What to say to the parents of a stillborn baby

5

September 28, 2011

At my parents’ house on the weekend, my dad handed me the local paper and said, “You’ll be interested in this.” Yes, I was. It was a series of articles called Breaking the Silence, focusing on baby loss. The next day, I wrote a letter to thank The Spectator for their feature, which talks about the efforts of two grown sisters, one of whom had a stillborn daughter, to get people opening up about miscarriage and perinatal death.

This is part of that letter, referring to something I have only gradually understood:

Since [my son's stillbirth], I have been aware of the silence [surrounding the topic], but have also realized I am sometimes a perpetrator. I have been in several conversations with people I’ve just met, where it would have made sense to mention my pregnancy but I deliberately avoided it. I balk at turning a normal, lighthearted conversation into a tragic one. This is part of why the silence is there: if death can put a damper on a conversation, infant death can crush it completely.

In this letter, I also mentioned – and please, give yourself a hug for this – how awesome YOU are. You, dear readers, made it okay for me to bring this up, to not be silent. Even when I gave you what I feared might be too much information, you stuck around. You are amazing. Unfortunately, for the sisters in the article, “social media became a nightmare” after the stillbirth, and I can see how that could happen. But Sean and I have felt nothing but support and love from our online interactions. Once again, thank you.

Along with the articles, there is a “Do and Don’t” list entitled “How to support a grieving parent”, written by Shawna Clouthier (one of the sisters), who works for Perinatal Bereavement Services Ontario. It’s a good, solid list – she has obviously listened compassionately to what babylost parents have to say. For the record, people have said many of the things on the “Don’t” list to me without upsetting me, because my brain works along those same lines; but I do relate to what she says, and how it could produce negative reactions. Continued…

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Snapshots from Homecoming Weekend, a.k.a. “Glad to be Old”

5

September 25, 2011

It’s Homecoming weekend. No wonder there were so many students all garbed-out at the same time: boys with warpaint on their faces, girls with gaudy t-shirts offsetting their way-too-short shorts.

There’s a big house party on a busy street. The music can be heard blocks away. A gaggle of students crowds the front porch, surrounded by discarded beer cups (red, so they count as school spirit). A girl in a pink shirt, jeans, and sunglasses sits on the step with a drink in her hand, not conversing with anyone, but moving her head to the music. Dilovely can tell (recognizing one of her own) she is not one of the cool ones, but here she is at this awesome party. It’s surreal, and hard for her to believe she’s there, but she will pretend she does this all the time.

Not long after, Dilovely stands in line at the liquor store, trying to remember the last time she got carded. (It was well into her twenties, but now fading in the distance.) The guys behind her are talking about how “sick” it is that there are $4 mickeys of champagne for sale. Dilovely is disconcerted that one of the guys is standing right up in her personal space and periodically brushing up against her; it isn’t until one guy drops his six-pack and the group of them is escorted out of the store that she realizes why she overheard one of them asking his buddies, “Do my eyes look red to you?”

That’s how naïve Dilovely is: she has never tried to buy alcohol while drunk, so she never knew this was not allowed. In fact, here’s a secret: Dilovely has never, in her whole life, been drunk enough to be sick, or even fall over. Not even at her own bachelorette, where she had a record 11 drinks (including shots).

Back to the checkout line. The cashier is a dewy-faced young man with a beard that really tries hard. He says awkwardly, “It’s homecoming this weekend. I guess I really should be watching out for those… They sure don’t give people in my age group a very good reputation.” Continued…

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Help! My two-year-old is out to destroy my sanity…

10

September 21, 2011

Apparently it’s World Gratitude Day today. (I’ve never heard of this, but Care2 told me. I bet Oprah started it.) I started today feeling as ungrateful as I have in ages, all because of that wonderful kid I love so much. It seems unfair to gripe about him when I’ve been collecting bits of bloggable awesomeness about him all summer that I still haven’t posted… but that time will come. And I guess I’ve done a couple of posts about his good points in the past, ha ha.

This was the first day I’ve arrived at school feeling like I just couldn’t do it. I was completely drained before I started, and it was all on my two-year-old. (Okay, not ALL – but still.) Very, very two, that kid. He’s had a cough for the last several days, so hasn’t been sleeping well (neither have we) and has been grumpier than usual. Think uber-whiny. Combine that with the fact that he has assigned himself the moral obligation to contradict everything anyone says… and you get some very frustrating situations. Take this morning:

E: I have to poop on the potty!

Mommy: Okay, let’s go!

E (arriving at his potty): Noooo! I don’t wanna go on the potty!! (struggling but eventually sitting down)

Mommy tries to give him a hug instead of words, knowing that this often succeeds in calming him. Not today.

E (shriekily, pushing Mommy away): No, you don’t wanna give me a hug!

Mommy tries giving him a kiss instead.

E (still pushing): No, you don’t wanna give me a kiss!

Mommy gets up and goes to find her abandoned breakfast.

E (screeching): Mommy! DON’T GO AWAY FROM ME!! Continued…

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Kudos to the Kindergarten Teachers

10

September 18, 2011

I’m friends with lots of kindergarten teachers. Skye is one of them; Mr. A is another one; and there are a bunch more. Thank goodness, because I am joining their ranks (sort of), rotating through the French immersion kinder classes to do math, and having one class all to myself for most of every other Friday. Let me tell you, it is a huge relief to know people whose brains I can pick.

Kindergarten is a whole new world. Other than a tiny piece of kinder planning five years ago (in which I learned of the extreme randomness of small children’s thought processes), this is my first foray into the beginner stratum of public school. And when I say beginner, I mean the kids (and sometimes the parents)… not the teachers. Teaching kindergarten is not for the faint of heart – or the weak of stomach, or the feeble of feet, or the poor of energy. Kindergarten teachers have my everlasting respect.

Friday was my first day this year teaching full-on all day long – two solid (100-minute) blocks of kindergarten, lunch yard duty, then two core French classes. I think it would have been fun, if my head hadn’t been full of congestion and my energy level down in my shoes. As it was, I asked myself (as I have many times over the years) “Why did I have to pick a job this hard?” If teaching is a study in sheer energy output, kindergarten is the ultimate test.

Notwithstanding, I still managed to fall in love with several of the kids – and gained some new appreciation for my junior students (Grades 4-6) who are so self-directed, hilarious in their own right, and whom I also love – for different reasons. I guess that answers my aforementioned question.

Here are some things I’m learning about kindergarten, so far: Continued…

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The Hope of a New Generation

8

September 13, 2011

Dear New Neighbours,

I just wanted to let you know what a privilege it is to share our neighbourhood with you. As your facing neighbours, we feel especially lucky.

When you first moved in a few weeks ago, we though, Hurray! These kids will help keep us young! And you wasted no time in seeing to it: we got lessons in Topfortyology that very weekend. In your determination to be thorough, you played your music for twelve hours straight, and you made sure it was loud enough to reach from your living room to our backyard. That’s dedication.

By now, we know how much our weekends are to be enriched by your presence. We know that for as long as the weather holds, the street will be filled with the youthful joy you and your friends bring to your get-togethers, complete with colourful vocabulary for my son to learn, inspirational news about your capacity for vodka, and whimsical barking noises designed to make the dogs of our neighbourhood feel included. And the fact that your commitment extends even unto gracing our breakfast not once, but twice this weekend with the hearty sounds of retching into your flowerbeds, well… there are no words.

For the example you set for our children… for the honour you do your parents who sent you to school… for the respect you show your forebears who made the University what it is today… for the reminder that bedtime is just a human construct that fetters our fulfillment… for the way you tipped the balance to transform our boring family neighbourhood into an exciting new place we hardly recognize… and for the motivation you provide to your peers who might otherwise lead a quiet, lacklustre life of studiousness – and whose reputation you glorify by association… THANK YOU.

***


 

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September 2001

1

September 11, 2011

Ten years ago today, it was my first day of school at the University of Toronto. I lazily listened to the radio after the alarm went off, until a breaking story about a wayward airplane interrupted the newscast. In the living room, I turned on the television and watched the second one arrive – the plane that proved the purpose of the first. We were supposed to arrive at our first class collected and confident, ready to discuss analytical theory of French literature with aplomb. Instead, we were stunned, disoriented, mournful.

My future husband was in the woods of Algonquin, completely oblivious. A few days later, he and the guys refused to believe the outlandish story they heard at the ranger’s shack; it must be just one of those tall tales you tell campers to remind them how far they have been from civilization. Now, it is eerie to remember that September 11th was the only day that week that it didn’t pour rain on them: the one beautiful, blue-skied day of the camping trip.

I’ll bet you remember where you were, too.

That Friday, I watched memorial services and cried to think of all the people who had died and lost loved ones, and all the people who would die and lose loved ones in exchange. The thought of even more carnage was agonizing, even though I knew why it would happen, and that people were demanding it. What an awful time.

This is what I wrote that month.

This is a season of ladybugs.
People walk around with them
Sticking to collars and hair, unaware.

In this season,
Torontonians walk down St. George
squint
try to picture the tower gone.

In this season,
flags cuddle together as they fly
modern-day kings face off in the schoolyard
rallying their friends
blindly flinging pebbles as hard as they can
no question of saying uncle.

In this season
we shudder in varying degrees
as we open our mail.

Some of us staunchly bless America
less than ever.

We know childhood heroes can die
(did Mr. Dressup have a firefighter costume?)
We know the record man can go under
We know there’s poison in that
bursty blue sky.

Shaken and changed,
we bustle around like always,
all in it together.

***


 

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How to put a serious damper on someone’s morning

5

September 7, 2011

If you really want to take the wind out of an innocent person’s sails first thing in the morning, tell them about your stillborn baby. That does the trick.

Yesterday was the first day of school, and I was lucky enough to have an easy and anonymous day in the kindergarten wing, where none of the kids know me – and only about half of them were there anyway. The rest of the time, I holed up in my office or the staffroom, deliberately not encountering my previous students or their parents. The classroom teachers for my Core French students kindly agreed to tell them the basics of why I am back so much sooner than expected, and I was hoping the word would spread fast enough that I would get away with never answering that question: “Hey, Madame, what are you doing here?”

Yesterday, I did. Today, not so lucky. I had morning yard duty before the bell, when parents who walk their kids to school are milling around and chatting. Normally, it’s nice. This time, I was out there only a couple of minutes before one mom saw me and exclaimed delightedly, “You had your baby! What did you have?”

Oh, shit.

It was thoughtful of her to remember and ask – again, it’s one of those things that, on a daily basis, makes our tight-knit school community a great place to be. Just not at moments like this.

I had a fleeting moment where I imagined just telling her I had a boy, averting my eyes, and moving on… but of course that would never work. You can imagine the look on her face when I had to say, “I had a boy… but he was stillborn.” Of course she must have felt awful for asking, even though it wasn’t her fault, and I felt awful for crushing her ingenuous question, even though it wasn’t my fault either.

A few minutes later, it was two moms together. One said, “You are without your bump! What did you have?” This time I said, “I had a boy…” and unfortunately for both of us, she said, “Oh! Two boys, that’s great!” before I got to the stillborn part. Nope, not two boys. Two shocked, saddened mothers of boys instead. At least I know that they are caring parents: when they say they are so sorry, I know they mean it.

On the bright side, that’s been the only really hard part. Other than that, it’s actually been good to be at school the last two days. Good to feel the fresh September energy in the building, good to see the talented and dedicated teachers who are my colleagues (although I miss the ones who changed schools this year), good to get acquainted with kindergarten the easy way (starting with just senior kindergartners in small groups, before the juniors are phased in), good to see how very welcoming our community is to new students (we have some particularly special high-needs Ks this year, and I know they’ll get wonderful care). I’m also very grateful for compassion and understanding, not just from my fellow teachers, but from the school board, who made it possible for me to have a reduced (80%) assignment, and from my principal, who has set up a schedule that is as low-stress as possible.

It’s going to be fine. icon smile How to put a serious damper on someones morning

Tomorrow: my first dose of JKs!

***


 

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The Summer of My Initiation

6

September 5, 2011

It’s almost time to go back to school. Being in the school building this past week, I could feel reality setting in. It’s time to get my act together.

Before I get completely immersed in that (so to speak), there are a few more things I need to officially process. I think all summers are life-changing – moments of suspension at the top of the parabola, where you can ripen new parts of your life. But of course, for our family, the summer of 2011 was more than that.

I asked Sean recently, “Do you think you’ve become a different person this summer?”

He didn’t hesitate. “Yeah. If any part of me wasn’t a real adult before… it is now.”

Naturally, becoming a parent is a big step in feeling like a bona fide adult, what with all those responsibilities, but in some ways it is also an extension of childhood, as we rediscover parks and bubbles and Lego. Surviving the fall of becoming a bereaved parent is another level of adulthood entirely.

To make myself feel better (comforted, organized, summarized… summerized?), I am making two lists about My Summer Vacation. The sad one and the happy one, twelve points each. You already know about the worst moments of my summer, and some of the best, but there are a lot more I need to let out. Okay?

Sad list first. (Raise your hands: how many of you, when told that there’s good news and bad news, ask for the bad news first?)

  1. The first trip to the funeral home, the day after Sebastian’s stillbirth. Everything was still so raw. The woman who helped us, Janet, was lovely, very good at a delicate job, but it was still hard to be there. I lost my composure several times. One point of relief: they don’t charge for services for infants. We saw the list of expenses, and even the minimum charges for an adult are, by our financial standards, huge. All we paid was a $10 fee to have the death registered with the government, thank goodness. Continued…
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