And let this be the last paragraph of the last post, which was left out as I laid down my head, exhausted and sad, upon my keyboard:

I realized then, that none of this would happen, because this was what I was to let go: a daughter, a child, my future. It was going up in a sudden puff of smoke, and I was to be devastated for a long, long time from it. It would take months to plow through the ashes to find some semblance of normal.

I never could have planned or guessed how truly sad I would be until I met her.

The In-Between

I was reminded of this, in reading my new book of choice (see below).

There was this strange moment in my history in which Charlotte disappeared altogether, and this was the period of time between the moment the doctor looked into my eyes and said, "I'm afraid so" (this in answer to my unbelieving query... my baby is dead?) and the moment when the midwife wiggled out her real-baby shoulders. It was a dissociation of sorts, my only-human brain's incapacity to deal with the sudden change of plans.

My first thoughts were things like... But the car seat! We have a car seat in our car. What will we do with it? And The nursery? The crib was so difficult to set up, will we really have to take it down? Lost between the lines of the flatlined heartbeat were the child still in my womb, the dream that had just minutes ago been snatched from beneath my feet. It was as if my baby were simply gone from my life, leaving not a trace behind.

As my thoughts moved to the family and friends I would have to tell, my heart did begin to break, because I felt guilty. They would not be getting their baby after all. Imagine how disappointed they would be! To have expected this baby for so long, and now I would leave them with nothing. I hastened to tell the news to a select few; I knew that if I waited too long to say the words they would stick in my throat and never come out. Thankfully, they offered to call everyone I knew, and the word spread like a snowball going down a fast winter's hill: Carol's baby died. It hasn't been born yet. They don't know why.

Later, in the delivery room, I schemed how we would piece together a life. We'd have to put together dinner parties, because surely our friends would fear us now, this would be the only way to lure them back into our childless life, the only way to re-establish ourselves in the world of the couple without children. Perhaps this summer we would travel, and I imagined visiting the south of France again, perhaps staying in the tiny village we had visited when we were younger, biking and soaking up warm sunshine and laughing at the tourists to take our mind off the things we didn't want to think about. There were places we hadn't visited yet, perhaps we should grab at this opportunity of freedom and just go.

My family members came, saw me, and returned to the solarium to wait for the baby to come. When they came in, they cried, but I did not. I looked round, and healthy, and beautifully pregnant. They knew the baby was dead. I did not know there was a baby anymore. It was too much to take in.

The labor and even into the pushing, right up to the final stages, were surreal. I was an actress, I was practicing the art of childbirth. I was experiencing a fruitless birth, walking the motions of labor and delivery with nothing to show for my efforts.

Then came the head, and the shoulders, and suddenly it clicked in my mind, the puzzle pieces marvellously put together all at once; visions of Europe and dinner parties whirling and swirling down the drain as I realized the one real truth about that day: I did still have a baby. I was, in fact, giving birth for real.

And there she was. Perfect, real, and mine. She was back, the baby I had dreamed of for eight-and-a-half months, lying on my belly, perfect, slimy, full-headed, gorgeous, and still.

Love exploded.

The Creation of a Sister

It's happening to her, just the same as it did to him, maybe even at the same age.

She sits at the table tonight, intently devouring her supper when she lays down her fork. She tips her head to the side, regards me, and says it in a fake-crying voice.

I'm sad because I miss Charlotte.

She sniffles a little bit.

I'm sad because Charlotte isn't here.

I look at her, kindly, lay my hand on her back. I think about how, for the whole two years and seven months of her life, she has seen evidence of this phantom-sister, has heard that this Charlotte has "died", and has not known whatsoever what any of this means.

Suddenly, it's lining up. I see, she says to herself, it's making sense. This person is missing from our family, and I'm part of this family, so I am also supposed to miss her.

So she practices this missing her, and she's only two, so she doesn't yet know what she's missing out on.

Some day she'll dream what it is she's missing, and I know she will feel sad. For now she is just trying it on.

It makes me weep a little.

New Book

And have you read this new one?

Elizabeth McCracken

An Exact Replica of a Figment of my Imagination

I swear to you, it is eerie. I have this SAME manuscript in two spiral bound notebooks here in my office, minus the part about being in France. It is very bizarre.

My girl...

Nothing truly comes without struggle, does it. We qualify certain things and let others pass but when it comes down to it not much in life is truly easy.

I would put mothering into this category, really and truly.

I often think of this, how I "wanted" to be a mother before Charlotte was born. I had always "loved" babies and kids, and I longed to have children of my own. I thought I longed.

Truly what I did was dream, and feel warm and grounded at the thought of a newborn that would actually be mine. It felt amazing and surreal to imagine that I could accomplish that great feat of reproduction that had always felt so far-away and intangible.

Of course, the first time around, it turns out I was not able to truly accomplish that goal, was I.

And that in itself made me want to be a mother, long to be a mother, in a way that is difficult to even write about. It was more than a longing, a desperation, a hunger. I had held in my arms this beautiful thing, this remarkable love that brushed against me like a lizard's quick tongue: there and then gone. There and then gone? A mother, and then not a mother. A baby is there, she is mine, and then she is gone.

I felt it, I felt that surge of disbelief and primal love and protectiveness, and then the baby was gone, as if I had never been a mother in the first place.

(and was I?)

Then began the new wanting. The true wanting to be a mother. There was this calling, I could feel it deep in the beating of my heart, I needed to have a baby. I needed to raise one. This was what I was made to do. There was nothing sweet and easy about it, and I had to have it. This was true desperation.

I achieved my goal, my two beating hearts walk around all day, they laugh and giggle, they make music and sing and ask incredibly deep questions and have passions of their own. I am doing it-- for real-- I have produced these babies and they are growing to be children and I am part of it. It is all of me, for now.

It was hard, in the beginning, to admit the struggles. When Liam was born he didn't latch on properly for days, by then my nipples were cracked and sore and my breasts were engorged. Then he got thrush, and the cracks turned into huge sores. He began to bite instead of suck, because it hurt his tongue to suck. This caused more pain. For seven weeks we tried to find a solution to this problem, to the raging yeast that we were passing back and forth, to the huge, bloody sores, to the lack of proper latch and suck due to the soreness in his mouth. Finally, when he was almost eight weeks, I nursed him one day and it didn't hurt. I wasn't hunched over and stiff and tearing up from the sharp, shooting pains. We had come over the hump.

In this instance, I believe, my insistence on how very much I wanted this kept me going: I had spilled milk for one dead baby, and I would nurse this one through hell or highwater. But there were other moments where my grief sent me into a confused tailspin; wondering whether I was truly made for mothering after all.

The nights went like this with Liam: nurse for one hour, sleep for forty-five minutes. Nurse for one hour, sleep for one hour. Nurse for one hour, sleep for half an hour. Keep in mind the bleeding ulcers on my nipples. There were nights where I would lean back on the bed, tears streaming from my face, my entire body trembling and quaking with sheer exhaustion, willing myself to keep holding onto him and not just stand up and walk out the front door without stopping. I would look at him, his tiny little face nursing contentedly on my ravaged breast, and I would feel love for him, but I would want him to stop, and I really wanted to put him back in his basket so I could sleep.

Then I would be tormented: isn't this exactly what I wanted? Isn't this what I asked for? Don't you want to feel like you deserve this? BE A GOOD MOTHER. Show Charlotte what you're made of.

And I know that's not true, that I can miss her and feel worthy of Liam and still want some shut-eye.

_______________________________________

I am thinking of this primarily because my doll of a two year old girl has been having me run in circles lately. She is fragile, despondant, irritable, demanding, irrational, needy, and independent all at the same time. Every now and then I get a giggle out of a child who, three months ago, smiled all day long and cried only when she was hurt. It is breaking my heart to see her struggling through the crisis of being two-and-a-half, sleep deprived and cutting molars, constantly frustrated with me and constantly too frustrated (and perhaps overtired) to put her precocious verbal skills to good use and tell me what she needs to be happy.

So you know what? Here's the truth of that. This isn't all that much fun. Being with Aoife is like walking on eggshells, because you never know when you are going to send her off the deep end. Sometimes she cries because she needs help, other times she cries because you have helped her. Sometimes she cries because she is hungry, other times because you have given her food and she doesn't want to eat. I am never sure, at any moment, whether the thing I am about to do will make her happy or furious.

It is peculiar, indeed, as I found her to be a much more even-tempered and mostly always happy baby than Liam was (although he has always been good tempered as well) but this two-ness seems somehow more severe than his was.

Still, I do remember crying to Greg one night, when Liam was in the thick of this himself and I also had a six month old Aoife to care for; I said to Greg, I hardly enjoy spending time with him anymore, we fight all day long. So I know it happened, and I know that now he is just the most amazing little friend I could ever hope to spend my day with. So this too shall pass.

(us Thursday while Liam rode in the chopper)

In the meantime, I will cherish the hugs and kisses that I get, and try to unlock the key to happiness for my sad girl. I love her so much, and I just miss the happy little chipper girl that she used to be. There is a very huge piece of me that knows that it's just right that I'm not expecting a baby this winter, that my little girl is needing me right now and that it is going to be just the right thing for her that she's getting an extra year (or more?) of time as my baby when she needs it most.

Oh, remember this? (of course you don't, but I do... she NEVER stopped smiling).

I have so much on my mind, ideas whirling and swirling and seeping from my eyes and ears and fingertips. There's prophesy and wisdom somewhere in them, I'm sure, but what you are going to get is just a bunch of junk. As I sit here my eyelids are drooping, my breathing is slow and warm, my back is curled, I have two sweaters on and I'm truly almost asleep. I just can't devote the space that I need to write GOOD writing, and I feel tired of writing things that seem sub-par. (to me)

So instead I will just post some photographs of late, of a crisp, blue fall morning today (and a shot of the new two-wheeler: actually, as Liam explains, a four wheeler) and I hope you enjoy them.

Jumping on the hay bales...

The little shiny head of my boy chopping corn with his best big pal

The days are long and full as I push forward to make a very exciting thing happen. In just three weeks, I am putting on a presentation for all the people in the "birth world" here in Western MA (I say this as IF they are all going to come). Little old I, with the assistance of this amazing fund that has accrued through the generosity of many local families, am flying out this wonderful, thoughtful, compassionate and most of all knowledgable speaker to present a seminar called, "Compassionate Caregiving when a Baby Dies." Cathi Lammert is the executive director of Share, which is one of the biggest national infant/pregnancy loss support groups. She has been in this "business" for over twenty five years, since her son Christopher died. She is also a nurse and has walked this road with so many hundreds of families she is just an amazing wealth of information, thoughts, and experiences.
I have put so much thought into planning this seminar so that people will actually come to it. We are doing it at two different times, on two different days, to make it more available to nurses who work different shifts. I have tried to send our publicity everywhere I can. I wavered between making it free, which I could afford to do, but was advised that people are more likely to skip out on the day of for something they haven't paid for. So I made it cheap, and as it will provide nurses particularly with professional development points, hopefully that will be a lure. In addition I am offering three "scholarship" spots for every OB or midwifery practice in the area. But I am so afraid nobody will come. Here I am, flying this woman from St Louis, and she has SO MANY amazing, important ideas for these people, and maybe they will just recycle the flyer.
I spoke of this fear to Cathi, who said, If one person comes it will be worth it, because one person will help their next loss patient more compassionately. And I know that she is right. But I want a lot of people to come. I want them to come so that others will get better care, but truly I desperately want them to come because I want to see that SOMEBODY cares about perinatal loss. I want to see that somebody is actually trying to become more educated on the subject, and that they feel it is a worthy expense of their time.
Nursing schools as well as medical schools literally barely touch on this subject. To me, this is appalling. The families who bring babies home will barely remember their nurses. The families whose babies die will see their nurse's face for the rest of their life. They will hang on every word, verbatim. Their care will significantly impact their entire grief experience and, therefore, the rest of their LIFE. And this is unimportant?
I am just really hoping that people come. If you are in the Western MA vicinity and know anyone in the birth world (midwives, doulas, OBs, nurses, etc) please consider sending them my way this November. I am truly hoping for a success.