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.

The Terrible (benevolent) Two's: Mateo's Birthday

"You can look at a scar and see hurt, or you can look at a scar and see healing" Sheri Reynolds

The terrible two's. This week was the two year anniversary of Mateo's birth and death. My terrible two's. There have definitely been moments in year two when I have wanted to throw myself on the floor, kicking,screaming, crying. A tantrum. Sometimes I can't believe it's been two year already and sometimes I can't believe it's only been two years. 

But year two, for all the ways it was terrible it was also kinder on me than year one. Year one was a raw nerve, exposed to the elements whose pain I could not be protected from. Year two, the pain fits inside me differently. Just as real. This year is no longer about the shock, it's not about the guilt or blame. I don't spend as much time editing the days of his life in my mind- a producer trying to find alternative endings to an already released movie. This year was more about acceptance. Truly coming to terms with the knowledge that I will never wake up to this baby in my arms. Never. That I could have a million children and all the successes in the world. But the one thing I will never know is the sound of his laugh. And that's what you carry year two. 

The realization that the depth of your loss is so great your brain can only process it in pieces. 

Pieces, moments, years, time. All in time. And so year two was terrible. But it was also better. And I was better at grief. And my loved ones were better at letting me grieve. I went to Mateo's grave on his birthday. I laid in the  grass, under the sun and talked to him for hours. I cried in a way I can only do when I am visitng him, this is why I like to go alone. I'm so vulnerable in that moment. I also visited him before I left, decorated his grave for Christmas with some things me and my friends Alex and Jacky bought for him. There is healing in rituals. Year two was terribly kind in its own way.

         Here is to year three of healing.

New Life. Same Old Grief.

Gentleness by Mark Nepo

" This is the story of a blind boy who in a dream is told that bowing will open his eyes and let him see. He tries for several days to bow and open, everywhere he goes: in the grass, in the wind, in the soft hands of his mother. None of it gives him sight. He bows his face into the holiest of books, the one his father studies. Still nothing. The dream felt so real that he's now in despair, certain he's misread the gift of this instruction, certain he's lost his chance to see.

In his sadness, he wanders to the shore of a lake, where he wades to his waist. Depressed, he sits in the water. And as a child sinks in a bathtub, he holds his breath and drops into the lake, below the surface of things, below the noise of his blindness. He is surrounded by such softness and quiet that he begins to cry as the water from his eyes mixes with the water of the lake. In the slow, gentle wash of water meeting water, he begins to feel the bottom of the lake. He begins to feel the old fish swimming behind a rock. He can feel the oar in the middle of the lake slipping in and out of the cloud-reflected surface. He even feels a heron circling above, its shadow cooling pockets of the deep.

He returns to the surface and can feel the movement of air against his eyes, and the heat of the sun warming his face. From that day on, he can feel with his eyes, as long as he remembers to slip below the surface of things. And though he is blind, from that day on, he carries great vision. In time, he becomes a teacher that others seek out, and through his gentleness, others learn that whatever our blindness, the heart can sink below the noise of its memories and wounds. The sweet blind boy tells everyone who asks that the heart wakes slowly, and only our gentleness -- our willingness to sink into the depth of things and wait -- will let us see and make our way."

I have a new life. Mostly. I live in a new city, Yonkers, New York. In a new apartment with a new roommate who is perfectly nice and wonderful. My neighborhood is quiet and calm and Grace and I go out for long walks. The weather is changing and everything is becoming cooler and crisp. It's a new season. I go to a new school, with new classmates and I am learning new material. Last week we read the story of a boy named Jesse who died because of negligence in a clinical trial he was participating in. The story was written by his father and I cried for 40 minutes after reading it. There are new triggers. Today I went to a support group meeting, it was my first time since moving here. It was good to listen, and talk, but mostly listen. Because in my new life, with my new adventures, and new beginnings there is still the same old grief. 

Most of the time grief is close by, a shadow I can sense but not always see. Sitting close to me, we are familiar, but familiar does not mean comfortable with. Sometimes grief sits next to me and sometimes it sits on me. All consuming and heavy and crushing.

This year his birthday falls on Thanksgiving. A day of thanks. It feels like a very tall order I am not quite up to. I drained my savings and bought a ticket home so I could go lay on his grave. I will bring him a birthday gift and lay in the grass for as long as I want to. All day. All week. All of my life. 

Two years ago I held his little hand and kissed his little face and I want to fold over and collapse into myself when I think about how much I miss him. I can't actually allow myself to sit with missing him. The weight of that truth would crush my will to live into dust and the winds of time would blow them away and I'd become nothing. Literally dust in the wind.

I brace myself for the 3 days after Thanksgiving, the anniversary of when I said goodbye. Thank goodness vital bodily functions run on auto pilot since I often forget to breathe. I feel like I exhaled my last breath with his and haven't remembered to breathe in yet. 

But I am breathing and living this new life. And I stay true to my commitment that if I am going to live with this then I have to be alive. I get to live for both of us. Only one of us can still breathe and it isn't enough for my body to go through the motions, I have to be an active participant in the inhales and exhales. The ins and the outs and the ups and the downs. I have to be here even if he isn't in the ways I want him to.

And so I have a new life but the same old grief. Here is to year three, I welcome you with a gentle heart <3

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.