Saturday, March 16, 2013
Monday, March 11, 2013
Don't Worry. This Has Happened Before.
The above is something my nephew said to my daughter when he was only six years old. My daughter was having a meltdown over something- I don't even remember what. He calmed her by saying, "Don't worry. This has happened before." He told her, "This happens to everyone."
His little comment has stuck with me. It calms my meltdowns. For everything I've had to go through, someone else has done it before and will do it again. There is great peace in accepting life is supposed to be hard. There is peace in recognizing the nature of the beast. I don't know why we act so surprised by death. It's as common as birth! I knew after my Dad and brother died, there would eventually be someone else joining them. Thankfully, though, we never know who.
I am part of a private group on facebook for moms and dads of anencephaly babies. I also met with a girl in town who went through this six months ago. Talking with others who have gone down the same path has brought me immense comfort and strength. When I was getting close to delivery, I panicked a time or two with the horror of having to watch my baby die in my own arms. But then I thought about the others who had braved the same thing and survived it (even found peace in it) and I was lifted up. I thought if they could do this, maybe, just maybe I could.
I'm not the first Mama to lose a baby and I certainly won't be the last. My experience is uniquely mine but not unique. Death is not unique. I can feel the strength of all the Mamas gone before me.
If we're lucky enough to be around for a while, we'll all lose people we love. This thought doesn't depress me. It comforts me. Death is normal. Don't worry, I tell myself, this has happened before.
His little comment has stuck with me. It calms my meltdowns. For everything I've had to go through, someone else has done it before and will do it again. There is great peace in accepting life is supposed to be hard. There is peace in recognizing the nature of the beast. I don't know why we act so surprised by death. It's as common as birth! I knew after my Dad and brother died, there would eventually be someone else joining them. Thankfully, though, we never know who.
I am part of a private group on facebook for moms and dads of anencephaly babies. I also met with a girl in town who went through this six months ago. Talking with others who have gone down the same path has brought me immense comfort and strength. When I was getting close to delivery, I panicked a time or two with the horror of having to watch my baby die in my own arms. But then I thought about the others who had braved the same thing and survived it (even found peace in it) and I was lifted up. I thought if they could do this, maybe, just maybe I could.
I'm not the first Mama to lose a baby and I certainly won't be the last. My experience is uniquely mine but not unique. Death is not unique. I can feel the strength of all the Mamas gone before me.
If we're lucky enough to be around for a while, we'll all lose people we love. This thought doesn't depress me. It comforts me. Death is normal. Don't worry, I tell myself, this has happened before.
Friday, March 8, 2013
Love Wins
To: My Body
The milk. It seems to me a really low blow. Is there no system override when my mind knows my sweet babe is not here?
To: My Dad
When you died, I just couldn't believe you had food in your fridge. And fresh fruit on your counter. I wore your slippers, sat in your chair and ate your chocolate pudding. I couldn't comprehend that you had just been here. Just days before. You were actually on earth, had gone to Wal-Mart and picked out fruit! And it was still fresh. This was proof you were close when you were gone. Inevitably, though, the time came to empty your freezer, box up your books, lock the door and turn in the key.
To: My Sweet Baby
My milk is gone now. It was painful while it was here but it was proof you were close. That you had actually been with me for nearly one year. That I really did hold your warm body against my chest and hear your sweet voice talk to me. No one can stop this arrow of time. I can't slow it down. I hate these days passing. I want you to be close. Please stay close to me always. Let me feel you close.
I've been thinking of the instincts a mother has. Even animals are driven beyond their own control to fiercely protect and nurture their young. I understand now the aching arms. Everything in me wants to hold my baby and take care of him. The fact that he is in a box in the ground is a very disturbing nightmare, the ones you wake up from to find your baby still sleeping in your arms. I keep getting a panicked feeling, similar to the few seconds you can't locate your child at the park or in a mall.
For so long, I knew exactly where Ivan was. I knew he was safe and warm in my belly, spirit and body together. And now I just want to know exactly where he is. I know he is safe and with God but I feel like I've lost him. I feel terrible I couldn't fix him and make him well. Every cell in my body is wandering, looking for my baby. Every bit of me aches to hold him. I wander the house, full of the energy and adrenaline that keeps you awake nursing those first months, not knowing what to do with myself next.
And then yesterday I remembered that my baby loves me back. When I am empty, I let that love flow between us. I send some to him and he sends some to me. It fills me up. Love wins. I'm so happy he is my son! I'm so happy to have had him here with me. I miss him.
I love this picture my midwife took. It captures the intense love and happiness we felt when we finally got to meet Ivan, Brandon's eyes wet all at once with happy and sad. A volunteer from NILMDTS came and took professional photos which I should have in several weeks and am very much looking forward to seeing.
The milk. It seems to me a really low blow. Is there no system override when my mind knows my sweet babe is not here?
To: My Dad
When you died, I just couldn't believe you had food in your fridge. And fresh fruit on your counter. I wore your slippers, sat in your chair and ate your chocolate pudding. I couldn't comprehend that you had just been here. Just days before. You were actually on earth, had gone to Wal-Mart and picked out fruit! And it was still fresh. This was proof you were close when you were gone. Inevitably, though, the time came to empty your freezer, box up your books, lock the door and turn in the key.
To: My Sweet Baby
My milk is gone now. It was painful while it was here but it was proof you were close. That you had actually been with me for nearly one year. That I really did hold your warm body against my chest and hear your sweet voice talk to me. No one can stop this arrow of time. I can't slow it down. I hate these days passing. I want you to be close. Please stay close to me always. Let me feel you close.
I've been thinking of the instincts a mother has. Even animals are driven beyond their own control to fiercely protect and nurture their young. I understand now the aching arms. Everything in me wants to hold my baby and take care of him. The fact that he is in a box in the ground is a very disturbing nightmare, the ones you wake up from to find your baby still sleeping in your arms. I keep getting a panicked feeling, similar to the few seconds you can't locate your child at the park or in a mall.
For so long, I knew exactly where Ivan was. I knew he was safe and warm in my belly, spirit and body together. And now I just want to know exactly where he is. I know he is safe and with God but I feel like I've lost him. I feel terrible I couldn't fix him and make him well. Every cell in my body is wandering, looking for my baby. Every bit of me aches to hold him. I wander the house, full of the energy and adrenaline that keeps you awake nursing those first months, not knowing what to do with myself next.
And then yesterday I remembered that my baby loves me back. When I am empty, I let that love flow between us. I send some to him and he sends some to me. It fills me up. Love wins. I'm so happy he is my son! I'm so happy to have had him here with me. I miss him.
I love this picture my midwife took. It captures the intense love and happiness we felt when we finally got to meet Ivan, Brandon's eyes wet all at once with happy and sad. A volunteer from NILMDTS came and took professional photos which I should have in several weeks and am very much looking forward to seeing.
Tuesday, March 5, 2013
March 5th, 2013
We drove the kids up to Zion today. We just had to get out of the depressing house and try to make the kids feel normal. They really needed our attention. I told Anika when someone dies, families need a lot of time together to give each other extra love. I have felt like I don't want to leave Brandon's side, even to go downstairs alone. We really needed today to be together, close together. And to rest.
We drove through the Zion tunnel. Anika thought that was great fun. It was nice to see her enjoying herself. When you come out of the black tunnel, the light seems blinding. We parked in the campground and walked down to the river to let the kids throw rocks in it. The sun was so bright, I could hardly see. I hadn't felt the sun soak my skin for a very long time... or I was just too sick to notice. It feels weird, unrecognizable to not be sick. I haven't thrown up since I was in labor, standing over the toilet vomiting up cranberry juice while simultaneously peeing all over the floor.
Sitting there on the west bank of the Virgin River, I felt like I had just split the Red Sea, wandered in the wilderness for forty years, crossed the River Jordan and was sitting on its west bank...The Promised Land. I was resting with my family in the crimson-bright light. How beautiful, I thought, will it be when we walk where the pain ends and into the light. Into the arms of everyone we've ever known and loved. How beautiful to be missing no one. The sweet will be sweet only because we have tasted the bitter. The joy will be joy only because we have known the pain.
We drove through the Zion tunnel. Anika thought that was great fun. It was nice to see her enjoying herself. When you come out of the black tunnel, the light seems blinding. We parked in the campground and walked down to the river to let the kids throw rocks in it. The sun was so bright, I could hardly see. I hadn't felt the sun soak my skin for a very long time... or I was just too sick to notice. It feels weird, unrecognizable to not be sick. I haven't thrown up since I was in labor, standing over the toilet vomiting up cranberry juice while simultaneously peeing all over the floor.
Sitting there on the west bank of the Virgin River, I felt like I had just split the Red Sea, wandered in the wilderness for forty years, crossed the River Jordan and was sitting on its west bank...The Promised Land. I was resting with my family in the crimson-bright light. How beautiful, I thought, will it be when we walk where the pain ends and into the light. Into the arms of everyone we've ever known and loved. How beautiful to be missing no one. The sweet will be sweet only because we have tasted the bitter. The joy will be joy only because we have known the pain.
March 4th, 2013
Dearest Ivan,
The day you were born was the day the sky changed from a winter sky into a spring sky. We buried you today, the day the spring winds came. The grass was half green, the trees hinting of pollen. I imagined myself as a wrinkled old woman, still wearing your golden ring around my neck. Dozens of springs lie ahead of me. Thousands of days. I will long to hold you and kiss your sweet cheek each and every one of them. Like the world in winter, seemingly dead, you lie dormant. But I know you live. I know we will be together again. I know you're looking down on us, my sweet angel. I miss you. I love you.
Love,
Your Mama
The day you were born was the day the sky changed from a winter sky into a spring sky. We buried you today, the day the spring winds came. The grass was half green, the trees hinting of pollen. I imagined myself as a wrinkled old woman, still wearing your golden ring around my neck. Dozens of springs lie ahead of me. Thousands of days. I will long to hold you and kiss your sweet cheek each and every one of them. Like the world in winter, seemingly dead, you lie dormant. But I know you live. I know we will be together again. I know you're looking down on us, my sweet angel. I miss you. I love you.
Love,
Your Mama
Saturday, March 2, 2013
Ivan Brandon Larson
Sweet baby Ivan came Thursday. He stayed with us for two precious hours. He breathed on his own and made tons of really cute baby sounds with his very own adorable little voice. He moved a lot while snuggled into my chest, skin-to-skin. He yawned two adorable yawns. He opened his eyes quite a bit to look at us. We love and miss him very much. I feel so lucky to be his Mama!
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