I Do Not Fear Death

I do not fear death.

I held death in my arms.

I kissed death’s sweet face.

I know death intimately,

I nurtured it in my womb.

I gave birth to death.

I carry it with me always.

Together

We are fortunate to live close to both of our jobs. When the weather is nice, I ride my bike to work. Last year, A and I rode all summer long. Autumn was mild so I rode my bike to and from work up until 36-weeks gestation (at that point it became too difficult to swing my leg up and over the bar on my bike; it’s a dude bike). A good friend suggested taking a photo of big ole pregnant me on my bicycle. E snapped one picture around that 36-week mark as I pulled up to our house. I love that photo.

I hadn’t thought much about this until Monday evening when I checked the forecast and decided to ride to work the following morning for the first time this year. Poor E. We were relaxing on the couch and I casually mentioned I would be biking to work in the morning and then let out a yelp and started bawling.

It hit me that the last time I was on my bike, A and I were together. I considered how much time we spent together on the bicycle. Going to and from work, to and from prenatal appointments, riding with E too to hear outdoor music or go to the market. Some people thought I was out of my mind for commuting this way while pregnant but I knew we were safe and it kind of gave me a sense of pride. I anticipated parenting my baby my own way, even in the face of criticism from others; this was just an early example of that.

I did ride my bike to and from work the rest of this past week and I did not have another meltdown about it. Biking each day was a special activity that A and I shared, communing with each other and it’s just another reminder of how sorely I miss his presence. I look forward to riding together again someday with my precious son.

Mother's Day = Misery

It’s a dreary day in Griefland. All week the storm has been building, knowing that Sunday was coming.  The onslaught of radio and television ads fueling the fury. Yesterday the winds were at a fever pitch and only by staying busy did I hold off the torrent.

Due to the change in seasons my emotions are already frayed.  Add to that, the vision I had for this Mother’s Day with my 7-month-old and the expectations of others in my current life and KA-BLAMO.

Today I hid, unwilling to confront all the whole families out there. I spent the day alternating between crying and distracting myself. It was very reminiscent of the early days after A was born. It’s a tried and true method to surviving the day.

After days of brooding and feeling blue, I find myself again frustrated that my pre-stillbirth tactics no longer help ease the pain and discomfort. It does not matter how many hours I sleep, it does not matter how much ice cream I eat or drinks I have, it does not matter how long I soak in the tub. I still feel awful. Awful and helpless to remediate it. You’d think I’ve learned this lesson by now. But apparently my psyche is too stubborn to accept this lack of control over its own emotions and its own life.

So I’ll retreat to my current, post-stillbirth regime of breakdowns and avoidance.

God how splendid today was supposed to be.

Springtime

The passage of time is undeniable. Spring is in full bloom and the yard beckons. E and I spent hours outside this week mowing, weeding and pruning. But I never once stopped thinking of sweet baby A.

He should be here with us, experiencing his first spring. We’d plop him in the center of a blanket while we worked nearby only to turn around and realize he’d scootched over to the edge of the blanket and was quizzically shoving tiny fistfuls of grass into his mouth! Perhaps the pack-n-play is a better option or maybe Daddy will strap you into the carrier.

I’d slather on the sunscreen and put a brimmed hat on your downy head. Don’t pay any attention when Daddy says you look doofy.

“This is a lilac, A. Can you smell it? No, no don’t eat it! Smell it.”

Almost 7-months-old, I long for your pudgy sausage-link legs, your creases for wrists, your dimples for knuckles. Delighting in your ever-emerging personality.

I cannot do the simplest task without missing you intensely. Wondering if you’d still wake me during the night to nurse. What I wouldn’t give for a poor night’s sleep! I cannot step foot outside the house without wanting you to be on my hip or in your stroller.  All of the neighbor babies are out on their porches or strolling the sidewalks. That should be us Love. That should be us.

Beautiful, sunny Spring with your blooms and warmth, you’re making me feel miserable.