No Answers

Emily Dickinson wrote in one of her poems something along the lines of "Because I could not stop for death, it kindly stopped for me" and I think of those words while I also think of the poem I put up in my last post. The inequity of death, the inevitability of it, the fact that because I have given my children life I've also given them death, just as my mother did for me, and her mother before her. I've given birth to death quite literally, with the birth of Ben, as have many of you who read this blog. I am still trying to fathom it, four years on: giving birth to one already dead. Or delivering one already dead - a semantic difference I hate, for officially it isn't birth when your child has died in utero - and there are no birth certificates, no apt words to describe what it is a mother does when she has to bring forth her dead child into the world.

And I wonder what happens when we die; where do our souls go, if there is any such thing at all? Some days I believe in god and heaven, some days I don't. Some days I think that there is nothing out there and it terrifies me, then other days I think, no, that can't be so. Where is Ben now? And I don't know, other than in my heart. But is that all we get? That he lives on in my heart, and I will never get to know him in any other kind of lifetime? Perhaps it is.

I think as well that the universe owes me the safety and comfort of knowing my two living children will live on to ripe old ages, outlast me by years, but no one is given even that, no matter how much we may beg the gods that be. I remember, months after Ben died, kneeling by the side of my daughter's bed, sobbing, snot running down my face, pleading with god to not let anything happen to her, to keep her safe. Like the mother in the poem I think of all the things that could happen, but I know I need to let my children go - and let go, and let go. All my life, I will need to let them go.

Poetry for Moms

Moreena, a mom to two girls, one of whom has had two liver transplants in the first 5 years of her life (may be slightly incorrect in the time frame, but not by much) posted this poem by Marilyn Nelson yesterday, and wow. And yes. And help me, someone, keep my babies safe.

Mama's Promise

I have no answer to the blank inequity
of a four-year-old dying of cancer.
I saw her on TV and wept
with my mouth full of meatloaf.

I constantly flash on disasters now;
red lights shout Warning. Danger. everywhere I look.

I buckle him in, but what if a car
with a grille like a sharkbite
roared up out of the road?

I feed him square meals,
but what if the fist of his heart
should simply fall open?

I carried him safely
as long as I could,
but now he's a runaway
on the dangerous highway.

Warning. Danger.
I've started to pray.

But the dangerous highway
curves through blue evenings
when I hold his yielding hand
and snip his minuscule nails
with my vicious-looking scissors.

I carry him around
like an egg in a spoon,
and I remember a porcelain fawn,
a best friend's trust,
my broken faith in myself.

It's not my grace that keeps me erect
as the sidewalk clatters downhill
under my rollerskate wheels.

Sometimes I lie awake
troubled by this thought:
It's not so simple to give a child birth;
you also have to give it death,
the jealous fairy's christening gift.

I've always pictured my own death
as a closed door,
a black room,
a breathless leap from the mountaintop
with time to throw out my arms, lift my head,
and see, in the instant my heart stops,
a whole galaxy of blue.

I imagined I'd forget,
in the cessation of feeling,
while the guilt of my lifetime floated away
like a nylon nightgown,
and that I'd fall into clean, fresh forgiveness.

Ah, but the death I've given away
is more mine than the one I've kept:
from my hands the poisoned apple,
from my bow the mistletoe dart.

Then I think of Mama,
her bountiful breasts.
When I was a child, I really swear,
Mama's kisses could heal.
I remember her promise,
and whisper it over my sweet son's sleep:

       When you float to the bottom, child,        
       like a mote down a sunbeam,          
       you'll see me from a trillion miles away:          
       my eyes looking up to you,          
       my arms outstretched for you like night.

Here's the Truth

So, from my last post, in which I got the idea of the meme slightly wrong (I told two lies, rather than two truths), here's the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but:

1. Yes, my husband proposed 6 weeks after we met. We knew on our second date that this was "it."

2. Yes, I have been married twice (kind of) - but to the same man. We got married in England, where we met and where he is from, and got married in the chapel of his college at Cambridge University. In England, however, you can only be "officially" married in a registered building, which the chapel was not, so we held the official marriage in a registry office (like a justice of the peace) the day before, and held the religious ceremony the next day.

3. True. I wanted to be a Rockette (I loved watching them do kick lines) but I can't dance. I also wanted to be a jockey but realized, at the age of 7, that I had to stop growing immediately. (I'm kind of tall.)

4. True. Hey, I've got two degrees in English, what did you expect?

5. Nope. I love dogs. My daughter, however, is terrified of them and I have no idea why. I think it's genetic - no one in my husband's family likes dogs.

6. False. Can't stand the things. Told my parents when I was 8 years old I was not going to marry a man who liked lima beans. And I didn't.

Tagged

I've been tagged by Monica to do a meme. Now, I'm a bit unclear what exactly "meme" means, but I get the object of the thing: tell 6 things about myself, only four of which are true. Here goes:

1. My husband and I dated for only 6 weeks before we got engaged.

2. I've been married twice.

3. When I was little I wanted to be either a Rockette or a jockey.

4. I've read every word of both War and Peace and Les Miserables (unabridged versions).

5. I'm afraid of dogs.

6. I really, really love lima beans.

Edited to Add: You, my dear readers, are supposed to guess which are true and which are false. Have at it! And I am also supposed to tag people, I think...can I get back to you on that one?

Edited Again to Add: I didn't read the directions very carefully; 4 things were supposed to be false, 2 true. I did it the other way - 4 things here are true and 2 are false. Can you tell it's been a long week full of sickness and snow?

Things I've Learned Along the Way

It's Wednesday, it's snowy and cold, and I'm feeling a little random...so here are some random thoughts I've learned from my life so far:

1) Never eat half a package of cherry JuJu hearts in one day. Don't ask why, just trust me.
2) There's nothing like a "queeze ug" (squeeze hug) from a 2.5-year-old to make anything better.
3) No matter how many times you tell a 7-year-old to hurry up because we're going to be late for school, it is physically impossible to make her go any faster.
4) 23 degrees Fahrenheit (with snow) is not that cold when two days ago the wind chill was about 10 below zero. It's downright balmy.
5) Even though the school newsletter clearly states each week that the deadline for submissions is 3:15p.m. on Tuesday, there will be 4 new submissions waiting in your inbox Wednesday morning and one on Thursday morning, the day it goes to print.
6) Before children, you could never imagine going out to an informal meeting in the same shirt your child has just peed on. After children, it's no big deal.
7) Brownies make a bad day good. Brownies and ice cream make a bad day downright fantastic.
8) Eating half a pan of brownies, however, will make you feel good for only 5 minutes and fat and sick for an entire day.
9) Having children guarantees that you will be late for every appointment, drop-off, and function 98.3% of the time.
10) I don't actually need more time in my day, I need less to do.

What random things has your life taught you so far?

Three Days at Home

Ok, so the title of my post reminds me of the song by Sheryl Crow with the lines "Three Days in Rome." Ah, if only.

Today is my third day trapped in my house with my children while my husband is out and about interacting with other adults. Charlotte has been home from school for the past two days; took her to the doctor yesterday and she has strep throat. So today she is still contagious and not going to her class at Little Gym, and I've cancelled the babysitter who was to stay with James while I had an hour or two to myself. No need to spread the germs around. My husband is out all day at a workshop, and I am going a little stir crazy. Not to mention the massive headache as yet untouched by the aspirin I took an hour ago.

Bleh. I'm complaining. Anyway...next Friday James starts preschool. We were supposed to go yesterday for him to meet teachers and fellow students and just get used to the place, but we went to the doctor instead. So we will try again on Monday, and then on Friday - 4 hours of preschool. FOUR WHOLE HOURS!! I alternately can't wait and then get all tearful and sad because, come on, my BABY. Is going to preschool. And how did this happen? If I ask him if he's a baby, James says, "No baby." He is so adorable right now and I wish I could keep him right here for a few years, in this in-betweenness of baby and preschooler, when he adores his mama and is still willing to hug and kiss me and be seen in public with me. My girl turned 7 a few weeks ago and is, like, getting, y'know, embarrassed by me sometimes. (Gawd! I'm the mother of a 7 year old!)

My James is calling for me to play Legos with him, so I will go build a monument to boys. How can I ignore a sweet voice saying, "Mommy pway!"

A Tiny Part of Me

Yep, I'm still here. I haven't known what to say this month; I've been tired, cranky, sick of the very cold semi-Midwestern weather. And oh, the snow. I'm really not a cold-weather person. January is just not my month, for a number of reasons, the most obvious being Ben. The weather does, however, mirror a lot of what I felt (and feel) about that loss. I remember in the months after he died, when spring began to push its way through the snow and cold, and I wanted so desperately to stay in January because that bleakness, the gray skies, the cold - the deadness, really - were what I felt inside. So in some ways January suits me, gives me a chance to mope and mourn. A tiny part of me is forever stuck in January; I envision a little corner of my heart figuratively chipped off and left behind in that January, or perhaps left in the hospital and taken off to be cremated with Ben.

I find myself walking around, telling myself, "We're going to have a baby." (I have never told anyone that, not even my husband.) I told myself that through all of my pregnancies, I suppose to try to make myself believe it, and I can't seem to stop saying it. I am most definitely NOT pregnant; though it could certainly happen unexpectedly, it isn't anything we're planning. We're done. But I'm having a really hard time coming to terms (no pun intended) with that. My dreams for a family with three children came true, but not in the way I planned. And I am rapidly approaching the age where the statistics get really bad for safe and healthy pregnancies. In short, I'm getting old, and no more babies means I really have to face that. Perhaps that sounds shallow, I don't know. I can't believe it's over for me; I can't believe those babymaking years went so fast; I can't believe one of my children died.

Maybe I would be more comfortable with the end of my babymaking years if Ben had lived and we'd gone on to have child number three. I'm incomplete this way. Subconsciously, still being able to have babies ties me to Ben; the passage of time for me takes me further away from the time I had with him, and reminds me that I get the time he did not have. But I can't keep myself in those moments I had with him (and believe me, I've tried to not move on). I guess I'm still working on acceptance, of a lot of different things.

*Thanks, Monica, for checking in.*