Tikva Ahava

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!

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

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

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

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

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

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.