Lucy has angel friends

It’s been a while since I’ve written.  Syd is 4 going on 40.  We have a new baby. Josh arrived safely 9 months ago…but that’s another story.  I write today because Lucy has been on my mind.  Sandy Hook disasters have rocked all of our worlds.

I dare say more so with those who have an intimate relationship with loss.  Yet I have found in my limited time trolling around on various loss-related blogs that there is little self-pity.  Instead, those most intimately associated with loss play the “at least” game – a macabre grass-is-greener psych-out that somehow consoles us that someone has a bigger burden.  That we reached the limit of what we could handle and that fortune – cruel mistress that she is – gave us a break.  Someone else has a deeper, larger, more tragic loss.  This is bullshit, but we do it anyway.

At least I have my husband and aren’t left to raise these children alone.

At least I got to meet Lucy.

At least she wasn’t 6.

There is no hierarchy of loss.  Loss is loss.  Some is expected. Some is tragic…It’s all horrible. You don’t come back from it. You just aren’t the same.

Syd has, of late, been asking questions.  As with most 4-year olds, she is trying ever so hard to order her world.  She still can’t really grasp the difference between sleeping at nap versus sleeping overnight…in the morning can be anytime with daylight.  Commercials on TV “take too long” and the concept of “tomorrow” or “next week” is elusive at best.  Try and explain that she had a twin who was real but died and is now an angel but lives in a cemetery.  Not so easy.

As usual, these conversations crop up in the most inopportune times.  Random drives to school become existential dialogs.  “Lucy was real, right?  She was real and she’s my mother and she’s an angel, right?”  No, she’s an angel but she was your sister…And so it goes.  “Lucy’s in the ground, right?”  Yes.  “I want to see her.”  We can’t.  “But I want to see her face.”  I have pictures, but she stays in the ground.  “Why?”  Because.

processing….processing…

“Is she alone?”

That one undoes me.  It was the one thing that put me over the edge with this experience.  Let alone that I was burying my daughter in a random infant section in a glorified styrofoam cooler.  I couldn’t bear the fact that she would be alone.  I sobbed.  I cried.  I wailed like a crazy woman you might see on TV.  In the end, I put some pictures and a stuffed animal in there and told myself that she wouldn’t be alone.  I told Sydney that she had pictures of all of us and that she is never alone.  That appeased her.  Thank god.  I had nothing else.

I have spoken NOTHING of the Newtown shootings to my children.  They know not of real guns or fear or tragedy.  It’s enough that Syd knows that she has a sister in a cemetery.

So in a simple book where they make snow angels at the end, we talk of snow and no school and the end of fall and the beginning of winter.

I know Syd’s processing by now.  She sees snow angels and thinks angel and thinks Lucy.

“Mommy, does Lucy have angel friends?”

Yes.  Yes she does.  And now she has more.

God help those parents.  God help their siblings.  God help us all.

Welcome home

It’s been quite a while since I’ve written. Much has/is happening. The biggest is that I got pregnant. Completely by surprise. Without any help. At 41 years old. It threw us into quite a tailspin, even though I had a genuine cricket infestation in my house this past August. (like that’s not weird enough).

This pregnancy is just one child, a boy, a big one, and I’m due April 14 – 3 days after the due date of our first set of twins we lost.

Due dates are tricky things. To me they are just one more invasive question. For women with high risk pregnancies, asking when you will have a baby is just torture. I have no idea. It turns into a huge lie…”well, April but probably earlier.” “Or a scheduled c-section on March 22.” Or how about “let’s makes it through february?”

While this pregnancy is no doubt a blessing and has been reasonably good (I was still at work and up and around last week at 30 weeks) the shoe has dropped.

Syd and Lucy needed bed rest at 29 weeks at home and hospitalized bed rest at 25 weeks through their emergency delivery at 32 weeks. This current urchin landed me back at my old stomping grounds Friday with a gastric bleed – likely caused by some meds I was taking for contractions.

Did I mention that Friday was the 3.5 year anniversary of Syd and Lucy’s birth? I still know a good core of people here at the hospital. I like them. They like me. They ask to be my nurse. housekeeping recognized me. Not precisely the notice I wanted.

And as was the case three and a half years ago, I am shocked with how many medical professionals lose babies and still work on a ob floor. Aside from thew fact that I had to go through the ridiculous medical history…”how many pregnancies?” 3. “how many live children at home?” 1 ***note wheels turning in triage nurse’s head***

So my first night nurse lost twins this November. The next day nurse lost a baby at 20 weeks. Of course, they probably resented me because I at least had a live birth and had one to go home with and got to say hello and goodbye…but we were close enough in the same boat to have that connection. So we talked.

There’s comfort in this knowledge that people “function” with this loss.

This baby is strong. He has been nonplussed by my medical event. He handled the anesthesia for my upper GI scope on Saturday. He kicked me as we woke up and yawned though his ultrasound yesterday…just hanging and growing. This beast gained a full pound in 3 weeks.

He will be ok. I know this in my heart. I hope to make it a few more weeks. I want to get past 32 weeks because Syd and Lucy were born then…boys are lazier and need more time so I’d like to nurture this prince a little longer. I’d like to make it to March. Fingers, legs, and blood pressure crossed.

My family and I have lived in fear of what bed rest or hospitalization might mean for us with Syd at home. It worked this weekend, though Syd is pissed at me. “is mommy still sleeping at the hospital?” yes. “But my baby brother is ok, right?” yes. The grown-ups had panic attacks n the parking lot and felt the visceral smell of the hospital deep inside.

Hopefully I’ll go home today to resume a few more weeks of just plain old uncomfortable pregnancy. And come back with some planning and non-emergent needs and have a baby and a safe delivery.

This not the place to be recognized, but I couldn’t do this with any anonymity. These nurses and professionals give me the love and care I need. They are my pregnancy family. And they will be here when I return. We are all hoping for a happy ending.

Dayenu

I have toddlers. They are insistent little things. They are smart and cute and charming but also relentless. Every request is now riddled with “why?”. Eye contact is never enough for attention but the sentence must be spoken and reaffirmed: “Yes, I see the plane in the sky.”. Even if Syd knows the answer (because I just answered the same question less than 10 seconds before) it must be asked and answered again.

Syd is smart and talented and maniacally insistent. So is Lucy.

It is not enough that I go to sleep thinking of her. Or that I awake thinking of her. She has been equally insistent of late. Like when I traveled to Florida last week and stopped at a random park bench and glanced at a tree. Not just any tree, apparently, but Thomas’ memorial tree. And the marker was the same gravestone Lucy has.

Lucy’s garden is blooming this week. I planted two “little Leo” plants (for my two little leos) and wouldn’t you know it but one thrives and is blooming and the other is barely hanging on – poking a couple of sprouts out of the earth but nothing more. I think of replanting it every year…but I don’t.

Dear Lucy. That is enough. I didn’t need to take your sister to gym class to sit next to another little girl named Lucy and watch another mom and grandma handle 9-month old twins. I see you. I hear you. I miss you.

It is the season to speak “dayanu.” It is Hebrew for “it would have been enough.” Passover is next week. Syd has learned the song and loves listening to it in the car. It’s about the things G-d did for Moses and the Jews as they fled Israel. With every feat and miracle, the song choruses, “dayanu!”. Thank you. You have done so much for us. We would have been happy with just one, but you gave us many. Thank you. It would have been enough.

My dear girls. Thank you. You give me so much. I too want to sing your praises. And at the same time, I want to reclaim the word to mean, “enough already!”.

Yes, Syd and Lucy. I am paying attention. How can I not. Dayenu!

gated community

Lucy's Gated Community

For some reason, we had a free weekend.  No stepdaughter.  No grandparents.  No aunts or uncles.  Just Syd, Scot and me.  Family time.  December time.  Though Hanukkah ended, the gift buying did not – living in our secular world.  We pretended to be healthy and went to the JCC to work out.  Mom and Dad sweated, Syd played, and we reconvened at the end, ready for lunch or snacks or the “what’s next” on our day.  Never mind it was cold and rainy and verging on snow.  Forget the fact that the umbrella was in the car.  We were out for the day – or at least until nap.

 

So – in search of Secret Santa gifts for Scot’s co-workers, we headed into town to hit an old-fashioned pharmacy with a soda fountain.  I thought they would have great trinkets (they did) and that Syd would have fun having lunch at a counter (she did, though mom almost had a heart attack as she spun on the stools.)

 

We didn’t plan our route – we just went what seemed like the most direct way – and wound up passing Lucy’s cemetery.  It felt like a kick in the stomach.  I always think of going – but for some reason I think about it when the cemetery is closed.  Yes, they close.  This one closes on Saturdays and all Jewish holidays.  Which is fine, I guess, except that it seems that I want to be with her on holidays.  And I know that it’s not like she would be “with” us – certainly not at the table or with family – but that’s when I think of going.  And so this Saturday – we drove by on our merry way – Syd chatting away in the back – and my Lucy there, in the rain, locked behind gates.  I didn’t like it one bit.  She’s my daughter, and I want to see her whenever I want.  But I can’t.  We drove by and said “Say hi to Lucy.”  And Syd said “Hi Lucy,” and waved – and in a few minutes we were at a soda fountain with a Santa greeting visitors and egg creams.

 

We go about our days – and then BAM – a gated community.  Part of our life locked away – always present and always inaccessible.  No solace that day in driving by and seeing Lucy.  We were just trying to be the 3 of us…

 

It was nice to see you, Lucy, on a drive-by, but I would have rather had egg creams with you.  Be well, my love.  I miss you.

crib for sale

Well, I finally put Lucy’s crib up for consignment.  I tried a couple of times to list it on Craigslist…”new, never been used crib from JC Penny.”  Why do you have a crib that was never used?  Um…  Hard to advertise for a crib from a dead baby. Who wants one of those cribs?  It’s not like she ever slept in it.  It’s just a crib, right?  I’ve tried to lie.  “We  got two from family and couldn’t return it.”  “She never slept in it.”  “Changed our mind?”

We’ll see if some anonymous people like the crib at a resale.  It’s the holidays after all.  Everyone wants a bargain.  For some reason, we’re stuck believing that we need to recoup some money from the outlay or something.  Like $100 will make up for losing Lucy?  I keep thinking we should donate it, take the tax write-off, but we’re still feeling like we’re losing out on some opportunity to gain back what we’ve lost.

 

We took down Syd’s crib this weekend.  After the big girl bed was in her room there was no going back.  It should have been a more momentous occasion…my baby is no longer in a crib.  It is Syd’s milestone.

 

But we listed Lucy’s crib and it’s leaving our friend’s basement Thursday.  There’s only room in my heart’s baby book for that this week.

 

And Syd’s crib can be in the basement for a little while longer, right?

woven memories

 

The Coat

 

My mom made this coat for Sydney for this winter. It has a matching hat and while Syd didn’t really try it on, she felt the yarn and said, “ooh, nice!” The kid knows good quality when she sees it.

This coat was years in the making. When I was weeks pregnant with my first pregnancy, we vacationed in Union Pier, Michigan. Mom and I browsed in a knit shop and found some luscious yarn in a seemingly gender-neutral hue. We didn’t know at that time if I would have a boy or a girl – perhaps this would work well for either. But I miscarried what would be twins a few weeks later and so the yarn sat in her den, waiting.

When I got pregnant again, we brainstormed what to do with the yarn. Twin girls – they could wear matching or complimentary or different things. We had no pattern in mind when we bought it, but hoped for inspiration when the time was right. And Lucy died. And we had lots of unused yarn.

So – three babies later, Syd has a coat. It is a gorgeous piece of craft. They are completely her colors.  She loves bright and the blue matches her eyes and it just screams Sydney.  It is rich and beautiful and sophisticated and woven with past memories.  So much in such a little coat.

I am reminded of what my grandmother always said when I bought (well, usually when she bought me) a new coat. “Wear it in good health!.

My dearest Sydney – may you wear this in good health and may it keep you warm and wrapped in the memories of those that came before you.

Friday night

so…we’re sitting and watching Chuck from this week, are mildly entertained, and at the end this song comes on that brings Scot and I to our knees.  It’s stunning.  It’s haunting.  We’re not sure whether to be consoled or shaken to the core – or both.  In case you can’t get the code to work, The first line is “Lucy takes the long way home/meets me in a field of stone.”  Nuf said?  At any rate, I love the acoustic guitar and Jeremy Messersmith provides some lovely code so you can listen to the song here.

So the cosmic question…will this happen all the time?  Will we be blindsided at random moments of incapacitating grief?  Or should we revel in the beautiful, spontaneous music?

(***Note – the track you want is #8*** Thanks, Lys!)

t-shirts

It has been a while since I’ve written – I’ve had lots to say but no time to clarify my thoughts.  There’s been so much swirling in my brain at all times that I can’t even begin to sort out the mixed feelings of relief I feel with the Jewish High Holidays over.  The release I felt at the end of Yom Kippur brought me to my knees.  I had no idea how tightly I was wound.

However – inane internet surfing before a Friday afternoon meeting also made my stomach sink.  We gave Syd’s big sister a “big sister of twins” shirt – we bought it before the twins were born in a haze of optimism along with some adorable “baby a” and “baby b” onsies.  When Lucy died, we asked Catherine – do you still want the shirt?  Of course she answered.  She wore it constantly.

I cannot, unfortunately, bring myself to buy this “twin sister” shirt.  I wasn’t looking at a twin clothing store, or any specialized boutique, just a regular baby clothes store.  And there it was.  Something Syd is – but can’t be.  I find it completely unfair that Gymboree would stick this little shirt in with all the other cute fall clothes.  There should be a disclaimer or warning or something…

On to my meeting…

inscriptions

So, today is the first day of 5771.  Seems like a long time – a year in a far off land in a fairy tale.

As a child, we went to services for the Jewish New Year and sat in the kids section and avoided any active listening to the services that droned on and on.  As an adult, I respected the services and the idea of beginning anew each year, at the start of school, at a time that for some reason feels like an appropriate starting point for renewal and fresh starts.  (You don’t buy new school supplies in January, now do you?  What says new like a blank notebook and sharp pencils?)  But also, as an adult, life has a pesky way of getting complicated.  Divorces, difficult decisions, joblessness, infertility, miscarriage, and death all challenge the idea of new starts.  I sit in synagogue and think of fresh starts, of atoning for sins, for forgiveness, and for asking for redemption from my friends and family, and hope that the next year will be sweet – sweeter – and healthy – healthier – and happy – happier than the last.  I am also old enough to know now that this is not always the case.

The liturgy discusses the concept that God opens a Book of Life on Rosh Hashana and seals it at the close of Yom Kippur.  In these 10 days, She evaluates, ponders, listens, and ultimately inscribes – “Who shall live and who shall die.”  We collectively pray, “May you be inscribed in the Book of Life.”  Indeed.

And so, every year of recent memory, with each successive loss, I ask – sadly – not what hope will come but what catastrophe awaits.  What is IN that book anyway?  While waiting to conceive – would my child’s name be in that book?  After miscarriage – I wish I had known that my twins weren’t in the book in the first place.  After Lucy’s death – how could she be in both books – the Book of Life but yet not inscribed for another year?

So today – holding my 2-year old who is indeed completely full of life – so much life – such intensity of life – who clung to me for the beginning of the service through the music and the chanting and the communal prayer – that the Rabbi spoke of a prayer that challenged all of us to remember the power of God.  She recalled an encounter with a congregant who had recently lost a loved one and asked if her mother was one of those not inscribed last year.  The Rabbi said no.  Of course not.  We cannot be that literal.  Did she not have a good year?  Yes, the congregant said. She knew she had limited time and drunk in the life of every day.  Then, the Rabbi continued, she did have life.  If we live one day fully – honestly – with love – than we have fulfilled the inscription.

I yearned for this answer.  Lucy had lived – a long, intense, deeply meaningful day.  She had been inscribed in the Book of Life for August 10 – 11, 2008.  And she lived it to its fullest.

But it’s not enough for me, sadly.  Not enough today.  I should relish in the warm hugs of my daughter.  I should warm my heart with the love of my family.  But my husband needs a job and my stepdaughter needs us and Syd needs everything and I don’t know if simple wishes of “a sweet and healthy new year” are enough to heal the commonplace complications of my life.

For today – this first day of the new year – in this period of awe – it is what I have.  One day of inscription – one day – and then another.  One foot in front of another and another and perhaps all of these singular days we get through will indeed add up to a full, rich, and sweet year.

One can hope.

A clear and present snarl

Last time we went to Seson Park, Syd’s 10-year old sister was acting every part her age.  “It’ll be too hot.  I don’t want to go.  Why do we have to go?  I don’t like animals.  They smell.”  She trapsed through, complained, scowled, and looked at the animals for Syd and then went to the playground.  We all noticed the miniature horse named Lucy  but I – wrongly – assumed that it went in one ear and out the other.  And so today, when we nixed the idea of an excursion to Grant’s Farm (too much walking) and noticed Syd’s stuffy nose, I suggested a park.  Syd’s sister piped up, “Can we go to that park with the animals?  I really liked the playground.”  Well, sure.  It was a cool playground – better for the big kids than for Syd, but that’s ok.  So we went to the playground first – thought we were done, and then she said,  “Well, aren’t we going to see the animals?”  Well, sure.  So we went.  And she held Syd’s hand and walked into the barn and said, “Let’s say hi to Lucy.”

Guess she was with us that day…and we were all glad to see Lucy too.