Well, I’ve made it through more than a third of January unharmed, yet my mood has hovered somewhere between “Edgar Allen Poe” and “Schopenhauer,” with only occasional stops at my customary default of “Gilbert & Sullivan.” Alas, naming my moods after literary figures does little to make them more palatable.
I am tired, I am crabby and fractious, I am lumpen and couch-bound. I blame the dreary weather, the fact that I managed to GAIN weight after a week of virtue, my increasing certainty that I will shortly descend into financial ruin. I blame the baby’s insistence upon flopping from a sitting position onto her stomach to crawl after something—only to commence screaming when she realizes she doesn’t know how to crawl.
But it is hard to tell whether these things are the source of the brooding form I have taken, or whether the blame truly lies with my memory, for interrupting my thoughts with meaningless remembrances and calculations.
Like yesterday morning:
Wednesday will be the anniversary of the Terrible Ultrasound, which makes today the anniversary of the last time Ames might have been alive. We spent the evening at the vet; Lennie was sick. Ames—we called him “Stampy,” then—was kicking hard enough to visibly ruffle the surface of my shirt. When Scott tapped my belly, he kicked back.
Or yesterday afternoon:
TWO years ago today I was getting a phone call telling me that I was pregnant but probably not going to stay that way. I remember how shocked I was. I was eating pasta when the phone rang. Ugh, I hated that kitchen. Who covers a countertop with contact paper? I was planning my wedding, back then. It turned out to be a happy spring.
Or this morning:
Maybe those kicks weren’t Ames after all. Maybe he had already died, and moved down, and it was Simone we were feeling. Or maybe it WAS Ames, and he was in distress, trying to tell me that something was wrong. I wonder what it was like for him—was it scary, or like falling asleep? Did Simone know?
Or five minutes ago:
A-MIN-O-PHY-LLINE. A-MIN-O-PHY-LLINE. What is that word? Why is it running through my head like that? A-MIN-O-PHY-LLINE. A-MIN-O-PHY-LLINE. I think it is one of the medicines Simone was on in the NICU. There were so many of them—I remember going to see her for the first time, and seeing a whole wall of IV pumps running. That first nurse—whatever happened to her? I remember how hard it was to stand up from my wheelchair. The effort made me shake and sweat, but I stood anyway, because I couldn’t see into Simone’s isolette sitting down.
These are the things that pop up, while I am playing pattycake, or loading the dishwasher, or rocking my very living daughter to sleep.
It should be impossible, to be in so many places at once, but it’s not.
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you are so beautiful and your grief and wonder and confusion and even, at times, peace, make being a teensy part of this story one of the most human, compassionate, joyous, grievous, and lovely things i have ever experienced.
Indeed, not impossible. Hugs, hugs, hugs. And it’s not the point and it is not why I’m hugging you, but your writing is amazing and I love it.
Indeed, not impossible.
De-lurking (I believe) to say that I’m so sorry for your loss of Ames, and those remembrances? (From personal experience I can say) They are definitely not meaningless.
Simone is gorgeous. But you knew that.
Every morning, I wake up in my own bed but also in a hospital bed. I walk into my daughter’s room to look into her crib but I am also looking into her isolette. I look forward to the day I am only in one place.
I can only remind you that from all that grief and horror came your beloved Simone (who becomes more gorgeous every day). I know you are aware of that but sometimes it helps to repeat it. I’m sure the winter weather and the poor state the USA is in must be exacerbating your moods but Spring IS coming, it IS already a whole new year of opportunities and possibilities and, surely, as the song says, ‘Things can only get better’. You’ll never stop loving and missing Ames but hang in there Alexa, you’re one tough cookie and you can deal with all of this.
Big cyber hugs to you all!
It makes so much sense that you are having all those feelings rear up–that’s exactly what happens on anniversaries of things like that. I experience it myself. I’m so sorry you’re going through that. The feelings are so hard, even when you know what’s behind them. Have a hug.
ALexa,
As always you write beautifully. The things you have had to deal with in the last few years are huge, and yet here you are. One tough cookie.
xx
J
This post just made me cry. Hurtingly beautiful.
Lol
Sabine
Hugging you.
Yup. The yearly waltz through the crescendo into the car wreck is a painful thing. I find myself remembering all kinds of crap, like how the guest room didn’t have a comforter and the book I read during L&D. And I can’t remember yesterday to save my life.
I wish I could step back in time and step in front of the train for you, I really do. Thinking of you all.
delurking to say how much I love reading your blog every time, & how sorry I am for your pain.
Teary eyed for you, for your beautiful words and writing, and my memories of loss.
Delurking to say I read you all the time. You are so eloquent (and funny!). Thinking of you this January.
Sweet heart, I’m so sorry you are experiencing this. That you experienced this in the first place.
If it gets impossible to withstand, I (from experience) recommend getting help for post tramatic stress. It can take over your life.
My thoughts and prayers are with you.
Alexa:
You nailed it. I was wondering how it was possible to be so many places at once.
Beautiful. Thank you.
***Hugs***
You have been through so much – so many highs and lows – this past year and even before then. Keep on keeping on.
Are you doing anything for Simone’s 1st birthday? Party? Smash cake?w2
Well, Saxby Chambliss.
Simone is amazing and your blog writing is some of my all-time favorite. Brains like ours should be illegal; my very much alive baby is three months old already but I still think “what if” every. single. day. It’s not as grim as when I was pregnant and afraid of losing him, but it does take one far far away.
I’m honored that our babies share the stripey caterpillar snowsuit.
(or for that matter before i was pregnant and convinced i would never get him, never mind lose him)
These anniversaries are AWFUL. Which is to say, they’re awful for me and I do not have the loss of a child to contend with, so I can’t even imagine the amount that the awful is magnified.
Hang in there… for me, at least, every year has gotten a bit better… the marking of the “this is when” moments gets quieter and quieter each year.
Just wanted to send you support and wishing our comments could actually hug you….(may be creepy, but in times like this there really are no appropriate words, just a look in the eye and a “I’m so sorry”)
Thank you for your beautiful posts; I hope writing is cathartic for you in some way because you’re an excellent writer!
While you will never forget what happened, nor will ever keep asking yourself “what if,” I recommend learning to “live in the moment” and practicing some sort of meditation. It doesn’t take away the reality of the experience, it just helps to accept it and move forward, enjoying your everyday experiences now. And while I can’t imagine you loving Simone any more than you already do, living in the moment will ensure you don’t miss any precious moments with her as she grows up (rather than re-living the past). Having said that, though, I still believe it’s important to take the time to grieve when you simply need to grieve, as long as it doesn’t take over your life.
Be well.
I don’t comment often enough but just wanted to say I’m thinking of you and remebering Ames during what has to be a crazily confusing time.
It wasn’t scary. Fear is learned and Ames had only known peace, comfort, and happiness inside of you.
I’m thinking of all of you.
You know, my brain is in twelve different places too at these moments, and I used to wonder things like when did it happen and how, but then I just decided that it had to be gentle and not scary, and I picked a moment and a day, and focused on that.
I knew if I didn’t, I’d obsess about it until I made myself sick, because that’s just how I am.
Anyway, it might work for you as you go forward on this journey. Take care hon.
To botch rephrasing T.S. Eliot, April is the cruelest month for me. Your bad memories will continue to diminish, your multiple selves will heal and fuse, but the love your bear for your children will only grow. Thank you so much for sharing these parts of yourself.
just wanted to say that you write beautifully and that even with the melancholy mood, i loved reading this post.
not impossible, and so very exhausting. i’ll take a nap for you (hoping it will help) right after i squeeze one in for myself….
I’m always touched by your ability to put your feelings into such beautiful and pefect words…and how I find that it often describes what I’m feeling, although about a totally different subject.
Yes, your mind is working on processing all of what transpired, clearly it is going to take a long, long time.
I find it really heart wrenching and beautiful all at once : so many contradictions we humans go through when it comes to emotions.
I would get really depressed in July for a few years in a row… just really, really down for no apparent reason. Invariably, at some point I would remember that my dad had died suddenly on July 18th the year/two years/three years before. Subconsciously, I remembered it.
Alexa, my thoughts and prayers are with you and your family. I think it’s only normal to remember anniversaries in this way. A year ago I…this time last year I… and on and on. It is heart wrenching to wonder, and worry, and have no answers.
I know that there is no easy fix, but I do want you to know we’re thinking of you, and here to help no matter what you want ot write about.
<3
I hope that you know that you are allowed to feel lumpy and grumpy. That your grief is still relatively new. That one year anniversaries make all the pain new again. I am so sorry for your losses and I hope you continue to talk to us through your grief. All the best, sweetie.
I’ve been reading your blog for awhile, but have never commented. Just this past year I too was pregnant with twins, a boy and a girl. Too make a very long story short, our boy, Nathan died 8 days after he was born. After a 3 month NICU stay, Aubrey, our daughter, is home with us.
Your latest entry struck me – hard. I could have wrote the same thing. (Except I wouldn’t be as verbally eloquent as you.) I have flashbacks to the moment my water broke early, my 6 weeks of bed rest, the day the twins were born, the day Nathan died. I live with the guilt that my body did this to these two innocent babies. I feel like a war veteran.
Ames’ kicking… I wonder the same thing. Was Nathan’s kicking actually distress?
Thank you for being so candid. I don’t feel so alone now.
I know I have commented before, about one of my dearest friends who has lost two babies (one at 32weeks and one at 23 weeks)…..and I know anniversaries are very hard for her. I try and always send her a note on the anniversaries of her losses, at first I was unsure, but when I asked her, she said she was grateful that others beside her and her hubby remembers her kids. And as emotional as I get about the situation, my brain cannot comprehend how horrible it is for them, and likewise how awful your experience was for you…
My heart hurts for yours.
oh, Alexa . . . you write so beautifully about such ugly anxiety. I am thinking of you, and remembering with you.
A devoted reader delurking to say your writing is beautiful. Truly beautiful.
Big hugs. This is a tough time and you deserve to be lumpen and couch-bound. Just give Simone lots of kisses.
I lurke pertty much daily but don’t post, but today you tugged at my heart. I just want to send you hugs from across the country.
Thinking of you this week.
I got nothin’, honey, but as always, reading everything and cheerleading for you and your lovely family.
I’m so sorry sweetheart. January is a bleak month, even without all this. Hang in there. Let’s hope all the processing and remembering you’re doing now will open the way for an even brighter spring.
I want this month to be over of you!
Those damn calculations, I’ve never been good in math,I actually suck hard in adding and taking away but can somehow rattle off all Five of their due-dates and first birthdays, when they would have started walking, or teething, or graduated from high school. I’m like an effin idiot savant. Those damn calculations.
Thinking of you today and your little one that was lost. I loved the post.
xoxo
Sarah
Alright, it took me this long to be able to write about this, but on the day you posted this, my son, Lewis was 8 years old, and it had been 8 years since I lost his brother Jonathan, his ID twin.
I feel your pain, Alexa, and all I can say is hang on. I tend to focus all my attention on Lewis until I’m alone at night with my husband. the tears came to me this morning, as I woke up, laying in bed, crying for the little boy I lost and feeling guilty for not running in to wish happy birthday to the boy I was blessed enough to have with me.
This may not sound very eloquent, but it’s a bitch and sometimes just knowing you are not alone, helps.
You are not alone.
Simone is fabulous, and the pictures are beautiful, thanks for sharing.
I’ve lost two children and I can honestly tell you that it does get better. I know exactly what you mean though. It’s been a few years since my loss (and two healthy children later), but there are days when I still feel “scattered”. For some reason, it’s usually in the shower when I re-live parts of our hospital stays. (Perhaps with two kids, it’s the only quiet time that I have.) Anyway, as painful as the memories are, they do help me to remember my little angels and picture their faces. As time goes by, things are less clear and I’m actually oddly grateful for these images that pop up. Now if I could just make it so that only happy moments pop into my mind.
Hang in there. Thank you so much for sharing.
I keep coming back to this post, thinking… this time I’ll be able to comment. This time, I’ll actually be able to articulate what I want to say. And I still can’t.
Here in the UK, the 1911 census was published on-line yesterday; many of us have been looking back at our family details. My maternal great-grandmother was one of a staggering 18 children, and although tragically few of them survived to adulthood, it wasn’t a particularly unusual circumstance: infant mortality was appallingly high. I found myself thinking about your post, the comments above, and my own distressing memories.
Still trying to make some sense of it all.
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