Eight Years Without You

Every year since 2003, at 11:34 am on the 30th of December, I have looked at the clock and thought, "And now I knew." Ben was gone but the long process of labor and delivery loomed, phoning my husband to tell him the terrible news, alerting families and friends.

In the space of a moment, a life changed, a life ended. A lifetime of things not done, words not said, plans and hopes and memories never made.

Eight years. Unimaginable that anyone can live that long without something--someone--so important. But live you do, because there is no other choice.

Grateful

Grateful for those who aren't afraid to say his name. (Ben.)

Grateful for those who try to understand that he is still my son, that I miss him every moment of every day. Grateful for those who realize I miss all the things that could have been. Grateful for those who understand you don't "move on" but you incorporate the grief into your life.

Grateful to those who aren't afraid to tell me they remember him and can only imagine how much it hurts.

Grateful that he is not, just yet, forgotten.

Say His Name

Ben.

That's all. Just Ben. It's not hard. It won't hurt to say, it won't hurt for me to hear. It will be sweet, in fact, to hear you say his name for what may be the first time ever. (How can you not say his name to me? He was a real child, after all.)

Ben.

That's all.

The Story of Ben

I make the mistake, all too frequently, of thinking that Ben's story belongs only to me. Yes, I cling to it, to him, possessively, a mother bear ready to fight for her cub. I think that he is solely mine because I carried him in my womb, because he spent all of his life, his living, within me. I want him to be all mine because I have so little to show he was ever here.

There are other stories of his life and death that I forget. His father's story. His grandparents' and aunts', uncles', cousins' stories. His brother's and sister's stories.

All of these stories are incomplete, just like mine, but no less valid, no less real. I was reminded this morning of that reality by James, who cried in bed as I prodded him to get up, get ready for school. "I miss my brother," he said, as a tear rolled down his cheek. And while I don't think he was crying because he misses the brother who lived and died before he came to be, I could only think of how different our lives would be had Ben lived. That James and Charlotte will have their own stories to tell one day of how they think their lives changed because one of us is gone.

I want Ben's story to be mine only, because I am selfish, because I miss him, because I am his mother. But all of us lost something the day he died. All of us, whether we acknowledge it or not.

Seven Years Without You

There's little to say today, seven years on. Ben is missed, and thought of, as he is every day. Have I healed? Yes, as much as anyone could. I am happy, despite missing Ben, despite loving him fiercely and desperately wanting to know who he would be today.

Seven years. Hard to believe.

That's 2,557 days that he's been gone. 61,368 hours. Seven birthdays. A new baby brother, now in kindergarten, two new cats, plans to move next summer. A big sister nearly 10 years old. Me, on the other side of 40. Lifetimes.

Lifetimes.

I think it's time for this blog to change, but I don't know how it will. I am no longer living so deeply in the land of broken hearts, but I still want to be here to help others, offer support to those for whom this is a new and terrible way of life. Because there is hope, there is life on the other side of grief.

Life. Never the same, but life nonetheless.

I love you, my baby boy. I always, always loved you.

December 25th

Dear Ben,

I want to wish you Merry Christmas, and this is all I have.

Ben, I miss you.

Love,

Mama

Funny How Things Haunt You

I am sitting in my favorite coffeeshop as I type this, working on a book I am writing, about Ben.

As I started packing up to leave just now, a song came on the radio: "Life for Rent" by Dido.

That's the song I was listening to as I pulled into a parking space at the hospital the morning Ben died. The last song I listened to before I knew he was gone.

I haven't liked Dido since.

Day of the Dead

It's the last day of my 31 days of posting for stillbirth awareness. I am both relieved and torn: some days I feel as if I dwell in this land of broken hearts far too much, while on others I simply acknowledge that this is my life. Or part of it, anyway.

Today is also All Saint's Day, tomorrow is the Day of the Dead. I don't know much about the Day of the Dead, but it seems a fitting time to end my month of blogging. I follow no rituals for this day, or tomorrow, other than tonight's trick-or-treating, handing out candy to little goblins, princesses, and skeletons. But I remember the ones I miss, who are no longer here, who have changed me.

I don't have an altar for Ben, though sometimes I wish I did. Other days I think no, it would be too much for me.

Nor do I have a place to go, to pay homage to him, to sit by his grave and offer him food and drink, candles and light. What is left of him is in my bedroom, in a wooden box sealed shut.

We have it all wrong here in America: bury the dead or scatter their ashes and do our best to forget. How do you forget the child you carried inside you, who kicked you and hiccuped and kept you awake at night, then slipped from your body silently, never to take a breath?

Yes, I want an altar, a gravestone, an offering. A way to honor one of the loves of my life.

Death's Dark Shadows

O Come, O Come, Emmanuel,
And ransom captive Israel...

Disperse the gloomy clouds of night,
And death's dark shadows put to flight
Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel
Shall come to you, O Israel


It's little wonder to me now, how my favorite Christmas hymns and carols have always been the gloomier ones, the ones that speak not of "the most wonderful time of the year" but of "I'll be home for Christmas, if only in my dreams," and "From now on, our troubles will be out of sight." The melancholy songs. Which is how I feel today. Melancholy. Six years without Ben for Christmas.

What does it mean, "death's dark shadows put to flight?" I know, Christ come to save the world, promising reunion in heaven for the righteous, but here, now, I want to scoff at those lyrics. Because God didn't save my son. Even though I don't believe that's what God does.

I just miss him. That's all.

Six years ago, right now, he was alive. And six years ago, in 7 days, he was gone.

Because This Reminds Me of You

The Loneliest Number

They say one is the loneliest number, and so often in this land of grief, the solitary loneliness rears its ugly head. Over the last week, as I thought about the first day of kindergarten, I was reminded how alone I sometimes am. In bed on Wednesday night, my husband asked me what was wrong. I tried so hard not to tell him, didn't want to be upset, even though I'd just been crying in the bathroom.

"Ben would have started kindergarten tomorrow," I told him, and started to cry.

He didn't know what to say. I don't blame him for that; I understand that we are not the same. It is my job to get the children to school, to pack the lunches, sort the clothes, take them to the doctor. They are on my mind every moment of every day; no matter what I am doing, they are part of me. I don't know if it's something biological, or something that happens once we have a child, but it does seem to be common to mothers everywhere, this marking of time in relation to our children, this recognition of where they should be. It's not the same for most, probably all, of the dads I know.

And while I have friends who remember every year on the anniversary of Ben's death, there are moments, like the one I experienced this week, when what would have been a milestone in our lives is unrecognized by others. I don't blame them for that either; before Ben, I wouldn't have thought about those milestones in the life of someone else.

But I'm reminded how lonely this journey is, and I wonder if I make too much of what would have been. Do I need to let go more than I have, of Ben, of the possibilities that no longer exist? Or am I right where I should be?

I don't know. Not every day is like last Thursday, but every day I am aware of what I am missing. I don't want to forget completely, but there are times when I am tired of remembering.

Son of My Sorrow

Some months after Ben died, I went online to look up the meaning of his name. Because he was the second child, I had not obsessed over his name as I had with my first child; we knew, more or less, what we would name a son, having decided during our first pregnancy.

The definition I found hit a little too close to home:

"A biblical name borne by the youngest of the twelve sons of Jacob. His mother Rachel died in giving birth to him, and in her last moments she named him Benoni, meaning 'son of my sorrow'. His father, however, did not wish him to bear such an ill-omened name, and renamed him Benyamin. ... In the middle ages the name was often given to young boys whose mothers had passed away during childbirth."

The Baby Loss Meme

Msfitzita at the Baby Loss Directory blog put up this meme a few weeks ago, and since I'm new to blogging, I thought I'd post it here and answer some of the questions.


1. What do you want people to know about the child (or children) you have lost?

Ben was beautiful, perfect, and he was real. I sometimes think that people believe stillborn child aren't real people, that somehow they don't count because, if they didn't see him, he didn't exist. And I want to scream at the world: He was real. He was here, he was ready to go, but he died.

2. What names did you give (or plan to give) your children and why? His full name was Benjamin Thomas - names we just loved because they were gentle but strong. I always wanted a Ben. He was going to be my Benjamin Bear; I'd planned it before he was born. My older daughter was already the Bunny.

3. What rituals or ways of memorializing your children seem to best help you cope with their loss?

Writing in my journal, talking about him with friends, holding the bear given to me to remember him.

4. What are the kindest and/or most helpful things people have said to you? What are the worst?

The best thing said to me was 'I don't know what to say" and "I'm so sorry" - because, unless you've been through it, you don't know what to say. So much better than all the other things I heard, like "You'll have another child," or "Try to move on," or, God help me, the woman who asked me FIVE times where my baby was, and every time I told her "He's dead."

5. Who is your hero? Who helps you make it through the dark days better than anyone else on the planet?

One of my heroes is Elizabeth, who died in 2005 from breast cancer. She always believed in me and always loved me, and even when she didn't know what to say, she found something comforting to say, or simply offered me a hug. Her spirit lives on in my heart.

My other heroes: my husband, who has loved me through the best and the absolute worst, when I've been awful and I haven't deserved his love. He has always been there and I am so lucky to have him.

6. Is there anything you need to say or want to say but haven't been able to? Can you say it now?

I don't know. I think what I need to say now is this: I'm through the hardest part of the grief, but I still grieve. To everyone who thinks I'm "over it" - I'm not. I will spend the rest of my life wanting Ben back.

7. How are you doing? How are you really doing?

I'm ok. I still don't always believe this happened to me, and the sadness hits me at different times, unexpectedly, but I no longer care who sees me cry. This is who I am now. I don't know that I've "accepted" Ben's death - I know he's gone, I can't change that, but I am going on with my life now. It took a long time to get here.

Three Years and Counting

My son Ben died on December 30, 2003, and was born the next day. I was 39 weeks and 4 days pregnant; January 2nd was his due date. It was not the happy new year we were expecting, and we're still figuring out life without him. This is where I'll talk about losing Ben and parenting his 6.5-year-old sister and 2-year-old brother, and where I'll try to figure out if, as Carly Simon once sang, there's more room in a broken heart.