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. 

In Due Time and that time I was Due!

Recently someone asked me what it was about upcoming due dates that was especially hard after perinatal child loss. Birthdays and death dates are easier for others to understand, those are tangible reminders but a due date? What is it about the anniversary of a due date that brings up so much anxiety and grief? Today is my due date. I remember sitting in Dr. Carmen's office as she adjusted the small paper wheel and calculated that on March 25th 2012 my baby would come home with me, give or take a couple of days. Once you have that date, your whole life becomes about that date, planning for that date, because afraid or excited or ready or not- a baby is going to come out of you and come home with you and so this date becomes the most important date in your life. But when your baby comes 4 months early and never comes home with you that date is just supposed to go back to being another day on your calendar. 

My grief calendar is filled with many different days, the day I got pregnant, the day I went into labor, the day he passed away, Mother's Day,  and other holidays but my due date is a silent grief day. How do you commemorate the anniversary of the loss of your hopes and dreams with your child? That's some heavy shit. Shouldn't I be cutting a two year old's birthday cake right now surrounded by friends and family? The anniversary of all the would have and should haves- that is what a due date is. It is the fantasy date, the date where your baby didn't die and in alternate reality you watch him get cake on his face and blow out candles.

Today is the anniversary of the life that wasn't. The mother I didn't get to be with the child I didn't get to raise. Some days I am so overwhelmed at the thought, not the memory but just the thought that I lost a child that I am amazed that I am able to get through the day. How do I get through the day? Some days with more awareness than others.

I've been really focusing my attention on what healing looks like for me lately. I think until now I have had only enough in me to get me through shock, then survival, and now grief. I am just now able to really start to imagine what healing can look like for me. It feels like time to address the trauma and the hurt and the grief and to slowly heal those wounds. I understand that there will always be scars but in some places I have gashing open sores of grief crying for attention. How do I heal those places? I think the first step is to want to heal. I want to fundamentally change my relationship with grief so that there is room for much more inside me. I am trying to put together a plan made up of lifestyle changes that work for me. I am looking at everything from mindfulness based cognitive therapy to nutrition and exploring the many possibilities of wellness in my life. While I figure out what healing feels like for me, I give myself permission to be kind to myself throughout this process. To be patient, and loving and understanding with myself. I give myself permission to make mistakes or change my mind. To be open minded about different approaches and to rest when I am weary. I give myself permission to celebrate the moments of happiness and wholeness.