Grief can only live, where there once was love

I sat in a little cafe yesterday waiting for Terry to walk in, heart dropping with every person walking by. What if she doesn't show up I thought? What if she does? How is anyone ever truly ready to meet the mother they never knew,

A few months ago while in Orlando, I was helping Alex look up her family on Ancestry.com. While looking up names for her I decided to try and find my own family I had never had any contact with, my birth mother's side. I typed in the name I thought belonged to my maternal grandmother, not expecting to find much, since for years I had googled and searched with no luck. But this time, this time, an obituary popped up. She had recently passed away and there was my name, and my sister's name- and the name of other children I knew my birth mother had but never met, in tiny black and white letters. A picture of her smiling- survived by her grandchildren it said, survived by me. I took in the information slowly, she was loved it said and loved her grandchildren and great-grandchildren more than life itself. Then I noticed something familiar about the date printed at the bottom, date of her death, November 27th. Mateo's birthday.

Next thing you know I am in a cafe, waiting to meet Terry, my birthmother Gigi's oldest daughter. My birth mother died in 2006 and my grandmother last year on Mateo's birthday. And all this time they lived an hour outside of Boston, and thanks to this obituary and Facebook here I was waiting in a cafe to meet my sister, the only person alive who could answer the questions I had been wondering all my life.

Terry walked in with a small suitcase filled with photo albums and pictures and letters, She had grabbed everything she thought I might want to see, pictures of everyone I might want to meet. It was surreal to see Stephanie's dimples on someone else's face, I found myself just staring at times not sure I could heat everything being said over what was not. We shared the same womb once you and I. Grew inside and out of this woman of whom I'd only ever seen two pictures of.

Terry was not raised by Gigi either, but by Gigi's mother, Teresa instead. I listened to Terry describe Teresa with so much love and affection, the pain of her loss still so tender. She brought me a small gift that once belonged to Teresa, "she loved trinkets, she had them everywhere- she had this for 16 years" Terry said handing me this sweet little ceramic bird sitting on a branch, protecting a nest with two eggs. "I felt like you and Stephanie were the two eggs in the nest- " I gently took the trinket and knew this belonged on my altar- my dedicated space for my guiding angels, the altar that lives in my home, a home full of trinkets everywhere for which I am constantly teased.

We ordered food we didn't really eat, and shared stories of our childhoods. Did your mom do this? Did your mom teach you that? Both of us with different reference points for the word mom, mine being Carmen my adopted aunt and hers being Teresa. We laughed at the ways all Latina little old ladies are the same, the things we were nagged for and the lessons we carry. I would have loved to have met Teresa and meeting her through Terry was so bittersweet. Then we talked about Gigi.

All of my life I have wondered what she was like, beyond the trauma, The only stories I had ever been told were the heartbreaking kind, The kind of grief that lives in your DNA- the kind of grief that makes you hurt in all the places I carry her. When I was pregnant with Mateo I would break down, how will I know to be a birth mother if I didn't have one, eventually landing on the knowledge that I'll at least know to be the kind of mother who stays because mine didn't. But I wanted to know beyond the pain. I wanted to know about her childhood, and her friends, did she like to sing and was she funny?

I also wanted to know Did she ever miss me? Did she ever miss me? Did she ever miss me?

Terry gently hands me a letter, the only letter she had from Gigi's belongings, found in an envelope inside of an unwritten journal except for one page with a poem. The letter is personal, and heartbreaking and gentle. in it she mentions me and my sister and how her one wish was to see us again before she died. To have us meet her mother Teresa, our grandmother. To be a family just one time. But here is the thing about giving your children away for whatever the reason, nothing can guarantee they will ever return. My chest slowly caved as I read her describe how she had a hole in her heart from not having her children, I know Gigi, I know. What a fucking family legacy.

As I sat looking through photo albums, I could feel her materialize, no longer an abstract idea of what my birth mother was like or how she lived. There she was at the beach, and there she was in a wedding dress, and there she was end of her life. And there she lives in the pain in Terry's eyes from having known her but never having had her as she deserved, a mother. There she lives in the dimples on Terry's face, the ones identical to the ones I have kissed on Stephanie's cheeks all my life. There she lives in my chicken legs, and my widow's peak. There she lived all these years.

Her legacy is as complicated as her life. Even cruel at times. As I flipped through the pages of her life, I felt validated in knowing that no one is all good, or all bad. That we exist in the spaces in between our mistakes and successes. That we are capable of love that transcends spiritual planes in one breath and unforgivable selfishness in the other. That we are whole pictures even when we are broken human beings.

I thought of my baby boy a lot today. Like most days. Sweet messages popping up on my phone, we remember from friends and family. We remember. I think about his short and sweet little life.

Does he know I miss him? Does he know I miss him? Does he know I miss him? 

My body hurts from grieving, my shoulders, chest, stomach. I hurt everywhere and then I remember- grief can only live where there once was love.

Finding Gratitude on the Other Side of Loss

For most of my life Thanksgiving has been my favorite holiday. It's one of the few holidays I can reminisce about my childhood on and have fond memories, laughing, eating good fun, my whole family coming together. Because of growing up in an immigrant household, the holiday wasn't about pilgrims and Native peoples genocide disguised as a good time, my aunts weren't in the kitchen cooking in honor of anything but the safety and well-being of their children. It was about blending traditions, a turkey and arroz con guandulez- side by side- it was about Dia De Gracia- a day we are grateful for family and loved ones. And empanadas.

I remember adding Thanksgiving to the list of the things I'd lost after losing Mateo. With his birthday always within a few days of the holiday, I knew that being in the spirit of giving would be overshadowed by grief. It didn't feel fair. He wasn't supposed to be born in November anyway. For the last couple of years, I have worked on being able to be present on the days surrounding his birthday and passing. To just be with however I feel. Including on Thanksgiving, a day now, where my family no longer comes together- I now make my own empanadas. I now make my own Day of Thanks.

Maybe gratitude carries more weight when you have heartbreak to contrast it against. It isn't a statement made in vain, but a testament to one's ability to come out of the other side of darkness and still be able to hold things in your heart and say, for you I give thanks.  For this I give thanks. To transform pain into gratitude is a lifelong process, one where you can touch the places that hurt and say this is where I shattered. And gratitude for surviving is what starts to bring the pieces back together.

I think gratitude means so much to me because I am amazed at my ability to still feel it. To seek it. To want to be able to make room for the many ways I am full even when my arms empty. The most heartbreaking experience of my life has brought me the most wonderful people to guide me in healing. There is room for both, acknowledging what the universe has taken and what it has given- not tit for tat but in waves. Times of grief followed by helping hands, or guiding angels, flowers in the mail and shoeboxes full of sunshine. Love continues to arrive in my life, a gentle reminder that it is possible to lose and love.  Lose and receive. Lose and give. How could I not be grateful for that?

Last week I volunteered with a couple of friends at a Women's Shelter.  Earlier that week I had been asked how I plan to take care of myself during this post election season and I responded that in times where I can't see past my pain, I ask myself to step out of myself and sit with someone else's. I try to find ways to give this time of year. My response to what was taken is to give. Not out of martyrdom, or complex, but a need to connect. To look someone else's pain in the eye and say, yes-you too, me too and for a moment be beyond it. So in hairnets and paper aprons we helped serve meals to over 200 women who would have slept outside in the coldest night I have had since moving here. But I didn't go home and say god I'm thankful for my bed, and for a warm meal. Giving isn't about inventory- check- here are all the things I have that those women didn't and so now I can feel good about life. Gratitude isn't about comparison, it's about humility. It's knowing anyone of us could be one or two life shatters away from needing a meal and a warm place to sleep.  Gratitude for me isn't about feeling better, it's about being present. That in this moments many truths prevail, the one where Mateo is missing at Thanksgiving dinner, and the one where I am loved and cared for- one truth informing the other.

I came across this list of simple ways to give back and give thanks this week and I encourage any of you that are moved to do so, to heed that calling and be present with me in thanks and giving.

Thankful for shelter: Find out how you can assist at a homeless shelter. Serve warm meals, play games with kids, donate clothing, or learn about other ways you can make a difference in your community.

Thankful for family: Help a family in need by giving your time, skills, food, or other charitable donations to local or national assistance organizations like Help Neighbors and Feeding America.  Write a letter of appreciation to someone in your family that you are thankful for — tell them why.

Thankful for food: Plant seeds in your community garden for others to enjoy. Cook a meal for a person or family in need. Drop off canned food and bottled water at local food drives.

Thankful for health: Volunteer at your local hospital. Inquire about donating blood to people in need.  Take a friend or family member out for a hike or walk around the park.

Thankful for a job: Share your job skills with others. Help someone write a resume.  Donate your work clothes to someone in need via Dress for Success. (via freepeople blog)
               

                     

Mateo's 3rd Birthday Under the Tuscan Sun

You should have seen me trying to describe the words birthday candle to the little old Italian man in the small hole in the wall shop. The shop had books, trinkets and birthday cards and so I took my chances, walked in and tried to ask for a candle. I made the hand motions of a cake, sang happy birthday and mimed blowing out a candle. After a couple of minutes of charades- he reached into a drawer and asked me what number- I held up 3 fingers and he handed me a candle with that number on it and a small lighter. I had spent the day walking around Fiorenze, taking in the views and feeling the sun on my face. At dinner I ordered a slice of chocolate cake, put the candle in top, sang Mateo happy birthday- made a wish- and blew it out. It was peaceful and calm. What else can I be these days? Not too long after a couple sitting close by asked me if it was my birthday and why I was alone. I told him- I was celebrating someone else's birthday, that I couldn't be with them that day but still wanted to celebrate. He and his girlfriend looked at me suspiciousl- "okay, good- it would be pretty sad if you were sitting here celebrating your own birthday by yourself". Yes, that would be very sad indeed sir, but turns out, not the saddest scenario possible. I think the saddest version of that might be, no one honoring someone's birthday at all- for themselves or someone else. To have no one remember you lived, that would be sad indeed, sir.

I really needed this trip. For many reasons ranging from private grief time to needing to scratch my itch for adventure. I was lucky enough to have a friend who lives in Rome and opened her home up to me- come she said- and so I did. A couple of months before my trip she Skyped me and told me she was pregnant. She seemed nervous to tell me since she knew my trip was purposely scheduled over Mateo's birthday. I assured her it was fine- and extended my sincerest congratulations. And then I saw her. And she was 6 months pregnant- around the same amount of weeks I was during my loss. And she's due around the same time Mateo was. And she was wobbling and looked tired but also glowing. And I felt love. How could I not? And so I spent part of this trip with a pregnant lady and the little being inside her talking about how she feels, and her hopes and dream,  and how I feel and my hopes and dreams and what it means to be a mother. And we both got to be mothers sitting in her kitchen drinking coffee. And there was no pity from her or jealousy from me. Just a once pregnant lady getting to share with a currently pregnant lady about what it means to bring life into this world. I having done it, and her about to. Sitting with where our journeys as moms are universal and where they will differ. It was truly a gift to get to talk about Mateo, and to be treated like a mom this week. It was more than worth flying halfway around the world for.

The one thing that stood out to me about myself during this trip was the many times I caught myself saying "wow". Time and time again I would walk into a building, a church, a monument. I'd turn a corner and exclaim wow under my breath constantly. I want to reflect on this not just as a testimony of how beautiful and breathtaking Italy is, but as an acknowledgement at my ability to still feel awe. 3 years ago today I walked out of the hospital without my baby boy and I was numb. A zombie. I have been slowly coming back to life, day by day since then. Patiently. Slowly tracing the scars with my fingers and urging my heart to heal. Knowing well that some places might be raw forever, but most places will find a way to come back together. And so 3 years ago I never would have imagined I would be in Italy, eating cheese and drinking wine in Fiorenze or Napoli. Witnessing the grandeur of the Vatican. Cooking Thanksgiving for my pregnant friend while talking about pregnancy and instincts. I couldn't have imagined that I would ever be in awe again. You see, awe requires appreciation. Gratitude. And that is the last sentiment you believe will ever be felt by you again when you lose a child. How will you ever be happy about anything ever again- you wonder. And for a while you are right. For a long time you don't laugh or smile. There is no room for amazement. For a long time there is nothing and then there is pain. There are tears, and thoughts of dying. There is depression and people watching you closely because they know you are on the brink of deciding if there is anything left living worth. People don't leave you alone for long periods of time at first, but that's all you want to be and you don't imagine ever wanting to be around anyone ever again. You don't imagine laughing with family and friends. You stop believing in miracles and angels and miracles and God. You die. And then you start coming back. And where I once hid in the bathroom of an Okd Navy for an hour crying after accidentally walking by the baby clothes section, I can now buy baby showe gifts. Where I once never imagined being truly happy again, I dedicate my life to seeking it out- the way an adrenaline junkie might be on the constant search for the next high jumping out of an airplane- I am getting in them and flying halfway around the world. I who once was dead, am standing under the panel of God's finger and man's finger about to touch in the Sistine Chapel, I am looking up at it and am uttering the word "wow". Isn't that amazing?

Here are some pictures of some of the wow! Moments from this trip <3 Ciao Bellas!

Frida Kahlo and the Artist Within Me

I recently had a friend ask me if I considered myself an artist. I replied with a quick no, not me, thinking of all of the artists I admire- I am not like them. But in the days since I have spent more time thinking about what is art? What is an artist? What does it mean to create art through a mode that speaks to people, moves them, inspires them,brings them closer to self. A beautiful painting, a breathtaking photograph, an architectural masterpiece- art that is easy to identity. Can art be found in less identifiable moments? In the way I love my mom, or grieve my son, or sit in solitude. Am I an artist when I write a blog post, sing my son a song at his grave or share in this experience with a friend? Can feelings be art? Can moments? Can situations? All of which are created and experienced and witnessed. Am I the artist of my life?

This week while walking through the Frida Kahlo exhibit at the New York Botanical Gardens I came across this painting called "The Miscarriage". It was a moving piece, so much so that afterwards I came home and researched the story behind the painting. I came to to learn that Frida Kahlo experienced a tragic tram accident at a young age that made it impossible for her to bring pregnancies to term. Her first pregnancy threatened her life and so she had an abortion. Her next pregnancy resulted in a miscarriage and solidified the fact that she would never give birth to a live child. This loss happened when she was 25 years old and visiting the United States. She was bedridden for weeks before and after her miscarriage and created numerous works of art during this time. She painted about her grief from the hospital and throughout the rest of her life at times. Some articles I read attributed a change in her style, her art after this miscarriage and that this was what elevated her to the next level of artistic recognition. 

There have been times in the last couple of years where I have wondered if being so open about my grief has been a mistake. If being so raw, honest, and public about my pain has created more harm than good. Is it inhibiting my healing? And then I find myself in this small gallery looking at this painting of Frida- a self portrait of her, naked, crying, with a fetus and her pain. And I thought to myself- this is what an artist does. They take the raw exposed nerves and allow others to touch them with their hearts. No one brought me an easel and paints when I was at the hospital, not that I would have known what to do with them. But eventually I gave voice to my pain in a medium I understand how to navigate- words- and I shared these words with anyone willing to listen. My art. My heart. And while my words will never be in a gallery or published in a book or maybe even read by more than a handful of people, they are my representation of my grief, my art. And I will continue painting until I can longer pick up my brush.

My Authentic Self: A weekend in DC and shedding my scarlet letter

The Most Astounding Fact

There is this great interview with Neil Degrasse Tyson where he is asked what in all his years of studying the cosmos does he believe to be the most astounding fact. I have heard this clip easily 100 times in my life- coming back to it at different times for inspiration. If you haven't heard it- you should google it right now. If you have heard it, you should google it right now. While driving home from my weekend trip in DC, it came up on one of my podcasts and the words hit me in a way they hadn't in a long time. Maybe it was the euphoria of having had a wonderful weekend- maybe it was a blessing from the universe- but as I sat with the message that the most astounding fact about the universe isn't just that we are a part of it but that it is a part of us in every way, I felt blessed. Truly and utterly blessed to know this, to feel it, to be comforted by it. 

The Scarlet Letter

Leading up to my trip I had been wrestling with an upsetting situation regarding some friends and family. It was brought to my attention  that I had come up as the topic of conversation at a gathering back home, one I was too far away to attend. The question asked was regarding how I was doing- but no really, how is she doing? A loaded insinuation that a mere "she's fine" would not and could not suffice. How could I be fine? I often worry there is a permanent P etched on my chest- a scarlet letter for pity. A damaged reputation- and even with my growth and successes there will remain a glowing P on my chest so that despite of it all or rather in spite of it all, there will always be hushed voices asking everyone but me, how is she doing?  And on top of it I'll have to learn to sit with the knowledge that the people I love are all concurring amongst each other that the answer to that question is inevitably and obviously "broken". She is broken. She is sad. She is angry. She hates New York. She is as expected. A damaged reputation. I am reduced to a single sentiment, feeling, a scarlet letter. I am robbed of complexities and a comeback story and reduced to broken in the eyes of the people I trust with my saddest moments, my darkest hours, the proof of a fractured heart. And here it was broken again at the understanding that to those closest to me, those I have asked to share in my grief, to share in my burden, I am seen as sad and angry and broken. But really, how is she? She is sad. She is angry. She hates New York. Pity. Let's order dinner. Let's take a selfie. Lets move on.

My Authentic Self

I decided to spend the weekend in the DC Area. Recharging. A family member just relocated there and so it served as the perfect excuse to make the 4 hour road trip and see her as well as some old friends. It was a trip filled with laughter, great food, old friends and in nature. There were late night conversations about life over cheap wine, making strangers laugh, people watching, kayaking, catching up with Peace Corps volunteers, sun bathing, hiking, cupcakes, yoga, moments of solitude and laughing until I cried over silly jokes. I am very much alive. I am not broken. Pity is wasted on me. Over and over I came back to this deep place of gratitude for the privilege to take the time off, to afford this trip, to have loved ones to stay with, for people truly excited to see me and spend time with me, for the wisdom to know to spend time alone on vacation, for the opportunities to be in nature, to feel the sun on my skin and for the air in my lungs. Grateful to be asked about Mateo over dinner and to get to say his name, to talk about my journey. To reflect on where I was with my grief 3 years ago and to witness its transformation, though not its departure. To sit with people who hadn't seen me since before my loss and have them say "you seem different, but in a good way". I am different. I have room for sadness and happiness, grief and gratitude, joy and anger. At one point in my life I couldn't feel anything and then eventually just crippling pain. Grateful to feel beyond the pain. I am grateful for the ability to feel the pain and contrast it to the joy. To admit I carry both, that this is my life. 

I was told a couple of times that I was courageous this weekend and it was nice to hear that not in relation to having survived losing a son. When people say I'm courageous for going on with my life despite my loss- I often wonder if they understand what the alternative entails. I was told that there was courage in my ability to continuously be my authentic self. To choose a life that aligns with my beliefs and priorities. To not worry about how others might perceive it. To be told that it's brave that I follow my dreams, that I follow my heart. What a truly beautiful compliment. Thank You.

Pictures from this weekend!

 

Sweet Little Paper Cranes

Then, you begin to take responsibility for yourself by yourself and you make yourself a promise to never betray yourself and to never, ever settle for less than you heart’s desire.

You make it a point to keep smiling, to keep trusting, and to stay open to every wonderful possibility.

You hang a wind chime outside your window so you can listen to the wind.

Finally, with courage in you heart, you take a stand, you take a deep breath, and you begin to design the life you want to live as best as you can.

~ Author Unknown (http://thespiritscience.net/2015/07/05/a-time-comes-in-your-life-when-you-finally-get-it-this-is-your-awakening/) 

I don't own a t.v.-This means that sometimes I have to wait until my show is released on Netflix or Hulu in order to watch. Such is the case with this recent season of Scandal. The whole recent season I avoided my Facebook feed on Thursdays in order to avoid spoilers, patiently anticipating the day I'm June when alas, I too, would get to yell at the screen cursing Shonda. But this season- this season where the grief of a mother who has lost a child has been the heart of the plot- this season I do not scream- I ugly cry. In one episode, the grieving mother falls to the floor, crying in desperation, trying to get undressed. I could feel myself taken back to that place of desperation- wanting to take off my clothes, my skin, anything that felt constricting. After my friend Andre's funeral, when I got to my car, I took off my shirt, sobbing and not able to breathe. Right there in the parking lot- people walking by, I sat with no shirt and started to drive- at some point I put on a tshirt I found in the backseat. I cried with similar desperation many times after my baby died. Knees buckling from under me, unable to breathe, to think, to be anything but grief. I wailed at times, deep cries from a place so broken and deep within that it scared me to cry that way. I was often afraid that I would never stop crying. I still don't know if one ever does when it comes to these things or if it's even something to fear. 

My internal grief clock which won't be ignored kicked in a couple of weeks ago. I found myself crying on and off without explanation. Why was I so sensitive, so sad? Then I remembered- that I got pregnant this week 3 years ago. And so there I was in the car on the way to a friend's house, and I remembered- and so I pulled over and I cried. I kept my clothes on this time- I no longer cry in desperate ways. My pain has transformed, it doesn't take the knees out from under me any more, it just exists. 

A couple of months ago I attended this beautiful ceremony at a Buddhist temple specifically for perinatal loss. It was in this small but peaceful studio at a high rise in SOHO. We chanted and meditated and the Reverend leading the ceremony shared his story of loss. We all sat quietly, most of us crying and witnessing. We lit incense and said prayers and I found myself being incredibly grateful for moments entirely dedicated to honoring Mateo's life and acknowledging his death. We also made paper cranes. We sat around this table and a gentleman led us through the process of making these small delicate paper cranes. As we were starting our cranes, a woman walked in flustered, apologizing for being so late- saying "I really need this". A chair and a place around the table was found for her and she was handed a piece of paper. Here- write your child's name on this and we will make it into a crane that will be left at the altar- she was instructed. She wrote down a child's name. Then grabbed another piece of paper, and another. I need three cranes- she barely got out the words. Another woman cried with such fervor that every time I looked at her, I cried also. I cried with her and for her. She felt so raw to me and though she was there with a partner who held her hand, at times I wanted to walk over and console her- but what could I say that hasn't been said to me and proven not to comfort? I didn't want her to stop crying because it made me uncomfortable or even because it moved me to cry as well, I just didn't want her to be in so much pain, a pain I understood. But she was and is, as am I. These are our lives, and so we make sweet little paper cranes and write sweet little babies' names on them and cry together on beautiful Sunday mornings.We do it in ceremony and reverence, red faced, holding liquid filled tissues with no regard for keeping composed. And then we leave the sweet little cranes on an altar with many other sweet little cranes and bow upon leavin the sacred space thanking the universe for one more moment in life dedicated to that sweet little life once carried inside of us.

                                     

Alongside Rivers Under the Warm Sun: Mother's Day 2015

I knew that I would have to get outside today. That I needed to breathe fresh air and feel the sun on my skin. I picked a random state park, one not too far packed a kind bar, stuck an emergency $20 dollar bill in my bra and got in my car. Turns out I really went hiking today- the type of hiking you need health insurance for (thanks Obama!). I quietly walked past families, couples with dogs, a Korean Hiking club in all their glory, a group of hot shirtless, bearded guys running through the woods- but most of the hike was just me. All that could be heard were birds and the river running beside me. All that could be heard was me. No distractions or cell service or Netflix or friends to talk to. Me. And my inner dialogue. Me. And my grief. Me. And my memories. For a couple of hours I walked with myself. I did not cry, or break down. I did fall down once on a steep hill but sucked it up when shortly after my fall- a toddler speedily walked past me- she was probably born on that trail. I kept thinking about all the people that for who days like today are hard for. The different scenarios when a holiday dedicated to Mothers might not be celebratory. My circumstance being just one of the potential many. I thought about that Ellen Bass poem that has been going through my mind a lot recently and what it means to learn to love life again. To hold life in your hands and declare- I will love you. I am still not sure how I will ever be able to do that. I thought about all the mothers in my life- I have had so many except the one who brought me into this world. I may become a mother figure throughout my life to someone, maybe many- but I'll never mother the son I brought into this world. Maybe it's genetic. I thought about all the kind emails and text messages and Facebook posts where people wished me a Happy Mother's Day or told me they were thinking of me. Sometimes it feels like the universe wraps its arms around me as if it saying I am sorry fate has hurt you so. But I still do not know how to forgive it. How will I ever hold life in my hands and declare that I love it? I thought about how quickly the days pass and how finite our days as humans are- and I promised myself to spend more of them hiking alongside rivers under the warm sun.