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

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

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

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

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...

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

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

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!