by mayberry on January 17, 2010
Not too many people even know it, and fewer still dare to say it aloud. But my littlest boy, lost one year ago today, has a name. It was important for me to give it to him, because it’s one of the only things I know about him. He was a boy. He sucked his thumb. His name is Simon. I have no pictures, save a few blurry ultrasounds. No clothes or toys or locks of hair. Just his name, which I whisper to myself at night. I tell him I love him, and that I’m sorry. And that I wish he could come back to me. I call him by his name.
The name is one that was rattling around in my head during those few short months I had with him. It amused me that it is one of only two that I happen to know my late grandmother hated … and the other one is Opie’s name. A friend mentioned it just a few days before everything started to fall apart, which I suppose is why it kept coming to mind during that awful time.
After he was gone, I thought about what I wanted for his name. I like Gabriel; maybe an angel name would be right. Or one of the boy names I loved but my husband didn’t, like Theodore. Did I want something common, so I could hear it often and think of him? Did I want something unusual, so I wouldn’t have to be reminded so very often (I know now that doesn’t matter; I think of him constantly, reminders or not)? Did it need to match my other children’s names, or not really?
In the end, Simon kept coming up, so Simon it was. Is.
For months, he didn’t have a middle name. I’ve always liked the family name Anton, but didn’t quite dare use it. It doesn’t work with Simon, but Anthony does. Then I learned that January 17 was St. Anthony’s Day. Anthony was a protégé of St. Francis of Assisi (I loved the Franciscans at my parish in Manhattan, and they are known worldwide for their work on poverty and human rights issues). Anthony is often depicted holding a little boy–the baby Jesus–in his arms. And he is the patron saint of lost items.
My Simon Anthony is not an “item,” but he is surely lost, as am I without him.
The sea obeys and fetters break
And lifeless limbs thou dost restore
While treasures lost are found again
When young or old thine aid implore.
—Responsory of St. Anthony
by mayberry on December 9, 2009
I read an absolutely searing memoir recently: Without a Map by Meredith Hall. The story begins when Hall becomes pregnant at age 16 (in the 1960s) and is suddenly, wrenchingly rejected by her school, friends, neighbors, siblings, and parents. Her son is placed for adoption–she’s given no choice on this–and the book outlines the repercussions as they happen over the ensuing years.
While I lost my son under different circumstances, I related so utterly to Hall’s pain and grief. About six years after she gives birth, she travels to Europe, intending to meet a boyfriend there and continue to India. Instead, she simply walks, alone and without a map or a plan or any money, for months, finally ending up in Israel with nothing but a knife, a bedroll, her passport, and a simple dress she’d made herself after selling the rest of her possessions.
Now, no one needs to worry that I’m going to take off on foot and end up in Patagonia or something. But I got it. I got why she walked. Why the only right thing to do seemed to be just to go and not stop. Why something that makes no sense can also make perfect sense. Walking let her escape her past, present, and future all at the same time. And sometimes, that feels like the only way to go.
[I did this on the wrong day, but I wanted to participate in some of the #best09 prompts and this has been on the brain.]
by mayberry on August 26, 2009
Mommy, why did Jo and I not die?
Everything worked just the way it was supposed to and here you are.
We were born.
Are you thinking about your baby brother?
Yeah.
He was very sick and he couldn’t be made better.
Why?
He was just too little.
I wanted to see a real baby.
Me too.
…
Mommy? Why is Darlene the leader of the G-Force?
by mayberry on August 11, 2009
Captain Obvious reminds the world to never ever ever say:
- Are you pregnant?
- When are you due? (unless preceded by a voluntary announcement of pregnancy)
- Are you planning to have [any more] children?
- Don’t you want [any/more] kids?
- I thought you had more than two children. Are you sure?*
- Are you trying?
- Are you sure there’s only one in there?
Captain Obvious notes that one can comfortably say:
- I love your [hair/shoes/necklace/spinach dip].
- How about this [weather/local sports team/lovely venue]?
- How do you know [host/mutual friend]?
- I’m going to the bar, can I get you anything?
*Yes. Personal experience with this one. I wish I were kidding.
by mayberry on July 9, 2009
On or about my 38th birthday, my little girl’s appendix ruptured, which pretty much ruined the rest of our summer.
About three months after my birthday, I quit the job I’d had for almost eight years, not entirely voluntarily. I struggled to adjust to freelance life.
A few weeks later, I got pregnant. That was good! Except I felt horribly, horribly ill. That was bad (that post does not, in the least, do justice to the utter misery of 24/7 nausea, heartburn, and migraine).
About six months after my birthday, everything caved in.
Since then, I move tentatively, afraid of blindsides.
39, you are going to have to bring it. And 38? Don’t let the door hit you on the way out.
by mayberry on June 11, 2009
Tuesday’s Act III (everything after 5 p.m.) was a tragedy. Or a misery, or whatever theatrical term means “sucky.” We discovered I’d made a frustrating, and probably costly, mistake regarding some home repairs. Opie moped and whined; he’d had a minor, but uncomfortable medical procedure done earlier in the day and the pain was breaking through. Neither Jeff or I have the slightest interest in making dinner lately, so we’d done the usual stare into the fridge, sigh, feed kids “how about some canned soup.” Even absent all of this, my general frame of mind these days is snappish and cranky; I knew June would be hard and it is, very.
Wednesday, the sun came out after days of cold and rain. Our peonies bloomed. I spent the whole day alone with the kids and didn’t lose my temper. We caught some caterpillars. We ate frozen pizza (with spinach). I set my expectations low.
It still wasn’t exactly a comedy of a day (there was no wedding at the end, for starters), but I’ll take it.
by mayberry on May 12, 2009
Recently I had a Bad Day, of the grieving subset of Bad Days. I had to go to the dentist and I just knew there would be an awkward moment when the hygienist asked me if I’d had my baby or why I wasn’t pregnant. I was dreading it utterly and it happened almost exactly the way I had feared, except I hadn’t predicted the part where I spent the entire appointment willing myself not to cry, then lost it in the car afterward.
As I told Maggie after her post IVF Shoes, I only want to talk about our loss with people I really care about and trust. Everyone else, it’s a need-to-know basis only. I know they don’t know what to say. I don’t either and I don’t feel like comforting them because I suffered a loss.
Like Maggie did, I bought a necklace as a tribute to my son. And what I like best about it is that it’s meaningful to me–the two taller flowers sheltering the little one, each representing one of my three children–but I only need share that meaning if I want to.
by mayberry on April 14, 2009
We won’t be leaving for my brother’s place for a few days, but yesterday Opie packed a bag. Stuffed it, actually: “So I’ll have choices, Mommy.” Here is what he wants to bring:
- 2 pairs shorts (how optimistic)
- 1 pair pants (also optimistic, given the limited success of potty training thus far)
- 3 short-sleeved shirts
- 2 long-sleeved shirt (it goes without saying that none of the above articles of clothing actually match each other)
- 1 pair football pants (from Halloween costume)
- 1 football jersey (from thrift shop)
- 1 Superfriends coloring book
- 1 rubber dog-nose mask
- 2 pairs faux pilot goggles (a spare is important)
- 1 string Mardi Gras beads (turquoise)
- 1 6-inch-long piece of grosgrain ribbon (striped)
I guess I’ll be packing the socks and underwear in my luggage.
*
Like Mrs. Chicken, I feel strange posting something frivolous today. I’ve been unable to write about Maddie (and now Thalon) in part because a silly, petty feeling weighs on me–that every mention of them is a tacit, although certainly unintended, exclusion of so many others: other babies who have been lost (yes, including my own), other families suffering other tragedies, too numerous or too unknown to mention. None of it is fair, none of it. But all I can do is enjoy the children I have.
by mayberry on March 27, 2009
I am not talking about the real kind of spring cleaning (heaven forfend). I am lucky if I remember to change the sheets regularly, and our windows haven’t been washed in at least two years.
But even though it’s still freezing cold, with snow predicted for the next two days, I am on an out-with-the-old roll lately. I am mercilessly cutting Bloglines subscriptions; I just can’t follow over 100 blogs anymore (but I’m sure yours is still on there). We are meeting with the accountant today to finally wrap up our 2008 taxes. I am changing my habits by shredding every day and being more thoughtful about what I eat. I am actually keeping alive the two new plants that recently came to live in our house. I am itching to put away my sweaters and corduroys in favor of skirts and t-shirts.
I can’t decide what to do with all of the baby and maternity clothes, though. I know I am placing a lot of pressure on myself to make a decision, but it’s driving me crazy to have all this stuff around. If we’re done, I’d like to try to move on, to celebrate the new time and space it might create in our lives while also mourning the babies, real and imagined, we’ll never have. If we’re not done, well, time’s a-wasting, you know? Limbo is just not a place I like to be.
by mayberry on February 26, 2009
It’s been almost six weeks now and most of the time I am holding up fine. I think about my son all the time, but it’s an undercurrent as I go about my day. I no longer can quite keep track of how many weeks pregnant I would be. But there are always moments, things I see or hear or read that tip me unexpectedly into a puddle of sorrow and regret.
Most recently it was the song “For Good” from Wicked. Looking at the lyrics now, they strike me as trite, but they hit a nerve nonetheless. Because I do wonder, often, what Lesson I am supposed to have learned from this experience. Is it presumptuous, or just premature, to think that I should take something away, that I deserve to get something out of it? That I ought to be wise enough to figure out what that something is? Is that too much pressure for my baby’s tiny shoulders, or my own?
I’ve heard it said
That people come into our lives for a reason
Bringing something we must learn
And we are led
To those who help us most to grow
If we let them
And we help them in return
Well, I don’t know if I believe that’s true
But I know I’m who I am today
Because I knew you
Like a comet pulled from orbit
As it passes a sun
Like a stream that meets a boulder
Halfway through the wood
Who can say if I’ve been changed for the better?
But because I knew you
I have been changed for good
It well may be
That we will never meet again
In this lifetime
So let me say before we part
So much of me
Is made of what I learned from you
You’ll be with me
Like a handprint on my heart
And now whatever way our stories end
I know you have re-written mine
By being my friend
I may not know exactly how far along I should be now, but I do picture, often, what would be happening now if our boy had lived, what I’d be doing and feeling. I expect I always will. I see three paths, three versions of my life–the one where I have a healthy, typical pregnancy and baby; the one where I have a child with disabilities, and am suddenly thrust into a new world of medical and educational and emotional challenges; and the one where I am missing a child. It’s all very Sliding Doors.
Like a ship blown from its mooring
By a wind off the sea
Like a seed dropped by a skybird
In a distant wood
Who can say if I’ve been changed for the better?
But because I knew you
I have been changed for good
–lyrics by Stephen Schwartz
Changed for good? That much is clear, even if not much else is.
