at the kitchen table: time

According to the Alan Parson's Project, "Time Keeps Flowing Like a River (to the Sea)."  Jim Croce wants to "Make Days Last Forever" ("Time in a Bottle"), and Green Day claims "Time grabs you by the wrist/Directs you where to go" ("Good Riddance (Time of Your Life)").  

Me, I think of Time and I think of Flavor Flav and his awesome enormous watch or the neighbor I wanted to punch in the face.

Days after walking out of Children's without Maddy, I had to walk my dog.  I kept my head down and walked fast and prayed I wouldn't run into anyone.  No such luck, a neighbor whose name I didn't know but whose dog I knew quite well walked out of her gate.  "How's the baby?" she asked with a cheerful grin and through a rainstorm of tears, I told her.  Dead, she's quite dead, thanks for asking.

Neighbor looked extremely sympathetic and said . . . well I can't remember now exactly, but one of those platitudes about time.  "It will feel better with time," sounds the most right, but it could've been "Give it time."  In either case, I wanted to fucking clock her in the nose right there on the sidewalk.  There was no amount of time that would ever, ever make me feel better.  I will die a bitter old woman with tears gushing out of my eyes, thank you, pointless neighbor.  I believe I grabbed the dog and without saying a word, kept walking.

Turns out she was right. (Turns out she was also one of the good ones.  She showed up at my door days later with a homemade Greek Tear Jar, and asked Maddy's name so she could think of it when she thought of her, and me.) Time did make me feel better.  Just time, just getting through days, just existing until enough water had gone under the bridge and enough miles had passed from the event to make it just distance enough that . . I felt ok.  Time didn't make it disappear, and I didn't "get over it" on some anniversary, but those big ol' clock hands did some magic.

Time seems to be winding it's way through our corner of the internet of late, so we thought it an appropriate, um, time, to do a kitchen table discussion.   Our answers are here.  Want to join in? Post the questions and your answers on your own blog, link to us here at Glow in the Woods meme-style, and share the link to your post in the comments. If you don't have your own online space, simply post your answers directly in the comments on the Kitchen Table page.

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1. How much time has passed since the death of your child(ren)?  Do you mark grief in months, weeks or years? Does it seem to be going fast or slow?  

2. Do you have an end goal to your grief?  How much time do you think that will take?  How much time did you think you'd need to get there right after your loss?  How much time do you think you need now? 

3. Rather than a clear end goal, is there a milestone or marker to indicate that you are feeling grief less acutely, i.e. going to a baby shower, listening to a song that made you cry early in grief, driving past the hospital?  How long did it take to get there?

4. How do you view the time you had with your child, either alive (within or outside) or already deceased?  Before you all answer "Too short! Not enough!", did you have time to "bond" or develop a future imagination about what this child would be like?  Perhaps depending on whether yours was cut short, how do you now feel about the nine-month period of gestation -- too long or not long enough?  

5. One grief book suggested that it took 2-5 years to incorporate your grief into your life.  Where are you on this timeline, and you do you find that to be true?

6. There's a familiar saying, "Time Heals all wounds."  Do you think this is true?  Or do you subscribe to Edna St. Vincent Milay:  "Time does not bring relief, you all have lied"?

7. Has your relationship with the future (immediate and far) changed since the death of your child(ren)?  How about your relationship with the past?

8. How long did it take to answer these questions?

If I could talk with the animals

We shaved our cat.

Correction: We had our cat shaved, by a professional cat groomer.  When Mr. ABF told me the cost in a rather "Shit, I'm sorry, this is a killer" way, I said, "Seriously, what is a good price for SHAVING A CAT?!"  Talk about a thankless job.

Tucker, our Maine Coon that we rescued off the cold streets of Chicago, is sixteen this year, and has decided to stop grooming himself.  Because of his thick, long coat, it happened rather overnight-ish, and we suspected his thyroid was wonky again, and guiltily trudged him into the vet expecting to be berated for negligence.  The vet was wildly sympathetic, his thyroid and everything else was normal/great (despite the fact that we occasionally miss a dose), and she sighed and said, "He's sixteen.  Sometimes cats just get tired of grooming themselves."

So he came home a thin wee rather-freaky skinny thing, and I ran out and bought a comb determined to get in the habit of grooming him once a week.  Despite the crazy schedule, the daily medications both cats get, houseguests, heat, a toddler, a garden that desperately needs harvested, laundry, playdates, car maintenance, birthday parties . . .  I will take care of this cat.  I love this cat.  He has stood by me, through everything.

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I distinctly remember the afternoon, a whole geological era ago now, that I went into the bathroom and realized I was miscarrying my first pregnancy.  I went on the bed to sob and yell and call the OB and catch my breath and when I came out of my fog I realized I was surrounded by pets:  both cats (Tucker and Kirby) and my dog (Max) had silently but loyally jumped on the bed and taken positions all around me.  To comfort?  Protect?  They knew, they obviously knew I was upset and came just to be.  Just to be near me.  To abide.  When I came home from the D&C months later ("leftover product" wouldn't ya know) I scooped them all up and rubbed chins and told them a baby was coming, but I'd never forget them.

The night I labored with Bella (two years and four months after the crying on the bed incident, thank you infertility) I went into the living room and told my husband to sleep.  The contractions were tough, but far apart, and I'd need him later.  Tucker however, abandoned his usual digs for the night and sat on the floor right next to me.  All night.  He never left my side.

None of the pets really dug Bella; there is in fact a lovely and slightly sad picture of Tucker peering around a couch days after bringing Bella home from the hospital.  Here was a screaming, loud, running being grabbing for their tails and occasionally succeeding in clenching tufts of hair.  They all dealt, but clearly missed us, the zookeepers.  Max eventually forgot about frisbee lunches, Kirby had to give up the chokeable glitter balls he used to retrieve like a dog, and we began to ease up on Tucker's grooming.  There was plenty of love to go around, but never quite enough time.

We moved to our new house five years ago, and while Max has always seemed a bit out of sorts in the city, Tucker and Kirby especially seemed to thrive here.  There were window seats galore, nooks and corners, heated tile floors.  And again, the night I got up early to phone the hospital to see about my induction for Maddy, Tucker came and sat on the couch next to me.

There was no screaming being this time.  Well, there was, but it was a familiar face who I suppose at least didn't grab at tails or tufts of fur.  I wailed, I sobbed, I curled up in a quiet ball on the bed.  I stayed up late, I had to go on antidepressants because I couldn't bring myself to get up and care for my toddler.  I was distracted and distraught, I didn't speak to people, I usually remembered to walk the dog and feed the animals.  But for all intents and purposes, I ignored the lot of them.  I hated taking Max for walks because it meant I had to go out in public.  I forgot about them, moved around my house as though it was unoccupied -- hell, moved around my life as though it was unoccupied. I floated and bobbed around my daughter and husband, my neighbors, my family, the people at the grocery.  My pets were nonentities, just anonymous flotsam, bobbing along with me, camouflaged against the dark water.

Three months after Maddy died we adopted Buddy, a one-year-old golden retriever who had been abandoned at an emergency vet's office after a run in with a car that left him with two plates in his back leg.  We wondered what we were doing, as did a few family members.  "Are you sure this a good idea?" tentatively asked my father in one phone call.  So concerned were we by this crazy half-baked idea that we even ran it by our grief therapist -- was adopting a dog at this moment so blatantly, obviously, Freudian-ly, obnoxiously replacing?  I was on antidepressants for not being able to lift my body in order to keep my toddler form tumbling down the stairs and out the front door, did we really need another dog?  Another pet? Something else to deal with and try and keep alive?  "Well," said the therapist with a smile, "I think if you want him you should take him home."

And we did.  Buddy helped me realize I could in fact take care of a mammal in need of medical assistance.  But perhaps more importantly, he made me wake up and rediscover my other animals again.  I knew when we brought him in the house we'd need to make a conscious effort to let the other animals know we still loved them, and here I hadn't let them know that for months.  I began petting and walking, allowing cats in my lap and grooming.  I threw balls in the yard, I drove to water therapy, doled out treats, I scratched chins and tummies.  And like those awesome human friends of mine who didn't take the lapse in communication personally, my pets quietly and lovingly took up their old positions.  The foot of the bed, the door when we came home, the computer keyboard.  They were simply abiding, the whole time.

I scooped them all up and whispered, "There is no baby.  But I will still love you."

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An experiment mentioned previously on this website concluded that people feel less pain when someone else is simply in the room with them rather than undergoing the trial alone.  I would like to posit that the same goes for furry beings as well:  they couldn't hold my hand or say her name, they didn't bring me roasted chicken or fresh kleenex.  But nor did they sting me with empty platitudes, and stop talking with me entirely after ignoring them for three months.  They didn't assume I was angry with them for not paying attention to them for a spell, and pee all over everything, literally or figuratively.  They never stood us up (well, ok, maybe occasionally for a squirrel -- I can excuse that), or grew tired of tears.  They continued to silently pile on the bed, or next to me during a late night on the couch or computer, and just be with me.

Tucker's curled up next to me on the floor, as I write this, his soft short coat curled in a tight ball with his head under his leg.  Buddy is here, too, sound asleep.  But near, always near.  Amazingly, they never lost faith in me.

There will be no more babies, and the Inn is full -- there will be no more pets.  (Except that wee fish.)  I am here now, for you.  Thank you so much you naughty, adorable, shedding, loyal animals, for being there for me.

Do you have pets of any sort?  Did you have them before/during or acquire them after the death of your child(ren)?  Have they hindered your grief in any way(s), or helped in any way(s)?  Did those ways surprise you?  Oh, and rub those ears for me, would you?

comfort

Two years out from Lucy's death, a friend called to tell me a mutual acquaintance lost her son at 36 weeks. Stillborn. No reason found. Could I talk to her?

Same as Lucy's death. Of course.

I wanted to talk to her. This person was present for me, you know, the one time I ran into her. She just stopped what she was doing and sat. She listened and cried with me.  I left feeling like a fat fool, getting all blubbery and snotty in front of God and everyone, but also I felt immensely grateful for the safe space she created. I wanted to seek her out again, but I didn't want to burden someone with a new friendship that would most certainly be completely one-sided.

I am finally two years out.  Maybe I can be present for someone else. Maybe I can just listen. Maybe it isn't all about my dead baby. Maybe I can be the person I wanted in my early grief. I made plans with her almost immediately after the phone call. We met for coffee.

photo by marina.shakleina

"I just want it to go away. The pain. I don't want to think about it anymore. He wasn't a person," she said. "He wasn't a person yet."

He was a person to me, I thought. Lucy was a person to me, but I get what you are saying.

I nodded. I did not think her not wanting to acknowledge or remember her son was at all weird or strange. I thought her way of grieving was as normal and natural as mine. Whatever feeling I had about my daughter's death, whatever the reaction, the opposite reaction lurked right behind it. Did I want to take pictures of Lucy? Yes. I took them, but at some point in the hours leading up to that decision, I thought no, I wouldn't. I couldn't. I arrived at a decision, but I wondered the whole time if I made the right one. I realize now, I just made a decision, neither right nor wrong, just the one that worked in that moment.  I did the best I could.

"You won't feel like this forever. But I can't tell you when that will change, just that I know my feelings about Lucy have changed through the years."

She said she just wanted another baby right now. She wanted to move on. She didn't want to talk about it anymore. She didn't want to think about him anymore. It was an unfortunate thing, but it was over. She didn't want to be one of those women whose whole lives become about their dead baby.

There was an uncomfortable silence. I write about my dead baby. I have an altar to my dead baby. I blog about my dead baby. I have an Etsy shop in which I paint about my dead baby. I hang out with other people who have a dead babies. My whole life has become about my dead baby. She looked at me.

"I am one of those women," I said.

"But what you do is good," she reassured me.

"I am not offended, but I still am one of those women. It doesn't feel nearly as depressing as you make it sound."

"I can see that," she whispered.

I couldn't explain it in a way that didn't sound defensive. I wanted to tell her what it is like now, how I am completely different, but that isn't a bad thing. I feel like I have integrated Lucy's death into my life in an organic way, but maybe it is strange. Maybe I am a cautionary tale for newly bereaved parents. I look sad from the outside looking in. This life seems surrounded by sadness, baby death, grief, bereavement and losses upon losses but it is actually full of love and joy and gratitude. It is the opposite of depressing. All of those things I do seem like love to me, they are my ways of parenting the baby I cannot parent.  That is what it feels like from the inside. It feels like comfort. That was it. She was still on the outside looking in, she still hadn't quite figured out that all of this--the dead baby and the grief that comes with it--is her life now too.

In my early days, the days of keening and leaking breasts, I didn't want anyone to inform me about grief. I wanted nothing to do with anyone who tried to tell me anything about what grief was about, or what to expect in the first year of babyloss. When I searched for other women with dead babies, I didn't search for people two years out from their loss. I searched for people on the same time line as me. I didn't search for people with wisdom. I searched for people just as lost as me, just as ripped open, just as damaged, who grieved the same way I grieved. I looked for a place where I seemed normal.

We grew quiet together and I realized that perhaps it was not comforting at all for her to talk to me, as my friend thought. I couldn't offer her what was comforting, because that thing that is comforting is different for each of us. It is like a claw game in the arcade, you can reach blindly into a pile of comforting things, and pull out some shiny thing that works for one person, and it looks like some cheap, anger-inducing cliché for another. And really, here I was, sitting with a woman I respected, liked, felt heartbroken for and with, whose loss was like mine, and I was seeking to comfort her. Had I learned nothing in my grief? Nothing I said or could say would have comforted her, because there is nothing comforting about your baby dying. Our babies died. That is pitiable. That is sad. That is fucking heartbreakingly uncomfortable.

All I could really do is cry into a cup of coffee with her.

Since the death of your child(ren), have you been asked to reach out to someone who has lost a child? What was that experience like? Did you reach out to another babylost parent you knew after your loss? Was it comforting or more upsetting? Have you met a fellow babylost parent who grieved in a different way than you? Did you feel defensive? Did you understand?

Boom

Jess at After Iris submitted a guest post not long ago, and her voice and words resonated with so many. She has a way of capturing a feeling perfectly in the fewest possible words. A gift we all wish we had. She combines cheekiness and deep insight harmoniously to give new wisdom into our own grief.  In May 2008, Jess' second daughter Iris died while she was in early labour. Though she writes infrequently on her blog, Jess is Glow in the Woods' newest regular contributor and fire-spitting medusa. We are so honored. - Angie

I’m a noisy beastie.

Ra-tat-tat-tat-ing. Clattering around.  Today I stood up and made a racket:

LISTEN TO ME WORLD! LISTEN TO ME OCCUPANTS OF MY OFFICE! I HAVE FEELINGS I MUST SHARE WITH YOU!  I AM UNHAPPY ABOUT THE DELAY WE ARE CURRENTLY EXPERIENCING IN OUR RECRUITMENT PROCESS! WE NEED MORE STAFF!  IMMEDIATELY! I AM EXTREMELY PASSIONATE ABOUT THIS! AS EVIDENCED BY THE SHOUTING!  DO NOT SHUSH ME! DO! NOT! SHUSH! ME!

Noisy beastie with her noisy-loud-fist-on-the-table feelings.

I live out loud.

But I grieve in a whisper.

Or even quieter than that.

I grieve in the tap-tap of fingers on a keyboard. I grieve in the silent shudder-shake of waking with an aching face. I grieve in the hush of a turned cheek: turn away, turn away. They don’t know. They don’t know. I grieve by the light of a screen, a muted scream.

But in the quiet, my grief finds a voice. My grief can have a voice here, in this place.

If my tree falls in the forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?

Yes, in these Woods.

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This is my first post for Glow as a regular contributor, and I want to hear your voices.  Do you speak your grief in a shout or a whisper? Have you written a post you wish everyone could read about your baby or babies? If you don’t write a blog, what’s the one thing you wish you could mutter in the world’s ear? I'm listening.

All That Remains

I started thinking about this post in specific while I was doing some project close out tasks. For those of you who have never had the pleasure, project close out involves dotting your i’s and crossing your t’s. You document everything. Why you made a decision, why you didn’t, who agreed and who didn’t. The theory says you retain this information, so that if someone needs to understand the context or revisit the issue they don’t have to do all of the same work again.

It turns out, at least in a project, you are never really gone. I was looking at issues from 3 years ago; hunting people down, asking questions and requiring that they dig deep in their memory, think about things that have not seen the light of day in almost a lifetime.

While I was doing this, I was thinking of what we leave behind. When I die I will be gone in a way that someone with children can never be. When Mr. Spit and I are gone, our son will be gone as well. There were only a few people in that room, and when we are gone, Gabriel will be gone in a final way as well.

As I read the project documents, closing things out, I sometimes get a sense of what might have been contentious. I get a sense of what decisions came easily and the ones that inspired angst. I have been thinking about this as I think about what will happen when I die.

Someone will come into my home and pack up my things. We do not know what we will do with our estate, often joking we will leave our worldly wealth to a home for unwed cats. Someone will sort and pack, picking and choosing what is sold, what is thrown out. Like all hindsight decisions, I shudder to think at the image they will receive. Why did she keep a lemon juicer so covered in dust? She had a secret addiction to microwave popcorn judging by the cases in the basement. Did she never buy new underwear?

You could live your life imagining what would happen if you died tomorrow and strangers came into your house. When my Father in Law died, there were discoveries. Nothing salacious or even inappropriate, but things that are best understood through the lens of those that are related to us; those that have a shared history, shared memory. Those people can balance the strange with the memory of normal.

I think of the practical and the mundane and of larger, more existential questions when I think of my death. I wonder what will become of my things – the everyday items and those that are precious. I worry about the conflation of the two; the ratty old apron on a hook. I never wear it, but it was my grandmother’s. I wonder about the precious things, the four sets of china. I feel a responsibility to provide for my things in the way that others might provide for their children. I have an insurance policy that provides money for the care of my pets.

I wonder too, when I am gone, what will remain of me? The things that I hold to be precious, important and worth carrying on. The things I would have taught my children, and indeed the things that I have learned for the short time we travelled together.

Who will I teach about afternoon tea and pass on the history of my grandmother’s cucumber sandwiches? I look at my friends and the children around me, and the stories, the lessons and the essence of what I think really matters and I wonder: do I make a list?

Do I teach one of my nieces about afternoon tea and the sorts of purses and shoes a lady wears? Do I tell another who is more academic about my mother and her nursing degree, taken because my Grandfather would not pay for law school for a woman?

Most of this sort of learning is inspired and not planned. A teachable moment comes up, you seize it and it passes on. Maybe something stuck and maybe something didn’t. Life’s lessons bear repeating.

I have thought about endowing something. Leaving a memorial fund, creating a foundation. The problem with that is that it does not actually leave anything of mine save my name and my money. We could skip on the name and just use the money toward something that already needs help. Does it not make more sense to endow an existing scholarship than create a new one?

I know I promised you answers. Well, in hindsight, I promised you questions, and I said that good questions would lead to good answers. The PM in me, the mother in me, the wife in me, the person in me believes this too.

I have no answers. I do not know if this is because sometimes the answers take time or if my questions are not good enough, not yet. I am curious though, do you feel a need to leave a legacy other than your children? How do you do that? What matters to you in your legacy?