The year that was and the one that is.

“And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.”  ―Anaïs Nin 

"Your life will begin to improve when you define precisely what ‘improve’ means to you.  The agonies and frustrations will start to ease only when you have something real and positive to replace them with.  Be specific.  Happiness is not a goal, it’s the result of a life well lived.  The question is:  How do you want to live going forward?"

During the last week of 2013 I took some time to reflect on the year. It was undoubtedly the hardest year of my life. I thought about the journey my grief has taken me through. The small miracles that made survival possible. The kindness from friends. The support from strangers. The emails and calls and letters. The people who know what I am going through and the people who can't know but care enough to try. I think about the first couple of months of 2013. I had a small checklist next to my bed: 

1. Brush your teeth 

2. Shower 

3. Eat Something

4. Take your dog for a walk.

Those were the 4 things I had to absolutely do in a day when I couldn't bring myself to do much more than breathe. I was operating on survival mode. There I was creating checkpoints in my life that made still an active participant of the living, at least on the outside. I read books, and went to therapy. I went to support groups and did the HEAL group. I called friends and vented. I decorated Mateo's grave during the holidays and celebrated his due date.

I cried. I cried all the time. I cried in the car on the way to anywhere and everywhere. I cried at night. I cried in the shower. I cried alone and I cried with others. I cried from the depth of my despair and when I had no more tears to give, I whimpered myself to sleep. 

I spent a lot of time alone, in my head, sorting through the pain. I didn't allow myself to get distracted from grieving. For a while there I would set an alarm on my phone with a reminder that it was time to grieve. And so I would stop what I was doing and I would dedicate that time to reading or blogging and crying and feeling. I knew the only out of my grief was through it. There are no shortcuts with grief. And so I sat with it and let it engulf me to the point of suffocation. There were times where I literally thought I would die from the pain. But I didn't die. I allowed myself to experience the full force of what it means to have loved a child, to have held him in your arms and to have watched him pass away. 

This doesn't mean I am "okay" now. It means I didn't die also. And because I didn't die in this space I can now choose to live. And I don't mean survive or just get by. I mean actually live. With love and joy and excitement. Things I never imagined feeling again a year ago today. 

And so at the end of 2013 I took some time to reflect on the year and found gratitude for the miracles around the tragedy. I'll never be grateful my child passed away but I can be grateful for things around his death. Like the love I have for him and the love others have for him. I am grateful for the people that loved me through my pregnancy and then through my loss, our loss. I am grateful for the strength I have found inside, for the lessons in humility and the faith that come with healing. 

And so at the beginning of 2014 I took some time to set intentions for the New Year.Because while 2013 was my year dedicated to survival, 2014 is my year dedicated to living. To embracing the wide range of experiences and emotions people who aren't fully consumed by grieving are given the privilege of having. 2014 will be my year to learn how to laugh again. I plan on falling in love with life, a little wiser from having been hurt by it and a little stronger from having survived that. A couple of weeks ago I met a nice guy and we have started dating and I hit a milestone in my journey. I had to tell him about Mateo. Really tell him. Of course he didn't see me a year ago when I was just a zombie version of myself whose day was a success if it included basic hygiene practices. He didn't see my tantrums with God. He didn't witness me lay at Mateo's grave and weep uncontrollably for hours. He just gets to hear me retell the story. And in that brief moment it became something that happened not something that was happening. He didn't run. He held my hand and was kind. He listened. He challenged me to think about some of my beliefs around my grief. Most of all he listened. And held my hand. And it was nice.

2014 is my year of learning to live again and to hope and to dream and to love. I respect the role 2013 had to serve in order for 2014 to matter and to that I say welcome to this New Year.

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