It is 2015, right?

It is 2015, right?

I ask this because, in the world of trying to conceive (TTC) and pregnancy, I have read a LOT of books and websites since we started trying to have a baby three (wow, three) years ago. What to Expect When You’re Expecting. AmericanPregnancy. BabyCenter. The Bump. Happiest Baby on the Block. And you know what they all have in common?

They assume that mom has a partner. And that the partner is her husband and the baby’s father. It goes without saying that the partner is male. In fact, nearly every website has “tips for Dad” or “what Dad should expect when Mom is expecting” or “how to help your partner” or “tell Dad to do X so that he feels involved.” Of course, the things these sites and books recommend Dad do are also very sexist. (“He’ll be excited to get out those power tools to set up the nursery furniture!”)

Now, I get that for most expectant mothers, there’s a Dad in the picture. But again: it is 2015, right? Can not one of these sites/books consistently use the word partner instead of husband? Often they start out using partner, but then it’s like the author regresses to Dad when their attention drifts. (Note: when we went to our baby classes (birth, bringing baby home, etc.) it was also hard for the instructors to remember this. They addressed “Dads” a lot, even though I had introduced K as my wife and she was sitting right there. In one class they even segregated the Dads and Moms for certain sections, which was awkward).

Partner helps the single mom feel less isolated, as she likely has some help from a birthing partner, be it a sister, friend, or mother. It’s more inclusive to women who are not married to their children’s father, even if he is very active and in the picture. It’s of course more relevant to the many, many gay couples who are now having children. While we’re at it, could we get rid of the sexism too? My wife and I worked together to set up things.

It’s like this with grief books too, but I’m pretty sure I already wrote about those. C’mon authors, catch up with the times!

Jewelry, grief and a poem

When Ander died, I was given three lovely, wonderful necklaces. One has his footprints stamped into it (his actual footprints, from a picture!) and his name and birthdate on the back; my mom got K and I each one from a lovely woman on Etsy who was moved by our story and made an extra one for my mother, too. One has a mandala and the word “sacred” that I bought myself for being brave enough to participate in the Sacred Project.  One is an Origami Owl locket with his initials, a snowflake charm, angel wings, a heart with the word “son,” and blue stones, also from my mom.

I wear one of these three necklaces every day. The problem is that I have many other lovely necklaces, and yet even on special occasions, if I do not wear an Ander necklace, I feel guilty. For example, if I’m going to a wedding and want to wear my turquoise drop earrings that happen to match a turquoise necklace, I hem and haw about wearing the necklace instead of one of my Ander ones. I’m not sure how to feel about this. My rational brain reminds me that I do not need to wear a necklace to ensure Ander is remembered; I doubt Ander cares. My emotional heart wonders if people will notice if I wear a different necklace and thus think I’ve gotten over him or moved on or even if I’m callous and indifferent. I feel like I should be able to wear another necklace, guilt-free, though I have yet to get to that point. I’ve done it once or twice… but it was guiltily.

Anyway, just something I’m struggling with.

More importantly, today is the anniversary of Robyna’s son Xavier’s death, and she wrote this touching poem that resonated with me, and may also move you, so I share it here (for the full post on Xavier’s anniversary, click here).

Forgive Me

Forgive me if I’m not myself today,
I don’t mean to be unpleasant,
Forgive me if I seem far away,
I’m not all together present.

Forgive me if I’m not myself today,
If my smile and eyes seemed pained,
If I don’t know what to say,
and our conversation’s strained.

Forgive me if I’m not myself today,
if I’m hesitant to smile,
It means a great deal that you stay,
And just sit with me for a while.

Forgive me if I’m not myself today,
if I seem a little slow or dim,
most times I keep the grief at bay,
but today belongs to him.

Forgive me if I’m not myself today,
You know it’s not an easy one,
Three years ago, to the day,
is when last I held my son.

Grief, 18 months on

Grief, 18 months after my son’s death, is so much less sharp than it was before that at times I feel guilty. I still think of him every day, and likely always will, but the edges have blunted tremendously. I both hate that, and am grateful for it. I miss my little boy. I will always wonder what he’d look like as he grew. He looked so much like me, and I mourn that I may never have such a lookalike child again.

But – I am back to not remembering when was the last time I cried (oh yeah! It was when we went to see the movie “Inside Out” last weekend. Total sob fest even though it’s technically a children’s movie. But the wife is a child psychologist and researches emotional development so of course we had to see it). To clarify: the last time I cried about losing him, or one of the tangential losses (never having the opportunity for a vaginal birth, for example).

Ironically, I’m now more grateful: that I could get pregnant at all, that we have the financial resources to ensure some sort of child-filled family, that I will always be a mother, that I always had a son. I have been too involved in babyloss websites and social groups to take those things for granted. I am grateful that I have family and friends who talk about my son and remember him with us. I look at his adorable picture every day, and while I am sad, it’s not the choking ache.

To all you mamas out there still hurting: it can get better. Hang in there.

Not-so-humble brag

So, ChicagoNow is challenging their bloggers to write a post within an hour of their daiy blogapalooza prompt. Now, I’m not a ChicagoNow blogger, and I didn’t see this prompt until this morning, but I’m always looking for inspiration, so here is the topic plus a link to one of my favorite ChicagoNow bloggers answering the prompt.

“Without trying to be humble, write about something you’re really good at.”

The first things that came to mind – after all, this blog is meant to be written within the hour of receiving the prompt – are all related.

First: I am good at academic writing. While I’ve always dreamed of writing fiction and publishing the next great American novel, the creativity it demands is really not my forte. I can’t even think of a plot, and until Ander died there was not even any conflict or heartbreak in my life to provide fodder. But the research, critical thinking, persuasion of academic papers – now THAT I am good at. Unfortunately, outside of academia, there isn’t much of a market for an analysis of the evolution of gender roles in Native American literature (my Master’s thesis) or how the novels of Ian Rankin are informed by Jekyll & Hyde (undergraduate thesis), or a religious reimagining of Toni Morrison’s Beloved (my favorite grad school paper) or issues of colonialism in Disney’s “The Lion King” (my favorite undergrad paper). I suppose I could have become a technical writer of sorts, but doesn’t that sound awfully boring? I prefer to channel my persuasive writing talents into arguing with people on Facebook and ghostwriting academic blog posts for someone who shall not be named. Thanks for the Masters degree in English, Georgetown! (No really: I loved that program).

Second, I am good at proofreading and editing. This is validated professionally; I used to work at the Writing Center at GU and have worked on many dissertations. I was also a high school English teacher for six years, which requires a speed and fluency of grammatical correction to get through all those dang term papers. Please note that I rarely proof my own work. I’m not sure why this is, but you’ll find typos in my blog posts. You won’t, however, find them in my wife’s published papers, all of which I have proofed. I am good at catching little things (misplaced modifiers, improperly used commas, etc.) but also at seeing the big picture and making sweeping organizational changes. Again, I nearly always work on academic papers, which can be stultifying when it’s a topic about which I care not even remotely. But I’m still good at catching those little errors.

Finally, I am a good public speaker. I was going to say a good teacher, which I was, but I’m also still a good facilitator, moderator and presenter, so I think it’s more comprehensive to say “public speaker.” I love speaking in public, ever since I was a child and asked to do the readings in church in front of the entire congregation. I’m sure it helped that I was always a confident, fluent reader. I speak with expression. I read aloud to K almost every night from whatever book we’re in the middle of, and I do accents and character voices. I did this as a teacher, too, and it helped to show my students how much I loved the text. I can speak well off the cuff; I write extensive speaker notes in preparation, but I never use them when I’m actually teaching or presenting. I make eye contact; I work the room. I LOVE being the one commanding a room, and that’s probably due in some part to narcissism, but the prompt did tell me not to be humble, so there you go.

The prompt also said to write about something, not somethings, so as Mary Tyler Mom said, “Do me a solid and help me feel less like a narcissistic jerk about posting this by telling me something you are good at in the comments.”

“A Tale of 10 Tummies”

I’m often put off by articles celebrating the post-partum body. Not that I think it’s something to be ashamed of – in fact, I’m all for mom bellies being rocked and honored – but because they seem, to me, to be a continuation of the ad nauseum belly pictures many moms post during pregnancies. Sometimes, they seem to be just the final round of “look how amazing my body is to have created and produced this miraculous baby!”

To a loss mom, whose body failed her, these are hard to see. I’m turned off by both happy bump pictures (usually; there are exceptions) and moms reveling in all their post-partum, new baby glory.

But then there was this, “A Tale of 10 Tummies.” I wasn’t expecting much – the Fourth Trimester Bodies Project was hard enough, even though I know they accept loss moms – but then…. I started reading. ALL of these women were special in some way. Nearly all had experienced some sort of loss or birth trauma or infertility. The photographer is a mom who lost her first baby at 21 weeks’ gestation. She gets it. She sees pregnant women for the miracle they are and does not take a fourth trimester belly for granted.

“What we assume about bodies doesn’t tell the entire tale,” she says. “Everyone has a story. Our bodies are just a portion of it. When we stop assuming we are able to hear.”

Making others uncomfortable

This article was making the rounds on the babyloss sites yesterday, and it certainly resonated with me as well. It’s on what you do when someone asks you how many children you have, or if it’s your first, or your oldest, etc. It’s about how we loss moms know we’re making others uncomfortable, but it’s the price we pay for breaking the silence about infant loss and for honoring our child’s life.

“To the Mom I Didn’t Mind Making Uncomfortable at the Playground”

I say “I had a son, but he died last year.” What do you say?

A poem upon the death of a baby

The lovely Robyna May of “Chasing His Sunshine” shared her son Xavier’s funeral service, and this poem in particular touched me. I reprint it here in memory of all the babies gone too soon.

Do not judge a biography by it’s length,

Nor by the number of pages in it.

Judge it by the richness of it’s contents

Sometimes those unfinished are among the most poignant…

Do not judge a song by it’s duration

Nor by the number of it’s notes

Judge it by the way it touches and lifts the soul

Sometimes those unfinished are among the most beautiful…

And when something has enriched your life

And when it’s melody lingers on in your heart

Is it unfinished?

Or is it endless?

It still hurts

15 months, and it still hurts.

There are several other two-mama couples at our church. Two have babies under a year old.

An acquaintance is coming into town this week. She’s pregnant with her second child.

Friends are visiting this weekend. They had their baby boy on Anderson’s due date.

Ander should be the oldest of this bunch.

I know it’s unfair, but I can’t help but see pity in the eyes of those other mothers. I can’t help but think that they’re thinking “Phew, we must have done something right where she did something wrong, because we have our babies.” I find it incredibly hard to be friends with them because I can’t get past the thought that they must be judging me. I would have judged me, before I knew, I think. I would have always seen my life in comparison to the babyloss mom’s as blessed, as lucky. I think I would have struggled with thinking “at least I’m not her.”  So I impose this vision on others, and avoid them, because it still hurts. I wonder if I’ll feel vindicated, or at least relieved, when I have my own living child. Or if I’ll perpetually feel behind. I should have been first. I was first, but there is no proof of that anymore.

What to say, what not to say

I’m sure I’ve posted on this before, but as I can never find these lists when I need them, it bears repeating (if indeed I even am).

For your archiving pleasure:

“The Complete List of Do’s and Don’ts When Supporting the Bereaved”

What to Say – and What Not to Say – After Someone Has a Miscarriage”

Do these articles speak to you? What would you add/delete?

 

The Panel

8:00 Welcome

8:15 Perinatal Loss: First You Care

8:50 Break

9:00 Mindfulness

10:00 Professional Tools for Compassionate Caring

10:45 We Remember: Parent Panel

11:45 Lunch

12:30 What Makes the Discussion Difficult

1:15-1:30 Travel to the Sim Lab- 1 Jelke

1:30 Scenarios / Break out sessions / Scenarios Debrief

3:30: Final Debrief

So, the above is the agenda for a workshop I was asked to attend as a member of the Parent Panel (with a lovely introduction and nametag as “Caitlin, Anderson’s Mom.” The workshop was for nurses, chaplains, social workers, etc. who work on Labor & Delivery or in the NICU, and it was all about providing comprehensive care for families who are experiencing the loss (or imminent loss) of a baby, no matter what gestational age (or actual age, for NICU babies). For the workshop participants, the day included as well meetings with professional bereavement photographers from NILMDTS. I was so excited as well to arrive in time for the session before mine, in which my favorite chaplain discussed compassionate ways to involve a full care team (one important point: Never say “Would you like to see the chaplain?” because that (a) assumes a religiosity that a parent might not wish foisted upon them and (b) scares the parents into thinking a chaplain must come imminently because their child is dying now. Instead say “Our care team includes many people, including a chaplain and social worker, who will both be stopping by today to see if they can be of assistance.” This way bereaved parents won’t have to struggle with making a choice, and will understand this is the “usual” standard of care that they can choose to accept or not).

Then it was our turn, we bereaved parents (well, all moms, in this case). It was so great, as it always is, to tell Anderson’s story. I was glad too because I was the only parent panelist to have such a comprehensive experience of the care at my hospital- Maternal/Fetal Medicine, L&D, NICU – and the nurses in those divisions were the ones in the audience. The other mothers only experienced L&D, so I was glad to have such insight. I got to say everything I wanted to say, and the very, very best part was that I knew some of the participants and it was so good to see them. Our favorite chaplain, and my favorite L&D nurse. And the best was one of the NICU nurses, who came up to me afterwards and said, “You don’t know me, but I was one of Anderson’s night nurses. I had him after his PDA ligation surgery, and I remember him. We talk about him frequently. He made a big impact, and he isn’t forgotten.” So definitely the best part of my day! Another nurse came up to note that she became a NICU nurse after the death of her own baby in the NICU. It all just helped me remember how much our babies inspire us and others every day. I’m so glad I was able to participate!