One of my Facebook friends, Janel Atlas (editor of the anthology They Were Still Born: Personal Stories about Stillbirth, in which an essay about Ben's death will appear) (now available for pre-order on Amazon! And Barnes & Noble!) posted a link to this interesting article about how fetal cells remain in the mother's body for years after the baby's delivery.
Dr. Diana Bianchi (not to be confused with the Diana Bianchi who broke up Christie Brinkley's marriage to Peter Cook) is a pediatrician and researcher in fetal cell migration. She discovered, a decade ago, that fetal cells remain in a mother's body for many years, perhaps forever, after a pregnancy, whether that pregnancy is full-term or not. These cells somehow assist in healing the body, providing a therapeutic effect, migrating to the site of an injury or source of an illness, doing what they can to fix the problem.
Amazing, no?
They're still here, our babies. Still with us, still residing in our bodies. Not them, but part of them. And that makes me feel much differently about losing my son.
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
Monday, September 6, 2010
What I Did Not Do On My Summer "Vacation"
Remember that post I wrote in early June, "School's (Almost) Out for the Summer"? Where I posted a list of what I hoped to achieve while my children were out of school and I became a stay-at-home, work-at-home, full-time semi-crazed mother?
Well, ha on me. Here's a list of what I didn't get done over the past three months.
1. Lose 10 lbs. I maintained. Which has to be seen as a plus, right? (Right?)
2. I did not get my children to put their dishes in the dishwasher. Well, maybe 25% of the time. That's an optimistic percentage.
3. I did not convince my children that bickering with a sibling is overrated. But boy, did I try.
4. I did not eliminate foods with high fructose corn syrup from the family's diet. I limited them, but when you've got two kiddos with you at the grocery store arguing and pleading, I've found I give in more than I should.
5. I did not win the lottery. No surprise there.
6. Nor did I deal with the piles and piles of kid artwork and other assorted schoolwork lying around the house. Let's just say I have a new plan for the fall.
I did have a lovely, relaxing vacation in Massachusetts with my family and my sister. Except for the bickering siblings part, it was terrific. And now, school is back in session, my children are doing well (so far), and James, though exhausted, has done great in all-day kindergarten. Leaving me to focus on those piles and tasks and 10 lbs for six hours each day, though I am desperate to run to school and bring him home at noon.
Catch me in December and I'll let you know how I've done on my summer "things to do" list.
Well, ha on me. Here's a list of what I didn't get done over the past three months.
1. Lose 10 lbs. I maintained. Which has to be seen as a plus, right? (Right?)
2. I did not get my children to put their dishes in the dishwasher. Well, maybe 25% of the time. That's an optimistic percentage.
3. I did not convince my children that bickering with a sibling is overrated. But boy, did I try.
4. I did not eliminate foods with high fructose corn syrup from the family's diet. I limited them, but when you've got two kiddos with you at the grocery store arguing and pleading, I've found I give in more than I should.
5. I did not win the lottery. No surprise there.
6. Nor did I deal with the piles and piles of kid artwork and other assorted schoolwork lying around the house. Let's just say I have a new plan for the fall.
I did have a lovely, relaxing vacation in Massachusetts with my family and my sister. Except for the bickering siblings part, it was terrific. And now, school is back in session, my children are doing well (so far), and James, though exhausted, has done great in all-day kindergarten. Leaving me to focus on those piles and tasks and 10 lbs for six hours each day, though I am desperate to run to school and bring him home at noon.
Catch me in December and I'll let you know how I've done on my summer "things to do" list.
Thursday, August 26, 2010
And They're Off
My baby started kindergarten this morning. He was up and dressed and had his backpack on 20 minutes early, stating, "I'm ready to go now!" We told him it wasn't time yet, and he said, "I want to go anyway!"
And I teared up all through breakfast and our short walk to school.
He's ready. And it's hard to let him go. James walked into the school door without a backward glance while all I could do was look back in time, remembering the day he was born, remembering the last five years, wondering why they went by so quickly.
He's ready. And I am not.
He saved my life, you know. James and his sister both did, after Ben died. Charlotte was my reason to get up in the morning when I wanted to stay in bed, covers pulled tight over my head, forever. Though I can't claim to have been a good parent to her in that year after her brother died, I showed up because I had to. Because she needed me. I needed her even more.
Unlike last year, when I lingered at school on the morning of the kindergartener's first day, remembering what might have been, I cried this morning in happiness and sorrow. The milestones I would have marked with Ben are becoming more nebulous now, smaller in significance. I will not know when he would have finished school, for he might have dropped out, or failed a year, or some other unfathomable thing. He may never have gone to college, or gotten married, or had children. I don't know, and I live with not knowing, having to accept it because that is all there is.
I will mark my life now with the two who lived. And it's ok. Though I can't pretend these milestones are normal, untinged with the pain of loss.
James was my second chance, my hope, my future, my joy. All through that long pregnancy filled with fear and expectation, I waited, and hoped, and feared the worst. Then he came and I can't imagine living without him.
He's ready. Ready to go off into the world, eager to learn, so excited to be big.
The past five years have been leading up to this, I know. James, and Charlotte, are both where they need to be. Exactly as it should be, exactly as I want it, except for the longing in my heart.
And I teared up all through breakfast and our short walk to school.
He's ready. And it's hard to let him go. James walked into the school door without a backward glance while all I could do was look back in time, remembering the day he was born, remembering the last five years, wondering why they went by so quickly.
He's ready. And I am not.
He saved my life, you know. James and his sister both did, after Ben died. Charlotte was my reason to get up in the morning when I wanted to stay in bed, covers pulled tight over my head, forever. Though I can't claim to have been a good parent to her in that year after her brother died, I showed up because I had to. Because she needed me. I needed her even more.
Unlike last year, when I lingered at school on the morning of the kindergartener's first day, remembering what might have been, I cried this morning in happiness and sorrow. The milestones I would have marked with Ben are becoming more nebulous now, smaller in significance. I will not know when he would have finished school, for he might have dropped out, or failed a year, or some other unfathomable thing. He may never have gone to college, or gotten married, or had children. I don't know, and I live with not knowing, having to accept it because that is all there is.
I will mark my life now with the two who lived. And it's ok. Though I can't pretend these milestones are normal, untinged with the pain of loss.
James was my second chance, my hope, my future, my joy. All through that long pregnancy filled with fear and expectation, I waited, and hoped, and feared the worst. Then he came and I can't imagine living without him.
He's ready. Ready to go off into the world, eager to learn, so excited to be big.
The past five years have been leading up to this, I know. James, and Charlotte, are both where they need to be. Exactly as it should be, exactly as I want it, except for the longing in my heart.
Sunday, August 22, 2010
At 81, He Still Blames Himself
I came across this article several weeks ago, "Hibakusha writes to his dead child," about an 81-year-old man in Japan, a survivor of the atomic bombing of Hiroshima. In it, he speaks, through a letter written to his second child, a daughter who was stillborn, of his anguish that he may be responsible for her death.
"Is some bad blood flowing within me?" he writes. "Or, is this the payback for having survived?"
I already knew, and this only reaffirms, the guilt and sorrow never go away. But at least there will be others out there who feel just the same way.
"Is some bad blood flowing within me?" he writes. "Or, is this the payback for having survived?"
I already knew, and this only reaffirms, the guilt and sorrow never go away. But at least there will be others out there who feel just the same way.
Thursday, July 29, 2010
It All Comes Down to This
Summer is waning, much as I hate to admit it. I glanced at the calendar the other day and realized that, in four weeks, school begins. My daughter starts 4th grade on a Tuesday, and my son begins kindergarten two days later, a shortened week of two 1/2 days before beginning full days the following week.
And I was browsing our community magazine a day or two ago, looking at the library's offerings for children, preschool story times, baby sign classes, and realized: It's over. My boy is too old for story time now, we've left it behind. We've left behind the diapers, first steps, nap times, all those baby things I love.
This is what we work for, as parents, we work to leave behind the baby years, we nurture our children and encourage them to take risks, feed them their fruits and vegetables, push them out and away from our protecting arms because it is what we are supposed to do. They are supposed to grow and change and leave us.
But I don't want them to leave me.
I am just past 40 now, closing in on 41 -- my birthday is in just a few weeks. I spent the decade of my 30s focused on babies -- having them, wanting them, overcoming the grief of losing one, deciding whether or not to have anymore. We first started trying for a baby when I was 29, though didn't manage pregnancy for over a year, along with the help of medical intervention, and my first child was born when I was 31. Three years later, Ben. 20 months after that, James, just before I turned 36. Followed by four more years of wanting another, debating having another, knowing all the while that there would be no more babies for us. (I am not quite reconciled to this decision, nor do I think I will ever be.)
And though there are many years of parenting ahead of me, I am having trouble letting go of that baby-obsessed decade. I'm having trouble letting go of the best things I've ever done, trouble pushing them out of the nest. And this is what it comes down to: letting them go, when I will always want to hold them in my arms like I did when they were born.
There is so much I didn't know: how hard it would be, nor how wonderful. How fast they would grow and leave me behind.
And I was browsing our community magazine a day or two ago, looking at the library's offerings for children, preschool story times, baby sign classes, and realized: It's over. My boy is too old for story time now, we've left it behind. We've left behind the diapers, first steps, nap times, all those baby things I love.
This is what we work for, as parents, we work to leave behind the baby years, we nurture our children and encourage them to take risks, feed them their fruits and vegetables, push them out and away from our protecting arms because it is what we are supposed to do. They are supposed to grow and change and leave us.
But I don't want them to leave me.
I am just past 40 now, closing in on 41 -- my birthday is in just a few weeks. I spent the decade of my 30s focused on babies -- having them, wanting them, overcoming the grief of losing one, deciding whether or not to have anymore. We first started trying for a baby when I was 29, though didn't manage pregnancy for over a year, along with the help of medical intervention, and my first child was born when I was 31. Three years later, Ben. 20 months after that, James, just before I turned 36. Followed by four more years of wanting another, debating having another, knowing all the while that there would be no more babies for us. (I am not quite reconciled to this decision, nor do I think I will ever be.)
And though there are many years of parenting ahead of me, I am having trouble letting go of that baby-obsessed decade. I'm having trouble letting go of the best things I've ever done, trouble pushing them out of the nest. And this is what it comes down to: letting them go, when I will always want to hold them in my arms like I did when they were born.
There is so much I didn't know: how hard it would be, nor how wonderful. How fast they would grow and leave me behind.
Sunday, July 25, 2010
A Baby Candle
Some of you may recall that my husband and I light a special candle every year on the anniversary of Ben's birth. This candle was given to us by friends and used on the day of his memorial service; we light it only once each year.
Friends of mine started a company, Luna's Light (there's another link over there on the right), in memory of their sister Shannon, who died unexpectedly in her early 20s. They provide resources for grieving families. Recently (ok, not so recently; a few months ago - I am remiss in posting this) we met up for coffee and conversation, and they gave me one of their company's newest offerings, a baby candle. (And yes, I totally stole this image from their site...a better picture than I could do! Michele & Kelly, let me know if this is not ok!)
Friends of mine started a company, Luna's Light (there's another link over there on the right), in memory of their sister Shannon, who died unexpectedly in her early 20s. They provide resources for grieving families. Recently (ok, not so recently; a few months ago - I am remiss in posting this) we met up for coffee and conversation, and they gave me one of their company's newest offerings, a baby candle. (And yes, I totally stole this image from their site...a better picture than I could do! Michele & Kelly, let me know if this is not ok!)
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Go Read This Post
... and see if it doesn't change how you feel about your day.
Jennifer Lawler's daughter Jessica has a seizure disorder. When she was 9 months old, surgeons removed half of Jessica's brain. Her daughter is 13 now and they just received the bad news that Jessica has a hole in her spine, which surgeons hope to fix on August 10th. Jennifer wrote this post over on her blog, Finding Your Voice, which might just rip your own heart to shreds.
Go read it, and send a prayer, or good thoughts, or whatever you believe in, their way.
Jennifer Lawler's daughter Jessica has a seizure disorder. When she was 9 months old, surgeons removed half of Jessica's brain. Her daughter is 13 now and they just received the bad news that Jessica has a hole in her spine, which surgeons hope to fix on August 10th. Jennifer wrote this post over on her blog, Finding Your Voice, which might just rip your own heart to shreds.
Go read it, and send a prayer, or good thoughts, or whatever you believe in, their way.
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