Ezra's Space

Right Where I Am: Two years, nine months, and 1 day

2011-05-30T12:50:00.003-04:00

The car stops and I pop out and open the door to the backseat where a little boy grins back at me from his carseat. 'Ready to go to a new playground?' He squeals and grins and literally bounces into my arms. 'Someone's excited about a new playground,' comments David. We walk the block toward Franklin Square park as Micah continues to squeal and point at the park coming into view. And my mind drifts....'this is all we ever wanted in the first place, just to be a family and do simple family things.' And my mind answers itself: "why did it have to be such a difficult road to get here?"

This is where I am right now. Happy raising my living child. The rainbow baby who came after. Content even.

And yet the grief is still there.

What it is to be inside my head these days is an ongoing dialogue between the light and the dark, the joy and the sadness. Invisible to almost all around me, I parent my dead son right along side the living one. I experience the world through my living child's eyes, and still wonder why my dead son didn't live to experience the world. I take joy in the simplest moments, a snuggle, a sloppy kiss, reading a book (even if its for the tenth time in a row)...and sometimes end up with tears in my eyes for the boy who never got to read the book once, who never gave me a wet sloppy kiss, who never learned to hug.

Grief doesn't overwhelm anymore. Its just a presence, an old friend who comes and goes, we can easily pick up where we left off. It doesn't prevent me from enjoying the world anymore - if anything it makes me appreciate the tiniest moments of joy all the more.

But it also underscores the impermanence of it all. I worried when I was pregnant with Micah that if he lived I would be an overly cautious parent - one who wouldn't let him out of my sight, who would be too scared to allow him to take risks. In many ways, the opposite has been true - I don't sweat the small stuff, so his cries from a bump on the head or scraped knee are ok - I know he'll survive and be just fine. But when he has a high fever or attempts to dart away from me near the street, my mind can't help but wander...what if this were it, how quickly he could be taken from me.

To my non-babylost friends these thoughts must sound so morose, so wrong in a way. But I haven't blogged in nearly a year for a reason...the grief is no longer at the forefront, these thoughts are no longer what drive my being. They are present daily but so is love and joy. What Ezra taught me is to love and mean it, to find joy and inhabit it. This is how I have come to live my days since he left.

Two

2010-08-30T07:49:00.001-04:00

Today, Ezra's 2nd birthday, I am reflecting on Two at still life 365

www.stilllife365.blogspot.com

My Two Boys

2010-08-29T20:36:00.001-04:00

Two years...

2010-08-29T08:16:00.003-04:00

Two years ago today at this time, everything was fine. In fact it was more than fine, I couldn't have been happier. It was a glorious late summer day (just as it promises to be today). I still remember the spring in my step as I walked my enormously pregnant self to the hospital for the tests my doctor recommended 'just to be safe'. I loved being pregnant with Ezra, and swollen ankles and all, that day was no exception.

I had absolutely no inkling how drastically and completely the world was about to come crashing down around me.

In the two years since, I've come to own my new self...more sad, more cynical, more connected, more compassionate. But sometimes I do miss that naive happy woman.

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But this day is not about me. It's been two years today since Ezra quietly slipped away. Two years since I was sent home from those tests as everything looked 'ok'. Two years since that car ride home where I started feeling 'stomach cramps', two years since I was balled up in bed with the worst kind of abdominal pain ever, much more so than my labor with Micah. Two years since that dreadful car ride back to the hospital. Two years since we heard those words 'your baby has passed away.'

And I still don't really believe it all happened. If I really focus in on that cruel truth, it makes me want to howl hysterically like I did in the first moments after we learned he was gone. How is it that my big boy, my first boy is not here?

My sweet sweet Ezra, I miss you and love you so very much. Every day. Especially today. Always.

Guest Post from Ezra and Micah's Daddy: Ezra in the September issue of Glamour Magazine

2010-08-26T21:52:00.002-04:00

I wouldn't have expected this, with the second anniversary of Ezra's birth and death approaching, but Glamour magazine asked me to contribute a part of an article dealing with a woman who lost her baby after seven. months of pregnancy. They wanted to include a section on what fathers experience from the loss of a child. I'm happy, at least, that this subject is getting the attention it deserves. Hopefully this will help others. Please check out the September issue of Glamour (print edition) if you can.

After

2010-08-15T20:25:00.004-04:00

If life were a movie, it would have been the scene following a cataclysmic event the night before. The morning blurred by a deep fog which hugged the ocean, obscured the tops of buildings, and made anything moving or colorful a surprise, veiled until the moment you were upon it.

But life is not a movie and there was no catacylsm the night before...just some quiet stolen moments on a morning walk with my living son, who woke too early in a beach house filled with sleeping family members.

But it got me thinking about life...after. Ezra's second birthday is just weeks away. This month, August, my season of grief, I keep waiting for the cataclysm. Waiting to feel drawn back into the depths of grief that I experienced in the weeks leading up to Ezra's first birthday. Waiting to be reduced daily to a puddle of tears. Expecting a torrent of rage or deep despair. And while I still may end up there, its not where I see myself going this grief season.

The reason is this: every day now is a day after. Every day is a day without my son Ezra.

The sadness has settled into my bones, it is part of my everyday. Ezra is in my thoughts and heart daily. I continue to parent my lost son as I parent my living one. I push giggling Micah on a swing at the playground, taking note of the empty motionless swing next to him...wondering what it would be like to be pushing two boys on swings. I mentally cringe when I meet two year olds, calculating in my head the possibilities (would he have been that tall? would he be as articulate?). I feel deep stabs of jealousy as I watch siblings who are close in age interact, particularly when it is two boys. I treasure my "new mom" friendships with mamas of babes close in age to Micah...and yet can't help but wonder about the new mamas who should have been my friends had Ezra lived.

It is true I have refound joy. And yet the sadness is ever present. The sadness is every day...after.

Gone

2010-07-16T13:07:00.004-04:00

I never intended to stop writing in this space when my Sunflower arrived.

I will admit that for much of the past six and a half months, I pretty much shelved my grief. It's not that it hasn't been present. I haven't had time to be present with it. Particularly in the first several months, I found parenting a living child to be far more challenging than I ever imagined. Not that I would trade it for anything. It just surprised me that I found it overwhelming...isn't this what I had been waiting for at least the last three years? This was supposed to be the easy part, the happy ending, no?

And it has been happy. Micah gives me a good reason to have a heart full of joy every single day. My Sunflower loves to smile and laugh...big huge belly laughs. It feels like he was sent to us to bring the laughter back into our home, to make sure we smile every day. I actually didn't know it was possible to be this happy again. And yet full of joy or not, my heart still has a hole in it.

Lately the grief has been getting to me, something about Micah turning 6 months and the slow march toward our grief season of August seems to have created the perfect storm. Ezra would be nearly two years old. And when I stop to try to wrap my mind around that, the idea that in a different universe I'd be running after a TWO year old while my 6 month old desparately trys to crawl, I just crumble.

I look back at these almost two years and I almost don't believe it is my life. How did I become this woman, the mother of two boys, one so wriggly and ALIVE, and the other so positively and absolutely...gone.

I just miss him, I really really do.

Guest Post from Ezra and Micah's Daddy: A Tribute to Fathers and Children Forever Separated

2010-06-19T15:28:00.004-04:00

June was always a big month in my family. My father's birthday, my birthday, Father's day and my parents' anniversary all jammed into a period of a few weeks.

Last year’s Father’s Day was a bittersweet one for me, and I imagine that from now on, Father’s Day for me will always evoke a bit of happiness mixed with pangs of grief. Last year at around this time, I was mourning the loss of my son Ezra, who had died only months earlier. Ezra’s placenta tore from the uterus a few weeks before his due date, cutting of his oxygen supply in utero. My wife had to go into labor to give birth to our son who had already died. I held him, and laughed and cried at the same time. I laughed because I was happy to see my son’s adorable, silly face for the first time, and I cried because I would never hold him again, never get to see him grow up and reach all of life’s milestones. And we buried him several days later, but not before reading him a bedtime story. And I never thought I’d have to bury my own child, ever. As I literally buried him in the ground with a shovel, at the cemetery, I felt as if I was burying part of myself as well.

For those who have lost a child, you know what I mean. For those who haven’t, I hope you never know such pain and emptiness. There is no loss greater than the loss of your child. It is the hopeless nightmare that does not subside. Eventually, you learn to live with your loss and incorporate the memory of your child into daily life. You must do so if you are to regain any sense of a normal existence, whatever normal means. You learn to live as a new person with a new sense of normal. But the pain never goes away entirely, nor should it.

So on that Father’s Day weekend of 2009, I was a father deprived of my son in physical form, though he remained buried in my heart. And at the same time, there was joy. My father was recovering from major surgery, and I had made countless trips back and forth from Philadelphia to New York City to visit him in the hospital. Though he was frail, immobile and only a hint of his formerly robust, colorful, loquacious and trash-talking self, he was still Dad. I said goodbye to him that day, wishing him a happy Father’s Day and all that. He gave me a mile-long stare unlike any he had given me before. He had a peaceful look on his face, as if somehow he was alright no matter what.

The next week my father died.

We were so different, yet so much alike, my father and I. He was a veteran and a union guy, while I have dual Ivy League degrees. While his tour of duty in the Army took him to Japan and Korea, years later I lived in Japan as an exchange student, studied Japanese in college, and worked in Tokyo for an ad agency and a bank. Both of us were blessed with a strong sense of community service. My father was active in his church and his V.F.W. post, while I became an activist, writer and advocate armed with a law degree. Both of us experienced racial discrimination, which is par for the course for black men in America. And I’ve had experiences and opportunities my father couldn’t have imagined, and yet he was partly responsible for them happening, and for my access to them.

This year, I observe my first Father’s Day without my father, who lived a full life, and a second Father’s Day without my son, who never had a chance to live life. And Dad is now looking after his grandson in that far away spirit world, which gives me some comfort.

In that year since my father left us, my son Micah was born. And what a joy he is! He seems to smile all the time, more than his father or grandfather ever could. Micah, it seems, was made to order for parents who needed smiles in their lives, and once believed they’d never laugh again. But why couldn’t I have both of my sons with me on Father’s Day?

Often I think about the fathers who lost their children, and the children who lost their fathers, whether through disease, famine, war or terrorism— or handgun violence in the streets of America, or corporate malfeasance— you know, crimes committed on offshore oil rigs or in coal mines. Fathers are separated from their children by prison bars miles away upstate, in this land of the incarcerated, or senseless permanent wars half a world away in Eurasia or Eastasia or another designated enemy.

Men who cannot be with their children, and people who are separated from their fathers might not be in the mood to celebrate Father’s Day, and that is ok. What is important is that we learn to honor and remember those we love when they are not or cannot be with us now or ever. And you don’t need a special day for that.

Guest Post from Ezra and Micah's Daddy: Burying Your Child

2010-04-18T00:10:00.000-04:00

On Friday, Rachel Maddow had a man on her show. His daughter had been killed in 1995 in the Oklahoma City bombing. He said the pain is still there. When your parents die, you bury them on the mountaintop, he said. But when your child dies, you bury them in your heart, and keep them there. So simple, yet so profound!

On Laughter

2010-04-11T14:13:00.004-04:00

Micah put himself to sleep laughing the other night. Ok, he doesn't exactly laugh yet, but as I watched on the video monitor, he cooed, gurgled, and smiled himself to sleep in his crib. Melted my heart entirely.

Micah sleeping on his own is brand new, he's only been doing it for 2 to 3 weeks. See, my second son was the newborn who would not sleep in his own. Even those first few nights in the hospital after he was born, he refused to sleep in the hospital bassinet -- I spent those nights sitting up in the hospital bed, staring in amazement at this new little being as he slept. We came home and tried to get him to sleep in the co-sleeper bassinet next to my side of the bed - if he fell asleep he'd be up 20 minutes later, searching for a snuggle. Every night would begin with an attempt to get Micah to sleep in the co-sleeper; every night would end with a baby snuggled against me in bed. All of his naps were taken in a sling or wrap on me or his daddy. Delerious from sleep deprivation, we had a conversation with our pediatrician about safe co-sleeping practices, and for the first couple months were co-sleeping out of necessity, as opposed to choice. Not that I judge those who choose to co-sleep, but as a babylost mama who works professionally in child welfare, I was terrified at first -- I had visions of dead babies floating in my head, all the co-sleeping nightmares of which I have learned through my work. But night by night I got more comfortable, and began to love all the snuggles and ease of breastfeeding that comes with co-sleeping. It seems Micah was sent to make up for all the snuggles I missed out on with his older brother.

But we knew eventually Micah would need to learn to sleep on his own -- I won't be on maternity leave forever, and certainly it's a good skill to have. We set about doing some limited sleep training with Micah, and in the end, some combination of our hard work and the cognitive development that comes with hitting the 3 month mark, resulted in Micah's new found skill of crib sleeping. For the most part, he seems to sleep longer and better on his own. So I now have new found freedom...and already miss his night time snuggles terribly.

All that aside, watching Micah coo and smile to sleep got me thinking...about laughter.

My father told me that the first thought that flashed through his mind after he learned that Ezra had died, was that I would never smile again. And yet I remember distinctly the first time I laughed after Ezra had died. It was the day after he was born, and involved an episode of incontinence resulting in a large puddle beneath my hospital bed. So absurd, I couldn't stop laughing; at the time, it felt like there was nothing left to laugh about in the world, but at myself.

Over these last 19 1/2 months, we have of course learned to laugh again. We've laughed with each other. We learned to find joy in the simplest things. In fact, I think that's one of the many lessons Ezra taught us - to appreciate the tiny joys the life offers, to laugh when we can. But our laughter has always been tinged with sadness, or perhaps more precisely, guilt. It's the guilt that only babylost parents can feel for actually enjoying themselves, when their babes are not here.

Listening and watching Micah laugh himself to sleep made me realize that true laughter, unconditional laughter, re-entered our lives on the day Micah was born. We laugh despite ourselves. We laugh because our son is just so cute, just so snuggly, just so full of smiles...and just so alive. It's only when I stop to think about how much we laugh, that the guilt creeps back in. We should have had all these moments of unconditional joy with Ezra too. And yet Micah keeps me laughing...each and every day.

Big Brother

2010-03-29T08:28:00.002-04:00

We took Micah to see his big brother on Saturday. Of course he fell asleep on the car ride there and we let him stay sleeping in the car.

Both D and I felt it was time...we needed to go see Ezra. We haven't been back since the unveiling of his gravestone on his 1st birthday. Although neither of us feel Ezra most present at the cemetery, we've both wanted to go...but between a problem pregnancy and the ice and snow, we just haven't made it. Now that we've gained our footing as parents to a living child, we knew it was time.

We were both so surprised to see how many of the stones and shells that many of you sent or brought for the unveiling were still present on the stone. We brought 3 stones (1 for each of us) that we had collected in our journeys and left them for our boy. I was struck by the calm that came over me as we arrived. On past visits to the cemetery, I've revisited the pure shock of having buried a child each time we arrived. This time felt different. It's not that I accept that Ezra is dead in the sense of having reconciled with the Universe. But the fact that he's gone has integrated into my being, it has become part of my identity. I felt peace in seeing Ezra's name on that stone, since it is one of the few places his name will always be remembered. I guess this is what they call in thera-speak, "the new normal".

Afterwards over lunch at a nearby diner, D and I just stared at each other in wonder - how did we get here? 10 years ago, we knew each other but neither of us had noticed a romantic spark. Now. here we sit, married and parents to one little boy who lives only in our hearts, and one who lives in our hearts and our arms. I may have found acceptance, but I'll never understand.

Spring has Sprung...

2010-03-24T16:57:00.002-04:00

Last year, around the same time I was planting my Sunflowers, I planted something else...a hydrangea bush for Ezra. Our garden is small, and I can't say I'm the most of skilled of gardeners, but I truly delight in planting things and watching them grow. Gardening is one of the things I dreamed about doing with Ezra when he was old enough to help, just as I had 'helped' my Dad in his gardens as a kid. Now gardening is just one of the many things in life he never got to do.

During my pregnancy with Micah, I didn't allow myself to dream of the things I'd do with him, not much anyway. I didn't fully believe he'd make it here alive, not until I heard his cry. But those dreams for what I would have done with Ezra are of course dreams for Micah too.

Now that the weather is getting warmer, Micah and I have been spending as much time as possible outside. Today I took him out back to see how his brother's bush has sprouted. I can't wait until he can help me take care of it too.

A Homecoming...of sorts

2010-02-27T18:36:00.003-05:00

Yesterday was my 6 week postpartum appointment. Never mind that Micah is now 8 1/2 weeks old -- the blizzards of 2010 have postponed my last two scheduled appointments. In fact a blizzard was predicted yesterday too - luckily all we got was flurries.

Given that I practically lived at my OB's office the last five weeks of my pregnancy, what with the thrice-weekly NSTs and doctors' appointments, its not surprising people were excited to see Micah. Everyone, from the receptionist, to the nurses and medical assistants, and of course the wonderful Dr. J, oohed and ahhed as Micah slept in his stroller, utterly oblivious to all the attention. It felt good to have the miracle that is his healthy live existence acknowledged, by people who know first hand just how tenuous the journey was that hearkened his arrival.

Such a contrast to my 6 week postpartum appointment after giving birth to Ezra. Purposely arriving first thing in the morning so as to avoid sitting in a room full of pregnant women, I was greeted by a receptionist:
So you're here to followup on your procedure?
Um no...this is my 6 week appointment. I gave birth to a son. He died.
I call that a procedure.

Needless to say, said receptionist no longer works at that office. Stunned, I returned to my seat next to David. Another woman arrived for her appointment, a three year old son in tow. He was very active, having brought two small toy trucks with him, which he delighted in 'driving' all over the floor and chairs. I remember sitting watching him, alternatively smiling at his adorable antics, and tears welling up in my eyes at the thoughts that Ezra would never reach this age, never play with trucks, never make someone else smile at his pure adorable being. It never occurred to me to ask to be taken back to a room on my own...I just smiled and cried in silence until my name was called.

***

There was a certain sense of...dare I say it...closure, in seeing Dr. J with my nearly 2 month old son. Not closure in the sense of my grief journey of course...that I know will last a lifetime. But closure in the sense that I somehow have brought a living breathing child into this world, as Dr. J promised me I would one day quite some time ago.

Dr. J is very special to my husband and I. Dr. J was not my OB during my pregnancy with Ezra. I went to the same practice, but saw a different doctor, one who was perfectly competent, but not someone with whom I developed any sort of connection. Toward the end of pregnancy, the practice likes you to rotate through other doctors, so you can meet everyone in advance of your delivery. So my 32 week appointment when I was pregnant with Ezra was with Dr. J. The appointment where my protein levels were slightly elevated....which led to Dr. J ordering me to do a 24 hour catch...which led to Dr. J sending me to the hospital for monitoring...monitoring which revealed a perfectly healthy baby despite slightly elevated blood pressure and protein. Which led Dr. J to make the decision to send me home. And most likely Ezra died on the way home.

One might think I'd hate Dr. J.

But I don't. Medically he made the right decision to send me home -- there was just nothing to indicate that Ezra was in distress or was about to be in distress. And even if I had been in the hospital when the abruption happened, it was so acute and complete, that it's unlikely as could be that Ezra would have survived. Modern medicine has its limits - we learned that the hard way.

But here's the thing about Dr. J. After we had returned to the hospital, after we were informed our baby passed away, after the hysterical screaming and tears, after the epidural, and after the process of induction had begun...Dr. J came back to the hospital. He wasn't on call anymore, he hadn't been my treating OB, he could have been home with his own precious children. And instead, he came back. To sit with us, to grieve with us, to make sure that we knew that he was devastated too.

Most doctors would have run away, fearful of unintentionally acknowledging any regret or fault, in light of possible malpractice litigation. He didn't have to come back. But he did.

And ever since then, David and I knew he was our doctor. That if we ever journeyed this path of bringing a child into the world again, it would be Dr. J that would provide the care. That he would fight to ensure a healthy arrival.

And fight he did.

Still Here

2010-02-07T17:46:00.004-05:00

I haven't had much to say in this space since our Sunflower, Micah, arrived. For the last five and a half weeks, my grief has pretty much been put on the shelf. This time has been about snuggles and breastfeeding, sleep and lack thereof. Being a mama, both to Ezra and to Micah, is most definitely the hardest job I've ever had...and these weeks have been some of the most amazing and challenging I've ever lived. Micah continues to bring us more joy than we knew was possible in our lives after losing Ezra. The grief does still appear from time to time as I know it always will. And so while there may be silence here for a bit, I'm still blog reading and nodding right along with you.

Here's some updated pics.

2 weeks old

2010-01-13T18:11:00.000-05:00

Micah is 2 weeks old today. Most moments I still need to pinch myself to believe its real...that we are the parents to a real live healthy baby boy.He's here. He's real. He snuggles, and cries, and pees, and poops...and fills us with so much joy I didn't know was even possible. I no longer can imagine living life without him, although at least once a day a fear creeps in that somehow we could lose him still...joy or not, the catastrophic thinking that I have battled since losing Ezra is not gone entirely.

While pregnant with Sunflower I never could envision this part...even up to the day we went to the hospital to be induced, I didn't fully believe that we'd be leaving with a real live baby. Even while nesting and preparing for his arrival, it didn't truly feel real. Afterall, I've never had this happy ending before.

Sunflower's arrival was challenging to say the least. I spent nearly 30 hours in labor. I had an epidural that didn't fully work, and after feeling intense pitocin-induced contractions through it, had to be repeated. But the scary part was that twice, Sunflower's heart began to deccelerate. The first time they were able to stabilize things. The second time is what led to the decision to do a c-section...with labor not progressing the way it needed to, and a waning heart rate, getting Sunflower out safely seemed like the priority. I wish I hadn't had to have a c-section--the recovery has been terribly difficult--but I don't regret the decision at all. The alternative is way too terrifying.

These last two weeks have been so intense and so very wonderful. It hasn't all been easy...because our Sunflower was a little early, we had some feeding difficulties that made breastfeeding hard to establish. But Micah and I have worked hard at it, and while we are still a work in progress, I no longer need to pump to supplement feeds and Micah is growing and gaining from nursing full feeds. As of yesterday, he is now 6lbs 15oz. Breastfeeding is definitely a learned skill, and perhaps the hardest skill I've ever learned. But Micah is absolutely worth it.

I've heard other babylost mamas say that they never truly recognized how much they lost until their rainbow babies arrived. I guess that's true - there's no way I could have imagined the depths of joy that Micah has brought into our lives. But this time has not been about Ezra...its absolutely been about Micah. Its not that I miss my Ezra any less - losing him still makes me feel like the unluckiest woman in the world. But having my Sunflower, my baby Micah here, makes me feel like the luckiest woman alive. I am so amazingly grateful he's here

12 days

2010-01-09T20:00:00.006-05:00

Micah is 12 days old today. The days since his birth have been such a whirlwind of joy and snuggles, breastfeeding woes and sleep deprivation that I'm not yet able to write a coherent post. On Wednesday (his 8th day of life) we celebrated Micah's bris or Jewish circumcision ceremony. The following is the explanation we wrote and read about Micah Amir's name:

Micah Amir is named for his older brother Ezra Malik, born sleeping August 30, 2008, and his paternal grandfather Albert, who passed away June 28, 2009. Micah will grow up knowing of his mighty older brother who got away -- Ezra paved the way for Micah in our hearts and in his mama's womb. Micah will also learn of his grandfather, who, although he did not live to see Micah's birth, took such joy in knowing we had a Sunflower on the way.

Micah, in Hebrew, means 'who resembles G-d?' or 'resembling G-d'. We believe Micah chose this name for himself to remind us that although he may physically resemble his older brother, he reflects a power so much larger in the universe, the power of our love, the power which has guided us on our difficult journey as parents. Micah does not replace Ezra - he is his own special and unique self.

Amir, in Hebrew and Arabic, means 'prince'. We believe Micah chose this name for himself to reflect his dual ethnicities and the value his parents place on the influences of many cultures. We love that his middle name has the same meaning in two languages. Bridging two worlds, we expect our Micah Amir to be a leader, a prince.

Here are some additional photos of our little guy:

Pics of Sunflower

2010-01-03T21:35:00.003-05:00

We came home from the hospital yesterday -- too tired to post yet, but here's some pics of our Sunflower, Micah Amir

Sunflower is here!

2009-12-30T06:40:00.000-05:00

Micah Amir was born safely with a lusty cry via C-section at 5:28 this morning. Mama and baby are well.

16 months ago today...

2009-12-29T00:01:00.002-05:00

...I was informed my Ezra had passed away.

Our admit time was pushed back to midnight. So here we are heading back to the very same hospital to bring Sunflower into this world, 16 months to the day that we lost our firstborn. Oh I miss my Ezra! And oh I can't wait to meet my Sunflower! What a very long and winding journey this has been.

37 weeks - Sunflower on the way

2009-12-26T12:20:00.002-05:00

I'm scheduled to be induced the day after tomorrow. I'll be admitted to the hospital on Monday night and will begin the process - my OB expects that I won't actually deliver until Tuesday. Sunflower's head is engaged and I'm 1cm dilated. I had accupuncture this morning to try to help get labor going, and I'll do it again on Monday. This is really happening!

There's no way to articulate all the emotions I'm feeling right now. Relieved that there is an end in sight. Anxious about the labor and delivery. And now that we have a definite plan, yes quite excited.

Yet I still can't think past Tuesday. Still can't wrap my mind around the idea that all this may just result in a live baby that I get to take home with me. A son for us to raise. It's like Tuesday is where the sidewalk ends, the end of the yellow brick road...what happens after that nobody knows. Or at least I don't.

I'll let you know when I find out...

Lucia Paz

2009-12-22T13:34:00.002-05:00

On this day one year ago, a beautiful little girl was silently born at the very same hospital as my Ezra. And another family's grief journey had begun. I wish my beautiful friendship with Lucy's mama Angie had begun another way...it could easily have been at a local breastfeeding group or playgroup with our newborns.

My heart aches for Angie, her sweet husband Sam and gorgeous living daughter Bea today and always. Via her mama's written words and friendship, sweet Lucia Paz has brought so much light and peace to my own life this past year.

36 weeks, 2 days ~ Update

2009-12-21T14:15:00.003-05:00

Judging by the number of emails I am getting "just checking in", I figured I would post a brief update. Nothing has changed - Sunflower and I are still hanging out here, with my blood pressure waivering between high normal and normal. Each day brings new levels of discomfort - wow am I ready to be done!

Our news however, is that there is a strong possibility that I will be induced next week, once I am safely 37 weeks. We will decide for sure when we see my OB again on Wednesday and if so, schedule a date. I feel very good about this plan, although I am finding myself having a hard time wrapping my mind around the possibility that I could go through labor and delivery again and have it result in a happy outcome.

35 weeks, 2 days ~ New Pic

2009-12-14T21:04:00.003-05:00

Here's an updated profile photo of Sunflower - 5lbs 14oz as of today!

34 weeks, 4 days ~ No News...

2009-12-10T11:25:00.002-05:00

There's not much to report around here. Which is actually good in the scheme of things. Still pregnant, still anxious. Bedrest seems to be working, to the extent that my blood pressure continues to waiver between normal and high normal, but not going any higher. Protein levels remain normal. Sunflower is growing big and strong. But I can hardly relax...pre-eclampsia can suddenly escalate at any time, which is why the daily monitoring at home and the three times weekly doctor's appointments are so important. I am doing my best to stay present in the positive, to trust in what is to come. But it's a strangely liminal place to be, when I don't know if I'm going to be pregnant for one more day, week or month. I'd really like to fastforward to the part when I'm finally home with Sunflower in my arms.

33 weeks, 6 days ~ More than a little bit pregnant

2009-12-04T07:36:00.002-05:00

I've never been this pregnant before.

Ezra died at 33 weeks, 5 days. I woke up yesterday with Sunflower at the exact same gestational age, and wondered if I should spend the rest of the day staring at the sky waiting to be hit by lightening. The morning was spent wallowing in a funk on the couch while still in my pjs and pink fuzzy robe. But then a friend called, with an offer of a visit with her and her 3 month old, and a promise she'd bring lunch. And so somehow the afternoon flew by, a large part of it spent with a sweet little boy sleeping on my shoulder, Sunflower kicking him from inside my belly. It was exactly what I needed - a very obvious and physical reminder that most babies live. At least so I'm told.

33 weeks, 4 days ~ The Rollercoaster

2009-12-02T17:28:00.003-05:00

Today began with yet another trip to the hospital, sent by my OB. A regular monitoring appointment with higher than usual blood pressure combined with a splitting headache that did not respond to multiple doses of tylenol over 14 hours or so (headaches can be a sign of pre-eclampsia) - and off I was sent. I really don't mind - at this stage I'll take all the poking, prodding and monitoring in the world if it means I get a live baby at the end. But I think both my OB and I knew what the likely result would be: blood pressure came down again once I was lying on my left side in the hospital, headache responded to migraine medication and all the labs came back totally normal. So home again. I slept the whole afternoon like I was sleeping off a bad bender.

This rollercoaster ride is no fun. It feels like I'm riding blindfolded, and have no clue when the double loop or death defying plunge is about to come. I don't mind being at home reading and watching movies - that part is fine with me. But I hate the uncertainty that each day brings - things are fine at the moment, but what about 2 hours from now...2 days?...2 weeks? I never liked rollercoasters anyway.

While at triage this morning, I shared a room with a young girl I never saw, but of course heard (as if those privacy curtains actually provide privacy!). She sounded to be a teenager, at most a young twenty-something. She was all alone and had been there overnight - being monitored because at something like 24 weeks she was having frequent contractions that she herself couldn't feel. She was pissed off, she wanted to go home to her other baby and wanted to get back to her job. But from the doctors' perspective, she wasn't going anywhere fast.

As part of my professional life, I work with teenage parents. I am a great believer that young parents can and do parent well -- although they often need different kinds of support than adult parents might. The conversation this young woman was having with her doctor broke my heart. The doctors wanted to do an internal exam because they believed this young woman might have an infection that was causing the contractions -- if the infection was identified and treated, the doctors explained, the contractions might stop. The young woman was balking at the idea of an exam involving a speculum. The doctor tried to probe why - was the pregnancy voluntary, did she have a history of sexual assault? But at no time did the doctor say 'look, if you have an infection and we don't treat it, not only may your baby come early, but your baby could die!' There was vague mention of a possible nicu stay. But mostly there was a lot of condescending talk about how she made the choice to get pregnant and now she has to have an exam like an adult would. It was an exercise in unbelievable self-restraint that I didn't pull back the curtain and talk to her myself. Luckily in the end she reluctantly consented to the exam. But yet again I am infuriated at how the medical profession so often conspires to keep the veil of silence around stillbirth and infant death.

Down off my soapbox now. And back to bed.

Guest post by Ezra's Daddy: Love's lessons from loss

2009-11-29T10:09:00.001-05:00

Hi everybody,

Below is a link to a piece I wrote about Ezra, my father, and my personal experiences with grief over the past year or so. It was published for Thanksgiving in the NBC News website, theGrio.com.

http://www.thegrio.com/2009/11/loves-lessons-from-loss.php

32 weeks, 6 days ~ On Fragility

2009-11-27T10:42:00.003-05:00

I feel like I'm on the edge of a precipice. Since coming home, my blood pressure has hovered around the highest range of normal acceptable (130s over 80s), while every so often dipping lower, but never higher. My protein levels remain normal. So the goal at this point is to just keep my blood pressure stable, and keep me pregnant for at least another week or so, if not longer. I've been exhausted, I'm not sure if from the two nights of no sleep in the hospital or the elevated pressure or both, so its not hard to convince me to stay put. With the exception of enjoying Thanksgiving dinner with my family yesterday (I so needed those hugs and snuggles from my niece and nephew!), I have pretty much spent my time in bed. And with the exception of all my many doctors appointments, that is how it will be.

Lying here I am reminded of just how very fragile this business of bring a new life into the world really is. An understatement in this babylost community of course, but something I didn't understand on any meaningful level before losing Ezra. Things escalated so quickly with Ezra -- one minute I was in the hospital on a fetal monitor, granted with elevated blood pressure and protein levels, but everything was ok, we were just going to keep an eye on things....and a half hour later he was gone. Even if I had still been on that fetal monitor, it is highly unlikely there was anything that could have been done - even an emergency c-section wouldn't have been quick enough for the lightening speed with which my body cut him off.

I remind myself that this time is different - we know my history now, what my body is likely to do, so there will be no deliberation about early delivery if my levels begin to creep up any higher than they are now. Sometimes it feels like my firstborn was sacrificed so that we'd know 'my history.' But given that "history," I know all too well there are no 100% guarantees -- all the medical monitoring and bedrest in the world does not 100% guarantee that Sunflower will arrive safely. Most days and moments I trust that he will, that sometime in the coming weeks I will be holding him in my arms. But it all feels so. damn. fragile.

Home

2009-11-25T18:02:00.002-05:00

Sunflower and I are back home. This morning I jointly decided with my ob and mfm that sending me home would likely be the best thing we can do to keep my blood pressure low and me as relaxed and comfortable as possible. Being in the hospital was pretty miserable and the longer I was there, the more I was decompensating emotionally, not helped at all by the fact that I've barely slept the past two days. So the care plan is restricted activity at home, to continue with daily monitoring of blood pressure and protein at home, along with going in 3 times per week for fetal monitoring, and weekly doctor appointments. Of course if anything seems the least bit off I will be back in the hospital in a heart beat.

So we're home - happy to be here but exhausted beyond belief. Happy Thanksgiving everyone.

32 weeks, 4 days ~ A quick update

2009-11-25T08:22:00.000-05:00

Thanks for all the support and well wishes I've received. The good news is that (a) my blood pressure has come down since being in the hospital, and (b) all the labs came back stone cold normal, I.e. no elevated protein levels (these tests are more precise than what was done before). So its looking less likely I am developing pre-eclampsia again, at least not yet. Sunflower continues to sound great on the 24 hour monitoring, although I'm learning quickly that 24 hour monitoring and sleep are less than compatible.

Today I will make a decision jointly with my ob and mfm (high risk doc) about whether I will be doing hospital or home bedrest. A lot of people have commented or emailed to say they feel I should not leave the hospital. Of course I will stay if it is warranted and best for me and Sunflower. But from what the doctors are saying, a lot of this comes down to what will manage my anxiety best - I personally am beginning to think I'd be much more relaxed at home. I can do much of the monitoring they are doing at the hospital on my own, and I will have 3 times a week doctors appointments for additional monitoring.
Of course I'll let you know what we decide. I am oh so grateful for all the love that's been coming my way.

32 weeks, 2 days ~ An Unexpected Yet Somehow Expected Turn

2009-11-23T20:31:00.000-05:00

I've been admitted to the hospital. Despite a stunningly beautiful and relaxing weekend retreat with a group of 10 amazing and wonderful babylost mamas, my blood pressure decided to inch a bit high over the last couple days. A visit to the doctor this morning revealed still high blood pressure as well as minutely elevated protein...all of which suggests I may be developing pre-eclampsia again. In abundance of caution, my doctor decided to admit me so we can get a more full picture of what's going on. Have I mentioned I love my doctor? So here I sit in a hospital bed, listening to Sunflower's heartbeat gallop away (oh how I love that sound) as they watch me like a hawk. In fact, the blood pressure has come down some now that I have been on bedrest all day.The doctor is saying that tomorrow we will likely make a decision about early delivery v some sort of bed rest in the coming weeks.

I have to say I'm surprisingly ok with this turn of events...I guess on some level I've expected it all along. I couldn't quite imagine making it through this end bit of pregnancy without some version of this happening. I'm glad that the self-monitoring worked to catch things early, and that my 'history' means there's a different protocol this time round. Let's just hope and pray I have a happy ending to report sooner or later.

31 weeks, 2 days

2009-11-16T20:09:00.002-05:00

The fear is palpable now, as I head into what feels like the danger zone.

Ezra died when I was 33 weeks, 5 days pregnant. The first indication we had that anything was wrong was a slightly elevated protein test at my 32 week OB appointment. This was followed by another test, which several days later resulted in my being directed to the hospital for more tests. Which all came back within the high range of normal. And so we were sent home. And Ezra likely died on the way home.

I don't question the doctors' decision to send me home. Nothing about the test results suggested I needed to stay in the hospital. Nothing suggested that Ezra wasn't safe. The light was yellow...proceed with caution. I was scheduled for an appointment to return 5 days later so they could keep an eye on things. Who knew that would end up being a post-partum appointment.

I know all too well how quickly all can go drastically wrong. So the fact that everything is healthy and good as I type, only gets me so far. What might tomorrow bring? What might the story be by next week?

Yet the other thing that feels palpable is meeting Sunflower in person. I feel like he's so close I can taste it. Less than 6-9 weeks to go. Unbelievable. Despite swearing that I would do nothing to prepare for Sunflower, I found myself spending a day off last week doing load after load of baby wash, and folding tiny onesies and footsie pajamas. The nursery is organized, all our baby things sorted. I've chosen a pediatrician, picked a mohel. What can I say? The nesting instinct has taken over.

Half the time I find myself wishing that I could just be put in a coma and woken when its all over - when there's a healthy happy son in my arms. But since that's unlikely to happen, I guess I'll be getting through this the same way I've made it this far - one day at a time.

Kai

2009-11-03T07:53:00.004-05:00

One year ago today, Election Day, was a day of tears for me. So many of our hopes and dreams for our little Ezra Malik intertwined into the election of our nation's first black president. It took me hours to pull myself out of bed to go and vote, something that I had envisioned for months doing with a baby Ezra strapped in a sling to my body. When Obama's win was announced that night, my own tears became an unstoppable flood.

But that same day brought an unstoppable flood for another family just 100 miles away in New York City, as Danielle and Alan unexpectedly welcomed their son Kai to the world. Kai, meaning water, or 'of the sea', arrived way too soon, and thus another set of babylost parents joined our ranks. Kai's Japanese name is nod to the mizuko jizo, which in Japanese culture guards the spirits of miscarried and stillborn babies as they travel into the next life, because they are believed not to have built up enough karma to make the passage safely. Kai only ever knew the water of his mama's belly as his home.

Danielle and I met here in babylost blogland in the weeks that followed, but when we met in person a few months later, it was as if we had known each other forever. I treasure my friendship with Danielle deeply and adore her sweet husband Alan. I hate that the devastating loss of our firstborn sons is what ties us together, and yet I can't imagine traveling this journey without Kai's beautiful parents.

At Ezra's unveiling, I asked Danielle to read a beautiful poem by Zelda titled 'Everyone has a Name'. The last lines seem written for Kai:

Each of us have a name
Given by the Sea
and given by
Our death.

Today as always I am remembering sweet baby Kai, and holding his parents Danielle and Alan close in love.

Huge ~ 28 weeks, 3 days

2009-10-27T20:47:00.004-04:00

Everything feels huge right now. My body feels huge. I am slowing down. I get exhausted more easily. I lose my balance. Always a klutz, I've become even klutzier.

But more importantly, the task at hand feels huge...bringing Sunflower safely into the world. Looking out at the mere weeks left of this pregnancy, I sometimes feel like Sisyphus pushing his boulder up the mountain...will I really be able to make it to a safe and healthy arrival for Sunflower?

Over the last couple months, I've done a pretty good job at staying as present as possible in the ever-increasing joy and excitement, in staying grounded in the firm belief that I will eventually hold Sunflower alive and well in my arms.

And yet recently, there are also firm reminders of how much is outside my control. My klutziness feels like one of those reminders - I don't feel in control of my own body and that adds to feeling overwhelmed. Sunflower is very active, and while I am positively thrilled for the constant reminders of his presence, watching my stomach twist and turn as he somersaults, kicks and stretches, also reminds me that he's his own little person, one over whom I have limited control. So much about being pregnant is a leap of faith, and sometimes my faith falters.

These final 9-12 weeks just feel big. It's the "high risk" zone for me, given my history with Ezra. Starting next week I will be going to the doctor weekly, and eventually twice weekly as of 32 weeks. The monitoring helps provide reassurance, but is also a reminder of how much can go wrong at this stage.

I'm not really complaining. I'm just feeling extremely hormonal, emotional and overwhelmed. Thankfully, as of now, everything remains healthy and good with Sunflower. Here's a pic of my ever-burgeoning belly:

27 weeks, 4 days

2009-10-21T21:52:00.000-04:00

Sunflower had another photo shoot today, otherwise known as another ultrasound. All continues to be healthy and good. He's 2 lbs 9 oz which is right on target for his gestational age. He was in the breach position today, but its early yet to worry about that since he still has plenty of room to squirm around. Phew. Guess Ezra and Sunflower's mommy can sleep well tonight. Unfortunately we had a very brusque tech today who gave us crummy photos where you can barely see anything...of course Sunflower didn't make it easy by moving around the whole time!

Ezra's Space

2009-10-18T15:03:00.004-04:00

When I started this blog nearly a year ago, it was to create a space for all things Ezra...a space where I could voice my love for Ezra, my deep despair that he was gone, and all the other tumultuous emotions of this journey of grief. This blog is Ezra's space, a place where I can broadcast all that comes from that space in my heart which he will always inhabit.

Of course over the last 6 months, a new being, Ezra's baby brother, has begun to inhabit Ezra's space. Sunflower is by no means a replacement for Ezra. And yet he does inhabit a space that was originally intended for Ezra. Ezra was my firstborn, and so the first to ever live in my womb. Ezra taught my body how to carry a baby, and let Sunflower know when the time was right to join us.

So too, Sunflower inhabits a space in my heart that Ezra cultivated. Long before ever conceiving Sunflower, I worried that I would never be able to allow myself to love his younger sibling as much as I love Ezra. I worried that I wouldn't connect with this baby, somehow protecting myself from getting hurt as deeply should he not make it either. A wise friend pointed out that Ezra's little brother or sister did not yet know of Ezra, and that a new baby would need as much love and hope as I put into growing Ezra. Of course she was right. Almost despite myself, I have been deeply in love with Sunflower since the day I learned of his existence. And that love grows and grows with each additional day of kicks, squirms and an ever-swelling belly.

Ezra taught me how to love. The love I feel for both my sons is deeper than anything I have ever known. The love I now share with Ezra and Sunflower's daddy is deeper than anything we could have imagined prior to losing Ezra. This deep love is part of Ezra's legacy.

I sometimes step back in wonder as we make plans for Sunflower, talking about the things we'll do with him and the places we'll go. We made these kinds of plans for Ezra too, and of course none of them were ever realized. I am so filled with hope for Sunflower's future, even as I am filled with regret daily for all that Ezra will never do. Ezra taught us to dream these kinds of dreams.

And so even though many of my recent posts are about Sunflower, this remains Ezra's space. It's a space about love, hope, despair, regret and everything else in between.

Babylost Mama Retreat

2009-09-30T19:57:00.003-04:00

I'm going on a retreat with other awesome babylost mamas I've met here in blogworld in Ocean City, NJ Nov. 20-22. Interested in joining us? Check out the details on Angie's blog.

A Conversation with my Son

2009-09-29T02:36:00.004-04:00

I sit in Yom Kippur services, and the Rabbi shares these words of Martin Luther King Jr., "He who is devoid of the power to forgive is devoid of the power to love."

Unlike last year at this time, when the pain of Ezra's death was too raw and new, I approached the Days of Awe this year with a certain peace, a renewed sense of possibility. Yet leading up to Yom Kippur, I have struggled with the notion of asking forgiveness. I am able to accept that I am imperfect, yet not quite able to muster the humility necessary to ask forgiveness of others. Shouldn't the Universe be asking forgiveness of me? Afterall, it was my son she wrenched away.

::

Sitting in the Yizkor (memorial) service in the waning hours of the day, we are asked to close our eyes and envision our loved one sitting with us. What does he say to us? What do we say to him?

I summon the vision of my perfect son, my Ezra Malik, his tiny hands and feet, his serene yet wry smile, his slight weight in my arms the only occasion I held him, the peaceful look on his face as we spent time with him before returning him to the earth. And these words flash through my mind:

I'm sorry.

And the tears begin to fall.

I'm sorry, my sweet son, that I did not realize what was happening as you slipped away.
I'm sorry that my womb, the one place that should have been safe, became your deathbed.
I'm sorry that your birthday, so very anticipated, was somber, and so very very silent.

But mostly, my sweet Ezra, I am sorry for the walks we never took, and the songs we never sang;
For the first steps you never stepped, and the first teeth you never grew;
For the subjects you never studied, and the books you never read;
For the passions that never stirred your heart, and the adventures you never had;
For the loves you never loved, and even the hurt you never felt.
For all this and so much more,
I'm sorry.
I'm sorry.
I'm sorry.

But Mama, Ezra replies, It's ok. All I ever knew was love.

Yes my sweet Ezra, and it will never feel like enough.

Silas Orion

2009-09-25T16:27:00.002-04:00

Today, on his first birthday I am remembering Silas Orion, the beautiful son of Lani and Chris. In a less chaotic world, sweet Silas would be toddling around at his birthday party with a face smeared with cake. Instead, today I see him in the warmth of the sun and the breeze in the trees. Sending warm wishes for peace to Lani and Chris on Silas' day.

23 weeks, 4 days ~ Sunflower is growing

2009-09-23T20:19:00.002-04:00

Today we visited the MFM and got another peek at our little boy. Everything looks healthy and great, which is reassuring. We were asked permission to allow a resident to do part of our scan, which actually was wonderful because as she fumbled and took longer to do everything, we got to spend so much longer peering at the images of Sunflower on the screen. Sunflower showed off throughout, squirming and dancing - he even stuck out his tongue just as we got a direct view of his face - an attitude already!

22 weeks, 6 days ~ Staying Present in the Joy

2009-09-18T07:01:00.003-04:00

These last several weeks since Ezra's 1st birthday and the 20 week ultrasound have been a time of seismic change. As the seasons turn, I feel myself caught up in a change I can't even completely describe, but I feel it growing within me. There was so much fear and anxiety wrapped up into the last week of August. I had worked myself up into such a state leading up to the 20 week ultrasound, expecting bad news because that's just what this year has wrought. Reaching Ezra's birthday and beyond has been a process of letting go, of confronting head on where I am in my grief for Ezra, and in my ever-growing joy for Sunflower. I have found myself so much more present in the joy.

In the past several weeks, I have found myself doing things that never would have been possible anytime this past year. I held my third and fourth babies since Ezra. I sought out these babies, made sure that I would get a chance to hold them, play with them, feel their snugly warmth and marvel at their adorable smiles. It felt GREAT and incredibly healing. I also attended a bris (a Jewish circumcision ceremony that is held when the baby boy is 8 days old). I had planned to have a bris for Ezra, which of course never got to happen. This bris was a beautiful ceremony, and I openly cried...but they were tears of joy, and I felt so blessed to be part of this simcha, this celebration.

The fear and anxiety are a constant presence in this pregnancy, I doubt there any way to completely avoid these emotions (other than heavy heavy denial). But the growing joy is ever-present too, as Sunflower grows. Almost despite myself I have regained some of that pregnant glow I had with Ezra. I love when Sunflower squirms and kicks. Despite feeling like a hippo, I love my ever-blossoming belly. I love that Sunflower has shared with us his real name (and no, I will not share it until he is born). And although it shocked me at first, I love that I am mama to another son.

The Jewish New Year begins tonight. I had no clue how I would feel as this time of year came. And yet riding the wave of this seismic change, I feel just present enough in hope and joy to believe that this new year might just bring some light. I am positive it will also bring heartbreak...this past year has taught me so much about the co-mingling of the light and the dark, of devastation and joy. But somehow I feel ready for the journey.

L'shanah tovah...wishing everyone a sweet and beautiful New Year.

Guest Post By Ezra's Daddy: Daddy's Breath Facebook Group

2009-09-04T16:17:00.000-04:00

Hello everyone,

Just wanted to let you know that Frank Bennett (a babylost daddy from the M.I.S.S. forum), has started Daddy's Breath, a brand new Facebook group for grieving fathers. Click here to link to the group and join. Also, people can email Frank with any comments or suggestions. Thanks to Frank for doing this! A Facebook group for grieving fathers is way way overdue, and this is a great chance for fathers to get involved and express their feelings for their lost children. Please spread the word, and I hope to see you there!

Howl

2009-09-01T13:37:00.002-04:00

Today I am heartbroken for Mirne and Craig, who just lost the third of their children, a precious son named Jet, who only lived three days. He joins his sister Freyja and brother Kees. Today I am howling the name Jet from the rooftops and in the streets. There is something so very wrong with the Universe that two such loving parents would be allowed to suffer such unending heartbreak.

Thank You

2009-08-31T21:18:00.003-04:00

Thank you for everyone for making this weekend, Ezra's weekend, so incredibly special. Thank you for all the cards, the emails, the blog comments, the calls. Thank you to those who gathered with us, and to those who held us from afar.

Ezra's weekend was horrible and wonderful all at once. Saturday, the one year anniversary of his death was tough. We made no plans for Saturday, knowing intuitively that we would need to allow the day to just unfold. All day I just felt off, grumpy, sad, moody, just missing my Ezra. I didn't feel like doing much, but I did plan on baking treats for the gathering we were holding on Ezra's birthday. Baking is something I love, something that comes easily, something I wanted to do for my Ezra. So when I destroyed not one, but two separate cakes, it put me over the edge. I sobbed and sobbed, deep wails that haven't come out in months. I sobbed until I felt like I was going to throw up. All those feelings of failure from early on in this grief journey came rushing back...I'm such a screwup that I couldn't protect my Ezra, I can't even bake a cake. Not rational I know.

My sweet David insisted we go on a walk. I didn't want to go, I didn't feel like doing anything, just wanted to feel sorry for myself. He said it was nice out, I thought it looked grey. We started walking, I said it looked like rain, he said no. A few blocks later, I heard the rumble of thunder, he thought the storm was far off. Another couple rumbles later, I insisted we turn back. And a block later, the skies opened. It didn't just rain, it flooded. We were instantly drenched. And despite myself I started to laugh. And suddenly I knew that this was Ezra's way of lightening my mood, of making sure I didn't sink too deeply into my grief. Later I read Angie's post about the rainbow Ezra showed her and her family during the same storm, and I knew it was true.

Sunday, Ezra's first birthday, we gathered with family and friends to unveil Ezra's gravestone. In Jewish tradition, the gravestone is usually placed 11 to 12 months after the burial. Together with our friends and family we sang songs, read prayers, and heard stories and poems which we had chosen for the occasion. Before we read Kaddish, the Jewish prayer for the dead, we said out loud the names of many of the babies of our babylost parent friends. It was a gorgeous day in every way imaginable.

At the end of the ceremony, as is tradition, each person attending left stones on Ezra's grave, symbolizing the permanence of his memory. But many more stones were left than people were present, as we experienced a hug that spanned at least 4 continents. Stones, pebbles and shells had been sent by friends across the globe - babylost friends in the blog world, friends in our real lives. It was so incredible to see how many lives our little boy has touched.

On the Occasion of Our Son’s 1st Birthday

2009-08-29T20:53:00.003-04:00

Words aren't coming easily today, the one year anniversary of Ezra's death. I wrote this poem weeks ago in anticipation of his birthday tomorrow.

Please remember our son, our Ezra Malik
He lived 8 months in his mama's belly
He lives forever in our hearts

Please remember our son, our Ezra Malik
Speak his name always, as nothing brings us
More joy than to hear his name out loud

Please remember our son, our Ezra Malik
He is and will always be our firstborn
Your grandson, nephew, cousin, friend

Please remember our son, our Ezra Malik
We are his mama and his papa
Honor that we are parents too

Please remember our son, our Ezra Malik
Born sleeping August, 30, 2008
Precious and loved always

19 weeks, 5 days

2009-08-27T08:16:00.003-04:00

We learned yesterday that Sunflower is...HEALTHY...and a BOY. I guess Mother's intuition is sometimes wrong...he had us very convinced he was a girl. Here's some pics:

From Grief to Gratitude?

2009-08-22T23:33:00.001-04:00

This week began the Hebrew month of Elul, the month which leads up to the Jewish New Year, Rosh Hashanah, and the Day of Atonement, Yom Kippur, the holiest days in the Jewish calendar. Traditionally this is a period of intense reflection and preparation for the spiritual work we must do during these days – drawing ourselves closer to God through self critique, asking forgiveness, and setting our intent toward change.

Last year Ezra died just weeks before the High Holy days. Shell-shocked in grief, David and I went to services, weeping throughout at the beautiful melodies and prayers. A young member of our congregation, a young man just 16 years old, gave a meaningful speech about the work he’s done organizing his fellow public school students for equitable school funding…and David and I just sobbed and sobbed, knowing without speaking that Ezra would have done something like this and now would never have the chance. In retrospect, I don’t even know how or why we made it to services – I was barely leaving the house at all at that point – but somehow we were drawn to, needing to be held by community, setting our intent on finding our spiritual center, even if at the time it felt completely elusive.

On Yom Kippur, I remember feeling utterly embittered, unable to muster any of the humility necessary to identify mistakes I’d made over the past year in the spirit of teshuvah or repentance. The Universe had just taken a giant crap on our heads – 8 months of excitement, hope, expectation, dreams…only to have it all wrenched away in a split second. Try as I might, I couldn’t conceive of the notion that I owed anyone anything – as far as I could tell the Universe owed ME – one son, healthy and alive, as it was supposed to be.

This week marked the anniversary of Ezra’s death, known as a yartzeit, on the Hebrew calendar. This year has been such an unbelievable journey. On Rosh Hashanah last year, I remember brashly saying ‘It can’t get any worse, it can only go up from here.’ And then a couple months later my dad needed quadruple bypass surgery. And a couple months after that David lost his job. About 5 months later David’s dad got sick, and a month after that he died. And slowly it has dawned on me that just because the worst has happened (and I definitely maintain that losing Ezra has and will always be the worst thing that could ever happen), the Universe doesn’t give us a pass, not in the least.

Early in this year’s journey of grief, two amazing mamas, Gal and Aliza, each recommended that I read Miriam Greenspan’s Healing Through the Dark Emotions. The book was a turning point for me, not because I was suddenly “healed,” but because it helped me see, at least vaguely, that there was a path through. That somehow I might one day emerge from the raw grief and despair a stronger person, a more spiritually connected person, a more compassionate person. I am most definitively still on that journey. It will take me a lifetime to grieve for Ezra, just as it will take me a lifetime to evolve into that better person. I am not there yet.

One of the most compelling chapters in Greenspan’s book is titled, From Grief to Gratitude. I remember reading it with great skepticism – what do I have to be grateful for? My precious son is dead. The only thing that would make me truly grateful is to have him alive in my arms. I have struggled immensely with the entire notion of gratitude throughout this year.

Today we went to synagogue to say Kaddish (the prayer for the dead) for Ezra, as is traditional on the Shabbat (Sabbath) closest to the anniversary of a loved one’s death. In keeping with the themes of Elul, we were asked to reflect silently on for what we were grateful. For these things I am grateful: the deep love I share with David; the Sunflower growing in my belly; the community that has held us in love throughout this year; all the many lessons about life and love that our sweet son Ezra has taught us. I was surprised to notice that the gratitude is there.

There is some letting go that is surrounding the approach of Ezra’s death and birth days. Saying the Kaddish, which since the beginning, was so difficult for me, brought no tears. And yet at another point in the service, we were asked to say out loud for what we were praying in the coming year – I said I was praying for the baby I am carrying to arrive safe and healthy…and the tears came. There is an emotional shift that is happening….an acceptance that Ezra is gone, and yet such intense swirl of fear and hope surrounding our Sunflower.

This entire year has been about slowly letting go. I guess the process began from the moment I heard the words ‘your baby has passed away’, through birthing his adorable yet lifeless body, and all the many emotions – shock, grief, despair, rage, sorrow--that have followed. I still miss my son with my whole self, not a day goes by that I don’t think of Ezra. I guess I’m just learning to live with that pain.

Next weekend we have planned an unveiling ceremony for Ezra, where we will see his gravestone for the first time. We will be surrounded by family and friends, and in an odd way, I am looking forward to it. I am grateful that for once we can do something for our son.

Lev River

2009-08-21T04:00:00.003-04:00

On this day one year ago, Lev River, precious son of beautiful Aliza and Arik, came silently into the world. I wish so deeply that his first birthday was so very different for his amazing mama and papa.

Remembering Lev River with love, today and always.

What baby?

2009-08-20T20:35:00.003-04:00

On Glow in the Woods this week, Tash wrote this resonating post about finding out her sister-in-law gave birth, having never been told about the pregnancy. I know the feeling.

The world keeps spinning by. Of course Ezra is still dead. And I've lost count of how many live healthy babies have been born to people in our social circle within the past year...pregnancies of which I was never told...babies which I learned of after the fact. Like the 3 month old I only learned of this week...I never knew she was pregnant. I've talked to these people...spoken on the phone, emailed...this information was carefully left out.

I'll fully admit that other people's pregnancies and babies haven't been the easiest thing for me to deal with this year (ok understatement of the century). It has also gotten easier over time. But as I've explained to each of the friends, acquaintances and colleagues who have shared their pregnancies with me this year, 'I'm happy for them, just sad for me'. Even though I'm now pregnant again myself, other women's pregnancies still make me sad and anxious...but that doesn't mean that I haven't been able to share in the joy with them.

I can't find words to describe how awful it feels to be treating like a pariah, a freak of nature who is considered too fragile to share in what should be one of life's greatest joys. Do people really think they can make me sadder than I already am? That if I don't know about their pregnancy I won't remember that my baby died? It's true I might go home and cry. I might be jealous. But these darker emotions are normal, and are intermingled with the lighter ones.

Who is being protected by not sharing this information? Certainly not me...it hurts way more to find out after the fact than to be told directly, no matter what my reaction. Is it the pregnant women themselves? As if deadbabymama is a contagious plague. Often it feels this way, when even friends who have shared their pregnancies fall away, particularly in the later months.

The reality is that a few friends and colleagues have shared their pregnancies and new babies with me this year...and its been just fine. Its true I can only hear so much...I have wonderful friends who have respected the boundaries I need and not shared information for which I didn't ask. In fact, the more respectful my friends have been, the more able I am to hear more, to meet their babies, to share in the joy.

August 19th

2009-08-19T07:51:00.004-04:00

Today is the birthday of two people who are very precious to me.

The first is the lovely and magnificent Danielle, mama to sweet baby Kai. Danielle and I have connected soul to soul on this horrible journey without our babies, and I absolutely can't imagine surviving it without her. She is one of the few true gifts to come out of this unbelievably dreadful year. I wish her a gentle day and a new year where dreams blossom.

The second is sweet baby Hope, beloved daughter of Sally and Simon, who on this day last year, slipped silently into the world. Sally and I found each other early on this journey, and she has been a true friend, despite the amazing distance between Philadelphia and Australia, both on this journey of grief, but also on the journey of our subsequent pregnancies. I will remember and miss Hope always. I hope this day brings peace.

18 weeks, 1 day

2009-08-15T20:33:00.003-04:00

We're home from vacation. I can't say I'm happy about it. We packed up this morning, said goodbye to my parents, got in the car and I burst into tears. I don't want to go back to our real life, where I'm one of the saddest most anxious people I know, with the exception of other babylost mamas and papas....where I wake up in the middle of almost every night worrying about money and whether Sunflower will survive...where the only things I have to look forward to now are Ezra's 1st birthday and my terrifying (for me at least) 20 week ultrasound. Its been a very weepy day.

Despite the waterworks, we managed as always to find some quiet peace...a walk on a beautiful beach, a delicious lunch, even a little 'retail therapy' (aka new shoes).

The approach of Ezra's first birthday is hitting me hard. I miss my little boy, and all the time we were supposed to have together. On some level, I'm revisiting the disbelief...I can't believe this happened to us, that our baby boy isn't here.

In better news, the Sunflower is growing and beginning to move more and more. I feel her kick and move several times each day. Here's a belly shot taken today:

The Things We Have Lost

2009-08-14T21:01:00.003-04:00

We haven't been on vacation for a full year. Two months of 'disability' leave after Ezra died didn't count, particularly since I was barely leaving the house at that point.. We've had a couple beautiful weekends away which brought some peace and gentle moments. But packing up and leaving our house for a full week...that hasn't happened since this time last year. It finally happened again this week.

Heading to the shore, I felt layers of stress falling away with each mile we drove. Its been a week of no 'have tos' and no 'shoulds'. Just a beautiful house, ocean waves, evening crickets, long walks and doing as we please. A week of my nephew's giggles and my niece's snuggles. A week of afternoon naps and time to read. A week of finding peace. We both feel rejuvenated. Our only wish is that we could stay here longer. I think if I could spend the rest of my pregnancy here, I might actually make it through without losing my mind. Sadly, we go home tomorrow.

The week has also been hard at times. Listening to my dad tell my nephew he's his favorite grandson felt like a knife to the gut. Watching my niece try to nuzzle up to my breast to breastfeed broke my heart. To the extent our days had any schedule, they revolved around toddler time (lunch at 11:30am, nap at 1pm, dinner at 5pm), highlighting all that we don't have. Other than with each other, we really haven't had an adult conversation in a week.

But the hardest part has been being left alone with my own head. Although much of the usual chatter has quieted this week, I can't help but reflect on our time here at the beach last year. I was 31 weeks pregnant, already feeling like an elephant, but a very happy elephant. Our lives felt so full of hope and promise...we were weeks away from meeting our precious son, Ezra's daddy had a new job, our family members were healthy...the world felt whole and ok.

And how quickly that has all unraveled. Not only have we lost a son, a father, a job...we have lost our grounding, our faith in the future, our sense of belonging in the universe. Our hopes and dreams have been crushed and replaced with sadness, anger, and anxiety. When I fully consider all we have lost, all I can do is weep.

I've also been reflecting on what we still have. A deep deep love for each other. The ability to know what matters in life. The capacity to appreciate quiet moments of beauty and peace. A Sunflower growing inside. We may be broken, but we haven't forgotten how to hope or dream.

Samuel Marc

2009-08-08T00:01:00.002-04:00

Today I am remembering Samuel Marc, handsome son to Monique and Norm. Wishing Sam's first birthday were so very different for his beautiful parents.

I wish so deeply that Monique and I never had to meet. That we didn't lose our firstborn sons to stillbirth within weeks of each other. That there wasn't something so eerily familiar about her post on an online babyloss board that made me feel compelled to reach out and meet her. That we didn't pour out our despair and anger in reams of emails and calls in the weeks and months that followed. I wish we didn't share this bond of having had sons who got away.

And yet I cannot for one minute imagine surviving this journey if it weren't for Monique. She is a true friend, a sister in this disorienting world of babyloss. I love her dearly and I will remember sweet baby Sam forever and always.

Tikva Ahava

2009-08-07T06:31:00.003-04:00

Today I am remembering a sweet baby girl, Tikva Ahava, who one year ago today, slipped away from this life. Gorgeous daughter of wise Gal and Dave, sister to beautiful Dahlia, her precious life will be remembered forever.

Gal has given me the gift of so much wisdom, love and strength on this grief journey through her writing and her friendship. I am holding Gal, Dave, Dahlia and Tikva so very close today.

Guest Post By Ezra’s Daddy: What a Year!

2009-08-05T12:27:00.004-04:00

I have this image in my mind of something that did not take place. I imagine that someone visited me a year ago. He had special powers and insights, as if he could see into the future, if not visit the future. He sat down with me and said to me: “I have some bad news to tell you. Lots of terrible things are going to happen to you over the next twelve months. You will lose your son. You will never get to see him grow up. You will lose the father you’ve known for your entire life. And there will be other things that throw your life into a tailspin, change you fundamentally as a person, and make you question yourself and your path in life.“

“Can I wake up from this nightmare now?” I asked him. “I’m sorry, it’s not a dream,” he responded. “Why are you telling me these things?” I asked him, in a scene eerily similar to Dickens’ A Christmas Carol or something like that. Anyway he didn’t answer, and he just moved along and left me in my state of shock and disbelief.

We are blessed—or cursed, depending on your point of view— because most of us mere mortals cannot see into the future. What would I have done in that situation, how would I have reacted, with the knowledge of the tempestuous journey to come? I keep asking myself this, and I have no answers. Indeed, it has been quite a year for the family, with Dad and Peanut Boy leaving us, not to mention that my sister-in-law’s mother passed away just a few months before Dad. And Peanut Boy’s other grandfather had open-heart surgery, which was a big scare, and thankfully he recovered. Throw in the personal impact of a severe recession, and you have, well, quite a year.

To be sure, there is still ample time to cry, and cry we will—and often. And yet, there is also happiness. There is still time to laugh and to joke, to look forward to what the future brings, to savor those small morsels of joy, and to enjoy the sunflowers as they grow. I’m still here, I say!

What I take from the experiences of the past year is that it is important to enjoy the ones you have while you have them. Appreciate the good things and the good people in your life. Help those you know, and help those you don’t know. Maybe you can give them a leg up, or fill in some of the potholes in the road of their life’s journey. That’s all I have for now.

Unspeakable

2009-08-02T18:18:00.004-04:00

I have a cousin who was due the same week as me last year. I'm not especially close with this cousin, although our dads are first cousins, and they are very close -- so we've spent a lot of family time together over the years. She and her brother are close in age to my brother and I, and when we discovered our babies would be born so close together, everyone rejoiced that the cousins would once again be able to grow up together. Sadly it was not meant to be.

My cousin gave birth to a healthy baby girl in October, right around when Ezra should have been born. She (and her brother) never called or sent a card after Ezra died. She never called or sent a card after her baby girl safely arrived. There has been radio silence ever since.

Until this past week. In anticipation of our families getting together at the beach next week, and unable to take the conflict anymore, my dad finally said something to his cousin. This shouldn't have needed to happen - we're all adults now. And honestly, the damage is done...nothing my cousins could say would rewind this past year of silence.

But of course it prompted my cousins to call me immediately, leaving overly-hysterical messages congratulating me on my new pregnancy. I took my time calling back...waited until I was in the right mental space. I didn't want to hear their explanations - it doesn't matter why anymore, it just is.

I called each of them back and tempered the hyper excitement about my new pregnancy with a dose of realism - its awfully scary this time round and there are no guarantees. My cousin who was due the same week as me immediately blurted out an apology. She told me she felt so guilty having a healthy live baby that she couldn't call. I didn't tell her that was the stupidest thing I'd ever heard. I never expected the explanation to make sense. I don't expect her to understand that I'm happy her baby is healthy and alive. I just wish mine was too.

Her brother was a bit more tongue-tied. There was no apology. He just said, 'I haven't talked to you since...since...well I don't even know how to talk about what happened to you. How do you say what happened?'

My son died, I said. His name is Ezra and he died when I was 8 months pregnant.

To his credit, he plunged ahead: How did he die? What happened? And so I explained.

I know he was just being a boy, a very uncomfortable boy whose parents had caught him in a breach of etiquette so brash that they forced him to make this call. Having two beautiful daughters of his own, he probably knew 'miscarriage' wasn't the right term, but didn't quite know what was. But does my son's death make him so uncomfortable that he can't even say the word 'death'?

Mulling this over this afternoon, I realized he had spoken the truth. What happened to Ezra and so many of our babies is unspeakable. An unspeakable truth that makes people so uncomfortable that their only response is silence. It isn't what we grieving mamas and papas need...its not an excuse at all. I'll never fully forgive those who were silent and disappeared when tragedy struck our family...but at this point it just is what it is, a part of this journey...and all we can do is limp forward.

16 weeks

2009-08-01T06:02:00.002-04:00

Time feels like it's standing still. Not that I want to rush this pregnancy, but for all of the emotions I've experienced so far, it feels like I should be 36 weeks not 16. Everything remains healthy and good...at least as far as I know. The real fun begins once I'm 20 weeks and onward, which will be the riskiest time for me given my "history".

The anxiety seems to have settled into my being, a constant presence that doesn't even surprise me anymore. It's settled into my GI system, and also keeps me from sleeping through the night. I'm trying to address this with accupuncture and prenatal massage, and hopefully will start doing prenatal pilates soon (if I can ever wake up in time!)

But I also feel a little more assured in this pregnancy. At least some days I'm more able to tell people about the Sunflower, more able to talk in vague terms about my plans for maternity leave in January. I just can't wrap my mind around too many of the specifics, like birth plans (anything that results in a live baby is fine!), length of leave or what we'll do for child care. I wouldn't be surprised if I don't buy a single item in advance for this baby.

It does feel like many people are way more excited or way more sure all will work out than I possibly can be right now. I think people's discomfort with the death and loss that have defined my year causes them to be more hyper excited than necessary. I'm constantly reminding people, 'yes it's exciting, but it's also scary.' I feel like a broken record.

My relationship to my grief for Ezra has changed drastically during this pregnancy. I can't fully be present in the depths of sadness that were there before. But being pregnant has also brought out new layers of the sadness - I'm grieving the pregnancy, all the hope and expectation and excitement.

In one week we leave for a week at the beach with my family, the very same beach where we stayed for a week just weeks before Ezra died. Some of my last distinct happy memories of having Ezra with me are from that trip...waddling down the beach enormously pregnant, feeling him kick and move as I stretched out in the sun. It's also the same beach where we went on our own for a weekend in October to get through his due date...some of the few moments of peace we found in those early months. I know this trip will be emotional...but I also know that I can't help but find peace at the beach.

Ezra's first birthday is less than a month away. I can't really fathom that it's almost been a full year without my baby boy.

Quiet

2009-07-19T17:13:00.004-04:00

It's been quiet in this space for a couple weeks, ever since I wrote about the Sunflower. I'm now 14 wks and 1 day. It's not that I don't have things to say. It's that I don't quite know how to say them.

My wise therapist pointed out last week that I seem to be doing a lot of self-censoring. And the end result is that it's only making me more anxious all of the time. I don't want to talk too much about this pregnancy to other babylost mamas unless they are also pregnant or already had their "rainbow baby" after a loss. I don't want to talk to non-babylost pregnant ladies about all the fears about this pregnancy that chatter away in my mind. In general it just seems like everyone in the non-babylost world is so much more excited and so much more sure that all will turn out ok, than I could ever possibly be--and I don't want to tell them that either. This leaves me with way too much time on my own in my own head.

My intent in this pregnancy has always been to be as present as possible in the renewed hope, joy and love that the Sunflower has brought. I gave Ezra so much love as he grew inside my belly, the Sunflower deserves the same. Indeed, the hope, joy and love is there every day. But these beautiful emotions sit alongside something else that was never present when I was pregnant with Ezra:

I'm terrified.

There's not a day that goes by that I don't wonder if this baby isn't already dead. Even though I'm starting to feel little flutters of movement. Each twinge or unexplained pain makes me imagine I'm miscarrying or going into labor. Even though I had all those same random twinges and pains while pregnant with Ezra. Although I'm beginning to show, I worry the baby isn't growing enough. My mind wanders to every possible thing that could already be wrong...congenital deformities, genetic disorders...

I wish there was an off switch for my mind. The constant negative chatter is really getting to me.

I really don't want to be THIS pregnant lady. The one filled with constant worry and fear. I miss the OLD pregnant me.

The one who positively glowed through every day of the 33 weeks and 5 days I got to carry Ezra. Nobody could wipe the grin off my face.

The one who practically skipped around town with her ever-growing belly. Even the morning of the day he died, I joyfully walked on my own to the hospital.

The one who gleefully announced she was pregnant to large audiences before sitting down in a chair to teach or train in those final months. I don't even want to tell people I'm pregnant this time round.

The one who never even realized there were so many many things to be scared about while pregnant. And now I'm scared of them all. Every single thing that could go wrong. Not just what happened to Ezra.

I wish I could have just a little of the old pregnant me back. I miss her.

The Sunflower

2009-07-04T09:05:00.007-04:00

When we returned home last night, there was a present waiting for us in the garden. The first of my sunflowers had bloomed while we were gone. It was like being handed a smile. I've been cultivating these sunflowers since late April, when I planted many seeds in a pot inside, shooing the cats away and watching them sprout. As it warmed up in May, I moved the pot outside. Some of them wilted and died, but many of my sunflowers took root, and eventually I dug them up and replanted them throughout the garden. I've continued to cultivate them, pulling weeds and staking them where necessary as they grew higher and higher. The ridiculous June rains (it rained something like 24 out of June's 30 days this year) helped too. And now a first bloom! There are a number of others ready to pop within the next week or so. I love sunflowers!

The fact is that I have always loved sunflowers, they always make me smile. My dad used to grow them in the backyard for me when I was a kid. My college dorm room was adorned with posters of Van Gogh's sunflowers, and whenever they are cheap and available I've been known to buy cut sunflowers for myself. One of my dearest friends bought me a mug and a plate painted with sunflowers, and they are my favorite to use for breakfast. David knows better than to buy roses for my birthday or our anniversary...I'm a sunflower kind of girl. Sunflowers are bold and beautiful, and they never cease to cheer me up, no matter how low my mood.

Over the past number of weeks, we've been cultivating a different kind of sunflower, a ray of hope, that also makes us smile. As of today I am 12 weeks pregnant. We've been calling this baby the Sunflower since the very beginning, because despite all the sadness, she can't help but make us smile. (We are both utterly convinced the Sunflower is a girl, even though it is way too early to know).

So far everything is very healthy and good. Now being considered squarely high-risk, I've already had 3 ultrasounds, and the Sunflower continues to have a steady heartbeat and to grow and grow. My belly is beginning to swell, and soon the Sunflower will be apparent to everybody.

Over the past 12 weeks, joy and hope have had a more steady presence in our lives. We can't help ourselves. I try to stay as present in the joy and hope as possible. We already talk to the Sunflower and let her know how loved and desired she is. But the Sunflower has unearthed a full palette of other emotions...sadness, anxiety, fear. I have been so emotional throughout this pregnancy....terrified of losing the Sunflower, grieving my blissful pregnancy with Ezra. Physically and emotionally this pregnancy has been so very different than my pregnancy with Ezra.

I haven't told that many people about the Sunflower. In some ways I have an overwhelming desire to hide in a cave for the 9 months, and emerge only if/when I have a live baby to show for my efforts. For the people I have told, mostly close friends, babylost mamas and my coworkers, I have felt compelled to share the news but within the same breath make clear I'm both excited and terrified. I need those around me to understand that although I am happy, I also have no illusions about the risks involved.

But the joy is there, ever present, always growing. Afterall, sunflowers always make me smile.

Here's some shots of the Sunflower:

And finally, here's some gratuitous shots of my garden. Its really come together this year:

Grief, revisited

2009-07-03T19:38:00.004-04:00

The past week has gone by in a blur, my mind barely processing all that has happened. Our lives are forever changed by the events set in motion the minute David got the phone call, and kept repeating "Dad died" as I let out a slow "Noooooo" as my eyes filled with tears ...as if taking back the words would make it not so.

Almost immediately my mind went to 'why us?' and 'why now?' Haven't we been through enough this year? Hasn't our sense of comfort and certainty been shattered already?

The fact is that David's dad, Al's death wasn't traumatic like Ezra's. It wasn't entirely unexpected, since his health has been compromised for at least the last 5 years, in particular over the last month since he fractured his hip. But he had been doing well with his rehabilitation, and we let ourselves believe that perhaps he would skirt the 'risk factors' associated with his injury. Sadly, we were mistaken.

But so much is familiar. The tears that spontaneously erupt at a fleeting thought. The sense of failure and helplessness. The deep desire to wake up and discover the nightmare is over.

I will admit that the grief is really David's, afterall he has 41 years of Dad to grieve, whereas I only met Al in his old age, when his health was already declining. But he was always gentle and kind to me, welcoming me to the family, and grieving deeply when Ezra was gone. I will miss his warm smile and his goofy jokes.

Mostly it is devastating to see David so sad again, the Ezra-sized hole in his heart now widened by a Dad-sized hole. David said to me that he feels like a part of his molecular makeup is gone, just like a part left along with Ezra. All too familiar.

Making the funeral arrangements on Monday felt easy, we'd made these sorts of decisions before, just over 10 months ago. I returned to work on Tuesday and Wednesday dazed from lack of sleep and disoriented by the events of the week, somehow carrying out my responsibilites on automatic.

And now we are home, having buried Al yesterday (Thursday). The funeral service was personal and beautiful, the highlight of course being David's gorgeous poem...which was met with many an 'Amen' throughout the church as he read the lines. I have yet to read or hear that poem without crying at the end. As the tears fell yesterday, I thought yes its a small comfort that Ezra is now on his grandfather's knee...but really he should be on MY knee.

Just because Al's death wasn't entirely unexpected doesn't make it any less sad or the pain any less raw. As I watched the tears fall yesterday, it occured to me that if we truly allowed ourselves to imagine how much it would hurt to lose those we love, we'd probably never allow ourselves to love at all. But love is what gets us through these hard times, and thankfully we have lots and lots of love to carry us through this difficult leg of life's journey.

Guest Post By Ezra's Daddy: A Homegoing For My Father

2009-06-30T12:53:00.004-04:00

My father, Albert C. Love, Jr., passed away on Sunday, June 28, 2009. This is a poem I wrote in his honor.

Welcome to my father’s homegoing!

He was a simple man with an extraordinary life,

A Georgia boy, born and raised in a wooden shack in Augusta,

In the heart of Jim Crow,

With segregation all around,

And with lynchings always waiting just around the corner,

Born to a Black Mama,

And his old man was Irish, as he always told us.

Was sent to the Korean War and came back with medals,

Then chose the printing trade, where Black men were mostly kept out,

He married my mother, the love of his life, and found a home in paradise, in Laurelton, Queens.

He was a simple man who had a lot to say,

About anything and everything you can imagine,

You might not have agreed with all he said,

But what he said often made you laugh.

And he liked to tell jokes, even when the punchline was not apparent,

Except maybe in his own mind…

He had many loves, my father—

He loved his God and he loved his country,

He loved helping others, serving others,

With his church and with his fellow veterans.

He loved Monday night football,

And I dare you to find a bigger Knicks fan,

Actually, I dare you to find any other Knicks fan, anywhere.

And of course, he loved his family,

And his two grandchildren Kris and Zora,

He bragged about them so much.

We grew up in completely different times,

And I know he didn’t always understand our world, my brother’s and mine,

Of Ivy League opportunities and overseas excursions.

But it didn’t mean he wasn’t proud,

Or that he wasn’t responsible for us being what we had become,

But in any case, he left us with a lot,

With memories of sitting on the back porch in the summertime,

And of the one-dollar matinee, and our shopping trips,

And that ice cream shop,

And most importantly his work ethic.

I know my father would have preferred a different way to leave,

Maybe in his leather chair at home with a pipe in his hand,

Watching wrestling or listening to B.B. King and Bobby Blue Bland,

Maybe with a big plate of lima beans and rice.

But my biggest regret was that he never got to meet my son Ezra,

That baby boy who died last season, on the day before he was born.

But now I know that things have come full circle,

And the two of them have found each other in that spirit world,

That land where the ancestors dwell and conduct their business.

And now my son is sitting on my father’s knee,

Listening to my father’s colorful stories, his life experiences,

And all sorts of jokes of course.

And all along, that was the way it was supposed to be,

With my son sitting on his grandfather’s knee,

And you can’t ask for a better homegoing than that.

A Baby Boy Named Sam

2009-06-27T17:24:00.001-04:00

About four and a half weeks after Ezra died, my dear friend A called to say she was four and a half weeks pregnant.

I didn’t handle the news well. Although I managed to have the conversation, I hung up the phone and sobbed for hours. My grief was too raw to manage this information. I was too sad for myself. Even though I was happy for A and knew this was a much desired pregnancy.

I kept my distance for most of those early weeks. I missed A deeply. But when we did talk, the contrast in our emotions was almost too much for me to bear – A needed to be a happy glowing mama-to-be –it’s of course what I wanted for her. I needed to be in the deep dark hole of despair of a grieving mama. I didn’t want to bring her down. But I couldn’t bring myself up to meet her joy.

I should explain that I love A like a sister. We’ve gotten each other through many a rough patch since we met in law school. She zipped down from Boston to be with me after Ezra was gone. She was one of the first people to say to me she wished she had got to meet him. And I knew she meant it.

Even in those early weeks I couldn’t help but think Ezra had something to do with this. That it was no accident that A was as many weeks pregnant as Ezra was gone. And so it came as no surprise when A called to say she was having a boy. Somehow I already knew.

What did come as a surprise is that at that same 20 week ultrasound, A and her husband learned there was a problem. Her baby boy had a heart deformity. Many tests followed. They found there were no other congenital problems. Many babies with this particular heart condition have open heart surgery just days after birth, and live long healthy lives.

I’m almost embarrassed to admit that at this point somehow it began to feel easier to talk to A again. Doctors, tests, ruling out congenital disorders…somehow that was a world I could understand. Anxiety, fear, sadness…it was what I was living every day.

But as A got closer to her due date, talking became harder for me again. When A talked about the immediate medical intervention her baby boy would need the moment he took his first breath outside her womb, my own anxiety level would rise to extreme levels. My stomach would knot; I’d wake in the middle of the night thinking about her baby boy. I knew Ezra was watching over him, and in my heart I believed that he would live and be healthy. And yet I was terrified that A would become another babylost mama. And the thought was more than I could handle. I wouldn’t wish this pain on my worst enemy, let alone one of my dearest friends.

A gave birth to her beautiful baby boy, Sam, on June 1st. From the photos, he is unbelievably cute, with an adorable full head of hair. Sam had several procedures immediately when he was born, and a few days later had successful open heart surgery. He’s been in the hospital for most of his nearly 4 weeks of life, having gone home only to return 2 ½ days later with an infection in his incision. He’s responding well to antibiotics and hopefully will be able to come home with his mommy and daddy soon. I can only imagine that these past 4 weeks have been unbelievably emotional and draining for each of them. I pray for Sam, A and her husband every day.

Thankfully A has kept a private blog to keep friends and family updated on Sam’s progress. My heart leaps with joy as she posts each positive update, and of course I worry at each bump in the road. I have never seen A look so astoundingly happy (or tired) as she does in the photos with baby Sam. And I can’t stop looking at Sam’s adorable face.

I still know in my heart that Sam is going to be just fine. After all he has Ezra looking out for him.

And I just cannot wait to meet this amazing little boy.

Guest Post By Ezra's Daddy: To The Fathers Who Lost Their Child

2009-06-20T10:33:00.003-04:00

I was hoping they would cancel Father’s Day this year, mostly because my son Ezra Malik died.

He was my baby boy, and he died the day before he was born, in a hospital in August of last year. He was a beautiful baby with a full head of hair and flat little feet, and I only got to hold him once. I cannot describe the intense feeling of joy over meeting and holding and kissing my son, and the excruciating pain over seeing him lifeless. His mother and I read him a bedtime story before we put him in the ground, to be with his ancestors. And now I am left lamenting over the birthdays, the graduations and other life events that will never happen, over the laughs and memories of bicycle rides, amusement parks, and ice cream - experiences of seeing him grow up which I will never see because it wasn’t meant to be.

Losing my child was the most traumatic experience of my life. Nothing else comes close. It was like crashing into a brick wall, or having my heart yanked out of my chest. To those who have not had the experience, I pray you will never know the feeling. What makes it particularly difficult is that parents are supposed to protect their children and keep them away from harm, and now we feel as if we’ve failed.

This membership organization is a secret society of sorts, whose members often suffer in silence because society doesn’t care to listen. To be sure, there are many parents in this secret society, many fathers such as myself, those who have that strong fatherhood feeling, who love their child without question. But we are not viewed as fathers in the regular sense because our child died. Maybe there should be a special Father’s Day just for us.

Think of the countless children in this world that die every year from one of any number of causes, whether disease or famine, or homicide or suicide or war, or causes unknown. For example, every year in the U.S., 5,000 children die from gun violence, and African Americans and Latinos are disproportionately affected. Homicide is the leading cause of death for African-American males between ages 15-34, the second leading cause of death for Blacks ages 10-14, and the third leading cause of death for the 5-9 age range, with guns accounting for 90%, 70% and 34% of these deaths, respectively. That’s a lot of children. That’s a lot of mourning parents, and an army of grieving fathers, often at war with their emotions, and shunned by a society that doesn’t support them through their painful journey.

This is a society where value is placed on looking good rather than feeling good. People ask “how are you feeling?” without really caring about your response. In a society that does not deal well with death, particularly the death of children - and wants people to just “get over it” and feel better, mistakenly believing that simply forgetting the loss will make the pain go away - parents of lost children have a rough time of it.

Mothers who grieve over a lost child tend to have a more supportive network than fathers to help them through their pain, not that they always receive the support that they need. Men are told to buck up, walk it off and “be a man”. After all, we are told, it is hardest on the mothers.

As a result, fathers of lost children are lost in the wilderness. We must grapple with the fact that our child has died, yet often we are ill-equipped to do so. Many men have been conditioned to hide and deny their emotions, their pain and their sorrow, with unhealthy consequences. Think of all of the people - especially men - who are behind bars because they could not deal with what was on their mind. Unable to manage their emotions, they cracked up, and perhaps even hurt those around them. Maybe they were unaware of the counseling and support services available to them (two online support groups for babylost parents are MISS Foundation and Glow In The Woods). Or they were reluctant to seek those services because of the social stigma of being labeled weak, unstable or crazy.

As for those of us who are coping with the loss of a child, the pain will never go away. It might get easier to live with, but that is not the point. The stages of grief don’t always progress in a straight line. Years after our child’s death, the bad days may still sneak up on us and assault us out of the blue. Hopefully, healing will come, and we can find ways to incorporate the loss into our daily lives. But the bar has been lowered on the highest level of joy that we are able to experience.

So, finally, to those fathers who can physically hold your child on Father’s Day, I tell you to hold them tight and don’t let go. Do not take your child for granted. To those fathers whose children remain with you in spirit, I say hold them tight in your heart, in your memories, and in your daily life, and don’t let go.

But if you are someone who knows a daddy of a lost child, don’t hesitate to go up to him and feel free to acknowledge his loss. Bringing up the tragedy won’t make him feel worse, because he is already living the hell that is the most traumatic experience of his life. But when others pretend that he is not a suffering father, that will almost certainly make him feel worse. We grieving fathers need to know we are not alone this Father’s Day.

One Wise Daddy

2009-06-18T00:01:00.002-04:00

Ezra's Daddy is another year wiser today. And what a year it was. Happy 41st birthday my sweet husband.

How is it possible?

2009-06-11T06:49:00.002-04:00

How is it possible that THREE times this week I've been brightly asked: "how's your baby?" (Um...DEAD) Not malicious, just oblivious. It's hard to imagine that nine and a half months later there is anyone left in the universe who hasn't heard my screams from the rooftops. MY PRECIOUS SON DIED!!!

And how is it possible this question no longer melts me into a pool of tears? Calmly and precisely I clarify. I've grown such thick skin.

When did the rough sharp edges of my grief settle into the core of my being? My what a journey this has been.

Guest Post By Ezra’s Daddy: Don’t Try This At Home

2009-06-10T09:43:00.002-04:00

Yesterday just didn’t make any sense. Just about everything I did was tainted with badness, badness I tell ya. I knew I was off on the wrong foot when I cut myself shaving—actually I stabbed myself in the side of the face with a pair of scissors, a first. But it was just the beginning…

So early in the evening, I was driving in the car, on my way to pick up Ezra’s Mommy at her office downtown. We were going to a social event. As I was approaching my destination, I received a call from Ezra’s Mommy, reminding me that I was supposed to pick her up at the court that day (not the office), in another part of town, and that we would be late. She had reminded me numerous times to pick her up at that location that day, but with the onset of senility and all, I forgot. So I regrouped, turned around, and maneuvered to get through the rush hour traffic so I could get to Ezra’s Mommy. I managed to maneuver my way through all sorts of buses and cars that were in my way. I thought I was home free.

Then a police car pulled me over, no doubt as part of the city’s recession-era, revenue enhancement efforts. I was still on the phone with Ezra’s Mommy, told her where I was, and that there was a law enforcement situation that required my attention and I would talk to her later. Apparently, or allegedly, as I was told, I had made an improper right turn. As I waited for what seemed to be hours, as the officer wrote what could have been a full-length novel, given the time he spent writing it, an exasperated Ezra’s Mommy, who had travelled miles it seemed to find me, walked up to the car and asked if she could get in. I wasn’t sure—the officer hadn’t completed my application to participate in the city’s revenue enhancement program— but I told her I thought it was ok.

Finally we were on our way, and we made it to our event. One of the attendees, the first person to speak to me, asked me inappropriate personal questions, while another person congratulated Ezra’s Mommy on the birth of our new baby. Other things might have happened, but I was in a fog for the rest of the evening, just singing the lyrics to “Ooh Child” to myself.

The event was over and we went home. And the proofs for Ezra’s gravestone had come in the mail, waiting for us. Finally, my tears started flowing. What a way to end a day. What a way to spend a day. I repeat, do not try this at home.

How I'm really feeling

2009-06-07T16:23:00.004-04:00

The past few weeks have unearthed new layers of sadness and anxiety. It doesn't help that work has been manic. Or that we've had so many additional life stressors thrown our way these last 9+ months. But I haven't slept through the night in weeks. I wake up in the middle of the night to cry, or worry. Sometimes I eventually fall back to sleep. Sometimes I'm done with sleeping for the night. Not surprisingly, I'm exhausted.

I still carry so much sadness, anger, disappointment...and yet most people don't seem to recognize it or ask about it anymore. Everyone comments on how much weight I've lost or how well I look. As if looking good were the same as feeling good. It's true I've lost weight - because ever since my baby died I've barely had an appetite. Its gotten better, I now eat healthily, but I still don't eat much. I also have lost my sweet tooth (except for ice cream!) since losing Ezra. Its really fine, I was above a healthy weight before. But how I look has nothing to do with how I feel.

Ezra feels so far away now. A few weeks ago we picked out the bronze plaque we will have placed on his grave around the 1 year anniversary of his death. I'm happy with what we picked out...though still find it surreal that this is all we can do for our son.

Although we're only a little beyond 9 months, I worry about hitting the 1 year mark. Other than my babylost friends and a few amazing others, almost no one seems to remember Ezra anymore. Almost no one asks how I am feeling and truly sticks around to hear the answer. Almost no one speaks my little boy's name. Will anyone remember Ezra's birthday?

I've been thinking lately that perhaps no one really asks anymore because they read this blog so they think they know how I'm feeling. I wonder if this blog has created a false sense of intimacy so that people are under the impression I've already told them how I feel. But with rare exceptions, it's only my babylost friends who comment on this blog, so I never know who in my day-to-day life is reading. Sometimes friends IRL will mention they read my blog, and it sometimes takes me by surprise because its no longer clear to me if anyone is reading. In the meantime, there's a distance that's grown into so many of my friendships, a chasm that may never again be bridged since there's no way to go back an re-live the past 9 months a different way.

If it sounds like I'm sad and bitter, I am. Many of those middle-of-the-night tears have been shed out of sadness and disappointment at relationships lost or changed immutably. These past 9 months have been the most isolating and alienating of my life.

Because I guess what no one sees because I look so good, is that to the extent possible, I now avoid social situations all together. Formerly an outgoing sociable person, I now experience such acute social anxiety at the most casual of gatherings big or small, that I prefer to just stay home. Not that we really get invited anywhere anymore anyway. My evenings and weekends consist of quiet time to myself and with David. And at this point, that's just how I like it.

Its not that I want every conversation to be about my dead baby. With those few amazing friends who have stuck by me through this entire journey, I talk about plenty of other things. I just don't want the conversation to stop the minute I say his name. Better yet, I wish someone else would say his name. I don't want the topic changed the minute I admit I'm feeling sad or anxious. Or an immediate query about whether I'm still in counseling (of course I am).

Its amazing to me how poorly people deal with the dark emotions. These days they intermingle with the light ones. I can be happy/sad. I can be calm/anxious. I'm not sure I ever envision it being any different. And no that doesn't make me clinically depressed. Every happy moment is a happy moment I have without my son. Every adventure is an adventure he's missed. And every beautiful day...he. is. still. gone.

9 Months

2009-05-30T21:51:00.004-04:00

Today is 9 months since my baby boy was born.

9 months since I held him in my arms and sobbed and wailed.

I still remember his slight weight in my arms.

I remember his fuzzy black hair, and his miniature version of his daddy's nose.

I remember his tiny feet and hands, and his subtle grin.

I remember...

And yet the world keeps turning...the good, the bad.

So many challenges thrown our way these last 9 months...

First one parent's illness, and now another.

Unemployment.

Losing so many of our friends and family relationships.

I try to focus on the positive...

Our deepened love for each other.

The friends and family who have held us in love on this journey.

Our heightened compassion and connection to the world.

And somehow I still have hope.

Most days I don't even know why.

Hope that we will survive this.

Hope that times will be better.

Hope that we will one day be parents to a living child.

I'm struck lately by the intensity of the ebbs and flows of life.

How frequently bad things happen to good people,

How often good things happen to bad people,

And everything in between.

As the lovely and amazing Gal wrote on Mother's Day:

In the past week,

I learned that Ann was living her final days.

I learned that she died.

I learned that someone very special to me is pregnant.

I learned that a good friend has lymphoma.

I learned that another good friend is engaged to be married.

I am starting to understand that this is how it is

And always will be...

They exist together, the dark and the light,

The sorrows and the blessings,

The arrivals and the departures.

And as usual, my wise friend Gal is right.

Because these last 9 months,

I have become singularly aware of these contrasts

The immense joy of my pregnancy, followed by the crushing grief of losing my son.

The love of family, coupled with the immense fear of our parents' illnesses.

The way I'm able to laugh, even when the tears are just beneath the surface.

So many healthy babies born alive to family and friends since Ezra died.

And yet each new babylost mama who contacts me breaks my heart all over again.

My dad has recovered well.

My sister-in-law's mother died.

David's dad is in the hospital recovering from a broken hip.

There will always be dark,

There will always be light,

It is all part of the universe.

A few weeks ago, a Hebrew song that was part of my childhood popped into my head.

I have not been able to stop singing it since.

It was written by Hannah Senesh, a Jewish resistance fighter during World War II.

And it just sums up so much.

Oh God, my God

I pray that these things never end.

The sand and the sea.

The rush of the waters.

The crash of the heavens.

The prayers of the heart.

Here's a link so you can hear it sung in Hebrew:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OUVGokXIkaQ

Small Talk

2009-05-16T14:02:00.003-04:00

Sometimes its exhausting being walking gloom.

This week I was away at a professional conference, a first since Ezra died. As it approached I became apprehensive about being away from home, even if it was just for 2 nights and 3 days; I've become so reliant on having the safe space of my house and the comfort of my husband to retreat to after a long day. Although it was exhausting, the conference was exciting and so I muddled through.

What I hadn't thought to anticipate is how frequently I'd be asked 'do you have children?' by various colleagues I met at the conference. Up until I was pregnant with Ezra, I'd always answer that question with a hopeful, 'not yet'. Then while pregnant it was 'just this one on the way'.

The reality is that I am the worst liar in the world. The only way I know how to answer that question now is 'yes but he died'. And if they press for more, simply 'he was stillborn' or 'he died just before he was born'. Usually that ends that line of conversation. In fact it sometimes ends the conversation entirely.

Most people don't know what to do with that information. Some are appropriate, at least spitting out 'I'm sorry' or 'I can't imagine'. But once spoken, the fact of his life and death hangs between us, no one quite knows what to say next. I hate being the one to drag a rainy black cloud over everybody. But I can't deny my son's existence.

One particular group of 3 women from the same office were all wearing the same kind of necklace, with their children's names engraved on round silver disks on chains around their necks. One said, 'ooh you have the same necklace as us. How old is your child?' I said, 'he was stillborn in August' and their faces dropped like dominos...1, 2, 3. They all said they were sorry. They all said they had a friend who had also had a stillbirth. They changed the topic.

The interaction reminded me of junior high. Eager to fit in with whatever was the latest fad, it was like having the popular girls say 'ooh you have doc martens like us' and having to admit they weren't the real thing. Still on the outside looking in, just like junior high.

Sometimes its tiring being a mama only in my head and in my heart. I wish the rest of the world could see it too.

Like an Ostrich...

2009-05-11T20:21:00.002-04:00

Denial. As Mother's Day approached, the denial grew deeper and deeper. I buried my head in the sand and willed Hallmark to take it back, to not make it come this year. I anticipated it being hard, but unlike all the other hard days I've anticipated...the monthly anniversaries, his due date, my birthday...I had no vision of how it would be or even what I wanted it to be. Sadly, Hallmark ignored my silent pleas.

And then it arrived. It was only the night before that I began to have any sense of what I wanted. I wanted to be pampered and acknowledged like any other mom. And I wanted to hold my son close. Just like any other mom.

The day was an emotional roller coaster, with beautiful happy moments and steep plunges into the darkest places my mind goes these days. All day the sun was shockingly bright. It made me feel raw and exposed.

The day began with an extraordinarily delicious breakfast in bed thanks to my loving husband...an omelet with fresh ricotta, herbs and vegetables. I lolled in bed, read blogs. Smiled with delight at the couple emails from friends who remembered it was my day too. Most did not.

Then to the cemetery. We haven't been since the fall, its been so cold. Plus I don't think of Ezra being there, his spirit is with me always. But recently Ezra has begun to feel so far away. I needed to go, to seek him out. I wasn't prepared for the death carnival atmosphere. The cemetery staff out in full force, offering free flowers, saccharine offers to find a "location".

I sat by his grave and talked to my boy. And I was so overcome with the deep sense that I failed him. I pleaded with Ezra to forgive me for having failed to protect him. For not helping to see this day, this ridiculously gorgeous day. I felt the sun on my face and prayed to the Source of Life. I begged my boy to trust me enough to bring another life into the world. The tears poured down my face.

I don't talk easily about the shame of losing Ezra. The deep feelings of failure that have eaten away at me since he left. I know they aren't rational. On some level, I know that there's nothing I could have done. And yet.... I thought I had conquered the shame. In fact I had stuffed it so deeply inside that until recently, even I didn't recognize it was still there.

Puttering around my garden in the afternoon, I was exhausted, worn out from the morning's emotional meltdown. In the end, I took a nap, much needed to steel myself for the evening's "celebration" with my own mom.

: :

As the lovely and amazing Angie has written, no one in deadbabyland talks about their new relationship with their parents after losing their baby. My relationship with my mom is like the third rail, on this blog, but also in life. Everyone has a complicated mother-daughter relationship, I know I'm not alone in that. My own mother-daughter relationship almost ended entirely over my choice of a life partner. We got past this. It was not pretty. And having teetered on the edge of that cliff once before, I have no interest getting near that edge again. I don't have the energy for round 2.

Which means I'm angry. Furious. I'm furious my mom doesn't talk about Ezra as her grandson, that she doesn't acknowledge my pain as her own. Angry that she won't tell me she's grieving too.

In the beginning, the minutes, hours, days after Ezra died, my mom was my rock. I can't imagine how we would have survived if it weren't for my parents running to our aid. They were at the hospital within what felt like minutes of our call. They guided us through decisions about sitting shiva, purchasing cemetery plots...all the stuff we should still know nothing about. My mom cooked through her grief, stuffing our freezer and fridge with all my favorite foods, none of which I could bring myself to eat.

But as the months have worn on, my mom treats Ezra as a sad episode in our (not her) lives, not a life, a baby boy, who is mourned and missed. For the most part my dad does the same, but he's not my mom. Plus he's been recovering from major surgery. He gets a pass.

That was a turning point when my mom stopped grieving with me. It was 2 1/2 months after Ezra died when my dad got sick. In her shock and anxiety over my dad's health, it was if she no longer had room in her heart for her dead grandson. Not that she ever expressed her grief before, but at least she was more present with mine.

Thankfully, my dad has recovered. I'm not sure my relationship with my mom ever will.

: :

My mom never acknowledged me as a mom on Mother's Day. She didn't wish me a happy day. She didn't mention that it must be a hard day for me. She delighted in her gift. She loved the elaborate dinner I cooked. She went to sleep content, called today to thank me again for her celebration. I raged all the way home.

We live in parallel universes my mom and I. In her universe she has a loving close relationship with her daughter. In mine we share a loving relationship, marred by betrayal.

: :

It wasn't an awful Mother's Day. I anticipated it would be much worse. I am just oh so very grateful its over.

Mother's Day Haiku

2009-05-10T13:41:00.002-04:00

Always his mama
Grateful when you remember
Just wish he was here

Joy

2009-05-07T00:01:00.001-04:00

Three years ago today, our joy knew no bounds. To say our wedding day was the happiest day of our lives understates the magic that pervaded it all.

The look on David's face when he saw me (see above) for the first time that day:

More magic moments:

Today we are celebrating our joy in each other. Amidst this terribly hard year, its good to remember we still have joy...and deep deep love.

Guest Post By Ezra's Daddy: Ooh Child

2009-05-04T11:19:00.011-04:00

We heard this song on the radio in the car yesterday and burst into tears. One of my favorite songs of all time, Ezra's Mommy's too. I have two versions here: the original from the Five Stairsteps, and another from Hall and Oates. Some songs just strike a chord for me, especially these days, and this is one of them.

Ooh-oo child, things are gonna get easier
Ooh-oo child, things'll get brighter
Ooh-oo child, things are gonna get easier
Ooh-oo child, things'll be brighter

Some day, yeah
We'll put it together and we'll get it all done
Some day
When your head is much lighter
Some day, yeah
We'll walk in the rays of a beautiful sun
Some day
When the world is much brighter

Ooh-oo child, things are gonna be easier
Ooh-oo child, things'll be brighter
Ooh-oo child, things are gonna be easier
Ooh-oo child, things'll be brighter

Some day, yeah
We'll put it together and we'll get it all done
Some day
When your head is much lighter
Some day, yeah
We'll walk in the rays of a beautiful sun
Some day
When the world is much brighter

Some day, some day, some day
We'll get it together and we'll get it all done
Some day
When your head is much lighter
Some day, some day, some day
We'll walk in the rays of a beautiful sun
Some day
When the world is much brighter

Ooh-oo child, things are gonna get easier
Ooh-oo child, things'll be brighter
Ooh-oo child, things are gonna get easier
Ooh-oo child, things'll be brighter

Right now
You just wait and see how things are gonna be
Right now...

8 months

2009-04-30T13:42:00.002-04:00

Today is Ezra's 8 month birthday. I miss him.

Instead of my own words, someone just shared with me Ernest Hemingway's response when he was challenged to write a story in 6 words. It sums it all up:

For sale, baby shoes, never worn.

Chills.

Silence

2009-04-26T12:02:00.003-04:00

There's been silence in this space for the last 10 days, probably the longest I've gone without writing since I created this blog. Its not that there are not words, I just need them to be in my head for now.

To all those friends whose calls I haven't returned, or whose emails have taken days to get a response, I'm sorry. I just need some space to myself right now. Dealing with the outside world, even loving friends and family, takes a lot of emotional energy when you're grieving. I know a lot of people assume I'm "better" because I'm taking on so much at work, able to be social and smile throughout my work day. I am able to laugh again, and mean it. But just functioning in this way takes every ounce of my energy, leaving me so very depleted for what is most healing, which is time to myself (for writing, reading, reflection, yoga) and time with David.

I can feel the grief changing, but in reality, I am changing, on almost a molecular level. I will never be the same person I was before losing Ezra. I carry with me a layer of sadness even when I am happy. The things that used to bring me the most joy, like pregnant friends and tiny babies, bring me terror, anxiety, jealousy, pain. Whereas before I was self-confident and outgoing, I am fragile now, needing the people around me to be so much more attentive to my cues as to whether I can handle a topic of conversation or not, want to talk or don't want to talk....and when people fail to follow those cues I crumble afterwards in disappointment and tears. And though I don't talk about it much, my feelings of failure and shame around losing Ezra follow me everywhere I go. I miss my son every moment of every day - even when to the outside observer it might seem he's the last thing on my mind. I know deeply in my heart that all of this will never change - I am changed forever.

I feel a disconnect with so many of my friends and family, even those who have tried their hardest to prop me up and show me love on this journey - sometimes it is clumsy love but I do know its love. I have felt anger and disappointment at friends and family who haven't been able to be there in the ways I need...and yet I understand that this loss and its aftermath are so horrific, so devastating, that I may be asking too much. My intent is forgiveness...and I know my heart will follow.

I know I am also changing in positive ways. It used to be so hard for me to admit that anything positive could come from Ezra's death. I am a more compassionate person. I am more attentive to all the sadness and pain around me, and more attentive than ever to bringing healing to all I can. I am redefining community in such meaningful ways, particularly my amazing babylost community. I am more spritual, more connected to the universe. I love deeper.

For now there may be silence. I need to figure out for myself what it means to move forward in the world now that Ezra is dead...my hopes and dreams as I imagined them are dead. I need space to hope new hopes and dream new dreams.

Remembering Kai

2009-04-16T07:29:00.006-04:00

Today I am wishing so deeply that we lived in that alternate universe,
the one where I have a beautiful 8 month old son,
and sweet baby Kai was arriving safely into his beautiful parents' arms today.
Oh Danielle and Alan I wish we never had to meet.
and yet I can't imagine surviving this journey without you.

Ezra's candle is alight tonight,

As Ezra's Mommy and Daddy remember a spirit so bright

We honor Sweet Baby Kai throughout these parts

And hold his dear parents Danielle & Alan close in our hearts.

Love,Sarah & David

Random reflections on a week in the life

2009-04-15T22:27:00.002-04:00

I am so functional these days, I step back and I’m amazed.
Working hard, producing a lot.
Everyone says how good I look, how well I seem.
I don’t feel well. But I act well.
My grief has compartmentalized, it doesn’t spill into everything anymore.

It took nearly 8 months, but I finally cleaned out my favorite work bag
The one I had with me the day Ezra died
It’s been sitting in a corner
Untouched. I couldn’t bring myself to look inside.
Here’s what I found:
One set of hospital discharge papers.
The book I was reading, The Happiest Baby on the Block
2 rolls of tums
1 bottle of Tylenol
1 protein bar
Everything a very pregnant lady might need,
Before she became the saddest mama on the block.

I have a new client, she’s 5 months pregnant.
Her due date is August 30th, Ezra’s birthday.
She’s delivering at the same hospital he was born.

I had a healing massage.
I told the massage therapist about Ezra.
He told me good things come from the bad, he is living proof.
His mama had a 1 year old son who drowned in a pool.
She was pregnant with twins at the time and she miscarried.
He wouldn’t be here if his older brother hadn’t died.

Another client was so grateful her newborn son was returned to her care,
She told me she was hysterical when they took him away,
You just can’t imagine what it was like...
Oh sweetheart, you don’t know what I can imagine.

Ezra has a spot at our favorite day care.
Where I live, day care wait lists are a competitive sport.
I knew I should have called and told them my son was dead.
Somehow I just hoped I could make that call with good news too,
news of a younger sibling on the way.
But the spirit of that little one isn’t ready to join us yet.
I know she will when the time is right.
I listen to the news, the ‘Noooo!’ building in my head but not in my throat.
And so I am caught off guard, sobbing and wailing in my office.
The door not closed quickly enough to stop the world from hearing my cry.

In an alternate universe....

2009-04-15T12:26:00.003-04:00

I have an 8 month old. He got off the waiting list at our first choice day care today. They just called to tell me.

I told them that my son Ezra is dead.

I am wailing as if he died today.

Guest Post By Ezra's Daddy: I Carry Him Wherever I Go (Words From A Babylost Daddy)

2009-04-14T17:25:00.003-04:00

I carry him wherever I go…
What else can I do?

Hello again, my little man, it has been eight months since you left us,
Physically that is,
When we planted you in the cold, cold ground,
Just as many months as when you called your Mommy home,
Time sure flies when you’re grieving, it appears,
Except when it feels like an eternity of pain.

I remember that day just as if it were the worst day of all time,
Probably because it was.
Seeing you there, helpless and peaceful, tragic and comical,
How confusing to reconcile, it is—
The profound joy over seeing you for the first time,
With an abysmal sadness because it would be the last.

I never could hold a baby correctly, your Mommy can attest to that,
Seemed awkward for me, strained and a bit unnatural.
Yet the moment I saw you, something snapped into place,
And I knew what to do for my son,
And I held your head up, like the delicate and fragile treasure you are.

I carry you wherever I go…
Because I have no other choice.

The day we buried you,
And sent you back to your ancestors for safe keeping,
I had never thought I would have such an experience in life,
Placing you in that tiny casket,
But you were not alone—
You had your toy mouse to keep you company,
And your wool blanket to keep you warm in that cold, cold ground,
And your alligator suit for comfy sleeping,
Which fit nicely over your white shroud, in deference to your ancestors—
Because you have to meet them properly, with respect—
And a picture of your Mommy and Daddy,
So you won’t forget where you come from.

We got to read you “Goodnight Moon” before you left,
It was the least we could do, it was the best we could do,
It was all we could do, and it was all we needed to do,
And when I buried you in the ground, I shoveled that dirt
With all of the force I had in me,
As if I were shoveling for my life,
When I was really shoveling in honor of yours,
A memory of hiccups in your Mommy’s belly,
Of kicks when your Daddy talked to you,
Those long conversations we had, part knowledge and wisdom
Imparted to you,
Part silliness and games I shared with you,
Because you inherited your Daddy’s sense of humor,
Not to mention his lack of arch support—
Oh, those flat feet!—
And his curly black hair when he had curly black hair,
On his head and not just his beard, that is.
Never knew you’d have such character so early on.

I carry him wherever I go…
This I must do for him.

I had dreams of carrying you wherever I go,
Like that very first time I saw you,
I had dreams of carrying you to the store and to the park.
Now I must settle with carrying your picture in my pocket,
And your footprints engraved on the necklace around my neck,
So that when times are tough and unbearable—
And believe me they are,
And they will be again sometime soon—
You will give me comfort.

Some think I should forget about you, tho’ they’d never say it,
These things are for the best, it’s God’s way,
You couldn’t have been too attached to him, they’d say.
Plus, it’s always harder on the mother, you know.

But never underestimate a father’s pain
Over the loss of his child,
Whether by earthquake, famine, fire or flood,
Or unknown causes, or war, or through the barrel of a gun,
When I see you walking down the street, Babylost Daddy,
I’ll nod my head in acknowledgement,
No need for words,
And our pain goes beyond words, there’s nothing left to say,
And yet I have to write about it, must have a written account of this,
Of what happened those several months ago,
And what continues to happen in my mind, and in my heart.

So, we carry them wherever we go…
This we must do, in our mind, in our heart, in our pocket,
And even around our neck,
When we can no longer carry them in our arms.

A Babylost Pesach

2009-04-09T07:09:00.003-04:00

I approached Passover with minimal reflection this year, not the same kind of 'spring cleaning' of the mind I've done in past years. The last 7+ months have been consumed with reflection, and more importantly holidays are just hard -- this was supposed to be our first Pesach with Ezra, not without him. And so we scaled back, made plans to only attend one small seder with my family, where mercifully I was the youngest there.

I've talked before about the narcissism of grief, the way I seem to have no choice but to see everything through the lens of our loss these days. But I never before have focused on how much birth connected to death there is in the Passover story -- and so it caught me by surprise last night. First Pharoah enslaves the Jews and then orders that the Hebrew midwives kill all the boys who are born; fearing God they don't do it (and when Pharoah asks them why they say Because the Hebrew women are not like the Egyptian women: they are vigorous. Before the midwife can come to them, they have given birth). So Pharoah orders all the Egyptian people to help, and throw every first born Hebrew boy into the Nile. The Pharoah is evil personified -- imagine the Hebrews' grief at arbitrarily and cruelly losing every first born boy.

I don't have to imagine, I know.

Then there's Moses' mother, who after birthing her son saw how beautiful he was and hid him for three months (don't blame her!). So she creates a little boat for him out of a wicker basket and places him amongst the reeds of the Nile. Her sister waits and watches while the Pharoah's daughter comes down to the river and finds Moses; her sister offers to find a "Hebrew nurse" to be the child's wetnurse and thus Moses' mother is still able to be with her son.

When Moses grows up, God charges him and his brother Aaron with challenging Pharoah and persuading him to let the Hebrews go free. God tells Moses: Then you shall say to the Pharoah, 'Thus says the Lord: Israel is My first-born son. I have said to you, "let My son go, that he may worship Me," yet you refuse to let him go. Now I will slay your first-born son. The entire people of Israel are God's first-born son, so if Pharoah will not release them, God will kill Pharoah's first born.

A first born son is precious.

Pharoah does not listen to Moses and Aaron's pleas and so God begins to bring plagues upon the Egyptians to show his power: blood, frogs, lice, insects, pestilence, inflammation, hail, locusts, darkness...none of these convince Pharoah to release the Hebrew people from slavery. And so God deals a final blow:

In the middle of the night the Lord struck down all the first-born in the land of Egypt, from the first-born of Pharoah who sat on the throne to the first-born of the captive who was in the dungeon, and all the first-born of the cattle. And Pharoah arose in the night, with all his courtiers and all the Egyptians -- because there was a loud cry in Egypt; for there was no house where there was not someone dead. He summoned Moses and Aaron in the night and said "Up, depart from among my people, you and the Israelites with you! Go, worship the Lord as you said! Take also your flocks and your herds, as you said, and begone! And may you bring a blessing upon me also! (Ex. 12:29-32)

This passage sends chills down my spine and a lump to my throat...for there was no house where there was not someone dead. I can imagine that loud cry in Egypt...it is my wailing for Ezra magnified by the thousands.

Guest post by Ezra’s Daddy: The Anti-Midas Touch

2009-04-06T22:17:00.001-04:00

What is the opposite of the Midas touch? Of course, I’m talking about King Midas, the man of folklore who turned everything he touched into gold. These days, I feel as if I have the opposite of that. I’ll call it the Anti-Midas touch. Everything that I touch turns to crap, to junk, to garbage— use your favorite word.

Everything seems to occur in groups. Good things seem to happen in groups of two, three or four. So too do bad things, tragic events, incidents, bad news, you name it. I have also found that every number of years, perhaps every few years, sometimes five to ten, there is a flashpoint, a turning point in my life that helps to define my life or career, and charts the course for everything that follows. In 1984 it was living with a Japanese family in Tokyo, and being accepted to college. In 1987 it was being verbally and physically harassed by an inebriated alumnus at the college football game. In 1989, it was my first job after college. In 1996, it was my first job with a nonprofit organization. In 1997, it was my guest appearance on MSNBC—for two hours. The next year, it was traveling to the UK and speaking at Oxford, Cambridge and a dozen other universities on behalf of Amnesty International. In 2000, it was starting law school and meeting Ezra’s Mommy.

I believe that either that defining moment breaks you, or it makes you stronger and helps you find your destiny. I remember those words were told to me about 12 years ago by a client of mine, while I was working in New York as a community organizer, you know, sort of like that guy in the White House in his earlier years.

Anyway, on a serious note, one day I was in the office when this woman came through the door in tears. She told me that she was picking up her daughter from school, and was sitting in her parked car, waiting for her daughter, when she was approached by some police officers. There was a verbal exchange, and suddenly she found herself handcuffed, called filthy names by the officers, physically accosted, and taken to the local police precinct. At the station house, she was forced to strip search down to her underwear in front of the cops (male and female), and was locked up behind bars. She was released after several humiliating hours. This was this woman’s defining moment. She did not fold or flounder, but rather was able to find her destiny and prevail.

Back to the Midas analogy. I can’t help but think that losing Ezra is one of those defining moments in my life that has made me, and will continue to make me, a fundamentally different person. It has been the single most traumatic experience in my life. It seems that since Ezra’s death, a number of bad things, and a full array of both major and minor annoyances, have happened to me, to us, in bunches. They seem to pile on each day. To be honest, some good things have happened, but it seems that far more bad has happened than good. And the bad things are that much harder to stand because Ezra is not here.

It is bad to have to be annoyed by trivialities when you have just buried your son. It is hard to grieve properly while going through a job search, and it is hard to be excited about career development while you are in mourning—and in a recession. It is tough to be told you’re overqualified—and feel as if you have to apologize for it— after you’ve been taught your whole life to do all that you can do— to go for everything, be the most that you can be, and the best at whatever you choose to do. It is frustrating to feel as if you are getting a lot done yet still spinning your wheels, and that everything you do at the moment in life appears to be for naught. It is rough to feel as though you are shouting in a room full of people and no one is listening, and everyone is ignoring you and whatever it is you have to say. It is that much harder when your boy is lost and you can’t find him, except for that picture on your desk, that pendant around your neck, that lump in your throat, and that feeling in your heart. And it is harder when you’re constantly told that the loss of a baby is especially hard for the mother.

This past weekend was the citywide Philly Spring Clean-up Day. Ezra’s Mommy and I were volunteering in our neighborhood, helping the local community development group with the work on a new garden. I was pounding away at old bricks with a hammer, breaking them down for use in the garden’s pathway. Ezra’s Mommy was helping to lay the bricks. As I was breaking the bricks with the brick breaking team and channeling my inner chain gang member (or stonemason, not sure which), Mayor Michael Nutter, the mayor of our fine city of Philadelphia, visited our group. He came there to plant a tree in the new community garden. He approached me as I was pounding away, shook my hand and asked me: ”What are you doing?” I thought to myself, “I haven’t the faintest idea!” After I explained, the Mayor planted the tree and posed for some photos with the group. As he was leaving with his entourage, I said good-bye to him, and we gave each other the Obama-style fist bump. It was a surreal experience, even more surreal because it was about the fourth time I’ve shaken hands with the Mayor, but the first time while breaking bricks.

The experience that day, helping with the community garden, reminded me that sometimes, everything I touch doesn’t necessarily turn to crap. For one day, at least, I was able to forget about all that was before me, all the pain, hardship, uncertainty, fear and sorrow, and just help out and have fun. Just like the old days. And as I look forward to the day when I get my mojo back, I know that Little Peanut Boy will help get me back to that place.

retreat

2009-04-05T17:13:00.003-04:00

I feel myself retreating...from the world, from my emotions. All those feelings are still there with the same intensity...anxiety, fear, sadness, sorrow...tucked alongside everything else I do. And yet I don't feel up to writing in this space with the same frequency, the desparate need to have everyone else understand the depths of my despair has dulled. In fact except for other babylost parents, I assume most people don't understand, can't understand or won't allow themselves to understand...I don't care which anymore.

This change became apparent at an appointment with a new doctor this week...the nurse had taken a full medical history (preeclampsia, placental abruption, stillbirth now etched forever into THAT story) and the doctor was reviewing it with me. "So you had a delivery in August, and that was uncomplicated?" his voice said, singsong. "No, it was very complicated. My baby died. He was born still" I said solidly, as I could see him reading the next lines on the page and realizing his mistake. "Oh that's tough" came the reply and he moved onto a new topic. There were no tears. There wasn't even rage. I expect this kind of insensitivity. I expect that people will say something stupid, or stupidly not say something.

There's something to my recurrent fantasy lately, the one where I live in a village of only babylost parents. I'm tired of explaining myself, don't feel like I should have to anymore. Actually I'm just tired. I feel like I've been sad forever.

We've been watching a lot of movies lately and I've been reading a lot more than before. It's the escape into a different narrative that's comforting, of forgetting about this grief journey, even if just for an hour or two.

This retreat is not necessarily apparent - I'm taking on more than ever at work, volunteering in the community. I smile, I chat, even go out for a beer once in awhile. But I don't want to talk about how I'm feeling, not most of the time.

And still, nothing brings more joy to my heart than when someone mentions my son's name, my Ezra. I miss him more than ever, I just don't want to talk about it right now.

7 months...

2009-03-29T14:17:00.002-04:00

These days I've been doing ok...that is until I'm very not ok. I walk along minding my own business, even feeling vaguely content...and then grief snatches me into a side alley and knocks me around a bit...leaving me bruised, battered, lacking in self-confidence. I move along, limping a little, looking over my shoulder, never quite sure when the grief monster will be back.

Today, 7 months since Ezra died, is definitely one of those days. Up until last night I was feeling ok about this anniversary, taking it in stride, realizing that its just a day, just like all the other days for the past 7 months, a day I miss my son. And then I tried to do our taxes (I don't know, TurboTax, DID I have a child in the past year?) and either screwed them up royally or we owe more money than we have (at which point I concluded this is clearly a job for an accountant this year and gave up). And then like a boulder gathering speed as it roles down the mountain, the downward spiral had begun...

It's been 7 months since our lives turned to shit, since it began to feel like everything that could go wrong has gone wrong. Most days I do a pretty good job at reminding myself that all the other crap that life has thrown us in the past 7 months is not in any way connected to Ezra dying. The bad crap would have probably happened anyway, but we would have had more energy to tackle it if Ezra were in our arms, instead of buried in the ground. On the bad days it feels like one big universal conspiracy (even if this isn't really what I believe), and today is one of those days. By tomorrow I'll have it back in perspective again, be ready to take on the world, I'll chip away at the minor annoyances and face the bigger hurdles with optimism...afterall, I now know we can survive anything. But for today I'll wallow.

And yet we still laugh. Today on the way to brunch David and I were talking and one of us used the word "unhappiness"...which for some reason simultaneously and spontaneously launched a musical rendering of our own original song "Unhappiness", sung to the tune of the well known Charlie Brown melody 'Happiness'. Unhappiness is, your baby dying, doing your taxes, losing your job... We erupted into giggles. We have an unbelievable ability to keep each other laughing, even in the worst of times.

It's days like this where my mind wanders to the path not taken, what it would be like if we had a 7 month old in our home instead of in our hearts. We certainly wouldn't have gone out to brunch this morning, at least not to the hipster place we went, there just didn't seem to be babies there. What foods would Ezra be trying? Would I be scraping peas off the floor? Would I be back at work? How would I manage being away from Ezra during the day? A littany of painful questions...for which there are no answers. I don't let myself go down this path too frequently, the gate is closed tight, as tightly as the nursery door in our house, yet I can see vaguely what it might have looked like. I really don't want to know the details.

Yesterday I had the joy of meeting Lucy's mama Angie in real life, helping fulfill my fantasy of a social life involving only babylost parents. Oh how I wish we had met another way, that the tie that binds us was not two very loved and very missed lost babies. Angie carries with her the same energy and creativity that you might expect if you read her blog. I just wish our conversations were consumed with nap schedules and eating habits, not deep sorrow and traumatic memories.

In 4 more weeks Ezra will have been dead for longer than he was alive, I will have known the deepest sorrow imaginable for longer than I knew the deepest joy possible. I keep trying to take myself back to that time, to remember what it felt like, to know only joy, only possibility, only hope. And I gently remind myself that I wouldn't trade having felt that joy for anything, despite the despair that's followed. Trite but true...Alfred Lord Tennyson said it best:
I hold it true, whate'er befall;
I feel it, when I sorrow most;'
Tis better to have loved and lost
Than never to have loved at all.

Guest Post by Ezra's Daddy: Ezra's footprints

2009-03-24T14:33:00.005-04:00

Well, yesterday my new dog tag pendant came. As you can see in the picture on the left, it features an engraving of Ezra's footprints, and his name on the bottom. I ordered this necklace from a company called My Forever Child. They specialize in remembrance jewelry for baby lost parents.

I haven't worn pendants in a long time, and I thought this was the best reason to start doing it again. Now I have a tangible symbol of my love for my son that I can carry around wherever I go. Nice!

When I ordered the pendant, I emailed the company a jpeg scan of Ezra's footprints from the hospital. As you can see, my little boy has flat feet. No arch support whatsoever. Ultimately, I'm not sure whether he inherited them from his daddy, given that the men on both sides of his family have flat feet. So he couldn't win. But in the end, I'll take credit, or responsibility, for it!

When times are bad, and I find myself in a rough spot, or in the depths of whatever is bothering me, I think of my little peanut boy and those little feet. He had lots of character and personality, I am sure, lots of laughs and happy days in store for us.

Kai's Mommy & Daddy

2009-03-23T08:54:00.002-04:00

There was another part of our journey to visit my niece that I wanted to save for a separate post. On the way back, we had lunch with Kai's mommy and daddy, the lovely and fabulous Danielle (who still very much needs a blog) and her equally fabulous husband Alan. Over the past several months, Danielle and I have poured our hearts out over email, in the way only babylost mamas can, and in February we finally met in person. I love her dearly, so it is no surprise that the four of us had much to talk about. Kai has such amazing parents! I wish so deeply that Kai were still safe in his mommy's belly where he belongs.

I still can't imagine surviving this journey without the love and support of Danielle and all the other amazing online babylost mamas!

Baby Magic

2009-03-22T19:14:00.003-04:00

We've just returned home from our journey to visit my brother, sister-in-law, nephew (23 mos) and my brand new niece (3 weeks old!). As many of you know, I approached this visit with trepidation. I have managed not to meet a single infant since I met Ezra. I have systematically avoided meeting infants, let alone brand new newborns. And ever since I received the call that my niece was born screaming into the world, I have had this sinking feeling...knowing that I wanted desparately to meet her, but doubting sincerely I could handle it. In the weeks since her birth I have studied her photo, tried to imagine myself holding her, and always, the lump in my throat grew and the tears welled in my eyes. Each time I tried to envision myself holding this little girl, all I could think of was holding Ezra, and how he's no longer here. I expected to melt into a puddle on the floor.

And then we went to visit. She's the pinkest, sweetest, roundest little girl I've ever seen. She nestled in my arms, peaceful, serene. It's no wonder her name is Dalia, which means 'gentle' in Hebrew. She is such a gentle presence and she did my heart and soul a world of good. I didn't cry once while holding her, just felt her snuggle against me and felt the deepest loving peace imaginable. Not only did I hold her, I couldn't put her down! Except for when she was feeding or when it was night time and I was sleeping, I pretty much held her every second I could of the three days we were there.

It wasn't obvious that this was how the visit would go. As recently as the day before we left, I was coming out of the coffee shop near my work, and ran into a law school classmate with a tiny newborn strapped to her chest -- her third child since we graduated 6 years ago. It was a particularly bad morning for me anyway - sleep deprived from insomnia, PMS, and running completely late - but the conversation went like this: Hi Sarah, how ARE you? Sarah: Hi SuzyQ. And I kept walking out that door. Took one look at that baby and ran away. Out on the street, tears in my eyes, I began to wonder how in the world I expected myself to handle sleeping under the same roof as a newborn when I can't even see one on the street!

But Dalia is different. Yes she's family, and I knew about her and looked forward to her arrival long before I lost Ezra. But that doesn't explain it all. I haven't met any of the new babies born to friends or family since Ezra died, I still don't want to. Dalia might just be a little bit magic. Little does she know that her tiny soul restored some of my faith in myself, my confidence. She brought me such peace.

David was certainly relieved that I didn't melt into a pool of tears, and he was pleasantly surprised that he too was at peace around Dalia. The first night we were there, as we were going to bed, David said to me that perhaps I needed to meet Dalia to open myself up enough to allow the spirit of our next little one to join us. I think he's absolutely right.

My nephew Evan also brought a lot of joy and fun to our visit. He is talking lots now and was thrilled to see that we arrived in a "blue car"...his "blue car" being one of his favorite toys these days.

Here's some photos from our visit.

Remembering Bianca

2009-03-20T19:56:00.003-04:00

Ezra's daddy's friend Bill is remembering his sweet daughter Bianca this week, her 23rd birthday. He wrote a beautiful remembrance of her here.
Thank you Bill, for sharing your sweet Bianca with us. We know she is very loved and very missed.

Guest Post by Ezra’s Daddy: It’s hard to walk in a straight line when you’re blindfolded

2009-03-17T15:52:00.002-04:00

Ezra’s Mommy asked me if I wanted to write another guest post. I haven’t written here in awhile, so I thought it was a good idea.

There’s lots to sort out when you’re dealing with the death of a child, I’ve found. Since we lost Ezra, I’ve learned that my tolerance level is not nearly as high as it used to be— tolerance for everyday life’s nuisances and inconveniences, for the things that you’re forced to deal with, but would rather not because the grief just takes up too much emotional and psychic space. Really, it can be anything, such as social niceties and small talk, a particular annoying person, or dealing with unwelcome news, or filling out long forms, you name it.

This week, I’ve had this stream of consciousness about things that really annoy me. I’m annoyed that with so much human suffering in this country right now, some companies such as AIG (= “Ain’t I Greedy?”) are awarded multibillion dollar bailout packages, only to spend it on multimillion dollar bonuses for failed executives. I’m anxious about the recession and what the future will bring. I’m annoyed over conspicuous insults to my intelligence, and invitations to provide my labor and my expertise at bargain basement prices, as if I were twenty years younger with no life experiences, as if I had never earned my two costly, fancy pants Ivy League degrees, or that certificate from that old university across the pond that comes straight out of a Harry Potter movie. I’m annoyed over conservative blowhards and liberal racists. I’m annoyed by “do gooder” organizations that pride themselves on helping underprivileged people, yet cannot manage to hire a single staff member who looks like their client base (or who looks like the President or the First Lady, for that matter).

Yesterday evening, I was ruminating over this random assortment of issues when the doorbell rang. A middle-aged Black woman stood there with a small box and a picture of a beautiful baby girl. The woman told me that she saw my light was on, so she thought she would ring my bell. She explained that the photo was of her granddaughter, who had just died from crib death. The box was for donations, because the family was trying to collect money to cover the cost of the burial. My heart melted, and I told her that I was very sorry for her loss, and that we had lost my son last year as well. I gave her a contribution, and told her a number of times again how sorry I was that she lost her granddaughter.

The woman left, and as I felt her grief, then it hit me—I just miss my boy, that’s all. I really miss that little peanut boy. The pain is much different from a few months ago, when it was all-encompassing, debilitating, a large gaping hole that sucked all of the joy and all of the life out of me. Now, the gaping hole is still there, but now I am faced with trying to live with the hole, perhaps attempting to partially fill it up when I can, and incorporating the hole into my daily life. The past six months have thrown me off of my bearings, and now I am trying to play catch up, trying to figure out my purpose, and what my life means to me and to others now that the ground has shifted under my feet. It’s hard to walk in a straight line when you’re blindfolded, but I have no other choice.

And later this year, we’ll set Ezra’s grave stone, just as the ancestors in the Jewish branch of his family tree had planned it. But what does the future hold? I don’t know. Who really knows? But I will try my best to live it just as vigorously as I buried my son with that shovel back in September.

Practicing Compassion, Forgiveness and Patience

2009-03-15T16:42:00.002-04:00

This weekend I attended a meditation shabbaton (or retreat) with Rabbi Sheila Peltz Weinberg from the Institute for Jewish Spirituality. She teaches mindfulness meditation through Jewish practice and prayer. I have to admit that this is not the sort of thing I would likely have spent a whole weekend doing in my life before Ezra. But I have found that through loss we also find growth, and I find myself doing and trying all sorts of new things, like my new found love of accupuncture (this from a woman who is terrified of needles) or practicing meditation (this from a woman who usually needs to be busy or on the go at all times). The theme for the weekend was Compassion and Healing, and it just seemed like where I needed to be.

The weekend was structured as a series of services that were really groupings of guided meditation exercises. The themes were drawn from this week's Torah portion where God's attributes are named...Compassion, Forgiveness, Patience among others.

Friday Rabbi Sheila acknowledged how hard mindfulness meditation can be. People imagine that you meditate and your mind takes you to a beach with palm trees and warm sun. But sometimes, she said, meditation is like being in a phone booth with someone talking on a bull horn. Sometimes being alone with your thoughts is hard.

Rabbi Sheila taught that the attributes of God are really attributes we should practice in ourselves. In this week's Torah portion, after Moses receives the Ten Commandments, he asks to see the face of God -- God says no, that Moses will die if he sees God's face, though he allows Moses to see his back. Rabbi Sheila shared a reading (by someone I cannot remember) which says trying to see the face of God is like trying to bite your own teeth, like sniffing your own nose. It cannot be done. God is us. And we are God.

And so Friday and Saturday I spent hours creating space in mind for what these attributes mean for me right now. Compassion. Why is it easier for me to be compassionate with others than with myself? Forgiveness. Can I really forgive myself for losing Ezra? Can I forgive the many friends and family who have been unwilling or unable to be fully present in the face of such devasation? Patience. How can I learn to be patient with myself when the despair overwhelms? Creating the space for these thoughts became overwhelming at times, and the lump in my throat grew and the tears fell.

The week that Ezra died, I wrote a poem which ends:

So now as we recite the Kaddish in your memory each night;
The words of the prayer stick in my throat so tight.
How many times have I said this prayer for the dead?
But I just cannot stand the prayer being read.

Ezra, I never expected to say Kaddish for you;
I just want you here to hold and rock and coo.
Daddy and I just want you know;
That we miss you terribly and love you so.

These last 6 1/2 months, saying Kaddish hasn't gotten any easier. The words still stick in my throat, and it is rare that I can finish the prayer before the tears well over. Our congregation has a tradition where those that are saying Kaddish stand and say the person's name they are remembering out loud before the prayer is said. Just saying Ezra's name in this context brings a lump to my throat. I have been saying this prayer my whole life, for my grandparents and other ancestors...but how is it possible I now say Kaddish for my son?

The other hard part about saying the Kaddish is that it isn't a prayer about death at all, it is an affirmation of God: Let God's name be made great and holy in the world that was created as God willed, it begins. It is also a prayer about peace: May the one who creates harmony above, make peace for us and for all Israel, and for all who dwell on earth, it ends. It has been a struggle to find affirmation or peace in the wake of a loss so devastating and traumatic.

During Saturday's meditations, the emotions became overwhelming and the tears began to fall long before we reached the Kaddish toward the end of the service. By the time we were saying the prayer, the tears had turned to sobs, the wailing of my soul that I've only experienced since Ezra. A kind woman offered a tissue, another rubbed my back. But the flood gates had opened.

And then something amazing happened. As the service ended, we were all asked to gather standing in the center. Still teary eyed, I lingered on the outer part of the circle, but was quickly pulled to the center by one of the women who had led the prayer service one of the nights we sat shivah. There in the center, still crying, I was literally held by community, arms of strangers wrapped around me, beautiful prayers being said. This is what it means to practice compassion I realized, to be held by strangers and friends, to be in a space where the tears can fall, to be allowed to speak my son's name. This is what it means to practice the attributes of God.

Do You Know the Way to New Hope?

2009-03-08T18:09:00.005-04:00

It wasn’t until the night before we left for our weekend getaway that I realized the obvious irony of the plan we had made. We were going to a town called New Hope. We weren’t aiming for irony…scheduling this past weekend’s escape was an act of rebellious self-preservation…since we can’t afford a real vacation right now, we figured a weekend away, even if we could barely afford that, would bring some much needed peace, allow us to feel like the young vibrant couple we supposedly are, despite the crushing weight of the sorrow we now carry. But yes, we could use some new hope too.

We arrived late morning, dropping our bags at the B&B that was to be our home for the evening, and set off in search of the path, the tow path that runs along what was once the Delaware canal. Finding the access point, we set off in the direction we thought (hoped) was town, looking forward to a walk, and possibly lunch.

Twenty minutes into our walk we realized we hadn’t even bothered to ask how far we were from town, how long it would take or even definitively whether we were heading the right direction. What had started as a well-maintained gravel path quickly gave way to mud and muck, and we began to wonder if we were doing this right. I have always had innate sense of direction, but since Ezra, I fight back demons of failure daily, which threaten all of my competencies, not just my baby-making skills. The couple times we saw other people on the path, we asked for reassurance, Is this the way to New Hope?

And yet, as with every other moment of this journey since Ezra, we held each other’s hand tight and slogged through the mud…and after what we later learned was 4.5 miles, we reached the town, enjoyed a quiet lunch and headed back, more assured on the muddy path before us.

No epiphany happened this weekend, no sudden moment of healing. But away from home, breathing different air and taking in new things, we did feel a little lighter, a bit more playful.

There’s a change I’ve noticed in myself for at least the past week, very subtle but its there. I am noticing a new energy in myself, I feel physically better, healthier, lighter. This month I’m more hopeful and at peace with our efforts to bring a younger sibling for Ezra into this world. Ezra feels farther away than ever now, I feel like I have been the mother of a dead baby for a lifetime, not 6 months and a week. Emotionally I am still (and will likely always be) completely shattered…I am not the same person I was before. The pain of losing Ezra is deep within my core and that hole in my heart will always be there. I am awakened to new layers of that pain daily. I still pry myself from the bed each morning, lie there wondering how life became such a heavy burden. And the same dark emotions of despair, rage, anxiety, jealousy bubble up each day with the same intensity as before. Yet this new energy is there, expectation, I can’t explain how or why. Is this what people mean when they say time heals?

When we reached the town of New Hope, there was no signal of our arrival, no arrow to point the way. In fact, we missed the turn over a small bridge that would take us into the center of town; we were hailed back in the right direction by an elderly couple walking behind us. Sitting at lunch we reveled in our accomplishment, we had made it this far, even though we knew we still had a long walk back. This journey of grief has taken us places we never expected to go, places we didn’t know existed, places for which there is no clear path or map. So far we’ve survived just by holding each other tight. As we set out to return, we noticed large white signs with bold red lettering, which hadn’t been there in the other direction: ‘Tow Path Closed for Dredging.’ Laughing, we grabbed each other’s hand and just kept walking...

To honor our babies?

2009-03-04T21:25:00.003-05:00

No less than 5 healthy live babies have been born to family and friends in the past week. I'm convinced I've experienced every possible emotion in response...happiness, relief, sadness, jealousy, anger. Certainly I don't wish membership in this dead baby mama club on anyone...I am happy for these lucky parents, I'll just never understand why we didn't get our happy ending too.

And then a thought occurred to me: could I buy a gift for these babies that honors my baby, or rather all of our lost babies? I thought about C's post about the amazing and beautiful sling which honors her son Callum and raises money for stillbirth research. I would love to be able to buy a gift for a live healthy baby that helps give voice to our babies, and raises money to prevent stillbirth or infant death. Like a wood toy or a rattle - does it exist?

My own furious google searching along with input from several of my amazing babylost mama friends didn't reveal much. Both Angel Names and First Candle have relationships with various vendors where a portion of the proceeds will be donated to these organizations; but nothing about the gift you purchase informs the person who receives it that this contribution was made. March of Dimes has a store which features various products. There are also companies that make items for grieving families, but these wouldn't be appropriate for a live baby.

I guess the lack of options out there begs the question - is this idea insane? Is it completely morbid to think of buying deadbaby gifts for live babies? And what is my motivation anyway - is my desire to give such gifts an act of generosity and compassion, or is it an act of bitterness and jealousy?

What do you think? And do you know of any products out there? And to my 'lurkers' who I know read but never comment (both babylost mama & non), feel free to weigh in on this one.

The Comfort of Children

2009-03-01T16:32:00.003-05:00

With very few exceptions, somehow I have managed to avoid spending time with babies and young children for the past 6 months. It's just been too painful a reminder that my Ezra isn't here. The special exceptions have been my nephews and niece (not the new one, haven't met her yet) and the children of my dearest friends. I've placed an absolute ban on infants, which will of course be broken in a few weeks when I go meet my new niece. This actually makes me very sad - I have always loved babies and children, and have always said that nothing makes me feel more whole than holding a small child.

And then today I made a new friend. At a gathering at a colleague's house, her 21 month old son, who had never met me before, walked into the crowded room, pointing at me, and motioned to the stairs - he wanted to go up and needed a hand to hold. And so I took his hand and up we went - until half way when he looked up at me and said 'up!' raising his arms above his head. When we got to the top and I went to put him down in the room where his brothers were playing, he said 'no' and pointed back to the stairs - so down we went. We made our way into the kitchen and spent a pleasant 20 minutes or so - him perched on my hip and nuzzled into my shoulder, eating dried cranberries which he requested one by one from atop a salad that was laid out on the counter. Until his dad came and took him so he could eat a more proper lunch.

I can't quite explain the warm cozy feeling I had holding this child, the energy he radiated. Certainly he was not my Ezra, and lately I have a hard time imagining Ezra at any age but slightly preemie newborn anyways. He was himself, testing his independence yet still needing the comfort of an adult nearby. And though it didn't last long, his snuggly goodness made me feel whole. In fact, I dare say it gave me hope.

Disbelief

2009-02-26T11:28:00.003-05:00

My disbelief is morphing, ever so subtly.

Over the past six months, I frequently return to disbelief...for most of this time, it's been: I can't believe Ezra died. I can't believe that my perfectly healthy son, who we had hoped and prayed for, who lived safely in my belly for exactly 33 weeks and 5 days, who brought us more joy than we knew was possible...is gone. Snuffed out suddenly, despite a perfectly healthy pregnancy, as the placenta tore away from the wall of my uterus...the place he was supposed to be most safe. How could Ezra die?

But these thoughts are changing. I notice in recent weeks that somehow my mind has accepted the idea that Ezra is dead...he's gone, and no amount of longing or sorrow or despair will bring him back. Not accepted in the sense of agreeing with, or thinking its fair or just or even ok. But my mind accepts that it happened, that the fact of Ezra's death is reality, not some waking nightmare we're living.

The disbelief is still there, it just takes me to a different place: I cannot believe this is my life. I can't believe that we are a childless couple, who had a child. I can't believe that for six months, I have been sad every day, that the sadness is always there, sometimes lighter, sometimes heavier, but always present. I can't believe that life feels so static, in limbo, lacking in hope and expectation. I can't believe how hard it is for me to find happiness, that the world seems so dark.

Last night I became an aunt again, with the safe arrival of my brother and his wife's second child, Dalia. As I spoke with my elated brother on the phone, the sound of Dalia's cries brought tears of joy and pain simultaneously to my eyes. I am thrilled Dalia has arrived screaming into this world, and yet through no fault of her own, her arrival just underscores what I don't have. Although I am getting used to my reality of feeling contrasting emotions together, the jealousy is so real, so palpable. And again I return to my place of disbelief...how did I become this jealous woman? Jealousy is not an emotion I recognize in myself. All of my life I have always loved children, particularly babies. And over the last decade or so, as friends and relatives have had their children, I have been so drawn to the energy and joy that infants bring, everyone has commented on how relaxed and at ease I am with a baby, how easily quieted babies are in my arms. Now just passing a baby on the street, it feels like barbed wire is tightening around my heart. I haven't allowed myself to meet an infant since I met Ezra. Dalia will be the first. As emotional as that may be, I definitely want to meet her, after all, she's family. Again the disbelief - what happened to the old me?

I have been struck lately by how easy it is for me to assume I'm cursed, that the world is conspiring against me and David. If I really stop to think about it, it's not really what I believe...I don't believe Ezra died because G-d or the Universe is out to get us. But a lot of other bad things have happened in our lives since Ezra died...some big, some small...and it's so hard to have perspective when it feels like we keep being dealt crap. I wasn't always this way, it used to be easier for me to keep things in perspective, to take life's challenges for what they are, and to still assume things would turn out ok. Now it's so easy to go immediately to the worst case scenario in every situation. I know this is because we're living out the worst case scenario - our son died. But again disbelief: how did I get here?

As Barbara has written about, I guess I'm looking for the escape hatch. I don't feel at peace with where I am at in life's journey right now. The question is how. David reminded me this week of the words of our beloved Rabbi Linda who held us so close the week that Ezra died: We make plans, and G-d laughs. If Ezra has taught me anything, it's that.

So how to move forward? As wise Gal reminds me frequently, it's about setting intent, pointing my nose in the direction I want to go, and being open to the journey. Yet the emotions leave me feeling stuck, powerless, without a rudder. I never imagined life's journey would be so hard.

A Random Swirl of Thoughts

2009-02-22T17:12:00.004-05:00

There are so many random thoughts swirling around in my head these days that I realized I haven’t been blogging because I don’t even know where to start. Some days I think I might be doing a little bit better. I’m certainly more functional in some ways – better able to focus, better able to get things done. Until the days I’m not, which catch me by surprise, take my breath away, out of no where, and I realize how not ok I really am. How uninspired I am by everything in my life right now. And I realize that I’m so used to my general state of melancholy that the only emotions I do take notice of are when I feel worse. And then I blog about those…so everyone who reads assumes I’m just gloom, doom and despair all the time. But then again maybe that’s not so far from the truth.

I’ve been thinking a lot about attachments. To dates, to plans, to things. It was a dear friend who pointed out that Ezra doesn’t get a 6 month anniversary this month – there‘s no 29th (death day) or 30th (birth day) in February. I can’t decide if I am sad or relieved. Those days are so hard, marking the time since Ezra was still safe within my belly. Half a year, and Ezra feels so far away now. Sure there are days or moments when he feels so close, so connected. And yet time marches on. I said to David the other day that I am dreading reaching the moment at which he’s been gone for longer than he lived.

Ezra is teaching me about letting go of attachments. And I’m not a very good student. I kick and scream, cry and remonstrate. And yet gently he points me in this direction. Ezra and I had some long talks (in my head) about making way for the spirit of a new baby to join us. And I thought we had reached an understanding. I thought I would be pregnant again by now, with what I’m still convinced will be his little sister. But I need to let go of that attachment. I’m practicing being at peace with the intent, while not beating myself up about not reaching the end goal. I have to keep reminding myself that if Ezra has taught me anything, its that plans are just that….they are what you plan to do, nothing is guaranteed. I’ve always prided myself on my ability to make plans and see them to fruition. And I’ve said before, never has a plan I made fallen so flat on its face. Sometimes the Universe has other ideas.

Which brings me to the topic of anticipation, which Monique and I were discussing recently. All of life seems on hold right now…nothing interests me as much as being a mom right now, and its making me downright cynical. Some unsuspecting soul who hadn’t heard the news of Ezra’s passing came up to me a couple weeks ago and asked ‘how’s motherhood treating you?’ ‘Not as well as I had hoped’ I deadpanned, not skipping a beat, and then I explained. Of course she fled as quickly as possible. Everything just feels stagnant. I’m trying to find little things in which I can take pleasure that aren’t work, grief or baby-making related…and sometimes I am successful. But I’m just having a hard time with the idea that this is my life right now.

And then there’s the issue of all the many pregnant women around me. To my pregnant friends, I do not hate you - I am happy for you, just sad for me…but I’d be lying if I didn’t also admit I’m jealous of you and terrified for you. Of course I hope and pray that all of these babies are born healthy and alive. But so many people seem to take this outcome for granted. They do what I did when I was pregnant, which is block out the possibility that things could go terribly awry, distancing themselves from my horror. It was only a couple months after Ezra was gone that I realized that I knew babylost mamas and papas…and had conveniently “forgot” this information while I carried Ezra. (Of course I didn’t realize quite how many babylost parents I knew…as the cards, emails and calls poured in after he was gone.) When I hear people talk about their unborn babies as if their arrival is a foregone conclusion, I cringe…alarm bells go off in my head. How can you know ME and assume that everything will be ok? I had the perfectly healthy pregnancy until the moment it was not, and Ezra was suddenly gone. And somehow that distance and denial feels like criticism…even though I know it’s not intended that way.

I guess there’s no real point to this post, no moral to the story, other than a little window into the whirl-a-gig that is my mind these days.

Honest Scrap Award

2009-02-14T09:52:00.003-05:00

Thanks CLC for tagging me for the Honest Scrap Award.

The rules of the award:1) Choose a minimum of 7 blogs that you find brilliant in content or design.2) Show the 7 winners names and links on your blog, and leave a comment informing them that they were prized with "Honest Scrap." Well, there's no prize, but they can keep the nifty icon.3) List at least 10 honest things about yourself.

10 honest things about me:

1. When I was a baby, my mom was convinced I would never learn to talk and yelled at my dad for speaking “baby talk” to me. The family joke is that once I learned to talk, I never stopped talking…Still haven’t.

2. As a kid I was painfully shy. I outgrew that toward the end of high school and ever since have been extremely outgoing. Now I’d like to go back to hiding in my shell.

3. Despite having grown up in the suburbs, I am inherently a city person. My brother is not – he prefers to be in the middle of no where. We call each other city mouse and country mouse.

4. I met my husband two years before we actually started dating – I thought he didn’t like me. He was friends with lots of people I was friends with, but not with me. I don’t doubt he likes me anymore – we love each other to pieces.

5. My commitment to social justice, or the Jewish concept of Tikkun Olam (repairing the world) has always been part of who I am. I can’t even begin to tell you where or how it began.

6. I’m extremely stubborn. A wonderful trait in some contexts, terrible in others.

7. Despite the fact that everyone close to me always assumed I would be a lawyer, I never wanted to be a lawyer….until I met lawyers who use their degrees to change the world. And so I joined their ranks. Some days, I still question how I ended up here.

8. Our cats (Red and Zora) run our house. We call it the cat ranch. They provide endless entertainment.

9. I am an endless klutz. I trip, drop things, spill things. Particularly if I’m tired. You don’t want to be around me in the kitchen if I’m tired.

10. I love making plans and then seeing them to completion. I planned to be on maternity leave this year. Too bad for me the universe had other ideas.

So forgive me if any of you have already been tagged, but I tag Monique, ElmCityDad & ElmCityMom, Aliza, My Amazing Husband, Cara, and Rach for giving us the Honest Scrap.

Ripped Wide Open

2009-02-09T09:11:00.002-05:00

Yesterday was a weepy day. Since Ezra, I find they come from time to time...sometimes anticipated, sometimes not. In the beginning every day was a weeping wailing day. More recently I've become accustomed to my consistent low mood, the deep emotional rollercoaster I ride every day, but tears don't fall quite as often; most days I'm able to pass for functional out in the world, granted in my new dull and muted way. Yesterday, even a passing thought of Ezra and the events of his life and death this past year made my eyes well up and sobs shake my chest. I've said it before, but the tears I cry for Ezra are like none I've ever known....I never realized it was possible to be this sad.

As time goes on, I have less patience for people in my life who for whatever reason can't be emotionally present with me on this journey. People who don't know about Ezra are hard for me too, and I find despite my better judgment, I end up telling them. Because for me, every day is an Ezra day...I think of him constantly and various emotions take hold. It's as if I have been ripped wide open and have no choice but to share what's inside...its all oozing out anyway. Since Ezra I feel every emotion so much more deeply, the deep sorrow that he is gone, the rage at the chaos of the universe, the fear that perhaps Ezra was my only chance at mamahood, the anger at those who have neglected us in our time of need. I also feel the positive emotions more deeply...my intense love for David has only magnified (if that is possible!), the gratitude for the family and (old and new) friends who have held us up on this journey, the joy when others remember our precious son, and the beauty I recognize in the world around me.

I recently received a letter from a wise babylost mama, written to me on the anniversary of the birth and death of her baby many years ago, which sums it up beautifully:

This reminded me of my many losses and grieving times. If I have any wisdom to impart, it is not from my years of graduate school, the books I poured over, or even the lessons from teachers in my formative years. It is the way I have somehow coped with death, suffering and adversity that has taught me how to live.

You and I appreciate birth and life differently than others. Once you give yourself time to be able to smile at a pregnant woman or baby carriage, it is possible to celebrate little moments of joy and grace with much greater enthusiasm. You are a very passionate woman, and I promise you that the grief will at some moment turn to love, and you will be able to feel a fuller sense of living than others who have not known loss can ever feel.

You and I, who have lost, know the importance of spending every living moment with greater intensity than others could ever imagine. We seize the day, and we know why.

I am not yet able to smile at a pregnant woman or a baby carriage...they are like land mines sprinkled throughout my life. But I know exactly what she means...since Ezra, I live life so much more intensely.

On Saturday I had the opportunity to meet in real life one of my online babylost mama friends. It didn't feel like meeting someone new, after reams of emails back and forth, it feels like we've known each other forever, even though apparently it has only been 6 weeks. Of course she is as lovely and compassionate in real life as I have already come to know. Our sad eyes reflected in each other as we sat and shared our sorrows, disappointments, hopes and expectations. Like everything else, the intensity of my friendships has grown since Ezra.

On Sunday, in an effort to both honor and not think about the birthday I never wanted, David took me to the musical Rent, which happens to currently be showing in Philadelphia. I loved Rent when it came out in the 90s, when I was still living in New York City, the only show I ever saw twice on Broadway. But over the last 5 months, the music has resonated in a new way, filled as it is with love and loss. Since yesterday was a weepy day, of course I cried at various points throughout the performance, which was truly fabulous. My favorite song from the musical is Seasons of Love. Yesterday I was also struck by Without You which seems to sum up loss and grief in such a meaningful way.

Today is not a weepy day, but its a low day...just feeling the intensity of the emotions, and taking it all in.

I Wish...

2009-02-08T11:03:00.003-05:00

I wish today were not my birthday.

There is nothing happy about a birthday when your baby died.

I wish I did not have to turn 34 without Ezra in my arms.

He brought so much joy to my 33rd, its cruel.

I wish I were not 34 and still trying to bring a living baby into the world,

When I long for Ezra in my arms.

I wish I never learned how to feel this much sadness and pain.

The world is just too lonely without Ezra.

I wish I could know the immediate joy of becoming a mom,

Without ever having had it snatched away.

Carry On My Wayward Son

2009-02-04T21:14:00.012-05:00

Carry On My Wayward Son
There'll Be Peace When You Are Done
Lay Your Weary Head To Rest
Don't You Cry No More

This morning I awoke with this song in my head,
I'm not sure why,
Humming just the melody,
I didn't quite know the lyrics
Other than the first line
Which really says it all.

Carry on my wayward son,
I sang in the shower,
on my way to work,
and at my desk.
Both letting my son go,
and calling him home.

I'm learning to understand that contrasts,
even polar opposites,
can exist in the same place.
Like the joy I held being pregnant with Ezra,
And the despair I hold with him not here.
There'll Be Peace When You Are Done

And then at lunchtime,
I was called to the conference room,
and presented with a gift.
Not a gift for me, not really.
A gift for my wayward son, my Ezra.
It was Ezra's blanket.

And I promptly burst into tears.
As my heart filled with joy.
The contrasts ever present.
As I took in the beauty of the blanket's hand-knit coziness,
That Ezra will never know.
Lay Your Weary Head To Rest

There is a tradition in my office,
Each person knits a square in a different pattern,
And they are all sewn together,
Enveloping the new baby with the love of our office family.
I have knit squares for others' babies,
Hoping that one day squares would be knit for mine.

When Ezra died,
I knew that there were likely two blankets being made for him.
I asked if I could have one with which to bury him,
And since this collective one wasn't yet done,
I was told I would get it to keep with me.
I've wondered about it these past 5 months,
But didn't feel I could ask.
I can't imagine how it must have felt,
To finish a blanket for a dead baby.

I am practicing the idea,
That grief can turn to gratitude.
That in my despair,
I can come to appreciate that which is important so much more.
To appreciate special moments
Of life
Of love
Of beauty

Of course I'd much rather have my son,
In my arms,
Where he belongs.
But in his absence,
I am learning to appreciate what I have.

It is a blessing that I have such special people in my life,
Who held Ezra with love when he was alive,
And hold Ezra in love now that he is gone.
Oh my wayward son...
Don't You Cry No More

Chasing Joy

2009-02-02T08:13:00.001-05:00

Today is the day the journey began.
I don’t attach much significance to this date.
But it’s the day we found out I was pregnant with Ezra.

Today marks the beginning of an entire year of anniversaries…
Days of great joy, and days of great sorrow.

What a joyous day today was one year ago!
It was a little early to test, but something told me it was time.
I walked a couple blocks down to the main street,
To pick up a birthday gift for my niece,
And stopped at the drug store to pick up a pregnancy test on the way back.
“This is where we keep them, honey” the store clerk explained in response to my query.

I came home and David was on the phone, being interviewed for a radio show.
And so I took the test, and then sat on the couch,
Holding the biggest secret, I’d ever known.
Grinning like the Cheshire Cat.
Until David finally came downstairs,
And I told him he was going to be a Daddy.

Great joy!
And that was only the beginning.
Our joy grew and grew,
As Ezra grew.
First time we heard his heartbeat, first time I felt him move,
First time we saw him on the ultrasound.
What an amazing time.

I had told David that the only thing I wanted for my 33rd birthday,
Was a baby.
And magically,
We learned I was pregnant just 6 days before I turned 33.
We told our parents on my birthday,
February 8th.
A great celebration,
Not only of my birth,
But of a life that was to be.

I’m dreading my birthday this year,
So cruel and unfair to turn 34,
Without Ezra in my arms.
I wish I could skip my birthday this year
So please don’t wish me a happy day.
Happy Birthday rings so empty this year.

But today, February 2nd
I am remembering joy.
Remembering what it felt to learn of new life inside me.
Remembering expectation.
Remembering hope.
Remembering dreams.
Pure joy.

And I am setting an intent for the coming year.
As difficult as it is in the face of such great sadness and sorrow,
To look for joy,
Chase joy,
Regain joy.
Joy may have exited the scene for now,
And joy may not be back for quite awhile.
But having tasted joy,
Known pure joy,
I am not prepared to let joy go forever.

More Dreams

2009-01-31T10:41:00.002-05:00

I've always made fun of myself that when I do remember my dreams,
they are always so concrete.
No obscure symbolism, no deep hidden meaning.

This week I've had a recurrent dream about bridges and paths...
that don't quite make it where they are supposed to go.
Driving across a bridge that suddenly ends,
even though I can see the other side.
Walking comfortably along a path,
when suddenly I'm on the verge of falling off a cliff,
and everywhere I turn is another dangerous ravine.

In the dream I always am about to drown,
or fall off,
But I wake up before I do.
Always with the unsettled feeling that I didn't make it.

It doesn't require great insight to know what this dream is about.

I could be dreaming that I'm Ezra, almost, but not quite making it,
out of mommy's belly and into his mommy & daddy's arms.
But I'm pretty sure that's not it.

I'm almost certain this dream is about my quest
To be a mama to a live baby,
It's the only path or bridge I want to be on right now.
And in the dream I am always so content as I journey along
Until it all falls apart.
I can see the destination,
But don't realize the perils that await,
Until it is much too late.

I guess this is my deepest fear.
That motherhood will remain an intangible dream,
a destination that can not be reached
except in my mind
where I am alway a mama,
to my dear sweet Ezra.