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To Gillian on Her 10th Birthday

Posted on 10/20/2010 10:37:00 PM - by NG In: Gillian

You know what's worse than obsessing over and perseverating about your dead child's birthday every year?

Missing it entirely.

I don't really know how it happened. I knew it was coming up. I knew what today's date was. I've just been doing so much and moving so fast that I never put two and two together until The KingofHearts pointed it out to me late this afternoon. I'm pissed that my work life has taken over so much lately that I can barely shower on a daily basis much less remember to pause and mark a date that was so important in my own personal history. The only things that get my attention these days are the ones that rise up to stare me headlong in the face and beg for it. All I can say is it's a good thing the cats and the kids can vocalize, otherwise they'd probably starve. So while I worked out elaborate celebrations for The Dormouse and The Caterpillar, quiet little Gillian, I'm sorry to say, only got an afterthought this year. She deserves a hell of a lot more than that.

For a long time, and I mean years here, a day didn't go by without a thought, a mention, some kind of fleeting reference to the short time we had together. Eventually, it got... well, it never got easier... it just got easier to live with.

Ten years seems simultaneously like too much time and not enough has passed. A decade. A tenth of a century. It's so big and so small at the same time.

What would she be doing now at ten? Driving us crazy with a ridiculous obsession for Justin Beiber or some other badly-coiffed TigerBeat star? Would she be practicing inappropriate cheer leading moves alongside The Dormouse in the living room? Or would she have moved on from there, trying to con us into buying her a cell phone? I'm sure whatever it would be, I'd find no shortage of words to use to complain about it. All I know is I'd really like to be able complain about whatever that might have been right now.

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Twins are Twice as Dead

Posted on 10/12/2006 03:52:00 AM - by NG

In my ebbing and flowing attempts to join the human race and bond with other women, I attended a baby shower I was invited to the other day. Heavens, is there anything worse in the world than a baby shower? We had one pre-Dormouse, but I stipulated to Monica, who hosted it, my rules ahead of time:

KingofHearts is somewhat involved in this process too so he must be included in party plans.
Absolutely no all-women invite lists.
In order to cut down on the constant barrage of pregnancy horror stories women feel the need to tell at every shower, children and families must be invited too - that way women in attendance who would be likely to tell such stories will instead be busy chasing their children around and have no time to describe their 136-stitch episiotomy.
There will be no setting chairs in a big circle and staring at each other blankly.
I do not want to make people feel like they need to bring presents.
No baby games... None. No "Identifying the Stage of Labor Concentration", no "How Many Baby Animals Can You Name Speed Round". End of story.
I absolutely, categorically, refuse to wear a hat made of wrapping paper and bows.
I also requested "no pink"... which as you can see from the pictures, Monica interpreted as "let's drive NG crazy and make everything pink instead, that'll be funny".

We settled on a big barbecue at a local park. Monica rented the parks and rec. building and did an amazing job of decorating, cooking, hosting, organizing, and any other ing you can think of. No wonder she's a meeting planner. There was plenty of room for kids (both big and small) to play and KingofHearts got to stand near fire and cook hamburgers outside, thereby making all the males in attendance who were concerned about losing points on the Man Scale by simply being AT a baby shower feel more comfortable. There was something for everyone. People we invited from church who are still around talk about how it was the best shower they'd ever been to.

The shower I went to last weekend was all the things I hate. It was for a first time mom who was expecting twins and as I walked in, the first thing I noticed was a ring of empty chairs in the living room, just waiting to be filled by blank stares. Fully half of those in attendance were also pregnant themselves. As the preggos congregated around the snack table, I leaned over to one of the only other non-pregnant women and said, "Aren't you concerned about how many hormones are flowing in this room right now? I am."

"Heh, heh, heh." *polite, unenthusiastic laughter*

So I should have known right away things weren't going to get any better.

I know that having had my own medical horror stories with both of my pregnancies, I'm a little more sensitive to the things that could go wrong in pregnancy and therefore a little more concerned about making comments that might scare especially someone who's a first time mom. I still have a visceral reaction every time I think of the time a doctor told us, after looking at the Dormouse via sonogram, that she appeared to have "voids in her brain" and was not developing normally. After our first experience with our daughter Gillian, who died from a chromosome abnormality, this was not just a passing observation and I was a basket case for a week until a different doctor assured me, "The equipment we're using now is so much more sensitive than it was even three years ago. We are seeing things that look like abnormalities now, but that turn out to be normal development - we just never had equipment good enough to notice it before." Which, frankly, only made me feel a little bit better until Dormouse was born with no neurological disorders.

I've also endured scores of women's judgments about my need to have a c-section in all my future pregnancies after the complications we had with Gillian. A member of my own family berated me one day when I was pregnant with Dormouse for "taking the easy way out" and not making every effort to do a VBAC ('vaginal birth after caesarian' for those of you who don't care to be immersed in the acronym-talk of the Pregnant). As if my Doctor's statement that my "uterus could tear" and I "could bleed to death in regular childbirth" was really more of a suggestion than an order.

I've noticed that most women think they are simply owed a perfect pregnancy and a perfect child and fail to treat birth as the miracle it is. There's so much that CAN go wrong that to me, every normal birth is more of an anomaly than an abnormal one.

So you can understand why, when Twin Lady announced that her doctor had told her she had to schedule a c-section because the babies are both so big and the crowd all tsk-tsked their disappointment and sympathy longer than necessary, I felt the need to stand up for her. Having a c-section is NOT the worst thing that could ever happen in a pregnancy. The most important thing is that it's the best thing for the mother and the baby and call me stupid but if that improves the chance that the baby will be okay, who are we to judge? So I say out loud, "Yeah... but that's good too... I mean, kudos, to all you who did the natural childbirth thing, but I really liked the idea of knowing when to expect it. I wrote the date down on my calendar and scheduled a staff meeting the day before. It was awesome."

That's funny, right?

*crickets, chirp chirp*
*nervous laughter*

I really need to learn to keep my mouth shut.

Things really came to a head when the co-organizer brought out her 'baby games'. The first one was Stages of Labor Concentration (ugh). The second one started out well enough... she had printed pictures of famous celebrities off the internet and posted their pictures on a board. We were to write down for each whether we thought that person was a twin or not. When I saw Liberace and Elvis Presley up there, I raised an eyebrow but assumed it was an oversight. No, no... no... as it turned out, of the 20 celebrities on the board, about three quarters of them were twins. And of those three quarters, more than half of the twin siblings had died in childbirth. So one by one, we go through the list and Party Game Lady announces one after another, "Yes, Ed Sullivan was a twin... his twin was stillborn." "Liberace's brother George died in infancy after being born very small." etc. etc.

Normally I'd be willing to try and let this go because of my belief that aside from Hydrogen, Stupidity is the universe's most common element... But c'mon! Who really thinks THAT is appropriate at a party for a woman who was expecting twins? And the saddest part? Other than Twin Lady, whose eyes got another size bigger each time Party Game Lady announced another dead sibling with a giant smile on her face, I seemed to be the only one who noticed. I hope that Twin Lady was made more comfortable by all the others' confidence, but I'm not even pregnant and I was not.

I suffered through the game, but could not stand it anymore after that and left early, muttering something about another commitment as I made a mad dash for the door, leaving poor Twin Lady there to fend for herself among all the others... sucker! I think next time I'm invited to a shower, I'll just send a gift.

Tags: Twins

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To Gillian on Her 8th Birthday

Posted on 10/20/2008 06:05:00 AM - by NG

Dear Gillian -

Each year around the third week of October, I find myself getting really irritable for no apparent reason. I yell at my family for stuff that really doesn't matter in the grand scheme of things, people in general just piss me off (well, more than they do normally), and I start considering self-medication as a form of protection for those around me because I just can't seem to stop. Then one day I'll look up at the calendar like I did this morning and suddenly realize that today's your birthday. I don't know if the two things are really related, but they sure seem to happen together a lot. Or maybe I'm just a bitch the rest of the time too and I only notice it around now.

Earlier this year, I met someone via the Internet who had just found out that the baby she was carrying had tripliody. A friend thought I might be able to help her through this and put us in contact. We exchanged long emails and information through updates and successes as well as the inevitable outcome. I think perhaps she handled the whole thing better than I did, was much more adult about her feelings, and probably cried why me a whole lot less than I did. (A close friend who struggled with cancer in his youth once told me that he determined "why me?" to be the most dangerous question one can ever ask one's self. He said that the answer was always, "why not?" And yet I'm still prone to hand wringing and anger at God when things don't go my way. I wish I wasn't so quick jump on that bandwagon. It's trite and overdone.) I'm not sure how much of a sounding board I was to her or whether I was of any use, but what really happened through that experience was she helped me. It was nice to be able to pull that out of the little protective case I keep it in and talk about it. I vacillate between thinking that I keep all those feelings to myself a little too much - I should talk more about it to more people - and the same old me-type feelings: these are my memories, no one else's... other people aren't entitled to them unless I decide. And so I jealously guard when and with whom I talk about it. It's probably not so healthy, I admit, but it's how I roll. I'm trying to be smarter about that though.

When discussing grief at some women's church event this year, I remember someone announcing to the group that feelings of loss lessen after time. To which I had to respond, "No, you are wrong. Those feelings never go away. They will always be with you, but they do eventually get easier to live with." It was a big step forward for me... bringing up our past in a group of women from this ward. Maybe it shows that I am growing up a bit and letting go of some of my hurt over how we were treated back then.

When people ask me how many children I have, it's always a hard question to answer. Because what they really mean is I see you are a bit old to have a small baby; how many other children do you have living with you at home right now because I'm wondering how you are coping and whether you are just one of those crazies who thinks when the Bible says, "multiply and replenish the earth" it meant you personally? I hate this question because it's small talk and it's supposed to be easy to answer and it's not easy for me. Depending on the situation, I'm either more or less technical about it: if it's just someone in the elevator, I'll often say two and get off on my floor. Sometimes I'll answer two at home with me and one stepson who lives with his mother if I might talk to the person again but they aren't anything more than an brief acquaintance. It's just the easiest way to get the information out when people aren't really asking to know, but just out of politeness and/or small talk. But the truth is I do and will always consider you a part of our family and I have four kids - even if they aren't all living with me right now.

For years, I've used my friend's kid as my litmus test to see where you would be if you'd stuck around. She was born in the same year as you and it's been both painful and gratifying to have a little reminder of what you'd be doing, how you'd be acting, the successes and defeats you'd encounter. This year we were invited to her baptism. It caught me by surprise, I'll admit. My first thought was Good heavens, it's not possible that it's been eight years and then, Not only is it possible, but that's how long it's been, stupid. It's hard for me to believe that that much time has elapsed when the memories of you are still so real and needle sharp. There are definitely things I'm glad you will never experience: mean kids at school, trouble with homework, Internet predators... but oh how I would just love the chance to sit back and watch you at your baptism. Who would you be now? Would you be a budding musician/therapist like I was at eight years old? Would you be a hard scientist/I think I'm going to write a novel today type like your daddy? Would you become your own brand of person entirely just to remind us that there's always something we haven't prepared for or thought through? These are things I can't wait for you to tell me one day.

We've never kept any information about you from your sisters. While The Caterpillar isn't old enough to understand yet, we've been pretty up front with The Dormouse about you and we consider you a current part of the family. When The Dormouse was younger, she used to talk about you and say things like, "We took my baby sister to the hospital. I remember, she was very tiny." I sometimes pressed to see if she'd said those things because they were things we'd told her. But we only ever used the most minimal terms to talk to her about what happened to you and I don't remember ever telling her about the hospital and how you were born. I don't really know what's that supposed to mean. Was she somehow more connected to you? Or do I just want to believe that?

Now that The Dormouse is older she doesn't claim to remember you like she used to do. But she does consider you a part of her family and you show up in drawings, family tree projects she's asked to do in school and listings of names under the title "My family." It's gratifying to see that.

Can you miss someone with whom you spent so little time? I do. I miss you Dear One. I hope one day I'll be able to put my arms around you and hold you close to me. I hope one day you'll tell me about your day and we'll laugh about silly things and just generally all be together. I can't wait for that part.

Love,

Momma

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To Gillian on Her 19th Birthday

Posted on 10/20/2019 08:37:00 PM - by NG

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To Gillian on her 12th Birthday

Posted on 10/20/2012 10:30:00 AM - by NG In: Gillian

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To Gillian on Her 9th Birthday

Posted on 10/20/2009 03:36:00 PM - by NG

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To Gillian on Her 11th Birthday

Posted on 10/20/2011 07:14:00 AM - by NG In: Gillian

Becca: Does it ever go away?

Nat: No, I don't think it does. Not for me, it hasn't - has gone on for eleven years. But it changes though.

Becca: How?

Nat: I don't know... the weight of it, I guess. At some point, it becomes bearable. It turns into something that you can crawl out from under and... carry around like a brick in your pocket. And you... you even forget it, for a while. But then you reach in for whatever reason and - there it is. Oh right... that. Which could be awful - not all the time. It's kinda... [deep breath] not that you like it exactly, but - it's what you've got instead of your son. So, you carry it around. And uh... it doesn't go away. Which is...

Becca: Which is what?

Nat: Fine... actually.

Dianne Weist in Rabbit Hole

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To Gillian on her 20th Birthday

Posted on 10/20/2020 11:34:00 AM - by NG

In a way, you’re the lucky one. You're not around to see this.

The world – or at least our little piece of it – has devolved into an ongoing missive of anger and insults thrown back and forth. Even those who are fighting for the rights of others are unable to have even the smallest of civil discourse about how to make it better. An upcoming election will basically be a major cog in the while of whether this country descends into fascism and benefits for only the most wealthy among us or whether government truly is of the people, for the people. It’s the most hotly-debated and important one in my lifetime and I still don’t know how it will turn out. A global pandemic has shut down much of our normal every day activities, your sisters are attending virtual school, I work from home 99% of the time, your father works outside the home and I worry about that every day, we don’t go out much. Your sister tested positive for the virus and then we quarantined - even more than usual – and didn’t see or come into contact with another human in real life for a month. (So far she, and all the rest of us, are fine, by the way.)

I'm focusing on the fact that we are all together. We have a modest home, but one that I really enjoy just physically being in. We have a menagerie of animals that help us enjoy our time here. And maybe most importantly, I love my family and don't mind spending this much time with them. It's sometimes stressful, but it's also made us closer. And it's also hard to be positive some days.

And yet... I still have hope. In spite of everything I still believe that people are really good at heart. I simply can’t build up my hopes on a foundation consisting of confusion, misery, and death. I see the world gradually being turned into a wilderness, I hear the ever approaching thunder, which will destroy us too, I can feel the sufferings of millions and yet, if I look up into the heavens, I think that it will all come right, that this cruelty too will end, and that peace and tranquility will return again.

If it’s good enough for Anne Frank, I guess it’s good enough for me.

I miss you.

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To Gillian on Her 13th Birthday

Posted on 10/20/2013 10:47:00 PM - by NG In: Gillian

You would be thirteen today. I almost let this one go by with no letter, not for lack of trying. I'm finding it harder and harder to put my feelings into words when I pass by this day. They're not any less, those feelings, just more complicated and I don't quite know what to do with that.

The other day, someone "outed" me on Facebook as a member of the PAIL (Pregnancy and Infant Loss) club. It's a club you never applied to join and never asked to be a part of. I have to admit, I was a little bit taken aback. Like I told your Dad, I'm not upset, nor do I try to hide it. It's true. It is. But it was jarring to me because a) I didn't know this person knew that much about me and b) it's mine to "out." I've always been so fiercely protective of you and your memory. I don't want to publicize it by vying for attention on Facebook.

So instead I write you a letter on my blog.

Yes, I know how that sounds.

At least I get to be the one who decides to write it.

Thirteen years ago, we attended some support groups and I remember how many, many people told me it would get easier. But as time has gone by, I have to say that they were wrong. It has not necessarily become easier. The pain is still the same. The hole is still there. It's just easier to live with now. It's become a part of my story, that brick in my pocket. The hardest part now is that it's so much a part of my psyche that sometimes I forget to remember the day until it's already here. The hardest part is that I don't think about it every day. And then something reminds me. Someone says something. "Oh right... that." And I feel a strange mixture of calm and guilt because I haven't remembered until now. And that's both good and bad, you know? Because I've lived through it. I - we - are still here and stronger. But maybe I haven't made you as big a part of my life as you deserve. And while my head knows that's not completely a bad thing, a small piece of my heart feels... forgotten.

This would be the year you'd become a teenager. I joke a lot about dreading the day your sisters become teenagers and would probably have done no different with you, but secretly, I would love it. It's such an amazing time of life and you wake up to so many things. I'd love to be there through it with you. To see you decide who you're going to be.

I wish you could know your sisters. They are such incredible individuals. Brilliant and funny.   They bicker and argue all day long, but then every once in awhile, I catch them being sweet to each other and it makes all the other stuff worth it. This week they were off school and they dubbed the whole day "Girls' Camp." They made an itinerary together of all the activities they'd accomplish together. Number 9 was simply, "Goof off." If you were here, would you be the ringleader of Girls' Camp? Would you be as sick of them both as your older sister gets of her younger sister and just need a break?

I don't know how long I'll keep writing these letters. Every year, I think maybe I don't need these anymore and then it turns out I think perhaps I'll do just one more. But one thing I do know: I'll never stop thinking of writing them. I'll always find that brick in my pocket occasionally when I reach in and try to make sense of it. I'll always feel like maybe there's one last thing to say and one last milestone I'm missing. And I'll always love you.

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To Gillian on Her 17th Birthday

Posted on 10/20/2017 04:57:00 PM - by NG In: Gillian

When I think of death, and of late the idea has come with alarming frequency, I seem at peace with the idea that a day will dawn when I will no longer be among those living in this valley of strange humors. I can accept the idea of my own demise, but I am unable to accept the death of anyone else. I find it impossible to let a friend or relative go into that country of no return. Disbelief becomes my close companion, and anger follows in its wake. I answer the heroic question 'Death, where is thy sting? ' with ' it is here in my heart and mind and memories.'

- Maya Angelou

Angel of Grief is an 1894 sculpture by William Wetmore Story which serves as the grave stone of the artist and his wife at the Protestant Cemetery, Rome

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To Gillian on her 6th Birthday

Posted on 10/20/2006 11:00:00 AM - by NG

Ordinarily, I don't talk about her that much in public. Not because it's too painful or too uncomfortable, but because it makes others uncomfortable. It's not that they don't sympathize; they just don't know what to say and I get that. Most days, it's just easier to let people off the hook. But there's another reason too. She's mine. Stupid as it sounds, I feel I don't want to sully her memory by letting too many people put their grubby hands on it, if that makes any sense. Only people closest to me and those who've been through it with us really know any of the details and even then most of them probably don't know everything we went through. Not because it's secret, but because it's sacred... to me at least.

But this anniversary has been harder than the last few and I know that much of my bitchiness over the past month or so is because this time of year is especially full of contradictions. Extreme sadness around not getting to spend the time we wanted with her and extreme happiness when the Dormouse was born about the same time three years later. (In fact, if we hadn't had to schedule Dormouse early for my own medical reasons, it's possible they could have shared a birthday. My technical due date with Dormouse was around the 23rd of October.) It's hard to really be happy or really be sad about either event. The past few weeks, I've just wanted to express... to talk it all out, write it all down, just to get it out, but the words haven't come to me. So I feel like for whatever reason, the relative anonymity of the internet seems safe.

She would be six years old today. She would be starting school. I see the children waiting for the bus each morning and I can't help but think that she could be there with them, playing tag around the street signs and talking about the latest fad toy everyone has to have. I would have started her in some sort of music lesson by now and be arguing with her Dad about when it was appropriate to study martial arts. She'd have friends of her own, opinions of her own and would be learning so much. I think about the person she could have become... and the person that she probably is now.

I want her to know that I remember her, that I think about her all the time and while the pain of losing her has gotten easier to live with, especially since her sister came around, it has never lessened or gone away like people promised me back then. And I'm glad, really. It means I haven't forgotten her. She did so much for us in the short time she was with us; I can't help but think sometimes that that was really her purpose here. I'm so grateful that I got to be her mother if only for a little while. And despite all the Families Can Be Together Forever mush that's spewed around all the time... I really believe it. I believe that we'll be together again one day and I'll get to hold her and love her in the way that I always wanted.

I can't wait for that.

Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Day - October 15th.

Each year, approximately a million pregnancies in the United States end in miscarriage, stillbirth, or the death of the newborn child. National observance of Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Month, 1988, offers us the opportunity to increase our understanding of the great tragedy involved in the deaths of unborn and newborn babies. It also enables us to consider how, as individuals and communities, we can meet the needs of bereaved parents and family members and work to prevent causes of these problems.

~Ronald Reagan 1988

Tags: Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Day

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To Gillian on her 18th Birthday

Posted on 10/21/2018 09:09:00 PM - by NG In: Gillian

And then with one thing or another, 18 years went by.

Have you ever been to the batting cages when the pitching machine was set just a little too fast for your abilities but only just a little? You could catch a piece of most of the balls but never have a chance to breath in between or reset yourself to hit a ball the proper way, so mostly you're just madly swatting them all away from your head to avoid a head injury.

Yeah, that's how life feels right now and for the past couple of years.

There is so much going on to tell you. So much in the world. In our home. In my thoughts. And I just keep swatting the pitches away from my head, hoping that one day, some day, I'll have a moment to do it right. And the truth is I don't see that moment coming any time soon because as soon as one ball is out of my periphery, three more are coming at my face. I long for moments to sit and ponder. To meditate. Just to figure stuff out. But they don't come and I just keep swinging, hoping I'm hitting at least some of those parenting fast balls right and fearing that I'm missing them all.

This year, you would be able to vote. Not that there's a lot to be proud of being part of our country's political system these days. I would be telling you what I've already told your sisters: I'm sorry. Sorry to hand this broken machine over to you and sorry that we didn't take care of it better. We tried. Lord, how we tried. And for so many years, it felt like we were actually making progress. But now? Well, let's just say it is extremely difficult to feel hopeful. I don't know how it got so out of control so fast. It's not like I'm giving up, and I would be telling you what I keep telling myself, that I still believe there is more good in the world than bad, but oh how the bad seems to be the only one with the megaphone and the keys to the car right now. It's damned disappointing, honestly. I have faith that your generation can do amazing things and will be better caretakers of our rights and our safety than ours turned out to be.

Your sisters are amazing. Not always easy to parent, but I imagine few strong willed, independent people were. You'd be proud of them, but if their current relationship is any indication, you'd never admit it. They are both capable, brilliant, hilarious, talented humans with endless potential. Oh, they make me crazy, but even more so, I like them each an awful lot. I love talking to them and laughing with them, and hearing their takes on things and I'm so proud of the people they are turning out to be, even if, or maybe especially because, it's not who I expected or would have designed had I had the chance.

Sometimes I wonder about what parenting them would have been like had you been here to go through it with me first. I sometimes imagine that you'd have all kinds of sage wisdom to pass down and then every conversation I have with them would be easier because of it. You would have given me the magic words to say to make everything better for them, and totally have been on my side every time one of them and I have a disagreement, which is, let's face it, all fantasy, because life and people do not work that way, but there are just some days that are so hard and I want a mage on my side to wave a magic wand and make everything right. That's what people who are gone get to do when they die, become saints or superheroes.

These last couple of years have been more about loss than anything else. I lost a good friend and coworker this year. In fact, I just got back from his funeral today. It's why I didn't manage to post this yesterday. He was a good man that I worked with for over 20 years and never for a moment didn't love and admire him. I was not alone. I think as his family goes on without him, his legend will grow as well and maybe he'll become more wise and more kind in their memory. I think this tendency to aggrandize people after they die is just our way of trying to keep our good memories with us.

Grief is the last act of love we can give to those we loved for when there is deep grief, there was deep love.

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To Gillian on Her 14th Birthday

Posted on 10/20/2014 04:00:00 PM - by NG In: Gillian

Fourteen years.

Life goes on and with one thing or another, fourteen years have passed.

Is that even possible?

Your father and I have been married seventeen years. In other words, if our relationship was a baby, that baby would be able to vote in federal and state elections next year. That hardly seems to be possible either so I guess anything is up for discussion.

Some people say that losing a child makes you stronger. It makes you appreciate your blessings more. You don't take life and other family members for granted. As I look around my life today, I wonder, Is that true?

I don't know.

In some ways, it's as clear and sharp in my mind as Japanese steel. If I think on it too long, it will cut me.

In other ways, I have to work to remember the date - on the date - instead of absentmindedly letting it pass by and noticing later because I've become so caught up in work and a thousand other things that need to be done. I have to remind myself that life is precious and wonderful and each one of these children that are running around in my living room, driving me nuts with their incessant chattering and making noise under their breath and disgusting habits at the dinner table, they are miracles which should be treated as such. Even now, one of them is currently moping in the other room after a lost colored pencil and I really should get up and cheerfully help her find it, but I just want a minute or two to finish this thought. I have to remind myself to be grateful. The truth is, I don't always know if you've made me a better person. I wish I could state the affirmative with more confidence than that. Sometimes I think I have a different perspective on the world and I'm maybe more compassionate because of what you've taught me, but sometimes I'm not entirely certain.

I think mostly people endure the pain of loss because they have no other choice. And so people who don't understand that Loss look at them from outside of It and say, "Wow, he is so strong," and "I could never handle that like she has," but the reality is you don't get to choose and you don't know how you'd handle it unless you're handling it already. It just happens and life goes marching merrily on and you don't get to say "Stop," or "I don't want to do this," or "Uncle." It just is. Yes, I know people can choose how they face a situation but the reality is life continues whether or not you want it to. And so do we, with a few drastic exceptions.

I guess the fact that I'm not one of those drastic exceptions says something. I'm not an alcoholic or a drug addict and that might say something small about me. The fact that your father and I are still together... we didn't drive each other away and are relatively happy after all this time makes us part of a small percentage. The fact that we still retain some personal faith and spirituality might shrink that percentage even more. But it also might just speak to the fact that we're just poor and too lazy to make any real changes or examine our lives too closely.

I know I've posted this before, but I've never come across a more appropriate description than this:

Becca: Does it ever go away?

Nat: No, I don't think it does. Not for me, it hasn't - has gone on for eleven years. But it changes though.

Becca: How?

Nat: I don't know... the weight of it, I guess. At some point, it becomes bearable. It turns into something that you can crawl out from under and... carry around like a brick in your pocket. And you... you even forget it, for a while. But then you reach in for whatever reason and - there it is. Oh right... that. Which could be awful - not all the time. It's kinda... [deep breath] not that you like it exactly, but - it's what you've got instead of your son. So, you carry it around. And uh... it doesn't go away. Which is...

Becca: Which is what?

Nat: Fine... actually.

Dianne Weist in Rabbit Hole

It's still as true for me today as it was when I saw that movie five years ago.

Loss becomes something you just carry around as one of those pieces of yourself, stored by accident in the dark recesses of the couch. Something that others only see when they're close enough friends to look under the cushions one day while they're helping you move. It's always there, informing the comfort factor of the couch in some small way, but only a few really know about it. It's what you have instead of your child. Which is... fine... actually.

1 cents added |

To Gillian on Her 15th Birthday

Posted on 10/21/2015 11:23:00 AM - by NG In: Gillian

Note: I wrote this several days ago but I'm a day late in posting because I forgot to hit publish on the post and then I didn't look back into the blog yesterday. Testament to how completely nuts I have been this year. As early as last month, I planned on working at home yesterday to enjoy a little bit of solitude, but then I didn't really even spend that much time reflecting. So today's letter comes the day after her 15th birthday. It's not the first time I've let the moment almost pass me by but I think this year I'd probably gotten it out of my system a little early and then got caught up in the Have-To-Dos of every day with a job and a family. Just goes to show you, you can't schedule feelings.

You know how life happens while you're not really paying attention? This year, we bought and moved into a new house. Then we still had the old house and had to sell it, but we put a whole lot of time and effort into renovating the old house first and then Stuff and Things happened and we couldn't sell the old house to the first couple of people who wanted to buy the old house and almost couldn't sell the old house to the third buyer because the county is a Big Dumb Stupidhead so we carried two mortgages for about half the year. Oh and by the way, we moved into the new house and then had a whole lot of unplanned renovation projects and money to be put into that and unplanned travel. It sucked. Because Reasons!

I couldn't wait to get rid of the old ~~albatross around my neck~~... er... I mean... house.

When the sale finally did go through, we breathed a sigh of relief and didn't even care that the new owners almost immediately cut down the entire flower bed full of day lilies we spent fifteen years cultivating and coaxing to grow in that spot. Not that they weren't allowed to do it; I just would have dug up more bulbs to take with me if I'd known. Good luck getting anything else to grow there, New House People; it won't happen.

I believe we celebrated the house sale with pizza and a "good riddance" and let the moment go by because I'm sure some kid had a homework assignment or a music lesson or whatever.. other things were happening at the same time.

Then one day, earlier this month, I was a bit early for a rehearsal and happened to drive by the cemetery so I stopped in to see her, which I sometimes do when the moment allows. There was a big sign near the gate that said, "If you have family or loved ones buried here, please contact the main office."

My heart fell into my stomach because... well.. I don't know why. Not sure what the worst could actually have been in this situation but my brain went there anyway. Everything else has gone horribly this year, why not this too? I stopped into the office with that sense of impending dread, but it was after hours and they were closed. I called and left a trepidatious message asking what it was about and to please call me back.

They called back the next day and it turned out to be nothing, really. The cemetery wasn't being razed to make way for a high rise. There was no long outstanding bill that needed to be paid. The office was just updating their records and wanted to know if we were still at the same address. I said, no, actually we had just recently moved and I gave them our new address. They took it, I thanked them, and that was that. Not even a little crisis, which was a pleasant surprise.

Then I hung up the phone and realized for the first time that that is not my house any more.

The kitchen door I was standing in when I learned I was pregnant with her is something I will probably never stand in again.

That wall I stared at for weeks on end when I was ordered to bed rest - only on my left side, I'll probably never see again.

All those moments when I sat on the floor and sang to her and talked to her and begged her to grow so we could get to meet her are all contained within those walls and those walls don't belong to me anymore. My last physical connection to her is kind of.. well, gone.

I totally understand why our culture buries its dead in cemeteries. They give you a physical location - a connection to a place and time that life often doesn't allow to remain because life marches merrily, mercilessly on. It's a place to direct your energies.

I knew I was being kind of literal and dumb about it, but I hung up the phone, quietly closed my office door and cried for the first time in a long time. Maybe it's just the stress of this year. Maybe it just blindsided me. But this was a tough pill to swallow and it took me a couple of days to feel right again.

I know it's been well long enough for life to feel right without her and I do, mostly. But every once in awhile, I look around. I see my beautiful, amazing girls, growing and being pains in the ass and brilliant, being horrible to each other sometimes but also kind and wonderful others. I see this incredible man being their father every day. I'm so grateful for the family I have now and would never regret any of it. Everything we went through has contributed to who and where we are now and she is so much a part of that. Sometimes I think maybe that's why she came and what her purpose was here.

But then sometimes I look around and I see a hole in it all. Someone is missing.

It sneaks up on you, this grief stuff.

1 cents added |

To Gillian on Her 16th Birthday

Posted on 10/20/2016 12:03:00 PM - by NG In: Gillian

I've been taking a break from this blog for a number of reasons. I'm not saying I'm not writing anymore; I'm not promising more regular posts from here on out because both of those things seem cliche to me. It's just that these days, I feel torn in a hundred different ways constantly, and when I do have a moment with my thoughts (which is not often), I honestly don't feel like I have anything new to say. Which might either mean writers' block, or depression, or maybe that I just don't have anything new to say. Anyway, I refuse to force myself to post when I'm not feeling it and I also refuse to admit that this blog has run its course. When I need it, it's there and that's good enough for me for now.

Fall is my favorite season of the year, it's cool and beautiful and welcome respite from the heat of summer. I didn't get to experience fall much because during so much of my childhood I lived in a desert. I always longed for the leaves changing colors and all the other things that come with it. When I was in second grade, my teacher held a drawing contest each month and I drew an old timey red school house with a bell tower and trees around it full of leaves of all different colors which were falling to the ground in mounds. I was contest winner for the month of October. We'd just moved from Colorado, where you see such things, to Arizona where you don't, and many of my peers couldn't wrap their heads around my picture but instead thought it was some sort of fantasy drawing. They simply didn't have a frame of reference for such things. It wasn't very many years there before I was just like them. It's one of the reasons I don't really have a desire to live in a desert again. Seasons are just too amazing.

But Fall also happens to contain maybe the worst of the year for me as well and I often don't really realize it or know why until it blindsides me that there's an anniversary that I dread both remembering (and dread not remembering). September comes and school starts and holidays get closer together and we hit the whirlwind of all our family's birthdays in a four-month period and work gets really busy for me..... and I just begin bouncing down that road of milestones until the end of the year, with no recourse but to simply submit to gravity and let everything shake out where it happens to land - I just have some vague hope that I'll be able to stand without broken bones when it's all over.

There's a new network television show this season and I happened to catch the pilot a couple of weeks back. It's lovely and excellently done so far and I'm a fan. Not the least of the reasons is this scene toward the end of the pilot where a young couple is expecting triplets and one of the three babies dies during delivery. I didn't know this was coming; hadn't heard anything about this show before watching it and I don't really even know how it ended up on my DVR. But there it was. I sat in my basement in the dark at five in the morning - because that's the only time I can watch television and not be interrupted - and this scene happened and I dissolved into great, blubbering tears, shaken with the raw honesty and relevance for me of this scene.

Doctor: "Rebecca's vitals are good. She's going to be asleep for a little while but she's doing fine. We're monitoring her closely. We lost the third baby, Jack. I'm very sorry. The second baby is a girl - very strong. The third baby was a little boy but the umbilical cord was cutting off his oxygen and he was stillborn. Nothing anybody could have done."

Jack: "I'm sorry. I'm not processing anything. My wife...?"

Doctor: "Is fine. And she'll be awake pretty soon. You have two beautiful healthy children, Jack - a boy and a girl... but we did lose the third child. "

Jack: "I need to be with my wife."

Doctor: "You will be. She needs to sleep now but... just... sit down. But soon. Just sit down. Sit. ... Okay if I keep you company a second?"

Jack: "Yeah."

Doctor: "Okay if I try and say something meaningful?"

Jack: "Yeah."

Doctor: "I lost my wife last year to cancer. That's the reason I still work so much at my age... just... trying to pass the time. We were married 53 years. 5 children. 11 grandkids. But we lost our very first child during the delivery. That's the reason I went into this field, truth be told. I have spent five decades delivering babies - more babies than I can count... but there is not a single day that goes by that I don't think of the child I lost. And I'm an old man now. I like to think that because of the child that I lost, because of the path that he sent me on, that I have saved countless other babies. I like to think that maybe one day you'll be an old man like me talking a younger man's ear off, explaining to him how you took the sourest lemon that life has to offer and turned it into something resembling lemonade. If you can do that, then you will still be taking 3 babies home from this hospital... just... maybe not the way you planned. I don't know if that was meaningful or senile but I thought it oughta be said. Your wife will still be asleep for a little while. Go see your babies... they're excited to meet their Father. I think maybe they got a good one."

- Milo Ventimiglia and Gerald McRaney, This Is Us

It's been sixteen years.

I hope I can say that there's been something resembling lemonade to come from this sour lemon for me. I have two other beautiful girls who are amazing in so many ways, I can't list them all here. I have a perspective and an appreciation for the sanctity and preciousness of life that only comes from understanding loss in a very personal way. I have been able to counsel others through some of their dark times with an empathy that I wouldn't have gained through any other experience. Somehow, her father and I have managed to use this to grow closer rather than farther apart, which is so often the case. There are a myriad of wonderful things in my life now because she came to us and changed us before she left. I wouldn't change any of that if I could, I don't think.

But I'd be tempted.

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