Side by Side

Getting Closer

Go on, the voices say, part the veil.

Not with your hands. Hands will onlytangle the hours like a net. Get closer.

So you can part the veil with your breath.The world keeps moving in on itself. It's

what it does. Cobwebs. Opinions. Moss.Worries. Dirt. Leaves. History. Go on. Put

them down and get real close. Open yourmouth and inhale all the way to the begin-

ning, which lives within us, not behind us.Then wait. When something ordinary starts

to glow, life is opening. When the light off the river paints the roots of an old willow

just as you pass, the world is telling you tostop running. Forget what it means, just

stop running. When the moon makes youfinger the wet grass, the veil is parting.

When the knot you carry is loosened,the veil is parting. When you can't help

but say yes to all that is waiting, the veilis parting.

One year. To think that a year ago I held my baby in my arms and said hello for the first time. Said goodbye for the first time. 365 days. Some days much longer than others. Not all days have 24 hours with it's minutes equally distributed throughout the day. Because some days have hours and minutes that last an eternity. Minutes that never end. The moment my baby took his last breath is still not over. Not to me and not ever. And so parallel moments pass by. Realities that run side by side. There I am working. There I am on vacation. There I am walking my dog. All the while still residing in the moment when I held my baby boy. Both happening at the same time side by side. I wake up. I grieve. I brush my teeth. I remember. I brew coffee. I cry. I get through my work day. I daydream about how big he would be. I go out to dinner with friends. I zone out and miss him. I get ready for bed. I grieve. Side by side. Living both at the same time and so I am always caught off guard when people tell me I am doing so well. Why, yes, I am. I am also really not doing well. That is also true. Both are real and are happening side by side.

The anniversary of Mateo's death fell 2 days after Thanksgiving. It didn't seem fair to ask me to have thankful heart around this time. But nothing about this has been fair. Fair was never an option. And so I went to New York and spent time with my best friend. The same best friend who a year prior had jumped on the first flight available to Vermont to be by my side. Here I was by her side, in her home, eating Thanksgiving dinner. A year later. No baby. But still grateful for her. She and another friend bought Mateo the most beautiful flower arrangement I have ever seen. My friends in Orlando visited Mateo's grave and decorated it and took a moment to honor him. Even at a time when gratitude seems like the last emotion to have room for, it is truly what I felt towards my friends. Thank You all for honoring his memory. Thank you for the calls and the text messages. Thank you to my friend who got him a birthday balloon. Thank You for loving me and loving him <3

They say year two is the hardest. Because the shock has worn off and the sharp edges around your pain have dulled and so all you have left is a raw ache. It is hard to imagine a year harder then this one. I can see how it will be in some ways but in other ways managing gets easier. I hope at some point I learn to not resent this pain, and having to manage it like a terminal illness but rather embrace it. Move with it instead of running into it. I am not looking forward to another year of milestones and holidays. More due dates, and birthdays, and mother's day and babies his age doing the things I'll never witness. Again. Another year. 365 days with unevenly distributed minutes. Time that runs side by side with what is, was, could've and never will be.

The things we want to do and the things we want to do. Love both.

Repeatedly We Are Asked

to embody or consume;

to be in kinship with everything larger

or to order and manage everything smaller.

We are asked, every day, to align or separate;

to coordinate our will with everything living

or to impose our will on everything we meet.

And not choosing is a choice. Acquiescence

is different from patience or surrender.

All this leaves us needing to know:

whether to better the song through practice

or to better ourselves through singing.

Every year in October, international child loss month, ceremonies are held in honor of all the babies loved and lost all over the world. Candles are lit, prayers are said, tears are shed. People remember alone, quietly, in the spaces where no one can interrupt. People remember in groups, in congregations, in homes and in parks. Everywhere, people remember.

I attended an Angel of Hope Ceremony here in Central Florida. Most of the people from my support groups were there. We lit candles for our babies and placed roses on the angel statue when our child's name was called. When I was in line writing down Mateo's name on the list of names to be called I heard the woman behind me sigh, heavily. I watched her write one name, and then two names and then a third name. She grabbed three roses and walked away. Her pain was so heavy that for a moment there I couldn't feel my own.

Whenever I drive to and from events like these, or even to Mateo's grave, there is always a sense of anger. The sting behind the fact that there is a big difference between the places I should be driving to with my baby and the places I drive to in order to honor him. I feel cheated. And sad. And angry. But am also grateful for the opportunity to have the latter. I've had every other opportunity to be his mother taken from me. The ability to hold him, and kiss him, and nurture him. The opportunity to watch him grow, and kiss his scraped knees and watch him become a man. Of all the things I have been denied, not even death can take away my motherly duty of loving him. I love him every day. With every breath. I love him every time I drive to a ceremony in his honor. 

I love him.

                                                          

 

The more things change the more they stay. Period.

"They say, if real enough, some see God

at the moment of their death. But isn't

every fall and letting go a death? Isn't God

waiting right now in the chill between the

small doe's hoof and those fallen leaves?" Mark Nepo

Changes. There is something about fall. Whenever this time of year comes around I find myself in the space between anticipation for the future and mourning what is falling. Didn't I just get accustomed to this year? Aren't I just now embracing what it means to be here in this year? Just in time to see it go and start all over again it seems. In Florida we don't get fall like in other places. It isn't obvious in the leaves. The weather will betray you the moment you feel you might need a sweater. But fall isn't about weather or climate. It's about change. A change so integral you feel it in your bones, in your teeth, your cells. It is the time of year when things change from the inside and the world's changes on the outside are just a reflection. 

This time of the year always brings me back to Andre. I find myself imagining what his life would be like today. I picture the him I knew then in the world I live in today and it feels like a puzzle with missing pieces. I can't create, not even in my mind, the man he would have been today. Not the experiences that would have changed him. Not the heartbreaks and not the accomplishments. I can't create him in this world. But I can carry the him I do know and love with me into this world. Because that Andre, the one that brings a smile to my face at just the thought, that Andre lives in me. I miss him so much. 

This time of year also brings about nervous anticipation and grief about next month and the one year anniversary of Mateo's birth. And death. I have planned on going to New York and being with my best friend Andrea. She wheeled me down to his bed in the NICU so we could read him bedtime stories those dates last year. I would like her to be my side those dates this year. Maybe we will do something to honor his birth. Maybe ill just lay in bed and cry. Either way, I want to do it with Andrea. 

So I moved into a new apartment this week. Talk about a change. This perfect mix of old things and new things in a new place with the old you. I went through all my things, throwing some away, relishing in the memories of others. You run into that old picture you hadn't seen in years and question your life choices- "is that what my hair looked like and no one helped me?" You find things to donate and things you just absolutely have to hold on to for posterity. You imagine a great grandchild asking a question about that item- an old journal, a good book with an inscription from ex "to the forever love of my life, something forever and love and did I  mention forever? love always". A piece of jewelry passed down from your mom, nothing fancy but just nice enough that you look forward to giving to a daughter, grand daughter, great grand daughter and telling her its vintage. You imagine what a stranger would picture you like if they went through your most prized possessions. What do my things say about me? Oh the picture our things paint! And then you put it all away neatly in a box and keep unpacking because this isn't the time to ponder mortality or posterity. It's time to find a place for all those dvd's you swear you'll watch again some day.

I can definitely feel that it is fall. I can feel the familiar changes.

Choose Your Own Ending

"Letting go is part of moving on to something better. – You will not get what you truly deserve if you’re too attached to the things you’re supposed to let go of.  Sometimes you love, and you struggle, and you learn, and you move on.  And that’s okay.  You must be willing to let go of the life you planned for so you can enjoy the life that is waiting for you."

When I was growing up I absolutely loved choose your own ending books. I loved reading a book and exploring the alternative endings, one small change, one small choice and the whole story would be entirely different. It's as if all these stories ran parallel to each other and it was my job to navigate them all. Some endings I loved and some I would never choose again. I loved that I could always go back. I could start over and answer a question differently and arrive at a whole new ending. 

Sometimes I lay in bed and I imagine my own parallel life, the one where Mateo is alive and well and growing. I choose a different ending. My days are filled with diapers and crying and cute little baby things and kisses. I lay down to sleep exhausted from being a mom, not from wanting to be one, and I know that my baby boy is sleeping sweetly nearby. I can see him breathe. In and out. An alternate ending. 

I've been struggling with making some big life decisions lately. But then again haven't I learned by now that all decisions are just that? I find myself unable to choose a trajectory for my life. My life has been hijacked by chance. By fate. By nature. So now I have to make choices for this life and I can't bring myself to because I am not done mourning the life I want. I can never have that life. I could have a million other children but I can never have that life. I can never be that Ana with that Mateo who breathes in and out. In and out. So I make choices for this Ana. It is hard to get excited about anything in this life. If I could find one thing that even came close to bringing me joy and excitement I would pursue it in a heartbeat. I didn't just lose my son. I lost a part of my soul. I am not whole. I am not happy.

What I am- is trying. 

It All Fits Inside Each Other and Did I Mention Only Kindness Matters In the End

Begin today by putting your attention on your heart. Take time to connect with and feel how much your soul wants you to know that you are loved and appreciated. Look into your own eyes and see your timelessness. See everything—the joy, sadness, compassion, playfulness, and wisdom. You contain everything. You are whole. Each time you find yourself in front of a mirror today take a moment to witness yourself. As you look deeply into your own eyes, hold all aspects of yourself in loving awareness, silently repeat these words three times, “I see you, I accept you, I love you.” Carry this practice through your day and witness your heart gently open to yourself and others. https://chopracentermeditation.com

Most pregnant women have a partner to go with them to appointments, they have a person that checks in on them and takes care of them and overall sees over their well being. I had a Dr. Carmen. She was my Peace Corps doctor. She was also my friend. And she held my hand through my ultrasounds, she let me cry when I was scared and celebrated with me when I was happy. When I left to the U.S. she gave me gifts and promised to come hold my baby boy in Orlando.A couple of weeks a go, Peace Corps held their Doctors' conference at a resort near Disney. Dr. Carmen reached out to me and asked if she could still come and meet my baby boy, she wanted to visit his grave while here. It was a heartbreaking reunion for me. It was so good to see her and so sad all at the same time. Instead of going to the grave site, I asked if I could share my Mateo box with her instead. We sat and looked through his pictures, we held his little things, smelled his baby blanket. One by one we marveled over how little he was, how cute he was, never having to say but wishing that he still were here. She cried and I cried and it felt so good to cry with somebody. She apologized for crying, people always do. If you only knew how much it means to me to share in that human moment. People are comfortable sharing in your happiness, no one wants to share in your pain, but as a human, I need both. Because she was there from the beginning, because she knew how hard this choice was and the depths of depression I had to wade through. Because she knew how happy I was those last two months, especially that last month. Because as she cried she just kept saying over and over " It's not fair", the most comforting words anyone can share with me. Not that there is a plan, not that I will have more children, not that I will see him in heaven- but "It's not fair". Because it isn't. Because it's random and science and nature and God all in one. And it's hard. I am so grateful to have gotten the chance to see her and cry and laugh and spend time with my Mateo's other momma.

I have been thinking about identity . When loss of this magnitude happens in your life obviously you are changed but it is up to you how you are defined. One of the things I used to struggle with when I was pregnant was my identity and trying to understand how mother's find a balance between being their own person and being a mother. I didn't just want want to be Mateo's mother and give up on my hopes and my dreams. I know that I am meant to play many roles and be many things and while I want mother to be one of them, I don't want it to be the only role. Now I am faced with a similar identity challenge, for while I am a grieving mother, this is not my only role. I still have hopes and dreams for myself that are now intertwined with the shattered hopes and dreams of being Mateo's mother. My identity now runs parallel to itself, split into the person I am and the person I want to be. I want to be the mother of a Mateo who is alive and that can never be and so that identity hangs above me. It is the morning dew, the light mist that touches all things at the beginning of the day blessing it with its presence. It is ever present, this ache, this want, but I am finally starting to allow it to be a part of me instead of all of me. I am a grieving mother. It is one of the many layers to the person I become every day. Some days I am more of a grieving mother than I am anything else. Some days I am more of a daughter, other days I am mostly an activist but on all days I am all things. I give myself permission to be a multidimensional human being, one allowed to be all things when need be and nothing when it is called for.

I feel myself getting stronger but I am not yet strong. Not like before. I know I can never go back but I can become a new kind of strong. Still, I am not there yet. My scars are still too fresh, my pain still too exposed. I am at a transitional place in my life and I have some important decisions to make about my future. I used to be brave. I used to be fearless. Now I revel in caution, I give gold medals to security, I function in familiarity. How long is it okay for me to stand still before I have to take a leap of faith? I do not trust life. How can I? Life does not guarantee that things will work out and I understand this in an intimate way. My cells can testify. Life is random and good things happen and bad things happen and some things just happen with no value at all and you cannot control any of it. You can control your reaction, some of the causes and effects, become an outlier to circumstances. You can create your life to the best of your ability to maximize your level of happiness but always, and I do mean always working within the confines of the reality that all the things you work so hard to control are subject to randomness of life with every passing moment. That life happens to you while you create life and like those Russian dolls that fit inside each other your reality fits inside your circumstances fits inside your perception fits inside karma fits inside whatever. All of it. One inside of the other. And that you control everything while at the same time not controlling anything at all. So I do not trust life because it is not reliable. It is not predictable. It follows no rules. It does not care about fair or right or wrong. It doesn't care that I do not trust it, it owes me nothing and does not aim to win me over. It does what it is created to do, exist. All of the other things just fit inside each other. 

Lantern Ceremony for Baby Mateo

Tonight the members from my HEAL Group and I had a lantern lighting Ceremony in memory of of our babies. As I watched his lantern go up into the sky and become more and distant, higher and higher into the sky I couldn't help but pry for it to reach heaven. I wanted the flame to never burn out. Up, up, up past the clouds and beyond the veil and into the arms of my son. I wanted his lantern to reach him in heaven. Because the small things matter, the ceremonies matter. The moments of honor matter. 

He matters to me and I love him.

                                       This was Baby Mateo's Lantern headed towards heaven

Dreams are just this, and death is just that, and the possibility of anything else is also true.

To be read. 

To be heard. 

To be seen.

 I want to be read, I want to be heard. 

I don't want to be seen.

 To write requires an ego, a belief that what you say matters. 

Writing also requires an aching curiosity leading you to discover, 

uncover, what is gnawing at your bones. -Terry Tempest Willaims

A couple of people have shared with me that they have had Baby Mateo dreams recently. Dreams where they see him, feel him, dreams where he tells them things. I have not had such dreams. What are dreams but a reflection of our psyches? The time when the brain sees an opportunity to process, to take advantage of your stillness and silence and filter through those thoughts you don't make time for. Those feelings that had to be rescheduled make a new appointment during your REM cycle where they will not be ignored. And so what is a dream but neurons and science and psychology? They are that. But only that? Because if you tell me that to your dream with Baby Mateo was a message for me from him who am I to say it wasn't? How do I know Angels don't also schedule appointments during the REM cycle where they will not be ignored? Dreams are just this and death is just that and the possibility of anything else is also true. So Baby Mateo appears to some people in my life and to some of them he shares messages to relay to me. Why doesn't he just come to me? Maybe all my REM time slots are booked until next year and he just couldn't wait. Maybe he just absolutely had to let me know he loves me even if it means going through someone else. Is it real? Who cares. It is real to the people who dream it and so I will honor their dreams and their messages with the kind of gratitude that only a mom who will never hear her child speak can have when someone tells her, your baby has something he wants to say to you.

Right after the Boston Marathon Bombing my mom made a comment about how the bomber's mother was defending her son and was on his way to come and see him. My mom was appalled that she would stand by such a monster. But to that woman that is still her child. Is he a terrorist? Yes. Is he a murderer? Yes. Is he her son whom she loves? Yes. I will not ask that woman to renounce her love for her son. This week with all the news about George Zimmerman and Trayvon Martin I heard an interview that quoted George Zimmerman's parents. They said they were standing with their son and praying for Trayvon Martin's parents. I pictured George Zimmerman's mother, relieved that her son is free and probably scared of what his life will be like from now on. I pictured Trayvon Martin's mother, inconsolable inside, feeling as if she has now lost her son twice at the hands of injustice.No matter where your opinion falls on the case and the situation there are these two mothers who love their sons, no matter who they are and what they've done. They grieve and they cry and they love with permission only the person who gave you life can wear. I remember talking to Mateo when I was pregnant. I would rub my belly and assure him that I would do everything in my power to make sure he would grow up to be a good man. That I would teach him manners, and compassion and kindness. That I would raise him to be respectful and well educated and patient. I would tell him that I wasn't quite sure how to do all this but that I would try very hard, because he was my son. My son. And there was pride in that. I don't get to raise my son. But these women did and however their sons turned out they still love them. I understand that love. I may not understand their parenting but I understand that love. I may not understand their sons and their actions, but I understand that love. And so when they stand by their sons, I wont be the one to ask any less of them. I understand that love.

I was reading an article about First Lady Jackie Kennedy this week. I grew up learning about her here and there. People thought she was beautiful. Her husband cheated on her very publicly. She had a very tragic life. She was a good mother. What I didn't know is that she experienced child loss, twice. She had a miscarriage earlier in her marriage and gave birth to a baby girl who was still born. When she gave birth to this little girl she was around 36 weeks pregnant and her husband was allegedly off skiing with some friends and his latest mistress. What a sad story. I can't imagine being such a public figure and experiencing such a personal loss. Not a private loss, because I feel like friends and family are the key towards healing so it is not meant to be private, but personal. And then I took a moment to check myself- was I pitying her? Because not too long a go a friend commented on how she and another mutual friend were catching up and my name came up. The conversation went something along the lines of " I heard about Ana" "Yea, how awful". And so when my name is brought up in conversation between my friends now, it is done with pity. And sadness. Poor Ana. Forever marked by this loss as someone no one wants to be. Let's pity her from a safe distance. And now here I was possibly doing it to Mrs. Kennedy. But then I realized that I sympathize with Jackie Kennedy. The word sympathize literally means "to suffer together". When I heard her about her loss I ached with her. I do not pity her. We suffer together. And so when my name comes up in conversation do not pity me. If you are commenting on my loss, sympathize with me. Not  "poor Ana" but, rather "my dear friend Ana". Own me and my pain in sympathy.Not Pity.

I am meeting up with some of the members of my HEAL support group later tonight. It has been about a month since we last saw each other and it will be nice to check in. I am trying to make sure I stay connected. It is so easy to isolate myself. To disappear and become so busy in my own head that even the angels have to make appointments to reach me in my sleep only to end up wait listed. So I am trying to create space for people and sharing and angels and healing. Feel free to reach out to me and ask me how I am doing with my grief. It gives me a chance to have to be present with someone else and answer honestly. I appreciate the sympathy and the friendship through this loss and into my healing.

This Started One Million Years Ago But Still Goes On Today

I got pregnant a year ago this week. It feels like a million years ago. I was pregnant a millennial ago. One million years ago this young girl became pregnant. A little life formed inside of her and grew. As it grew so did her love. Then just as quickly as this little life came, it went. But the love did not stop. It continued to grow. It still grows in all the places in her body where a child should have been, should be, could be, but isn't. This started one million years ago but still goes on today.

Feeling is exhausting. I do not judge people for all the ways they have created to escape feeling. People escape with food, entertainment, drugs, alcohol, music, sleep. These things can either take us into feeling and through it or they can numb us from it. I find myself wanting to run from feeling. Coming home and turning on Netflix and staring at the screen. I am not always sure what I am even watching. I am everywhere but here with my feelings. I do some proactive things, like my support group, heart to heart with Penny's group, therapy some times. Sometimes I call friends or I journal. Every now and then I blog ;) But still I find myself resisting. The feeling that prevails  mostly these days is sadness. I wear a blanket of sadness at all times. Can't the world just see how sad I am? How incredibly heartbroken I am? I feel like it is obvious until someone asks me how I am doing. Oh- they can't tell? How am I? I am dripping with sadness. Like a wet blanket thrown over me. I am heavy with it. 

It is hard to not be overwhelmed with expectations. My own expectations. "I should be... " this or that. I remind myself to breathe. How do I merge who I want to be with who I am while taking into account who I have been? Other people expect things from me. Work expects me to be invested. Friends expect me to call. Some people expect me to give more of me than I am willing to or ready to. Sorry I can't get out of bed right now, I am exhausted from spending all day picking up the pieces of my broken heart. That is what I do all day. Pain management. Life management. Piece by Piece. Yea, I can't go out dancing. Not any night this week. I have to sit at home and rest, I had another long hard day of heartbreak.

My life might not be what I want it to be but it is what I need it to be right now. I spend a lot of time alone. I walk my dog. I go to Zumba. I find myself wishing I did more, that I were more than a grieving mother. That I were fun again and alive again. I want to be perky. Instead I am wiser. Patient. Calm. I do not speed while driving anymore. Places will still be there when I get there. If I miss something, I missed something. Nothing is a matter of life and death until it actually is a matter of life and death. When you have been faced with an actual matter of life and death it is hard to fill your day with things that simply disguise themselves as important. I am important. And so I am where I need to be right now. I read and I am quiet and I am lonely even when I am not alone. And I take all this in and say this is my life. The one I have created right now so that I can get through right now. The one I need.

Getting Closer

Go on, the voices say, part the veil.

Not with your hands. Hands will only

tangle the hours like a net. Get closer.

So you can part the veil with your breath.

The world keeps moving in on itself. It's

what it does. Cobwebs. Opinions. Moss.

Worries. Dirt. Leaves. History. Go on. Put

them down and get real close. Open your

mouth and inhale all the way to the begin-

ning, which lives within us, not behind us.

Then wait. When something ordinary starts

to glow, life is opening. When the light off

the river paints the roots of an old willow

just as you pass, the world is telling you to

stop running. Forget what it means, just

stop running. When the moon makes you

finger the wet grass, the veil is parting.

When the knot you carry is loosened,

the veil is parting. When you can't help

but say yes to all that is waiting, the veil

is parting.

Coincidences Within Reach and the Other Shit That Just Happens

I am not always sure if I believe in coincidences. Most things feel intertwined, it feels as though events are interconnected and fueled through Karmic energy. And sometimes shit just happens. I have been having a very hard time managing my grief this last week or so. Usually that makes me more of a shut in than usual but tonight I decided to go with a friend to a showing of the movie Within Reach. The movie is about a couple that sells everything in order to ride their bikes around the U.S. in the search for a new home in an eco-community in order to pursue a sustainable lifestyle. Is it a coincidence that it touched on so many of the things I needed to hear? Maybe. What I do know is that I walked away with a renewed sense of purpose.

Because my coming home from the Peace Corps went hand in had with my losing Mateo, I have not really had the chance to process that experience or my transition back into the U.S. I really struggle with feeling sucked back into the American way of life and feeling I am betraying the valuable things I learned. For 2 years I went with so little and so I struggle with being here and seeing Americans have so much. I struggle with being one of those Americans. So what do I do? Sell everything I own and bike around the U.S. in hopes of finding something that meets my needs of Peace Corps sacrifice and living? I probably won't do that. What I will do is dedicate year 29 of my life to Sustainable Living and Consciousness.

I have been battling with the idea of my future. What does my life means now post child loss? I get overwhelmed at a lifetime of heartbreak. I have not been looking forward to my 29th birthday. Well it is all still overwhelming and heartbreaking and 29 will be blanketed with grief- but I can also set an intention for this year that is unrelated to my grief. I can create space in my life for fulfilling that desire to become a person of conscious in the way that I consume.

Therefore I declare year 29 The Year of Sustainability and Social Consciousness! What does that mean?
For one whole year, 365 days, 12 months I will make conscious decisions about where I spend my money and what I put in my body. I have created some guidelines to help me come to this place...

* I will not buy anything new- at all-ever

* I will not buy anything I do not need

* The $10.00 Spending Rule

* I will shop local and organic

* I will be kind to myself and to my body

* I will be creative this year- trade, bargain, beg, and wish my way through situations

Of course there will be things I will have to spend money on like Utilities, Gas, and toilet paper and charities. I have made a list of the necessities. The only exception to the rule is my vacation at the end of the year- which I have been planning for and is part of another goal and promise to a friend. We will see all 7 Wonders of the World in 7 years. So beside the week I will spend in Italy later this year I will go back to my Peace Corps roots. Can I do this? Can I really pass up the Victoria Secret semi annual sale? Will I have to deactivate my Amazon account? How the hell am I going to do Christmas? It is going to be a real test of my willingness to recreate my life in a way that turns its back on the excesses of consumerism and embraces sustainability and creativity. I know the kind of person I want to be and the kind of life I want to have. The time is now.

Sad People Will Say. Tragic. Beautiful. Raw. And Broken.

The Hard Human Spring

We are each born with a gift hidden in

a wound, and many years to birth it, each

given a heat to carry and rough seas to calm

it, each seeded with a worthiness, and love after

love through which to accept it, each called to

enter sorrow like an underwater cave, with the

breathless chance to break surface in the same

world with everything aglow. If we make it this

far, we can, on any given day, marvel that clouds

are clouds, and name ourselves. We can use the

gift born of our wound to find an unmarked spot

from which to live. If we settle there, giving our

all without giving ourselves away, the heart

within our heart will flower and the whole

world will eat of its nectar.

I am a couple of days from my 29th birthday. A spring chicken someone called me this week. Funny- I have never felt so old in my life but then again technically I have never been so old in my life. I didn't anticipate my birthday being a trigger but a week after my birthday- exactly one year ago from my birthday, I got pregnant. I spent the whole time I was 28 either pregnant or grieving. That whole year of my life is dedicated to that life changing event. So 29- what does 29 bring? Pain management. This year, like many years to come, maybe every year to come is about managing the heartbreak. Learning to parent a child who isn't here. Figuring out how to be born out of the ashes my child's body has become. At first I was overwhelmed with the life sentence- this heartbreak is a life sentence. Now I am more accepting of it- acknowledging the role it plays in my life. I do not fight it but I do not want it. I can't describe what it feels like to succumb to the reality that for the rest of your life there is this part of you that is missing. And nothing- and there is absolutely nothing that will fill that space. To have lost so much in that one moment. What do I have left? Time. Minutes, days, months, years, if I am lucky. Birthday after birthday with heartbreak managed in between for which I am supposed to be grateful. Thank the heavens that have my child to have lived another day without him? I wont be blowing out any birthday candles anytime soon.

My 7 week grief support group came to an end and this was the first week I did not find myself  going to it on a Thursday night. I have really learned the value of sharing in this with people who understand. For no other purpose but to be emotionally held. I do not have anyone to hold me physically. When I cry in my room, I cry alone.  There is no one to say there, there. No pat on the back, no one to cuddle me. No one should have to do this alone.  And so since I do not have that physical option, I yearn for the emotional alternative. Anyone who will listen to me. Who will let me cry and will cry with me. It is like hugging my soul when someone wants to talk about Mateo with me. I feel so completely alone. I was prepared to raise him on my own. I was not prepared to lose him on my own. 

There are days. Some of them have good moments, some of them bad. I have entire days that are bad days. There are no good days. No 24 hour period of happiness. I do not go to bed ever- ever thinking this was a great day. I think -this day had good moments but event then this is till my life and that is ever present in my consciousness. Today was a hard day. All day. Hopefully tomorrow will have some good moments. Someone reminded me that grief does not change you, it reveals you. What if all it does is reveal how broken you are? How fragmented you have become? Then after grief will have served its purpose of revealing you, you are left to find the shattered pieces in the hidden corners of your life? It is Impossible to put you back together and now revealed to the world as your own broken piece of art. Sad people will say. Tragic. Beautiful. Raw. And Broken.

To Be Born Again and Other Things of Consequences

"The other thing we often would rather not hear when we are dealing with intense sadness is that the only way out of it is through it. Sitting with our sadness takes the courage to believe that we can bear the pain and the faith that we will come out the other side. With courage, we can allow ourselves to cycle through the grieving process with full inner permission to experience it. This is a powerful teaching that sadness has to offer us—the ability to surrender and the acceptance of change go hand in hand."

On Mother's Day I got an email from a friend that said " I would have sent you a card but I couldn't find any that said Crappy Mother's Day, Life Sucks." I would have loved that card. I definitely appreciated the email. I am really touched by all the people who reached out to me that day in kindness and wished me a mother's day. No one said it in a celebratory way, but in a we love you and acknowledge you are the saddest kind of mother way. Thank You.

I recently got back from a trip to New York. I went into the trip aware of all the potential triggers since New York was one of the last places I was in when I was pregnant, and I stayed in the same apartment with the same people. Never would I have imagined going back there without my baby. Overall I think I did pretty well. It helped that I talked about it before hand with my support group and with my therapist and with some friends. I understand why people move away from places where traumatic events happened to them. I never drive by the hospital where I gave birth. I never sit in the same restaurants I ate when I was pregnant. Because those things didn't happen in Orlando. I am not triggered in the same way many of the women in my group are. I knew that going up to New York would be hard but I really wanted to be there for my best friend's graduation. The trick was honoring the joy I felt for her while simultaneously grieving. It helped that my other friend who lives in New York, in the same apartment wanted to talk about Mateo. She asked questions and since she is a labor and delivery nurse she had some insight. I don't like pretending he isn't on my mind. I don't like actively not talking about him when all I want to do is shout I miss my baby over and over for hours. I don't like not having the space to cry. Sometimes I want to cry. Sometimes I need to. So I think I did pretty well on this trip, I celebrated when I needed to and I cried when I needed to. By the last day I was ready to teleport into my bed and hold my Mateo 's blanket I usually sleep with. Still, I am glad I went and witnessed such an important moment in my best friend's life. It wasn't about pushing my feelings to be there for her, with grief- that's impossible. It was about stepping out of the narrowness of my pain and being able to feel the full spectrum of what it means to be alive. Just as I weep in sorrow, I weep with pride. I am allowed to feel all of the things I do with reverence instead of judgement.

I am becoming painfully aware of the cycles my grief manifests itself through. Sometimes I feel like I will have worked through one specific area only to find myself needing to process it again months later. Sometimes I miss who Mateo would be today. How old he would be. What those cute little toes would like. I'll spend days, sometimes weeks wishing I could see what he would look like today. Then at other times I miss future Mateo. All the things we would have done. The trips we were supposed to take. The milestones. Graduations and Weddings. The pride of raising a baby into a man. I'll spend weeks mourning that. Sometimes I miss my pregnancy. The kicking and the round belly. The glow. Even the heartburn. And times like right now I miss the Mateo I knew. The little guy I got to hold. The baby I stood next to in the NICU for those couple of days. He had the sweetest face. And my nose. He was so little and soft. That's the only version of him I'll ever get to touch. I can't describe what it feels like to want to touch somebody with every cell in your body. I want to touch him, to hold him more than I want absolutely anything else in life. I don't usually use absolutes because I feel that there are exceptions to most things. But I can say with all certainty that I would do anything to hold his little hand again. To kiss his little face. And not even in heaven would I get a chance to do that because that would be then a different experience. Time does not go back. No matter how much I want it to. If sheer heartbreak and desire could take me back there I'd live in that moment. Holding him in my arms and kissing his face. I'd create some sort of Groundhog's day time warp, where every day I would wake up to the one time I got to hold him. I often wish that I would have held him longer. That they would have had to pry him out of my hands. But I was just so tired. And so sad. And his little body was cold and I knew it was time to wrap him up in his little blanket and let go. But now I am so sad that I didn't spend more time with his body because it was the one and only time I ever got to hold my son. What an awful thing to know and not be able to fully understand in the moment. This is the one and only time you will ever hold your baby- here you go. What an awful thing to do to a person's heart.

How do you ever come back from that? I don't think you do. A new version of you is born the moment your child dies. I will never love with reckless abandonment. I will never have a future pregnancy free of stress and heartbreak. I will never not expect the worst, because sometimes the worst happens and sometimes it happens to me. The day the new me was born at the mercy of my child's death I lost all innocence. I can't tell you what it is like to look at the world through this lens. It as though I have sobered up and now I see that there is no limit to the pain one can endure. There is no limit to the love one can feel. I am now a little more serious, a little more dark. I am sadder behind the eyes. I fear I'll always be. I am tainted by my heartbreak and it is though I leave a small stain on everything I experience. Nothing goes through me without being touched by my loss. It is the filter of my life. I hear it becomes less intense. That the pain dulls some. But the changes are permanent. I was born again the day my baby died and now this is the life I live.

“So listen to this fleeting world, a star at dawn, a bubble in a stream, a flash of lightning in a summer cloud, a flickering lamp, a phantom, and a dream.”- Diamond Sutra Gatha

International Bereaved Mothers Day: The Shittiest Remembrance Day Ever

Moments of Purposeful Solitude 

You need to pause at least once a day and spend a few moments breathing silently.  Use these moments to think and consciously separate the past from the present and future.  Responsibilities, obligations, unfinished business, family and friends can all survive without you while you take these moments for yourself. You deserve this time away. You deserve to think peacefully, free from external pressure.  No problems to solve, hands to shake, or people to please.  Sometimes you need to make time for yourself, away from the busy world you live in that doesn't make time for you.

I have had a handful of conversations this week around the idea of purpose. I have had this restlessness in my heart lately. This feeling that I am not doing enough, being enough, trying enough- that I am not living up to my life's purpose. I know so much of it comes from having to redirect my life from "I should be a mom right now" to who am I right now? But even when I was pregnant I knew that while being a mom is the most important role I could play in my life, it isn't the only role I am meant to play. I am a daughter and an activist and an organizer and a friend and a writer and on and on. I am meant to do and be all in one, all at once. So these last couple of weeks of really feeling like I am not living up to my life's purpose have slowly but surely sent me towards depression. I find myself retreating, not calling people back, spending lots of time alone in my room knowing the possibilities are endless but the motivation is none. Grief does not just run its course. It isn't a bad cold. It does not have an expiration date. I have to work through it and depression is part of it.

After talking out this feeling of restlessness I came to a better place with purpose and where I am in life. I let go of this gran-dios  notion of how I am meant to be amazing and remembered that the only way that happens is to do amazing things every day. I give purpose to my life. What I do matters in every way that I make it so. The person that I bring to every situation and interaction, that person matters. The person I am when I am at work, the person I bring into support group meetings, the person who makes time to write this blog. I give those moments purpose therefore I give my life meaning. This transitional period in my life, this period of grief, I will honor that. I will be here with it so that eventually I can create purpose in other spaces of my life. Sometimes I resent having to take this time, feeling like I lost a year or two or however long this part of the process will take on top of losing my baby. Haven't I lost enough? And you know what? I am right. It fucking sucks. But its my life. And I will take a year or two or however long it takes to be in this part of the process. My life isn't on hold while I grieve. Grieving is a part of my life.Life is happening now. I am not losing this time, I am trying to make the most of it. This is life, welcome it.

Today is International Bereaved Mothers Day. What a shitty holiday. Quite possibly the worst remembrance day ever. I once heard the statistic that one in four pregnancies ends in child loss. Losing a child seems to be as common as having one except no one likes to talk about the loss part. No one prepares you when you are pregnant and everyone collectively sighs after the twelve week mark- all clear. Bullshit. It is never all clear. You can never collectively sigh. Life is fragile from the moment of conception until the moment you take that last breath. Health is guaranteed to no one and nature is as random in its selection as it seems to be cruel. Nature does not take into account values and ethics. It doesn't care about morals. That's why a 15 year old can have a completely healthy baby and leave it in a bathroom stall at her prom and the mothers in my group can spend their whole lives trying to bring just one healthy baby home. Nature doesn't care about fairness. It doesn't put mothers on a scale where the ones with better life circumstances all deserve children and all other moms need not apply. Nature doesn't know that I would have been a great mother to Mateo and it doesn't care. I am not owed his life anymore than the 1 out of 4 mothers whose pregnancies have ended in loss. I am not owed my child any more than any mother who has lost and loved. But God do I wish I were....

Next week is Mother's Day. What might also turn out to be another crappy remembrance day for me. It has been brought up in different groups and the question keeps coming up- Do I want to be honored that day? Am I not still a mother? Will I be hurt if no one wishes me a happy mother's day? Honestly, I don't know. I am a mother, even if I am the saddest kind of mother. So do I want people to wish me a happy mother's day? Sure. Do I want people to not wish me a happy mother's day? Ok. I'll welcome the kindness and forgive the rest.

This week for our support group we have been asked to write a letter to our children. I wrote Mateo a letter and had it places in his casket. I think sometimes of the worlds smallest skeleton lying in the world smallest casket and this long handwritten letter preserved in a way he never could be. In the letter I told him many things but mostly that I was sorry and that I love him. Boy, do I love him. In this very deep way I never knew possible and so therefore I hurt in this very deep way I never knew possible. So now I will write him another letter and share it in my support group. I am not sure what it will say, something along the lines of I love you...that's all I really have to say these days....

In all the ways I am changed, I honor him

Grief is hard work. I haven't blogged for the lat couple of weeks because I fell off the wagon. I stopped doing grief work. I didn't journal, or blog, or read. I neglected the tools I usually use for mental balance, oh and I was eating like shit. I am doing that seven week course on infant loss and grief, and well I am exhausted from grieving. It is hard work. But ignoring my grief work only made me feel worse. I once read a book about a girl who had Turrets, she described the overwhelming need to shout out and how exhausting it was to feel that way all day. Sometimes she would hold it in, trying to ignore it, but it would just build and build until the point where she literally felt she was going to implode and boom! She would shout at the top of her lungs, wondering why she ever even considered holding it in. Release. Oh yea, she was holding it in because she's exhausted. I have Turrets of the soul. Grief Turrets. And when I hold it in, it just builds and builds. I'm exhausted. Still, this week I decided to return to my practice, that while time consuming and energy consuming also give as much as they take. Consciousness and being present with my pain is not easy. It is so much easier to pretend I'm okay. But inside I am building and building up. Begging for release.

A friend once told me of a study she read where they explained why people slow down to look at car accidents. They mapped the brains of people and found that we don't slow down to stare at accidents on the side of the road because we are nosy or morbid, we have this built in impulse to look because our brains are trying to learn from it. We have this built mechanism to witness tragedy and to protect ourselves from it in the future. I think the need to talk about losing a child works similarly. At support group meetings we witness each other's wreckage, our heartbreaks and life changing accidents. We do this to learn from each other. Not to learn to not lose children in the future, but rather to learn everything we can about it right now so no matter what the future holds, we have learned something. I listen to some stories and think "I could never go through that" the same way I am sure someone thinks it about me. It forces you to unload some of your own pain and witness someone else's. It allows you to find some things to be grateful for in your own story, it teaches to cry with others through theirs. So I am not done retelling my story. I am not done learning from it or teaching from it. I "shouldn't" be over it by now. People who judge the status of my well being by pictures on Facebook, pictures of me smiling, and being a human being who feels a range of emotions, well I wish they would ask me how I am doing. But maybe it's easier to look at the pictures and say, oh good, she's fine, no need to check in with her. There will always be a need to check in with me. My baby died.

This weekend is the March of Dimes Walk. In our grief group we talked about honoring our children. We explored the reality that every time you do something in your life through the lens of your love for your child, your loss, being a parent, being someone who is changed, in those moments you honor your child. There are big public ways of honoring, like this walk. But there are also personal, daily ways. In every way you are changed and the decisions that come from that, you honor child. Wether it's made you a little kinder to your other children, a little more grateful to the people in your life, a little more humble about your place in the universe, a little more faith in your religious beliefs. All of it, any of it. You honor your child. Whenever I reach out and touch someone through the lens of my experience, I honor Mateo. And well in his honor I'd do anything, including keeping up and continuing to share with my grief work.

March of Dimes and things of a similar nature

Take in your grief in small workable pieces. One by one, piece by piece. For if you were to try and take it all in at once I believe you would go insane. Mad. Bonkers. So, in order to avoid pure unadulterated insanity, take in your grief in small workable pieces. Sit with each piece. Honor the first as much as the last. Every piece matters and deserves the time and respect of being processed. I think of the morning after Mateo passed away. If on that morning I could have truly wrapped my head around all of it, most of, more than my little piece, I'd never had made it. This method of healing is a blessing and a curse. A blessing because it protects you from madness. A curse because at every turn it seems one uncovers a new piece. Whenever I start to come to terms with one facet of my pain another piece is released, ready to be sat with. It is exhausting. I want to stop uncovering pieces but if given the choice Ill take this path over denial or insanity.

This weekend a group of people who love me and I walked in the Central Florida March of Dimes 5k. I do not cease to be humbled by the outpouring of love and support from so many people. You know whats eye opening? The people I thought would be there for me have bowed out for many reasons. But so many more people have supported me in more ways than I can count. Thank You. You know who you are. I am eternally grateful. One of the surprising acts of support came from the Peace Corps staff in Peru. They raised more money than I would have ever asked for and on Saturday showed solidarity from Peru by wearing Team Mateo Shirts they made. Here is part of the letter I wrote in response..

Dear Carmen and Cuerpo de Paz Team Mateo

Thank you so much for the support. The walk on Saturday was moving and inspiring. Over 6,000 people came together in Orlando to walk in hopes of ending premature labor and infant death. I hope that in my lifetime I will witness the medical advancements necessary so that other mothers may be spared the loss of a child as I have endured. But even if science never catches up with nature, then at the very least I hope March of Dimes investment in education meets it halfway. Sometimes I am asked if anything good has come from this experience. There is nothing good about losing a baby. I cannot describe what it is like to watch your baby take his last breath. But there is something good about people. People who come together and hold me up when I cannot do it alone. Good people who honor baby Mateo whether its through sponsoring a walk or holding my hand. Thank you for your kindness. I feel like I gave so much of myself as a Peace Corps volunteer and I did with no expectations of what's in it for me? Having walked away from my service with such a wonderful support system through all of you teaches me that I underestimated the value of a giving heart shown through hard working hands. I gave of me, but I have gotten so much more in return, including all of your love. For that I am changed and forever grateful.

With a humble heart
Anita


Oh Life...


Sometimes, in the midst of working through frustrations, it's possible to glimpse the truth that, though I'm frustrated, not everything is frustrating. Sometimes, in the midst of sadness, it's possible to glimpse that, though I'm sad, not everything is sad. 

A Question to Walk With: Identify a mood of frustration or sadness that you are currently struggling with. Without denying or minimizing your frustration or sadness, let your mind and heart open beyond your struggle and describe, if you can, life around you that is not frustrating or sad. What does it feel like to allow both to take up space in your mind and heart at the same time?- Mark Nepo

Grief Inside, Love by my side

Your love creates your happiness. – The happiness you feel is in direct proportion to the love you give. When you love, you subconsciously strive to become better than you are. When you strive to become better than you are, everything around you becomes better too. During your youth, love will be your teacher; in your middle age, love will be your foundation; and in your old age, love will be your fondest memories and your greatest delight. (Read The Road Less Traveled)

This week I started going to a 7 week course offered by the hospital on grieving child loss, the HEAL Group. I was hesitant about signing up because I felt like it is geared towards couples, and I am not a couple. I am the only single mom in any of the support groups I attend, at least that I know of. But I decided to try any way and if I was really uncomfortable I just wouldn't go back. The day of the first class was so super hectic, I was late out of a previous meeting, I put the wrong address in the GPS, it was raining. I almost turned around and went home, telling myself you can do it the next time they offer it. But I made it. And when I sat down, all out of breath and stressed and tired and the man who hosts this group started to share what grief means to him, I could feel myself settling back into my body. Like a plant thirty for water, my cells perked up and pleaded for knowledge. My need to understand grief and how to live with it is insatiable. It being my silent life partner, sometimes taking up all the space in my mind, in the room, in the world. How do I live with something like that? So this man starts to describe grief as he sees it and has experienced it and cultivated a curriculum around it. And he describes grief as a wound. A wound I understand. My grief at first feeling exposed and raw and so incredibly painful, a gaping wound in my soul. So he asked, how do you treat a wound? You take care of it. You tend to it. You put medicine on it. The ultimate goal being- the smallest scar possible. Wounds heal, so therefore so can my grief. My grief might heal but I am and always will be undeniably scarred.

The question "How do you parent a child that is no longer with us?" Was asked. I am still a parent. I will always be Mateo's mother. To create a child, let him grow inside if you and have his needs be your needs, his life and development completely in your hands- that is parenting. I have mentioned before that just because my baby is gone doesn't mean my desire to be a mom is gone. I felt so validated when in the teacher made a comment almost verbatim. He followed it by asking How do you parent this child now that he's gone? This is what we will explore in this class.

This weekend I spent some time with a friend from the grief group. First of all, I have to say that apparently child loss only happens to the nicest people in the world. The couples who come into these meetings and groups, these women and men, I have yet to meet someone I did not think was painstakingly sweet. All of them. Every last one of them deserved their child, if kindness in your heart was the prerequisite for bringing your baby home. But nothing is owed to us, not even if you are the sweetest couple who has been trying for years, or the sweetest couple who had a wonderful surprise. All of these couples, excited, with nurseries decorated and baby showers thrown. The nicest people ever with the emptiest arms imaginable. So with that said, I spent some time with a friend I made through my support group. Most of her support system is in another state and we could both use some kinship. This week is especially hard for her and so her two best friends flew in from out of state to spend time with her. It was so incredibly sweet to witness. They love her so much. It is undeniable. They took the week off work to be by her side. To lay in bed with her and keep her company. How blessed she is to be loved so. I once read this article about elephants, when a baby elephant dies all the women in their group come together and surround the mother. They caress her with their trunks, they grieve with her and stand by her side for as long as she needs them. This is what that felt like. I am grateful to have been allowed into their circle and limited time together. I felt cared for by osmosis. It made me realize just how much you need people during your grief. People who want to do nothing but hold your hand and honor your loss with you. While no one is offering to spend a week in my company ( though I would welcome it) I do recognize all the ways people in my life have stood by my side. I have been shown love in so many different ways and my heart hurts with gratitude at the thought. I will add this weekend to the list. Maybe I didn't cultivate the kind if friendships where people lay in bed with me and hold my hand, and maybe I can try to be better in the future. Still I am loved in the ways that I am and I was reminded of just how important it is to have women by your side.

Heart to Heart Resuscitation and other things I hardly do but want to

"Everything that happens helps you grow, even if it’s hard to see right now. Circumstances will direct you, correct you, and perfect you over time. So whatever you do, hold on to hope. The tiniest thread will twist into an unbreakable cord. Let hope anchor you in the possibility that this is not the end of your story – that the change in the tides will eventually bring you to peaceful shores."

Yesterday I spent some time with a group of powerful women who come together for what they called "heart to heart resuscitation". It was wonderful. It was one of those moments in time when you feel connected to the universe and you know you are right where you should be, in the company of strong women, good food and great conversation.

So this morning when I woke up I did something I hardly ever do, I prayed. I thanked the universe for all of its glory and I asked to be touched by it today. I am in the process of processing my hurt around Mateo's father and creating a path towards forgiveness. I get overwhelmed at the thought of starting that process. I get even more overwhelmed at the thought of never doing it.

I also did something else I hardly ever do, I cried, with others. I cried with this couple who lost their baby a week a go and shared their story at our support group. I tried to remember what I felt like 4 months ago, a week out of Mateo passing away. I was a zombie. A fucking zombie. I don't know how I made it past the first week, the first month. I am sure at some point I will add the first year, until eventually I stop measuring the time and then it just becomes- I don't know how I made it past the death of my baby, but I did. So I cried with this couple. I shared in their grief, I allowed myself to feel it and to be connected in this way I have not been able to before. When I tell my Mateo story I do not cry. I do not break down in front of people, I often wish I could. I wish the tears would just stream down my face and I could ask someone to hold me, to grieve with me. I may not be ready to be that vulnerable with my grief but I think it was a real breakthrough to share in someone else's today. Maybe the Universe heard my prayer after all.

I feel like the gravity of what it means to lose a child slowly leaks into my consciousness. If I were to feel it all at once, I am sure my heart would explode. Actually I am certain I would have killed myself. If I would have woken up the morning after Mateo and fully felt the magnitude of what it means that your baby is gone, I would have joined him. I think the mind and the body have instinctual ways of self preservation. They want to survive even if your baby didn't. So little by little I come to understand and to really feel what it means to not have Mateo in my arms. I watched his sonogram DVD for the first time recently. I wanted to see him, to hear his heartbeat. I didn't meltdown. Four months since you lost a child is really not a very long time. I don't know if any amount ever will be, but I can feel that four months might as well be 4 days when it comes to missing him. And yet in 4 months I have taught myself to walk into my grief, to not run from it, to be as present as my mind and my body will allow me to be.

You mustn’t befrightened

if a sadness

rises in front of you,

larger than any you’ve ever seen;

if an anxiety,

like light and cloud-shadows,

moves over your hands and over

everything you do.

You must realize that something is

happening to you,

that life has not forgotten you,

that it holds you in its hand

and will not let you fall.

                       Rainer Maria Rilke