Yeah, I'm not writing much lately. ;) Sorry, I suck like that.
I was just thinking how cool and different our Valentine's Day was this year. We went out (we're limited to places that a) can accomodate Maggie's allergies and b) are open late, this time of year) to Mel's Drive-In. It's really cool. I've never been there before but always wanted to go, and it did not disappoint! It was featured in American Graffiti; it's been around, well, forever. It's close to Jeff's work and while it's no longer a real drive-in, it's still a great diner with a 50s theme.
We sat at the counter, and had fantastic food (burgers for Jeff and me, mine with potato salad; mac and cheese for the Maggie, breakfast type stuff for the other two; cheesecake for me, sherbet for Maggie, and shakes for the others for dessert.) We had great fun, the staff was SO sweet and helpful (and even gave the kids paper cars, which are only supposed to come with some of the kids' meals, and not the ones they ordered), there are jukeboxes (though we only had two quarters so we decided to skip them this time) and all kinds of music loaded on them, fifties through eighties or nineties, and it's just a fun, happy, bright kind of place. It probably won't become a FREQUENT eating place for us, because that's not really in our budget or diet, but for every once in a while treats? You can bet we'll be back. :)
I also got some very sweet cards from the kids (who can be sweet- when they WANT to be. And who also are sometimes very odd. Emma told me tonight that I looked like "an angel. A dark angel. An angel of darkness." Ok... thanks? LOL!) Combined with our fun date last Saturday while my mom watched the kids and made cupcakes with them, and the great time we had on the 15th at Open Mic Night at Olde Towne Cafe... yeah Valentine's week-ish has been a win, so far. :)
Thursday, February 16, 2012
Sunday, January 22, 2012
No, I haven't posted in a long time.
This is because I suck at blogging. :p
We had a very eventful Christmas (our next door neighbor's house burned.) I don't really want to write about it.
We had a very eventful week after Christmas (we went to Solvang, stayed in a cabin, and I cooked Jeff's birthday dinner in a cabin, with all the windows open, and a wet towel over the smoke detector to keep it from going off constantly. I don't really feel like writing about that either right now, though I may or may not upload pictures at some point and if I do I may or may not post them here or elsewhere. It was an overall good trip though.)
We've been sick on and off, as we usually are all winter, but also with allergies- man, ashes are baaaaaad for allergies. Can't even go outside in the back yard until they finish rebuilding the fence so there's a physical barrier between us and the ash- and I'm not sure about then, until they finish cleanup on the lot.
I want to be more active, but... haven't yet.
So basically, I'm still here, we all are, we're just... being right now. Doing stuff. Went to the Baby and Kidz Expo (wincing at the z there, but that's what it's called); had fun. Tax season, Jeff stays late; not as fun. It's life. We're living it. I have no deep thoughts right now, or anything I feel like I want to write about. But hey! I'm posting! Ha.
We had a very eventful Christmas (our next door neighbor's house burned.) I don't really want to write about it.
We had a very eventful week after Christmas (we went to Solvang, stayed in a cabin, and I cooked Jeff's birthday dinner in a cabin, with all the windows open, and a wet towel over the smoke detector to keep it from going off constantly. I don't really feel like writing about that either right now, though I may or may not upload pictures at some point and if I do I may or may not post them here or elsewhere. It was an overall good trip though.)
We've been sick on and off, as we usually are all winter, but also with allergies- man, ashes are baaaaaad for allergies. Can't even go outside in the back yard until they finish rebuilding the fence so there's a physical barrier between us and the ash- and I'm not sure about then, until they finish cleanup on the lot.
I want to be more active, but... haven't yet.
So basically, I'm still here, we all are, we're just... being right now. Doing stuff. Went to the Baby and Kidz Expo (wincing at the z there, but that's what it's called); had fun. Tax season, Jeff stays late; not as fun. It's life. We're living it. I have no deep thoughts right now, or anything I feel like I want to write about. But hey! I'm posting! Ha.
Tuesday, December 06, 2011
Clek Giveaway!
I love my Clek Oobrs (though Emma needs a little leg support when using them, they're still fantastic in so many ways!) Clek is a fantastic company, too, and boy am I anticipating their convertible, the Foonf! TheBabyGuyNYC is giving away 4 Oobrs and 3 Ollis, and all you have to do to enter is go read his post here and post to enter! Check it out. :)
Monday, November 21, 2011
In Gratitude and Rememberance
Eleven months.
Today marks 11 months since Becky joined and left our family at the same instant, without a breath or a cry.
It's almost a year. It's been a long 11 months. It's been a HARD 11 months. But in that time, I have seen some of the purpose in Becky's life being so short; I have learned a lot from her.
It's the time of year for Christmas music. Last year Annie Lennox released a new Christmas album. Becky LOVED it. It was her very favorite thing to listen to (though she also liked Doctor Horrible's Sing Along Blog, and the Wiggles, this was the number one dance album for her.) This was one of her favorite songs on the album. It's a cool video too, so I'd like to share it with you as I remember her.
Becky left me with a lot of happy memories of the time I had with her, even if it was all in-utero (well, at least most of it. I know she has been with me since then too, but... in different ways.)
She also saved my life, and possibly her sisters'. You see, if I had never been pregnant with her, or had miscarried early on, we would still have been driving our Corolla when we were in our crash. And if she had lived, she would have been in the second row, and me in front on that trip. As it was, we all survived with minor injuries (well, except Maggie, who was completely uninjured becasue she was rear-facing and was protected by that.)
I believe so strongly that she knew what had to happen, and that she made this choice. The only time we could have known exactly what was wrong was during our follow-up high-level ultrasound with Dr. Devore. She was active before and after the ultrasound. During, she took a nap. The knot in her cord was behind her. They poked and prodded and tried to get her to move so they could see the back of the cord, but she just wouldn't. She just didn't move. In the end, they concluded that something was "off" a bit with the cord flow, but since she was growing (she'd jumped from the 15th to the 60th percentile), they were thinking it was okay. If she had moved away, if they had seen the knot behind her, she would have been born by scheduled c-section or emergency c-section if I went into labor. I'd have been upset by that, sure, but I'd have had time to come to terms with it and she would have almost certainly been born healthy. But because of her choice, her actions- it didn't happen that way. And so, because she stayed still when she needed to and did that flip that tightened the knot when she had to, she died just as she was born, and saved me.
Why would she do this? I can only guess that it's because it was necessary for me to stay here. I have work to do. Part of that work is advocating for child passenger safety. I'm a Child Passenger Safety Technician, and have been for about two and a half years now; I'm also currently on the board of Safety Belt Safe USA, an organization which provides education for techs and parents as well as advocating on the state and federal level for improvements in standards, laws, and policies regarding child passenger safety and occupant protection, and advocating for proper use in the media.
I have felt called to this work since I kind of "fell into" it. I have felt like I've found the work I'm meant to do, at least in part. And I feel that Becky's sacrifice for us was in part so that I can continue it- so that, through continued advocacy, spreading the lessons our crash story can teach, and the work I can do to help Safety Belt Safe in their mission, other mamas' babies will be saved.
So in that spirit I'd like to ask three things of you in the next month if you are reading this and care to, to commemorate Becky's life and help me express my gratitude for her gift to us of how she joined our family. They are:
1. Please make sure the children in your care, or those you care for who are in the care of those you can reach with this message (family, friends) are riding as safely as possible in the car. (Let me know if you need information on what that means or how to accomplish it!)
2. Please share my crash story in the link above (there's a brochure ready to print) with at least one person who has a child 12 or under riding in his or her car on a regular basis. This can be via Facebook, email, or by printing out the brochure and handing it to someone.
3. I know budgets are tight, especially this time of year, so this one's the hard one to ask for. If you have a few dollars to spare, even $1, and would like to make a donation in Becky's memory, please consider making a (tax-deductible) donation to Safety Belt Safe. If you go to their website there is a button that says "Make a Donation." Click and a button will pop up. Enter the amount you wish to donate and click "Update Total." Then log in to your paypal account. On the next page, click the button that says "add additional instructions." If you'd like to make your donation in honor of Becky, please write "In memory of " (or "in honor of") "Becky Hamilton." These donations, as a group, will be acknowledged and a little blurb placed in her honor in the January issue of the Safety Belt Safe newsletter. You can also make a donation by check or money order by sending to
SafetyBeltSafe U.S.A., Box 553, Altadena, CA 91003 with a note stating that it is in honor of Becky.
Whether you do any of these things or not, I appreciate your love and support. It would mean a lot to me if you are willing to do any or all of these things for me in memory of Becky, though. Thank you for your friendship.
Today marks 11 months since Becky joined and left our family at the same instant, without a breath or a cry.
It's almost a year. It's been a long 11 months. It's been a HARD 11 months. But in that time, I have seen some of the purpose in Becky's life being so short; I have learned a lot from her.
It's the time of year for Christmas music. Last year Annie Lennox released a new Christmas album. Becky LOVED it. It was her very favorite thing to listen to (though she also liked Doctor Horrible's Sing Along Blog, and the Wiggles, this was the number one dance album for her.) This was one of her favorite songs on the album. It's a cool video too, so I'd like to share it with you as I remember her.
Becky left me with a lot of happy memories of the time I had with her, even if it was all in-utero (well, at least most of it. I know she has been with me since then too, but... in different ways.)
She also saved my life, and possibly her sisters'. You see, if I had never been pregnant with her, or had miscarried early on, we would still have been driving our Corolla when we were in our crash. And if she had lived, she would have been in the second row, and me in front on that trip. As it was, we all survived with minor injuries (well, except Maggie, who was completely uninjured becasue she was rear-facing and was protected by that.)
I believe so strongly that she knew what had to happen, and that she made this choice. The only time we could have known exactly what was wrong was during our follow-up high-level ultrasound with Dr. Devore. She was active before and after the ultrasound. During, she took a nap. The knot in her cord was behind her. They poked and prodded and tried to get her to move so they could see the back of the cord, but she just wouldn't. She just didn't move. In the end, they concluded that something was "off" a bit with the cord flow, but since she was growing (she'd jumped from the 15th to the 60th percentile), they were thinking it was okay. If she had moved away, if they had seen the knot behind her, she would have been born by scheduled c-section or emergency c-section if I went into labor. I'd have been upset by that, sure, but I'd have had time to come to terms with it and she would have almost certainly been born healthy. But because of her choice, her actions- it didn't happen that way. And so, because she stayed still when she needed to and did that flip that tightened the knot when she had to, she died just as she was born, and saved me.
Why would she do this? I can only guess that it's because it was necessary for me to stay here. I have work to do. Part of that work is advocating for child passenger safety. I'm a Child Passenger Safety Technician, and have been for about two and a half years now; I'm also currently on the board of Safety Belt Safe USA, an organization which provides education for techs and parents as well as advocating on the state and federal level for improvements in standards, laws, and policies regarding child passenger safety and occupant protection, and advocating for proper use in the media.
I have felt called to this work since I kind of "fell into" it. I have felt like I've found the work I'm meant to do, at least in part. And I feel that Becky's sacrifice for us was in part so that I can continue it- so that, through continued advocacy, spreading the lessons our crash story can teach, and the work I can do to help Safety Belt Safe in their mission, other mamas' babies will be saved.
So in that spirit I'd like to ask three things of you in the next month if you are reading this and care to, to commemorate Becky's life and help me express my gratitude for her gift to us of how she joined our family. They are:
1. Please make sure the children in your care, or those you care for who are in the care of those you can reach with this message (family, friends) are riding as safely as possible in the car. (Let me know if you need information on what that means or how to accomplish it!)
2. Please share my crash story in the link above (there's a brochure ready to print) with at least one person who has a child 12 or under riding in his or her car on a regular basis. This can be via Facebook, email, or by printing out the brochure and handing it to someone.
3. I know budgets are tight, especially this time of year, so this one's the hard one to ask for. If you have a few dollars to spare, even $1, and would like to make a donation in Becky's memory, please consider making a (tax-deductible) donation to Safety Belt Safe. If you go to their website there is a button that says "Make a Donation." Click and a button will pop up. Enter the amount you wish to donate and click "Update Total." Then log in to your paypal account. On the next page, click the button that says "add additional instructions." If you'd like to make your donation in honor of Becky, please write "In memory of " (or "in honor of") "Becky Hamilton." These donations, as a group, will be acknowledged and a little blurb placed in her honor in the January issue of the Safety Belt Safe newsletter. You can also make a donation by check or money order by sending to
SafetyBeltSafe U.S.A., Box 553, Altadena, CA 91003 with a note stating that it is in honor of Becky.
Whether you do any of these things or not, I appreciate your love and support. It would mean a lot to me if you are willing to do any or all of these things for me in memory of Becky, though. Thank you for your friendship.
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
More bad poetry
(Actually there's a tune running through my head for it. So perhaps it's a poorly written song as much as bad poetry.)
The Clouds
On dreary days, when all the world is grey and dark,
And in the air there hangs the taste of woe,
I sometimes think that there's no feeble little spark
That can dispel the clouds that gloomier grow.
And when I think on losses hard and heavy,
Sometimes I wonder why I must endure;
But I remember that my Father levies
Only that which my triumph will procure.
Well do I know my Savior bore my anguish
And that He bore my burden hard for me
So I'll not low in sorrow pine and languish
But stop to pray and thus make myself free.
Then I'll recall the joys that I now live with,
And the delight I had with those now gone,
Thus will I scrape the sorrow down to find the pith
Of joy that bears me up as I march on.
The Clouds
On dreary days, when all the world is grey and dark,
And in the air there hangs the taste of woe,
I sometimes think that there's no feeble little spark
That can dispel the clouds that gloomier grow.
And when I think on losses hard and heavy,
Sometimes I wonder why I must endure;
But I remember that my Father levies
Only that which my triumph will procure.
Well do I know my Savior bore my anguish
And that He bore my burden hard for me
So I'll not low in sorrow pine and languish
But stop to pray and thus make myself free.
Then I'll recall the joys that I now live with,
And the delight I had with those now gone,
Thus will I scrape the sorrow down to find the pith
Of joy that bears me up as I march on.
Sunday, September 25, 2011
Bathing Becky
A friend linked this story (warning: it's about being there at the death of a friend) on someone's blog in a thread on a forum I'm on. The mindfulness of the moment, the sense of it being her job, something about it reminded me powerfully of when my mom came, to be with me and help me get ready while Becky was photographed.
She was covered in meconium. The nurses had given her a quick wipe but then just wrapped her up, not washed her except her face, because they didn't know how soon we would want her. It was the first time I had noticed this, even though I had held her all night, because I had been clinging to her so hard I hadn't even thought to unwrap her.
So my mom went and got a wash basin from the nurses, and some soft washcloths. And she filled it with warm water, and we washed Becky. We first washed her arms, little fingers, carefully cleaning the fingernails and being very, very gentle so as not to bruise her skin. Being careful not to tip her over onto her face, because I had found overnight that her body was already breaking down, and bloody liquid of a nature I didn't want to really think about would ooze from her nose if we did. Then she got some soap and we washed her hair. I reminded my mom that she has been the first one to wash each of my babies' hair, that she is the one who taught me to wash Emma's hair, cradling her over the sink, holding a washcloth over her forehead while pouring water with a cup over the sink to rinse it without getting the shampoo in her eyes. She is the one who first scrubbed cradle cap off Bridget's scalp with me and washed her hair, which was curly and reddish (it isn't any more.) She gave Maggie her first hair wash, too, when she had a diaper blowout at her house that got into her hair. And now she was washing Becky's hair with me. Gently, gently, being so careful of the fontanelle.
We cleaned the folds of her ears too. She has ears like me. I reminded my mom how she had remarked that all our ears are "complicated." I laughed, gently, as if the sound would break her skin too, or possibly just our emotions. I almost felt as if I was not supposed to feel like laughing. But at the same time I knew- yes, I had lost my beloved child, but that did not mean the world was devoid of laughter. She wouldn't want it to have meant that, and I didn't either. My life had changed but it wasn't over yet. Laughter and love go hand in hand.
We wiped her legs and feet. We washed between her toes as well as we could without hurting her- no, she couldn't feel it, but neither of us wanted to hurt her body anyway. We washed her little bottom, and wrapped it in a bit of gauze; she had no diaper, but we wanted to be sure nothing would leak out and mar her dress.
We put her dress on. Her pretty Christmas dress, the one that matched her sisters' (exact match with Bridget's, coordinating with Emma's and Maggie's.) The dress I had bought just in case she came before Christmas. The dress I had planned to put her in for portraits as a family and with her sisters, in their matching dresses. The dress I had stalked ebay for, feeling such joy when I got such good prices on all the dresses. Her arms were stiffer than a newborn's usually are, and yet she did not fight. It was strange how we had to fight her in, but there was no screaming like babies usually make when they get dressed. Almost a cognitive dissonance to dress her and not hear screaming. As we pulled the dress over her head my mom turned it sideways- she knew from experience with my girls (and remarked upon it) that it wouldn't fit without turning it, they get such long heads from Jeff. Maggie was the only one whose head wasn't quite so disproportionately brachiocephalic as a baby. I buttoned the buttons at the neck. She did not hold her head up as we dressed her. It was hard to think that she would never use those strong neck muscles, which I could see were just as unusually strong as the other girls' had been at birth, to look around at me, at her Abba, at Grandma, at a sister.
We put the bow on her head, the bow I had bought in a multi-pack at Target the day I saw it, a bit before Thanksgiving, because I had already bought the Christmas dresses, and the bow headbands for her sisters from Gymboree, and I knew this would perfectly complement her dress and coordinate with theirs. I have used bow headbands with all my girls since Bridget, but usually smaller bows- this was the biggest baby bow I had ever bought, and it was huge on her tiny head. It was flashy and bright and screamed "look at me!" As I put it on I thought of the irony- that bow that I had bought to elicit oohs and aahs from all my baby-loving friends and family would not be worn out to church, to family gatherings, to Christmas dinner. Instead, it would be photographed, and then it would lie in her coffin. I didn't want to think about what would happen to it after that. It was enough that for now, she looked beautiful, and that she got to wear it. It was so important to me that she wear that dress; most of the clothes I had washed and ready for her were ones her sisters had worn, or that I had picked up at the thrift store here and there "for the next baby" and not specifically for HER. This dress and headband were bought just for her. Just for my Becky, after she had a name. One of a set of four, the only single outfit, other than the outfit to go home in that I had bought only for her that was newborn-sized. The most special dress that I had spent hours deliberating over and shopping for. This was the outfit I had chosen with love, and now it was wrapping her cold little body, the warm fleece soft against my skin, my love wrapped around her, my mom helping me dress her.
My mom asked if I knew what color her eyes were. I didn't. I didn't look and I didn't want to. She was born asleep, her eyes closed, her heart done beating when the cord was cut, no energy to ever open them again. I wanted to leave her with that peace, and leave peace in my heart, not open her eyes and see them without life behind them, or risk bruising the delicate, purple-veined eyelids. I'm sure they were blue-grey; all my babies have had blue-grey eyes of various shades. I didn't need to disturb her to know the color. My mom agreed. Perhaps they were more blue than grey, as she was my blondest baby yet, with the sparsest hair. My mom said her hair was just like mine when I was born; it would have been curly, very curly, as it grew out.
And then we took photographs. Once we were done we wrapped her back up. She had to go down to the morgue. No one ever said morgue. They just said that it was time to take her downstairs, and that we could hold her again later before she left. They didn't say before the hearse came to pick her up but that is what they meant. And they meant morgue. I almost wished they would say morgue. They were trying to be gentle but I know what a morgue is. I know that they refrigerate bodies so they don't deteriorate as fast. I knew they would put my baby in a metal tray in the refrigerated wall. I hoped they would leave her in her bassinet, the bassinet that someone had made up for a living baby and which held her body instead, instead of putting her directly on the cold hard metal. But I didn't ask. I knew the nurses I was talking to were not the technicians who would be responsible, so I felt I shouldn't put my wants onto them. And I winced as the nurse tenderly, lovingly laid a blanket over her bassinet before wheeling her down the hall to be handed off to the assistant who would take her to the morgue. But I didn't say anything. I recognized, even in my grief and my outrage that she had to be hidden from view, covered, just to walk down the hall where babies were wheeled down all the time, that the sight of her might upset other mothers, and that I didn't really want to do that. No, it wasn't fair that my baby was dead and theirs were alive, but it was how it was.
That's the thing about Becky. That's the blessing of her life, the blessing she gave me. She is a teacher. That is her mission, I feel that so strongly. In saving my life in our crash, by her refusal to let us see the knot in her cord, by joining our family knowing that she would never get to meet us until our mortal lives are done so that the greater purpose could be served, she gave me the opportunity to teach, to spread the story in ways that may well save other mommies' babies' lives. And she's taught me more compassion. I like to think I was not devoid of it before, but in my grief, even in those first few days, I knew that MY wants and needs were not all that mattered. That I was not alone, not isolated. I knew that I was part of a long experience of the human race, death and life, in a way that I had never felt before. She gave me that. She has taught me to love better, forgive more readily, enjoy my life, be more patient, and find friendship, love, comfort of the Holy Ghost and strength even when my world may be crashing down around me. She's taught me that I can live through my greatest fears. And I know that she's got more to teach. That's my Becky. And one day I'll tell her how glad I am that she's my daughter, and how proud I am of her, face to face.
She was covered in meconium. The nurses had given her a quick wipe but then just wrapped her up, not washed her except her face, because they didn't know how soon we would want her. It was the first time I had noticed this, even though I had held her all night, because I had been clinging to her so hard I hadn't even thought to unwrap her.
So my mom went and got a wash basin from the nurses, and some soft washcloths. And she filled it with warm water, and we washed Becky. We first washed her arms, little fingers, carefully cleaning the fingernails and being very, very gentle so as not to bruise her skin. Being careful not to tip her over onto her face, because I had found overnight that her body was already breaking down, and bloody liquid of a nature I didn't want to really think about would ooze from her nose if we did. Then she got some soap and we washed her hair. I reminded my mom that she has been the first one to wash each of my babies' hair, that she is the one who taught me to wash Emma's hair, cradling her over the sink, holding a washcloth over her forehead while pouring water with a cup over the sink to rinse it without getting the shampoo in her eyes. She is the one who first scrubbed cradle cap off Bridget's scalp with me and washed her hair, which was curly and reddish (it isn't any more.) She gave Maggie her first hair wash, too, when she had a diaper blowout at her house that got into her hair. And now she was washing Becky's hair with me. Gently, gently, being so careful of the fontanelle.
We cleaned the folds of her ears too. She has ears like me. I reminded my mom how she had remarked that all our ears are "complicated." I laughed, gently, as if the sound would break her skin too, or possibly just our emotions. I almost felt as if I was not supposed to feel like laughing. But at the same time I knew- yes, I had lost my beloved child, but that did not mean the world was devoid of laughter. She wouldn't want it to have meant that, and I didn't either. My life had changed but it wasn't over yet. Laughter and love go hand in hand.
We wiped her legs and feet. We washed between her toes as well as we could without hurting her- no, she couldn't feel it, but neither of us wanted to hurt her body anyway. We washed her little bottom, and wrapped it in a bit of gauze; she had no diaper, but we wanted to be sure nothing would leak out and mar her dress.
We put her dress on. Her pretty Christmas dress, the one that matched her sisters' (exact match with Bridget's, coordinating with Emma's and Maggie's.) The dress I had bought just in case she came before Christmas. The dress I had planned to put her in for portraits as a family and with her sisters, in their matching dresses. The dress I had stalked ebay for, feeling such joy when I got such good prices on all the dresses. Her arms were stiffer than a newborn's usually are, and yet she did not fight. It was strange how we had to fight her in, but there was no screaming like babies usually make when they get dressed. Almost a cognitive dissonance to dress her and not hear screaming. As we pulled the dress over her head my mom turned it sideways- she knew from experience with my girls (and remarked upon it) that it wouldn't fit without turning it, they get such long heads from Jeff. Maggie was the only one whose head wasn't quite so disproportionately brachiocephalic as a baby. I buttoned the buttons at the neck. She did not hold her head up as we dressed her. It was hard to think that she would never use those strong neck muscles, which I could see were just as unusually strong as the other girls' had been at birth, to look around at me, at her Abba, at Grandma, at a sister.
We put the bow on her head, the bow I had bought in a multi-pack at Target the day I saw it, a bit before Thanksgiving, because I had already bought the Christmas dresses, and the bow headbands for her sisters from Gymboree, and I knew this would perfectly complement her dress and coordinate with theirs. I have used bow headbands with all my girls since Bridget, but usually smaller bows- this was the biggest baby bow I had ever bought, and it was huge on her tiny head. It was flashy and bright and screamed "look at me!" As I put it on I thought of the irony- that bow that I had bought to elicit oohs and aahs from all my baby-loving friends and family would not be worn out to church, to family gatherings, to Christmas dinner. Instead, it would be photographed, and then it would lie in her coffin. I didn't want to think about what would happen to it after that. It was enough that for now, she looked beautiful, and that she got to wear it. It was so important to me that she wear that dress; most of the clothes I had washed and ready for her were ones her sisters had worn, or that I had picked up at the thrift store here and there "for the next baby" and not specifically for HER. This dress and headband were bought just for her. Just for my Becky, after she had a name. One of a set of four, the only single outfit, other than the outfit to go home in that I had bought only for her that was newborn-sized. The most special dress that I had spent hours deliberating over and shopping for. This was the outfit I had chosen with love, and now it was wrapping her cold little body, the warm fleece soft against my skin, my love wrapped around her, my mom helping me dress her.
My mom asked if I knew what color her eyes were. I didn't. I didn't look and I didn't want to. She was born asleep, her eyes closed, her heart done beating when the cord was cut, no energy to ever open them again. I wanted to leave her with that peace, and leave peace in my heart, not open her eyes and see them without life behind them, or risk bruising the delicate, purple-veined eyelids. I'm sure they were blue-grey; all my babies have had blue-grey eyes of various shades. I didn't need to disturb her to know the color. My mom agreed. Perhaps they were more blue than grey, as she was my blondest baby yet, with the sparsest hair. My mom said her hair was just like mine when I was born; it would have been curly, very curly, as it grew out.
And then we took photographs. Once we were done we wrapped her back up. She had to go down to the morgue. No one ever said morgue. They just said that it was time to take her downstairs, and that we could hold her again later before she left. They didn't say before the hearse came to pick her up but that is what they meant. And they meant morgue. I almost wished they would say morgue. They were trying to be gentle but I know what a morgue is. I know that they refrigerate bodies so they don't deteriorate as fast. I knew they would put my baby in a metal tray in the refrigerated wall. I hoped they would leave her in her bassinet, the bassinet that someone had made up for a living baby and which held her body instead, instead of putting her directly on the cold hard metal. But I didn't ask. I knew the nurses I was talking to were not the technicians who would be responsible, so I felt I shouldn't put my wants onto them. And I winced as the nurse tenderly, lovingly laid a blanket over her bassinet before wheeling her down the hall to be handed off to the assistant who would take her to the morgue. But I didn't say anything. I recognized, even in my grief and my outrage that she had to be hidden from view, covered, just to walk down the hall where babies were wheeled down all the time, that the sight of her might upset other mothers, and that I didn't really want to do that. No, it wasn't fair that my baby was dead and theirs were alive, but it was how it was.
That's the thing about Becky. That's the blessing of her life, the blessing she gave me. She is a teacher. That is her mission, I feel that so strongly. In saving my life in our crash, by her refusal to let us see the knot in her cord, by joining our family knowing that she would never get to meet us until our mortal lives are done so that the greater purpose could be served, she gave me the opportunity to teach, to spread the story in ways that may well save other mommies' babies' lives. And she's taught me more compassion. I like to think I was not devoid of it before, but in my grief, even in those first few days, I knew that MY wants and needs were not all that mattered. That I was not alone, not isolated. I knew that I was part of a long experience of the human race, death and life, in a way that I had never felt before. She gave me that. She has taught me to love better, forgive more readily, enjoy my life, be more patient, and find friendship, love, comfort of the Holy Ghost and strength even when my world may be crashing down around me. She's taught me that I can live through my greatest fears. And I know that she's got more to teach. That's my Becky. And one day I'll tell her how glad I am that she's my daughter, and how proud I am of her, face to face.
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
Counting Blessings
I'm feeling blessed tonight. So, I'm counting my blessings.
Jeff, who is being pretty incredible lately (not that he isn't always.) Three girls with me to make me laugh and smile. Becky looking out for us as she waits for us to join her.
A big comfortable house to live in. Enough food to thrive on. A fairly healthy body that should be able to safely bring more babies to our family to bless us. A doctor who supports that desire and will help me do that the way I want to.
A family that doesn't judge or chastise but just lovingly supports even when I'm not at my best. Friends who love me for who I am and give of themselves in ways I'd never ask.
Faith that even though I'm not good enough, that gap between the self I am and the self I can be will be bridged by grace, and my efforts will be helped. Love, lots of love. Divine love, familial love, true, deep love from Jeff, love of friends.
Opportunities to make a difference, to help change things for the better for others. Wonderful discussions with others who share the same work.
A brain capable of learning and deciding to do things better every day. A mouth capable of talking to teach and share with others. Eyes that can see beauty all around me. Ears to hear music, music that can touch me.
Life. I love life. Faith to not fear death. Peace in my heart knowing that those I love who pass out of life are safe.
So much I can't even write it all. Love, love, love, at the center of it all.
Jeff, who is being pretty incredible lately (not that he isn't always.) Three girls with me to make me laugh and smile. Becky looking out for us as she waits for us to join her.
A big comfortable house to live in. Enough food to thrive on. A fairly healthy body that should be able to safely bring more babies to our family to bless us. A doctor who supports that desire and will help me do that the way I want to.
A family that doesn't judge or chastise but just lovingly supports even when I'm not at my best. Friends who love me for who I am and give of themselves in ways I'd never ask.
Faith that even though I'm not good enough, that gap between the self I am and the self I can be will be bridged by grace, and my efforts will be helped. Love, lots of love. Divine love, familial love, true, deep love from Jeff, love of friends.
Opportunities to make a difference, to help change things for the better for others. Wonderful discussions with others who share the same work.
A brain capable of learning and deciding to do things better every day. A mouth capable of talking to teach and share with others. Eyes that can see beauty all around me. Ears to hear music, music that can touch me.
Life. I love life. Faith to not fear death. Peace in my heart knowing that those I love who pass out of life are safe.
So much I can't even write it all. Love, love, love, at the center of it all.
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