels. You were supposed to be making fun of your mom for tearing up from time to time. But just as each of their milestones have been met, you've been missing. 

Your absence has often made it impossible for me to become emotional in the "normal" way moms do when their kids move on in life. I can't be upset that your siblings leave for college. I'm so unbelievably excited for them and I always know where they're going. I can GET there. I can't get to you. And no matter how much I try to be normal in those moments, I can't. It makes for yet more lonely experiences in a motherhood that has been fraught with them. 

That's why I was surprised by my tears as I watched your sister put her softball glove away for the last time. I didn't expect it. I looked to your dad and saw his tears, too. I realized in that moment how unbelievably grateful I was for a "normal reaction" moment. We were kind of like the other families for just a breath. We felt the sting of "loss" and "never again". I felt a brief sense of relief washing over me as I realized that maybe, just maybe there would be moments in our future together that we could feel real joy. Joy that wasn't tainted by pain. Maybe we'll shed tears again when chapters in our lives are simply closing. Could we be healing in ways I didn't think possible? Does the healing mean that we've forgotten? If I'd experienced this a couple of years ago I think I would have chastised myself incessantly. I would have assumed that the fact that my grief and my joy could live side by side was a sign of failure. But then I think about the way that people who never got to meet you say your name. I think about the cupcakes shared this week in your name, and the way that my friend always honors my grief. She said your name to new people this week, and instead of the pain in my chest I felt such a sense of pride that you're still so "present". We did that. Your family. The people who love you with a fierceness that transcends death. We did that. 

And Sara holds your birthday as a sacred day in the same way I do. She, too, refuses to work and gives attention to you in a way that somehow keeps you with me. 

As they grow and become people on their own, I feel like our strengthening bonds are a tribute to you and how "present" you still are in our lives. We have an appreciation that others can't know in the way we do. While that can feel isolating, it's also something that draws the five of us together. I didn't see that coming. Parenting you still comes with surprises and gifts. Yes, grief lives here. But now we pull up a chair, invite it in, and it brings love with it. Thank you, E. Happy Birthday ❤️ 💙 💛 

It Stings

 It stings. I couldn't put my finger on it for the longest time. Why did the sun hurt so badly? I wasn't sure why the change of seasons weighed so heavily on my heart. I think maybe I've discovered at least part of the reason that the tears sit so close to the surface these days. It came to me when I put my face to the sun. I needed it, just like every other Midwesterner after a loooonnngg, unbearable February. But like everything else in my life now, it stung a little. 

I remember when I was about 11 or 12 years old and I was taking a walk in my very small, sleepy town. I was alone and it was the first truly beautiful day after a long, cold winter. I was so happy, so "filled" in that moment that I thought, "this is the height of happiness. This feeling right here is what it's all about. I needed this sun so badly and I didn't even know how much until it had gone." I felt a very similar feeling every time Christmas would roll around. I had the magical childhood Christmas experience described in books. I also felt the minor let down of that first season after I'd discovered the "truth" and I wondered if I'd ever feel that same Christmas joy again. It stung a little. But then my own children came and that feeling was bigger than I could ever imagine. No Christmas morning or first day of spring all rolled into one could have captured what it felt like to be a mother. Of course I experienced the moments that I thought were tough in my early years of motherhood, but ultimately, I'd found my calling. My children were my reason. Life made sense. 

And then I held him as he drew his last breath. In that moment I was a lifetime away from the young girl with her face to the sun. I was light-years beyond the mother of excited toddlers running toward the magic of Christmas. That was the moment I left my old body and entered one completely foreign to me. This new body didn't hold the same memories. It didn't FEEL with the same enthusiasm the old one had. It was like shrugging on a coat that wasn't mine, but that I was never allowed to take off again. This "coat" couldn't conjure up the feelings of blissful nostalgia I'd once known. Instead it hung heavily, unforgiving and immeasurably unkind. I didn't want it, but it's what I was given. It took so long to learn how to feel anything but pain beneath weight of that coat. It was a painstakingly long time before I realized that joy could exist there. Not in its entirety, or in the form I'd once known it, but it was there nonetheless. It was just sunshine that stung a little. Christmas magic that burned a bit. 

So that's where my love for those things has gone. It's still there. I still long for the green that shoots up out of the ground in March and I absolutely lift my face to the sun once again. But I must also allow for the sting. I have to heed the weight of the unwanted coat. I don't get to decide that it no longer exists. And as many grievers know, in a way, I don't want it to ever leave. But in those first few moments of sun, that first sign of Christmas magic, that sting that I can often so expertly hide, is the only thing I feel. It's like my broken momma heart feels I OWE her this pain. I must acknowledge her existence, even in the sun, maybe especially in the sun. 

I don't know if this is a feeling that grows smaller with each passing decade. So far it's still strong enough to pull me to my knees. However, you'll likely find me smiling or going about my work while pulling that unwanted coat a little tighter around my shoulders. So if you see me with my face to the sky, believe that I too am grateful for the sun, while I'm also feeling the sting. 

Empty Chair Graduate

 There were no invites. There has been no scolding regarding the 8th grade cap and gown that you need to hang up to avoid wrinkles. There was no last minute trip for a dress shirt that fits. We won't dress up and cram our exceptionally large family into an uncomfortable pew. There will be no moving of a tassel from right to left. 

But there will be an empty chair. 

They'll display your chair. It's a chair for a toddler who never got to require something bigger to hold him. Your big brother's bookbag will sit in it signifying something I needed to see. Signifying what, I don't know. Why does it need to be there? I honestly don't know. It just does. I need for the emptiness to be acknowledged, even when I won't be there to see it. You won't be there. I won't be there. But it will be, and that will have to be enough. 

The familiar burn in my chest has been there in all its cruelty and comfort. It's you. My connection to you. I hate it and need it. It takes my breath and gives you life. I can walk and talk and even smile through it. But it's there. It's heavy and makes everything slow. I remember the first time I had to don a lead apron again at work after you'd gone. I thought "that's it. This is exactly the heaviness I feel when grief is loud." But I can't take this heaviness off and hang it back up. I just keep carrying it, through work, through talking, through smiling. Can others not see it? I can't believe they can't see something that causes so much pressure, but they can't. If they could see it they'd ask why I was carrying such weight. They'd want to know why I didn't just lay it down. You and I know that can't be done. It must be carried. It cannot be ignored by the wearer. At some point it will be acknowledged and given credit for its immense weight. 

I spent an incredible amount of time today wondering what favorite restaurant you would have chosen as your 8th grade graduation meal tonight? I laughed when your big brother had his choice of anyplace he wanted and we all huddled around tall tables at Jimmy John's. I'm almost certain we'd have a main dish of ice cream tonight if you were to decide. Maybe if grief allows me to eat later, I will make that my dinner. 

That chair. Instead of registering you for high school with your classmates, I sent a message requesting that one of the freshman teachers please allow me to set your chair in their room for the year. That's not how this was supposed to go. I wasn't supposed to feel so heavy, to be walking through air that feels like deep water. I'm not supposed to be lying next to your garden, listening to my coveted "pain playlist" and writing to you in this way. That chair shouldn't exist. A smelly, curly-headed, goofy boy should be in its place. What I wouldn't give to see that boy/young man today. 

I can't watch them walk down that aisle. I can't listen to their names being read from a podium. I can't sit there and know that I won't see your face in that sea of classmates you never met. There will be no Mom. There will be no sisters and no brother. No grandpa and grandma. No aunts, uncles or cousins...

But, there will be a chair. 

There Will Be People

 A letter to my 2012 self,

I know that everything is upside down today. I know that there is a deafening static in your ears as the realization of what you're experiencing washes over you. Right now, and for the next year, you'll be in the tunnel. You'll have no idea what you're supposed to do with yourself in the coming days. People will ask why you're out and you won't know how to answer. The static stays. And it stays loud. It drowns out any rational thought. 

This past week has been a veritable Hell for you. You were alone in that room when the unknown doctor came in and confirmed what you'd known in your heart for quite some time. He stayed for awhile but you didn't hear him once the first sentence left his lips. The static replaced his voice. 

You made an impossible decision. You told your babies and they hit you and screamed at you to fix it and give them their brother back. You just took it. You let them pelt you with their little fists and their big feelings and you held them closer, almost as if you could keep them from breaking through sheer will and love. 

You held him. You sang to him. You cradled him in your arms for the rest of his life. 

Right now it seems that everything from breathing to walking is impossible. It feels like they forgot to pronounce you gone at the exact same time. It's impossible to even begin to imagine any kind of "life" after this...

But...there will be people.

On that first day home, your neighbors, who are also grieving parents, will carry you into your house. 

For the first few months a tribe of women will gather over and over again, despite having their own lives, to sit with you to let you scream in pain. 

One of those women will literally pick you up out of the snow. And she's still holding on, 11 years after this day. 

People will honor his life with kindness and love for others. Hundreds of people. 

Your closest people will listen to the pain. They'll hear the stories of these final days and they won't back away. But instead, sit with you in your brokenness. 

A friend, and fellow broken mother, will be a lifeline on more days than I can count. 

Every year at this time, your "people" will see your fragility. They'll handle you with care and love you in the most beautiful ways. 

At some point you'll take breaths that don't crush your soul. You'll reach for others who have experienced this pain and you'll hold onto them as much as they do to you. 

You'll still want to leave this world. And you'll explain that you only mean to see him, to be his mother, to want what all mothers want. And sometimes that desire will wash over you with a force that you're sure you can't withstand...

But...there will be people.

Your babies who once pounded your chest in pain, will grow and thrive and look at you with different eyes. 

Friends will gather to bring you meals, and a clean home so that all you have to do is to remember and to grieve. 

The static will soften and be replaced with a different sound. It will be the voices of those who continue to love you despite your brokenness. You are surrounded with such an overabundance of love that it will almost fill those cracks made in your heart so many years ago. Almost. You still get the odd comfort of your grief. You will remain broken and some days, shattered. But you'll breathe again. You'll even smile. And all because...

There will be people. 

Fragile

 Today was a "fragile" day. I call it that because that's how I feel. I don't really know exactly how to describe the extent to which my fragility affects me. It's said time and time again that grief comes back again and again like a "tidal wave". And while that's true, that isn't the only thing that happens. 

I'm always surprised at how blind-sided I am by this tsunami of grief that washes over me. It feels like, that at this point, I shouldn't be so caught off guard. But I am. Every damn time. This is a rough time of year, which may seem obvious given upcoming holidays, but this season is particularly tough for me in relationship to my timeline of loss. The thing is, I "know" that, in my brain. I could tell you that if you asked. However, it still somehow sneaks up on me. And my body knows first. Every time, my body feels the pain, the anguish, the weight of grief before I'm consciously aware. 

Today I woke up and my son was dead. I actually panicked. My chest burned like it was on fire as the bastard that is PTSD coursed through every inch of my body. I don't just "remember" the pain, the fear, the guilt. I'm actually THERE. I'm transported back to the smell of the hospital room. I'm being asked to make that same decision again. I feel the immense guilt and searing pain of signing on that line. My arms are actually heavier. My lungs unable to take on air in the way I could just moments ago. At one point I was pretty sure that if someone even accidentally brushed up against me that I'd crumble to the ground. I felt as if my skin was not enough to keep me from going everywhere at once. Fragile. I feel fragile. 

Grief Apple

 Sometimes I wake in the middle of the night, and my son is dead. That's the best description I can give for being slapped with reality in these moments. It's odd to me that after years of grief and very much "knowing" this fact, that it would continue to hit me SO hard at times. 

It's mentioned frequently that grief is like a tidal wave when it hits out of nowhere. I can't believe the accuracy with which that describes the absolute blast of reality I experience. There is no special date or anything right now, and I've found throughout my grief life that these waves can be even more damning when the latter is true. A random Tuesday will hold so much pain and so much reality that your chest is crushed with the weight of it. Sometimes I'll be seemingly oblivious to anything but mundane tasks and I'll reach for an apple in the produce aisle of the grocery store and that sneaky bastard, Grief, will deliver a blow so devastating that I simply have to abandon that grief apple, as well as my cart and walk out of the store. 

He isn't here. He isn't physically ever going to be here again. He won't see his siblings graduate, begin their careers, maybe marry and have children. That's real and right now it's so raw. My babies feel it too. I've seen it in them. Two of them recently left for college and the reality of who  isn't here has hit, at times, with a new vengeance. I wish I could take their pain. But I also know that it is my grief, my pain, that connects me to that boy sometimes. It's the thing people can see. They can't see him, but they can look into our eyes and recognize that he was here, that he IS here. The dichotomy of raging against that grief while also pulling it close and holding onto it for dear life is something I couldn't have imagined if I'd tried. 

As I get older, maybe wiser, certainly more grateful for the gifts in my life, I recognize that my grief has shaped this skin I'm in. It has tormented and twisted me inside and out. It has found me on a couch at 2am, listening to the sobs of my now teenager as he/she laments the loss. Grief has added lines and scars. It has shoved me to the depths of human despair, and has also raised me to a height I would have never known possible. I often don't know what to do with the absolute tsunami of grief I sometimes experience. All I know, is that sometimes, in the quietest dark, I wake suddenly and realize in the screaming silence that my son is dead.