on survival

In Greek mythology, Medusa is a "guardian, or protectress". She is viewed throughout history as equally beautiful and terrifying.

I wonder how many of us here can relate.

On holiday in July we drove for hours through rolling Turkish hills to visit the ruins at Didyma.  Typically, I need to be in the right mood for these types of things. I was on the fence until my Lonely Planet guide told me to “be sure not to miss the sculpture of Medusa that has remained surprisingly intact among the rest of the ruins”. Or something to that effect.

Sold.

I remember that the heat that day was the kind that gives everything in sight a shimmering, rippled effect. We walked slowly through the remains of the interior, then circled the perimeter.  I felt like a grain of sand on the worlds longest beach - dwarfed by the enormity of it all.  I finally found the medusa set away from the rest of the rubble. I had walked right past her on arrival.

Temple of Apollo, 2nd century A.D. Didyma, Turkey

She sits with pride of place at the entrance, cordoned off and stoic despite the deep crevices that mark her face like scars. More intact than any other scuplture in the ruins.

Look at you. Barely a scratch compared to the rest of them.

I pulled out my camera and smiled, remembering finding this for the first time in the middle of a sleepless night in the month after Sadie died.

Of course you’re here. What better vantage point could you have?

Commanding.

Serene guardian.

Mother hen.

Survivor.

Terrifying when provoked?

I can definitely relate.

.::.

I open my work email first thing to see the subject line, “VISIT TO X CHILDREN’S HOSPITAL”. The air is sucked out of me as I read a lengthy note to all staff about plans for Father Christmas arriving on a Harley, playing on our weaknesses to plea for gifts and funds.

"The children in this hospital are often seriously ill and many will be hospitalised over the festive period. A visit was made to the hospital last week and it was stated that many of these children will be hospitalised over the festive period, some indefinitely."

Memories I’ve had parked in a far away corner wave over my brain like a monsoon and I can’t not cry. I spend twenty minutes in the bathroom regaining my composure.

.::.

I’ve often wondered what it takes for a person to survive something like this. What fabric makes up the kind of soul who can stare down the deepest and darkest tunnel of despair and turn up alive at the other end? Hardly unscathed, but alive nonetheless. None of us are superheroes as far as I’m aware. Just your average Joes and Janes, as random as it comes, without a (traditional) superpower or weapon of choice in sight. Yet here we stand, called on to perform an astonishing, awe-inspiring feat.

This thing called surviving. We do it. We are all doing it, right this second.

We do it with therapy. We do it with screaming and booze and prescriptions and sex.  We do it with the help of partners who are the one person on this entire godforsaken planet who understand us, because their loss is tied forever to our own. And we do it for our living children, or our desire for future children.

And then there’s time, survival’s wingman if there ever was one. 

.::.

“You know you don’t have to feel bad about talking about it.  I think you’re so brave, Jen.”

I do it because in spite of everything, I am still a hopeful person.

.::.

Survival means different things to all of us. What is it to you? What’s your superpower?

running on the spot

Inside is a mile-long glossy bar holding up various suits and skirts and a slew of dewy cocktails. The light is perfectly dim and golden, flattering. Our friendly Australian bartender has moved on after having slung us five perfectly mixed martinis of the pink variety. We cheers and clink, smile for a photo taken with someone’s Crackberry.

I end up at the head of the table. We’re sitting on the patio against a black glass wall that shows our reflections like a mirror in a darkened room. I see one, two, four faces sitting opposite each other, mostly blonde, mostly under 35. They’re gorgeous. Smiling, warmed and slinky as the vodka hits their systems.

I feel myself withering under the glare of their confidence. It’s an entirely familiar feeling.  I know with certainty that at least one of them will happily end up in the bed of a stranger tonight and I stare back at myself in the glass once again, wondering what the hell I’m doing there.

.::.

I imagine what Archie, Gabriella, and Ruby, the three other babies in our birth prep class, look like now. The ones who somewhere out there now walk and talk and giggle.

I think about their mothers, who I had grown so close to, so quickly. I had come to rely on them for distraction in the months leading up to Sadie’s birth. We would talk, drink tea, and eat cookies while we terrified each other with potential birthing scenarios. Once the kids were born we ventured out the first time together, navigating life with a tiny human attached to us, finally, on the outside rather than in.  In my mind they were the ones I’d happily spend my years in England closest to.

Of course I haven’t seen them since. My choice, not theirs.

.::.

I look around in silence while I wait for my husband to come back from the bar. It’s the pre-concert happy hour and I’m no longer sure my long cardigan and high boots are stylish now that I observe the wet-look leggings and gladiator heels. Everyone is magically 23, chins held high, their hair intentionally tousled and eyelids perfectly smokey. I’m astonished at the ease with which they carry themselves and in that moment I feel three hundred years old. Have I ever looked that carefree?  He hands me a drink and I can’t stop myself from thinking, “I could be singing a toddler to sleep at this hour.”  I should be.

I shake it off and concentrate on the story he’s telling me.

.::.

Every new situation I find myself in reminds me in some way of how different my life is from what I believed it would be at this point. As I find myself reliving the lifestyle I was once so happy to leave behind, I feel stuck.  I'm wedged between my life before and my life after what should have been. 

Where does the childless mother fit, exactly? We’re strangely and so reluctantly responsibility-free. None of it gives me the satisfaction I need. Yet I can’t seem to push myself to move in the one direction that would change all of that.  Knowing there's even a chance we could go through it all over again leaves me painfully idle, and angry at myself for not having the courage to move forward.

My crystal ball has apparently been lost in the mail.

.::.

How did you reconcile the person you were before your loss with the person you were forced to become?

 

signs signs everywhere signs

'Is there someone you have who can spot your warning signs?'

'Sorry?'

'Is there anyone who you talk to. Someone who will notice any signs.'

'Can you give me an example?'

I knew exactly what she was talking about, but I wanted to make her say it out loud. I wanted to hear how she would articulate that the emotions I consider normal cohorts to grief are what she considers 'warning signs'.

I had explained upon arrival at her office that I was finished my prescription and was not planning on refilling it. Her first words?

'Oh. Oh, my.'

Ah. Signs.

WARNING: SHE IS LOOKING SAD TODAY.
WARNING: SHE APPEARS TO BE FEELING A LITTLE ANTISOCIAL.
WARNING: LET’S GET HER BACK ON THE DRUGS, IMMEDIATELY.

---

'You mentioned your temper before. And crying often.'

In my mind: ‘OH MY GOD Lady. THAT’S what you call signs? Then I’m fucking CERTIFIABLE, with or without the antidepressants.’

In reality: 'My husband and I are close. My mother and I are close. I have a good friend here now.'

‘That’s good. They’ll know you well enough to spot the signs.’

Next I tried in vain to describe the physical side effects I’d been suffering from over the previous 48 hours since stopping because frankly, I was pretty freaked out. I was dismissed, albeit in a very polite manner.

---

Walking home from my appointment, I realized with a shiver that my bare legs and flops would soon go the way of the closet in order to make room for tights and boots and English wind and rain. Why hadn’t I noticed the temperature two hours earlier? Was it the same reason I forgot to open the window for the dryer exhaust? Or why I left the milk out all day?

I imagined with the seasons changing that I might have an embroidered toque I could pull on, serving the dual purpose of alerting anyone to the difference between these infamous signs and a banal annoyed mood resulting from a hard day at work.

It could be white, with pink letters sewn in. And reversible!

On one side: BAD DAY & BITCHY

And the other: DEAD BABY MAMA

How's that for a sign?

---

I've had to take two days off from work this week after finishing my last pill over the weekend. I'm dizzy; really fucking emotional. I feel dopey and foggy and have tried unsuccessfully too many times to count to describe the weirdo tracer vibe I've got going on. Every blink feels as though it's taking me three steps further than I'd intended. Does that even make sense? I guess I'm Coming Down.

Is there a rehab for this kind of situation? Cause believe me, I'd love to go. Three weeks would be perfect. Goodbye world: I'm taking a well earned breather.

In the end, Doc's only explanation was 'heightened awareness'. I've been dulled profoundly around the edges for almost a year now, leveled out by a magical chemical concoction that has kept me on a relatively even keel.

Don't get me wrong - as opposed as I was to antidepressants in the beginning - my opinion has changed completely. I was several months into our loss when I saw Christmas on the horizon and started to lose my shit all over again. I couldn't cope. I sought medical intervention. It helped - no question. I just wish I'd known how profoundly and physically I'd be affected by the removal of said chemicals from my system.

So far, I'm hanging in there. Five days in, one tentative step at a time.

I am 100%, honest-to-goodness, wholeheartedly of the Whatever Works for You camp. I can't say with certainty I won't go back to this form of help in the future. But right now, fulfilling the promise to myself of weaning back to my 'natural state' (HA, I know) within a year is important to me. The idea of another pregnancy this year plays a huge role in my decision, of course. But more than anything, right now I just need to follow through on ONE thing. With my most basic self.

I worry minute to minute how my revived and heightened awareness will affect my progress in moving forward. How will I cope, just me?

Only time will tell.

.::.

Have you had experience with antidepressant since your loss?  Have they helped you? If so, would you mind sharing what led you to the decision, and whether or not you've decided to continue?

yours sincerely, the clinical genetics dep't.

"The cause of her demise was early onset cardiomyopathy."

Commonly referred to as DCM. The knew from day one what was wrong with her heart. They credited my instincts for sensing something was off, for bringing her to the A&E that morning. I was worried about her loss of appetite. Never in my worst nightmare did I envision we'd end up riding to the children's hospital in the back of an ambulance by mid afternoon.

They also told us that day that they would likely never be able to tell us the underlying cause.

Unacceptable. Horrifyingly unfair. You are DOCTORS. Giving me the information I need to help her get better is your JOB.

We had absolutely zero control over the situation from that point forward. She struggled for the next week before we lost her after the longest night of our lives.

"I am pleased to let you know that again, no abnormality was identified. Whist this is good news, it leaves us with an uncertain situation once again."

That's it? That's ALL you can give me? After a year of candidly discussing how much of her DNA was left, your desire to preserve the precious reserves in the event that some discovery was made? THAT IS MY BABY you're talking about in goddamn remaining measurements, for the love of all things remotely sensitive.

"We have tried to explore the possible options as to the aetiology of the cardiomyopathy identified in Sadie and we remain without a definitive answer."

Then honestly? What the fuck ARE you good for. Honestly.

"This means that we are left with a small residual risk of similar problems happening again in any future pregnancy."

A small residual risk. How do I wrap my head around 'a small residual risk' as it applies to the life of my child? I can wear a helmet. I can tell him to put a condom on. I can wait for a green light before crossing. What can I do to mitigate the risk of going through it all over again? Much more importantly, putting another child through it all over again?

"I would advise you to contact me when you confirm a pregnancy at home in order to enable me to arrange the relevant scans for you."

Well if I were you Honey, I wouldn't go out and buy stocks of Clear Blue Easy any time soon. Trojan, perhaps?

.::.

I'm going through a bit of a bitter phase lately. I hate that I still get angry at the world, but it's still there, simmering right under the surface. It gets worse the more I put pressure on myself to gather the proverbial balls and start taking folic acid.

I like my questions to be answered, and I typically 'need' to make my decisions from an informed point of view. If I'm being really honest, I regularly wonder why it couldn't have happened to someone else. Someone awful and cruel. Someone who 'deserved it'. 

Without the control I would normally exercise in another paramount life situation, I am left feeling weak. Feeling weak piques my temper. I'm not proud of this, but there it is. As I work to not let it seap through the seams to stain the relationships in my life, I wonder how thousands of other parents in our situation have learned to deal with the same situation.

.::.

I think this time around I am asking for help.

I would really, really love to hear from parents who have been through experiences with genetic counselling, whether your results were definitive or inconclusive, like ours.

I would really, really love to hear from parents who went on to have more children despite the risk of a recurring condition.

.::.

If your loss was due to a potentially genetic condition, how did you deal with the decision to try again? Were you able to put the stats from your mind and forge forward with hope? What did you find helped you in the process?

tough as nails

Two weeks after we lost Sadie we were dealt another blow that at the time was inconceivable in the cruelty of its timing. Out of respect for my husband's privacy I won't go into detail here, but the short story involves a sudden and intense health scare that led us to believe that he had a potentially terminal illness.

I am not totally sure how I got through those weeks considering my fragile state to begin with. Actually, that's a bit of a lie. My baby was dead and some wackjob doctor had just told us my husband would be next. The truth is I was higher than a kite, 99% of the time. Between Ativan and red wine, my memories are fuzzy around the edges where they're not altogether black.

During one of our initial hospital visits I broke down in front of a specialist, hysterical with fear and anger at the overwhelming unfairness of it all. It was humiliating and painful beyond words. Soon after that episode something in me clicked, and I realized that letting him see my despair was no longer an option. I proceeded to try my ass off to calm him with some sort of physical osmosis, somehow via my hand intertwined with his, or wrapped up in a tight bear hug.

Six weeks after the nightmare began it was suddenly over. At the root of it all was a misconstrued x-ray and an American emergency room physician whom I will never forgive. We were given the go ahead to return to England, empty handed and shocked, wary shells of the people we once were.

The reason I'm telling this story is because of the intimate way the experience has permeated our lives since. It broke a little something in us both that is difficult to describe, mostly because I don't believe either of us fully understands it. My doctor has her opinion of course, at least for me. A curious infliction she likes to refer to as chronic anxiety.

On a bad day, a chest cold is lung cancer. A bump on my arm is inevitably a tumour. Everyday aches and pains must be underlying signs of something dire to come.

Now, before you conjure up images of my morning commute involving a padded helmet and gas mask, understand that I am not a certified freakshow. But I worry. A lot. About myself, my husband, my loved ones. And more often than not about the health of our future children. Provided, of course, I survive another pregnancy without suffering a stroke at the ripe old age of 32.

I have read that the incidence of depression in parents after babyloss is roughly 69%. I do not believe I'm depressed. However guilty it may make me feel on occasion, I still enjoy the pursuit of life's pleasures. I can take care of myself and get out of bed in the morning and am not at risk of hurting myself. But I'm definitely, one thousand per cent terrified of what the future may hold. What else we may have to endure. On a particularly bad day I wonder why I would even try again when the odds are I'm just going to get sick and die in the end anyway. Horrible, I know. But try as I might to think it away, it still lingers.

As life has sped up these past few months and our time is seemingly endlessly booked with work and social functions, there are days when there is nothing I want to do more than sit at home alone in our safe little house, locked away from the outside world.

I look at my husband in a new light these days as a result of everything we've been through together. The concept of losing him was unfathomable - yet so was the idea of Sadie being so sick. So what exactly we can rely on I'm really not sure. There is nothing I would not do for him. There's nothing I want to do without him. And I want to be a parent with him more than I could ever properly articulate on this page.

If I could just get past all of this damn fear.

.::.

Did you suffer from any form of anxiety after the loss of your child? If so, did it wane with the passage of time? Did it affect your decision to try again?

inside the daily crazy

I haven't held a baby since March 31st of last year. She was beautiful, and so cold. I held on for hours, telling her how much I loved her, my vision blurred with a lightning bolt migraine and an endless stream of tears. One of her doctors came in to offer his condolences; he stayed at the doorway with visibly shaking hands. He was young and I actually felt sorry for him in the moment before the first buds of hatred sprouted.

A nurse helped me dress her in a soft white onesie before we wrapped her in a blanket. Then we said goodbye, because I couldn't take the physical effects of death anymore. The walls were closing in on us and I just couldn't make her warm again. They put us in a cab and as it pulled away I saw the counsellor who had visited us through the week running out after us. Our eyes met briefly through the window but I couldn't ask the driver to stop. The look on her face had made me instantly nauseous.

.::.

We're at that age. I have friends who are pregnant, friends who are trying to get pregnant, friends with thriving, adorable infants whose photos it simultaneously kills and thrills me to look at on Facebook. Blessed with some wonderful women in my life, I constantly wonder what it will be like when the first one holds out a newborn for me to hold. Will I hold it together? Or will I crumble?

.::.

"She'd be tottering around back here by now, just learning to walk." I gesture over my shoulder from the patio table toward the green lawn in our backyard. Hold my arms out like an idiot lacking balance to demonstrate.

He smiles just slightly with acknowledgement, nodding.

"And there'd be shit everywhere."

"...."

"....shit?"

"Yeah. Toys and stuff. You know. Baby shit."

Ah.

Understood. The good kind of shit, not the dirtied diaper kind.

Eloquent.

.::.

There are a few advantages to working for the same company as your spouse. We travel together in the morning, reading the free daily on a swaying train. We get caught up, decide who's going to cook that evening. Occasionally we bicker and I tell him we shouldn't travel together anymore. We have our coffee guy. Our bagel guy. I only need one Christmas party outfit.

The downside is that he's been there for almost ten years. People have known him a long time. They knew him before, when his wife was expecting. They collected their heavy shrapnel-like coins and a few generous notes in an envelope until there was enough to buy us a congratulatory gift. They noticed his two month absence after she died.

Over the past year or so I have been able to tell every time I'm introduced to someone new whether or not they know. I recognize the moment it clicks. The hear the accent and the familar surname. There is a flash of recognition in their eyes, replaced just a second too late to be hidden by the forced and cheerful smile that follows.

There are a handful who just plain old avoid me altogether. Actually look to the floor when I walk past, and hell maybe I'm imagining it with my all sorts of crazy, but I'll bet it's not unlike the way they look at a person who's terminally ill, or whose spouse is cheating on them and they're the only one in the whole goddamn building who hasn't clued in yet.

They're the ones I want to get up real close to. So close that our noses touch and they are forced to look me in the eye when I tell them that I'm not contagious.

.::.

There are babies I do like being around. In line at the grocery store, gumming away on a soother, holding it out for my inspection when I catch their eye and smile. There are the ones on the train after work. Sat cozily in slings against their mother's chest, waving their arms and staring at everyone innocently.

I make it a point to sit next to them, getting a little anonymous fix in. One goofy look and the cutest ones pay back in spades, kicking the air and coo'ing at me with interest. Mostly their parents smile at me and laugh, proud and chatty to the blonde who they see as a harmless kid lover.

"Do you have any?"

I just shake my head no. Nothing further required. All they see is a friendly woman of childbearing age, engaging with their perfect kid. Maybe they believe I'm secretly pregnant, or hoping to be.  They don't know, and I don't have to explain the truth. In those ten minutes until my stop I can enjoy sweet baby bliss under the gaze of someone who will never know my story, and who will never be searching for the crazy reaction of the woman who lost her own. Sadly, it's appears to be all I can handle just yet.

.::.

What was your first experience with a baby after your loss? How did you handle it - was it easier or more difficult than you feared it would be?