Closing My Eyes

For almost five years, I have not had a dream about my first daughter. It is tormenting enough to never see her again, but even my subconscious seemed to reveal in my pain by blocking any inclination of my sweet Eleanor. That is until the day after Christmas.

 

I am not religious. I wouldn't even say I am spiritual. I just believe in the good of people and in trying to do the right thing, whatever that is. The finality of death has always been hard for me since I desperately want to believe I will see my loved ones again. But I do not believe I will. In the case of Ellie, this produces much pain and sorrow. So I yearned to dream of her...not the horrible dreams I had after she died. They were of her brother dying while I was always a second away from saving him. But dreams of a sweet, happy, and healthy baby girl, growing through the years as if she were still with us. I would beg myself to dream of her at night, but instead the grief would take over and I would inevitably cry myself to sleep quietly, as not to wake my husband. But then it happened. The dream.

When I was pregnant with my son, Ellie's older brother, I would go to a water aerobics class at a university pool several times a week. You know the scene: tile floors, humidity, the smell of chlorine and mold in the air. The dream starts at that pool. I am walking into the area where I swam and later took my son to infant classes. There are two or three instructors and a dozen little babies bobbing in the water. They aren't in distress, but instead seem to be actively swimming despite looking just a few months old! I feel like I shouldn't be there for some reason and am aware that I shouldn't be viewing this sight. As I slowly walk toward the babies, an instructor notices me and quickly produces a large yellow sheet to shield me from seeing anything. I stop, saddened I can no longer see, although I don't really understand what I am looking at. As the disappointment starts to settle in, a little fair skinned girl with blue eyes and brown curly hair (now four or five years of age) peaks around the yellow sheet and smiles at me. I know. I know in that instant that the little girl is my Ellie. I eagerly step toward her, but am suddenly taken to another place. I am still near the pool, but am now standing among several twenty-somethings in modern clothing as they wait for something. The next class? A bus? I am not sure. But I am talking frantically to them. I am asking what their names are, but none seem to know the answer. All they seem to know is that they died as infants. I zero in on two girls based on hair and eye color, and realize one is my daughter. I again ask their names, and they again reply they do not know. But one girl says she knows her birthdate. I stare at her and she says it. January 8, 2010. She is beautiful. Tall, fair shinned, dark hair, stunning blue eyes. She is alert and smart and has compassion in her eyes. She is my daughter as a woman. I call her Ellie as tears swell up in my eyes and begin toward her when my alarm goes off. I fumbled to hit the snooze button and tightly closed my eyes in hopes of seeing Ellie's face again and telling her how much I miss and love her. I lay there begging my mind to give me one more glimpse of her, to hear her talk again, to touch her. But it is in vain. The dream is gone, and so is Ellie.

 

Do I think my dream was my daughter in another realm trying to reach out to me? As wonderful as that would be, no, I don't. I think after five years of painful grief, my mind was finally allowing me to see her. Maybe it was to help me get through the holidays and her upcoming fifth birth and death dates. Maybe it was to help me process her death and the finality of it all. Maybe being around children at the holidays and thoughts of her playing in the midst of the cousin chaos made me yearn for her presence. I don't know. Finally dreaming of her was bittersweet. The image of that beautiful young woman stayed with me all day after the dream. But now that image is fading. She's gone again and the pain returns more deeply. She is still gone forever and all I have to look forward to is the hope that I will again see her in my dreams. 

Should she stay, or should she go?

I have mentioned that my profession requires me to study the past. I have come across historic cemeteries with many children buried within. I have written about former Presidents that have lost children. And I have written about the sad history of Mother's Day.
 

I love to study the past; to learn from it. It is important for us to remember past events when working in the present because it helps provide context. Hopefully it allows both sides to take history into consideration, especially during conflict, so they can move into the future together. But does that past have to stay in the past?

Without getting into a huge political debate, when groups around the world have been historically subjugated and then receive "equality" or "freedom," is it beneficial to continually bring up past wrongs for generations? Should we all just accept that some atrocity happened and then move on? Part of me feels that would be practical. After all, we can't change the past...although I have spent many sleepless nights wishing I could. But part of me thinks it is important to remind people, because we all know how short public memory is. People need to know something bad has happened or that the wrong team was backed.

When it comes to my own tormented past, I can't seem to move on. How can I learn a lesson from what has happened? I always considered myself a decent person and have made compassion, service, giving, and stewardship the foundation of my life. So what was it that the universe wanted?

Everything does happen for a reason (for better or worse), but I can't accept a mythical or magical explanation. Before January 2010, I wasn't naive about death. The scientist in me knows that we are at the mercy of natural selection and randomness. The historian in me knows more mothers and babies survive childbirth now more than ever before. Ellie's heart defect was an anomaly and we were lucky to have six days with her due to medical science.

I've been thinking about "moving on" a lot lately after two conversations.

1. I spent a week in Oklahoma camping with a Tribal Nation. One evening while reflecting on our time there, I spoke with an elder. I asked him about their beliefs on death, and specifically infant death. He told me that historically the family washed and then painted the body in red and then burnt it. This was followed by four days of grieving...the entire village grieved. And then, they "moved on." He said, "Why would they want to keep that child here?" By continuing to grieve publicly, by just saying the child's name, it was being prevented from beginning the next journey.

2. I spoke with a coworker who experienced two back-to-back stillbirths. I'm guessing it was about five years ago. She has an older daughter and a young son, born after his siblings died. While I was on the verge on crying listening to her story and talking about my own, she seemed at peace. I was talking about some of the charity events and outreach efforts I have participated in, and she stated that she used to be into all of that, but recently stopped.  

Am I holding on too tightly to the past? Am I keeping Eleanor here instead of somehow letting her go? Is it possible to "move on"? Some days I am barely treading water, while other days are happy and productive. I can't imagine NOT mentioning Ellie or including her in special events and holidays. But am I focusing too much on the past and ignoring my future (i.e. my two beautiful surviving children)?

January 8 marks Ellie's third birthday and my thoughts have been consumed with every moment of her short life for weeks now. Not a night goes by where I am not thinking about her before drifting off. I break down during my morning shower several times a week. I have been snapping at my husband and son more than I care to lately. I find myself secretly begging people to mention her or provide the opportunity for me to talk about her.

This tug-of-war between grieving the past and living for the future is exhausting. Don't get me wrong. It's not that I think you can't grieve AND live your life. But the pain literally consumes me and I obsessively think about the what-ifs and I-should-haves. The guilt, either real or perceived, comes back. I get angry at the doctors and flight team. I can't turn it off.

Embarrassingly, I will end this post by quoting the most recent Batman...in a non-raspy voice..."There can be no despair without hope."  And I do hope. I hope I make sure my children don't live in the shadow of Ellie. I hope I can have Ellie in my heart always and accept that she is gone. I hope I can cope with the pain and grief and learn to not fight it. I really do hope.

Wash. Rinse. Repeat.

As I stumble my way through this week, I find myself reflecting on repetition and cycles. We discovered I was pregnant with Ellie on July 4^th weekend, 2009. This past Sunday, July 8, Ellie would have been 2 ½ years old…followed by this coming Saturday commemorating 2 ½ years since she has been gone. I have been here before. I remember being hopeful for healing in July 2010 and then sorrowful in July 2011 as she felt further and further away from me. Will it always be this way? Will every January, March, and July – not to mention the holidays – affect me like this…like it just happened and I can hardly catch my breath? Is this what a bereaved parent’s life is: waiting for the next painful milestone, thinking about the what-ifs and my child’s should-bes?  

Cycles are a part of life and death. I used to see their beauty; the animal dying in the woods, breaking down into food and compost, and then becoming the foundation of new life and growth. It’s nature at her finest. But what is natural about the cycle being disrupted? This isn’t the way it is supposed to happen. And every day I am caught in a new cycle of happiness for my surviving children, fear that they will be hurt, sadness for Ellie’s absence, exhaustion from fighting to cope, and anger that I now know about this world of loss.

In my office at work and on my check book, I force myself every new page to place a small, red heart on the 8^th and 14^th of the month. Not like I would ever forget these days. But it has become repetition. It is something I have to do, like brushing my teeth or reading a book to my son at night.

Haunted

My now 5 month old daughter has been having a few issues, which requires us to see a pediatric physical therapist weekly. We just started to see a new one this week at the children’s hospital in the state capitol. It is connected to the NICU where Ellie spent her short life. When we arrived for the appointment, we took a convoluted path, but eventually found our way to the appointment. At one point, I stepped out of the session to use the restroom and was immediately taken back 26 ½ months. The smell of the soap and water, even the way my skin felt after washing my hands, triggered so many memories. Upon leaving, we were told of an easier way out. When the elevator doors opened, another smell hit: the food court where we quickly walked to in order to grab a bite to eat and get copious amounts of caffeine after Ellie crashed the first time and was stabilized. I vaguely remember texting with my best friend, in utter shock as I tried to choke down a few bites of food to prepare for the long night ahead. I was pumping because I just knew Ellie would need it and I desperately tried to stay hydrated and fed in order to produce. But the day was already so traumatic, that I just couldn’t stand the thought of eating. But I went anyway. Like so many decisions those six days, that one haunts me. I can try to justify it by saying the doctors and nurses were running tests and changing equipment and we wanted to stay out of the way. I didn’t have to pump at that moment despite being engorged. I certainly didn’t have to meet basic bodily functions and use the restroom or eat. I should have done nothing except stay with her. But I left. I couldn’t think. I left and it haunts me. So when those elevator doors opened and I smelled that food court, I shivered as if seeing a ghost.

As we turned the corner, my husband and I both slowed down momentarily as we saw the hall where you turn to enter the NICU. I saw the pole I leaned against as we called our parents, in utter shock at what had just happened. I couldn't bear to look toward the NICU doors and just stared at the ground, forcing myself to take slow, deep breaths for fear of passing out. We walked up and over the same sky bridge to the parking garage that we did when she died: me catatonic, empty handed, my husband desperately trying to figure out how to fix things while fighting his own tears. The next day we had to go back in order to release her body for cremation because I refused to travel 60 miles back home without her in my arms. As my husband talked to the doctors and signed the forms, I stood, and stared at the now empty spot where her NICU open-bed was just twelve hours earlier. One neonatologist came up to me and just grabbed my hand. I don’t remember what we talked about. A nurse had gathered the few things Ellie had, mainly hospital equipment that I wanted to keep. We had bought things the day before to decorate her area with but waited since we were supposed to fly to DC that night.

I walked up that ramp the day after her death, holding a small pink tub with leads, a bulb syringe, two books we had bought to read to her, a small stuffed monkey, the dress they put her in after she died, an eye mask for her bilirubin treatments, a thermometer, a lock of her hair with a bow taped to construction paper with two pictures of us holding her, and a blanket some group makes for babies that pass. I looked down at Adelaide and thought how strange it was to actually leave this place with my living daughter. She was happily playing with a toy hanging from her car seat handle, oblivious to the significance of the place.

Our daughter will get better and stronger as a result of that place. She will catch up and undoubtedly grow up to become an amazing woman. This place owes me that. The haunted memories of Ellie's struggle and my guilt will be shared with her little sister as she heals. And baby giggles will echo down the hall.

Don't Borrow Trouble

Has anyone ever said that to you? I've never understood what that meant...who would ever "borrow trouble?" This has been said to me a lot since Ellie died. At first it was in reference to fears I had regarding my living son's health and well-being. I hovered and stressed a lot the first year after Ellie died. Nightmares and lack of sleep didn't help and neither did a miscarriage 10 months out OR losing my youngest daughter's twin at 9 weeks pregnant. Now that I have a new baby in the house, I am even more worried. It's hard enough to look at her and think about how Ellie may be developing at the same age. And it is so bittersweet to watch her play with her big brother. So, when there is a cold, or bumps and bruises, I automatically go to a dark place, if even for a minute. I have experienced the worst thing a parent can experience. I am not naive anymore.

So, am I "borrowing trouble" any more than any other mother? What good parent wouldn't worry about their child? You don't have to be neurotic, but a healthy amount of fear and listening to mommy intuition is a good thing in my mind. Am I more sensitive to normal mom-on-mom crime (what I call it when mother's passive-aggressively judge another mother...or somethings NOT so passive aggressively) because of my experiences? Maybe it is just my sensitive nature in general. I don't know. But I am sick and tired of being told, "don't borrow trouble." The next person who says that to me, may be borrowing their own trouble!