How Am I?

6

August 31, 2011

Disclaimer: As I reread this post, I see that it is on the grumpy side. It is not beautiful. I’m still gonna post it, because, well, blogging has become my therapy and there’s no turning back now. You’re stuck with me. (And if you don’t read this, I’ll never know.)

When people ask me “How are you?” these days, I always have an instant of indecision. Usually, I say I’m fine or okay – because, at that precise moment, I am. Or I say, “Up and down,” since that is probably the truest answer out there.

I should really just admit that I don’t know. (That doesn’t make for neat small talk, though.)

Today, I’m having a bit of an emotional day. (And I’m having chocolate. Trite, but worth it.) I have realized that I am past what I can call “initial grief”; Sean and both have felt ourselves shifting into a different phase. Now I’m becoming aware of the elements of grieving that sneak up on you – the elements that make you feel that as you heal, you sacrifice parts of your functional self.

Since Sebastian died, I’ve generally coped better than I or anyone else would expect. I never felt like I was falling apart; I didn’t lose my ability to enjoy good moments; I didn’t forget how to laugh. In between bouts of intense grieving, I have often felt… pretty good. I have sometimes wondered why I didn’t seem to be hit as hard as other moms in similar situations, why I wasn’t completely devastated. As I’ve written previously, I know some of the reasons.

And now I think another reason is that I’m experiencing grief one piece at a time. One family friend said, at Sebastian’s memorial, “Maybe this can be the end of a chapter.” I think she was right – it provided an apt closure to that phase, whatever it was. The next chapter is the one where I am getting the more mundane, more frustrating aspects of life after loss – ones I was spared (or at least didn’t notice) at first. The ones that make me feel like I’m a different person, and sadly, a person that I don’t like as much. Sometimes I’m not even sure I can blame this new self on my grief – maybe it’s all just the process of aging and gradually losing one’s marbles. The answers to the “How are you?” questions are so intertwined that I don’t know where to start (which is typical). Good thing blogs allow for cutting and pasting. Continued…

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A Tribute to Jack

2

August 27, 2011

Today, as I write this, millions have gathered their minds together

to honour you, Jack.

I hope you can see them. They drew all over the square

with chalk and love.

They got up hours before the sun, to make sure they could come see you.

They are shedding tears for you and your family – so many they could wash the country clean.

They are piling up flowers outside your office -

maybe you can catch their fragrance before they fade.

Maybe you can read the messages of love that are crowding cyberspace right now.

Maybe you can hear the songs being sung for you… and for all of us.

It was easy to forget how sick you were.

We picture you smiling,

magnetic, genuine, vigourous, warm,

full of ideas and humour,

not to mention sheer persistence.

You gave a damn – about every one of us,

even those who didn’t give a damn about you.

Many wrote you off, even though you just wanted what we all want:

happy Canadians.

You wanted us to be healthy, well-educated, well-cared-for.

You wanted us to live in decent homes, in a beautiful, blooming country.

You wanted this for all of us -

the fortunate and the unfortunate, the young and the old, the hard-up and the wildly successful.

These dogged hopes transcended politics.

They were not such a crazy dream to have.

And you are right: your dream is longer than a lifetime.

Your wife bravely told us, “Love doesn’t die.”

I know she is right.

I still can’t believe you’re gone,

but I’ll work to carry your optimism with me.

We will make sure your love -

for Canada, for the world, for people -

lives.

20110823laytonmural1 A Tribute to Jack

***


 

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A Blessed Event

9

August 22, 2011

We are an incredibly fortunate family.

I have always known I was a very lucky girl, and I have always tried not to take things for granted… although, of course, all of us do sometimes. But I have never been more aware of my blessings than I am right now.

From the moment we began to spread the news of Sebastian’s death, Sean and I have been inundated with love and kindness from all reaches of our various circles of friends. It has been amazing and beautiful, and impossible not to be thankful.

In the grieving books it warns us that people will try to make us feel better by saying, “Well, at least you have _______ (each other, your other child, your health, your fertility, etc.).” This is hard for a lot of grieving parents to hear, because it might seem like belittling or brushing off the grief they feel. But for us, we’ve been thinking these same thoughts from the beginning, and when people say things along these lines, we thoroughly agree. We are acutely aware of how much harder this would be if we didn’t have such good fortune in other ways.

Many people have told me recently that I’m brave, strong, courageous. I don’t feel like I’m any of those things. Instead, I’ve realized something that has become my response: I’m as strong as the support around me. If I were going through this feeling lonely, or isolated, or hopeless, or angry, it would be infinitely harder.

At the risk of sounding Pollyanna-ish, I’m going to tell you about the good parts, the bright sides. Continued…

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Sebastian

4

August 16, 2011

Today was the due date of my second son. Since it is also the birthday of my amazing Mama, a woman with more creative talents than I can name, I am posting (with her permission) the poem she wrote for him.

Sebastian

I know you.
I know the germ of you
The precious material of which you are made
Your forebears and your environment.
I know you
And I will miss you and remember you.
I grieve that you had not even one moment
Alive in the air
Not a single glimpse
Of your parents’ faces
Or the blue sky
Not one touch of your father’s hand.
But since you were not to live in the world
I must rejoice
That you could spend your life
In your mother’s perfect embrace.

- Beverly Shepard, a.k.a. Grammie

***


 

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One Month

9

August 11, 2011

A few days ago, on August 8th, I began a post about it being one month since Sebastian’s birth.

I’ve always been the type to measure and commemorate, even just with some focused thoughts, the anniversaries (and monthaversaries and weekaversaries) of important things in my life. I guess it makes me feel closer to those events, to think “It has been exactly a month since ____…” or “At this time last year, I was doing _____…”

I tried to write, and I found myself blocked. One month since a baby’s birth is supposed to be happy. He’s supposed to be one month old, something we can celebrate. Recently on Unspoken Grief, one mother posted that her baby would have been one month old that day – something that clearly still needs to be commemorated.

I didn’t want to say that. I started to, but it was wrong. My baby boy would not have been one month old, because if he’d lived, he would still be inside me right now. That was not supposed to be his birth day.

And it messes with my brain to think about his death coming before his birth. Since we calculate our lives as starting when we are born… by that system, Sebastian was never alive. Of course, he was alive, we just don’t have the language for talking about it in that order. Continued…

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Learning about grief

8

August 8, 2011

I don’t have a lot of experience with grief.

Today, one month after Sebastian’s death, I have been reading about the experiences of other “babylost” parents on two websites, glow in the woods and Unspoken Grief. There is a lot I relate to in the words of these bereaved mothers and fathers.

I’ve also been reading the book we were given at the hospital after Sebastian’s birth, called Empty Cradle, Broken Heart. It discusses the way you might feel and what is “normal” to go through after you lose a baby, through miscarriage, interrupted pregnancy, stillbirth, or infant death. It basically says that no matter what you are feeling, you are entitled to it. Grieving a baby is hard, and everyone who has to do it will do so differently.

One of the biggest topics the author addresses is Anger. Many mothers feel rage – at the universe or God or fate, for bringing them this misfortune. Others are furious at medical staff, or other people involved with their pregnancy or birth, people they blame for the death (sometimes genuinely, sometimes temporarily as a coping mechanism).

During the conversation when I first told my older sister that her second nephew had died, she said something that struck me as incredibly sad: “I live my life perpetually expecting things to go wrong, so I’ll be prepared when they do… but it doesn’t really work. I’m still not prepared.” Continued…

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Music to live on

0

August 6, 2011

This is Ben Sollee. He is a special guy who plays the cello (awesomely).

ben sollee ditch the van tour 2 9WZFD 11446 300x199 Music to live on

Part of his bio on bensollee.com says this:

…In 2010, Ben embarked on the “Ditch The Van Tour.” Ben and his band abandoned the comforts of a motorized vehicle and hauled their gear and instruments (yep, the cello too) across the country on bicycles. Ben’s mission was to engage a greater sense of community involvement at every performance. By huffing it on two wheels between cities, instead of driving or flying, Ben and his crew were able to discover people and facets of our country in ways that traditional touring could not allow. “It’s not about being green or even sustainable… we want to exploit the limitations of the bicycle to slow down and experience the rich communities and people that I’ve spent years flying by and driving past.”

On one of my blogging days just after Sebastian died, while Everett was at the babysitter, I listened to Ben Sollee’s album Learning to Bend three times in a row. I can’t decide which of the eleven songs is my favourite… they are all so different, original, intriguing. This one is delicately beautiful and sad – and somehow heartening at the same time. (The version on the album is even more stirring, with the violins.)

So, I highly recommend discovering Ben Sollee for yourself.

***


 

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Family Camp

3

August 4, 2011

We arrived home from Family Camp about 25 hours ago. E was such an incredibly good boy all day yesterday (in spite of having decided he’s definitely two years old all of a sudden – also in spite of pouring rain, being stuck in the backpack while Mommy swept floors, not being able to go in the sandbox, etc.), and stayed awake far past his bedtime in the car, being adorable.

It was great to be at NeeKauNis. It always is – it just does my heart good. Of course, this time my heart needed it more than usual. Among those things (and there are lots more, but it’s bedtime soon):

  • the sound of cicadas overwhelming the distant highway noise;
  • the smell of wild grasses, the lake, the trees;
  • enjoying Family Camp food I didn’t help cook (for the first time in almost 20 years);
  • the beauty of Talent Night, particularly the children who express their awesomeness through dance;
  • witnessing the various interactions of 21 children aged nine months to twelve years;
  • especially, witnessing two young boys (ages 8 and 10) fall in love with my little boy and be absolutely wonderful with him, giving hugs and kisses and tickles, playing chase with him, encouraging him to eat his vegetables, taking walks with him, etc.;
  • also especially, witnessing E gradually forging a relationship with another little boy just the same size but opposite colouring – picture two little hands clasped together for silent grace at the supper table, both boys serious and quiet, and so cute you can hardly stand it;
  • catching up with good friends I only see at Family Camp – even though it’s hard to finish a conversation when small children are involved;
  • seeing good parenting going on all around me – and learning a lot too (did you know that two-year-olds are evolutionarily supposed to refuse to try new foods? because they’re suddenly exploring independently and it’s important for them to be suspicious and not want to put unrecognized things in their mouths – this bit of info made me feel much better about E’s upwardly spiralling “No, no, no, no, no!” when presented with anything interesting to eat);
  • watching (and participating a little bit in) the construction of a brand-new play structure, built in memory of a dear friend we lost last November;
  • watching my hubby use his managerial wizardry as the “maestro” of the project, to make sure it all went smoothly;
  • seeing how much all this work, done with love by campers, meant to our friend’s mother;
  • seeing – and receiving, and giving – so much love… hugs, shoulder rubs, shoulders to cry on, caring gestures, sincere words… always present at Camp, but this year I feel it all more.

This last point needs another note. Sean and I have been overwhelmed, in the best way possible, by the love that has flooded in since Sebastian’s death, from all corners of our lives, from the moment we shared the news. There is a lot more to be said about this, but for now let me say that we are tremendously grateful. A thousand thanks for your words, thoughts, prayers, tears… and, of course, for reading.

***


 

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