Come Out, Come Out, Wherever you are

Well here's a fine howdoyoudo.

There's a woman in the neighborhood, we'll call her Wanda, who moved in shortly after the whole February '07 debacle. I guess I really stupidly assumed that someone would tell her what was up just in the sense of passing on neighborhood gos, or if she were to inquire, "Oh, who lives there? Why don't I ever see them? Don't they have a daughter a year older than my son? Etc., etc., etc.?" But apparently she never asked, no one told, and now I'm in some sort of closet-hell.

Almost three years later, I find myself tucked in back of an old, never worn winter coat with stacks of outgrown boots around my ankles. And I'm strangely ok in here, just as long as you pass me nourishment now and again.

Wanda's in bookclub. And I can't remember what the first comment was or when exactly it came (I think calendar year '08), but it was a doozy that left everyone else kinda slackjawed, looking at me. And I kinda looked back as if to say, "What, none of you TOLD HER?" But it really wasn't the right moment.

Then there was the time when she said one of the most powerful and most difficult things she had ever read was a short-story by such-and-such about a deadbaby. And she went on, and on, about how tragic, and difficult, and unkind, and everyone again froze with their forks en route to their lips, staring at me and I stared right back, "Seriously dudes, NO ONE TOLD HER YET??!!" And maybe I should've said something then, but it was one of those things where she had the floor, and was clearly moved, and I didn't want to make her dissolve into tears like an asshole in front of a bunch of other people who were enjoying dinner. And I kept thinking if roles were reversed, and Wanda was making these comments about a neighbor whose baby died, I would take Wanda aside after club or maybe pop her an email and say, gently, "I know you didn't mean anything by it, but YOU DO KNOW THAT TASH'S BABY DIED, RIGHT??!! So, er, by kinda making yourself grand poobah of literary baby death, you're kinda undermining something that really happened to someone sitting next to you. Not that you can't bring it up -- how tough, difficult, hard it was to read -- but maybe with an understanding that someone else there might have thought the same, or otherwise having been through it? That as hard as it is to acknowledge this stuff exists in print, that someone here actually experienced it? Just a thought."

But I guess everyone else is in here with me, in the dark, wondering if that hole in the elbow is a snag or a moth-created crater, and can we get cable in here?

So then last week, there we were, discussing a book I simply adored (Kate Atkinson's "Behind the Scenes at the Museum") which is littered with dead children but in a salient, non-dramatic, not-trying-to-make-you-reach-for-the-hankies-by-creating-the-worst-case-scenario way, and AGAIN, Wanda pipes in with something to the effect of, "I couldn't read anything about bad things happening to kids after my son was born. Now I'm a mom, and these things just get to me. It's too hard. And then I read x, and now it's a bit easier, and I loved this book because she wasn't using it as a tool in her bag even though IT WAS REALLY REALLY ROUGH BECAUSE I'M A MOM, and blahblabhblahblhblllllllrrrrrgggg."

And again, there's this uncomfortable cloud where people are staring at me as if to say, "Tash, GET OVER YOURSELF AND TELL HER FOR FUCK'S SAKE, or at least wear the "My Baby Died" t-shirt to the next club because Wanda's making herself kinda look like an idiot here," and I'm sending people daggers as if to say, "I'm not really sure who's more chicken shit here, y'all or me." And I probably should have said something right then and there, but I choked it back because I thought it would steal her thunder, and I agreed with her about the point she was making regarding the book, and I knew she would dissolve into tears and feel like an asshole. I don't like making people feel like assholes, I guess.

And I hear you saying, Tash, get a fucking grip: she can feel like an asshole for 10 seconds! Not a biggie!

But here's the rub:

I like her. I really, really do. And I know she's a genuinely empathetic soul who will be crushed if/when she hears this, and I have no doubt she'll respond appropriately, so I'm really not worried about telling her per se, it's WHEN. How on earth do I bring this up out of the blue? What, pray tell, is a good segue? I mean, you'd think a fictional deadbaby would be about as good as it gets, but that's in front of other people. I'd like this to be done quietly, privately, not in front of a crowd.

Wanda and I have already finished next months book, and lo, we both dislike it enormously (David Wroblewski's "The Story of Edgar Sawtelle") (And no, neither of us dislike it because of the ending, which really was the least of the book's problems after 600 pages. After 300, I didn't care how it ended, as long as it did) and we've been having this fun little email side discussion about our mutual puzzlement as to Oprah's choices -- does she really read these things past page 50? I wondered at one point if maybe Wanda DID know, and was just saying these things anyway, so in one email I said something to the effect of, "After the shitstorm of the past 2.5 years, I just can't think zen anymore. For me, the destination matters, the journey can cram it, and maybe I just wasn't in the right place to read this book."

Waiting for a response. Hoping it opens a door to "I understand how rough the last few years have been," or maybe even "WTF are you talking about Tash? What happened?" And instead I get something to the effect of: "I also had a recent journey that ended poorly so I understand, and I also couldn't buy that premise."

Ended poorly? Wanda doesn't know. She doesn't know. And now that she's brought up her "poorly ended" journey, I just don't have the heart to tell her the end of mine -- at least not with this launch pad. I don't want to come across as trumping her, because that's truly not my intention.

So, here I am, wondering when on earth this story will out. Which rather begs the question, how many other people don't know? How do you go about announcing this stuff years later without an appropriate transition or introduction? How on earth do people miss this kinda news?

I'm so confused. Someone tell a joke.

Un-muted

I may be quiet here, but I have a new post up on GITW today about my newfound ability to discuss death.

Also: Today, October 15, is Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Day. I have a pin I will wear today, and will light a candle at 7 p.m. tonight in memory of Maddy, and all of yours. Much love.

Excuses

Sometimes there are legitimate reasons for not posting.

In No Apparent Order

I owe y'all pictures of the garden. So! First there was this:



which led to this,




pun completely intended. We ripped out poison garden, and my industrious husband built these:




(Two more to be added next year.) It was July by now, so we threw in seeds for beets, arugula, lettuces, carrots, and beans. At the nursery we found a couple herbs and peppers and a really raggedy tomato plant, all looking withered and on deep discount. We threw them in too.



It's not quite the harvest we wanted or intended but hey, I'm an aim-low kinda gal now. At least we know we can actually grow things to next year should be fun.

My big conundrum now is what to do in the bed adjoining the garden (see behind Bella's shoulder in the cucumber picture? The round bank of windows with a basement window underneath? That one); it had been over-ridden by some vine weed and mint (people, don't put mint in the ground. Grow it in a container, or if you must put it in the ground, plant the whole effin' container in the ground. I learned this valuable life lesson when I was about six from my mother, and am mystified to find people who don't realize what a pervasive weed it can be). The original plan was to put in blueberry bushes, but now with the lead we are not so crazy with this idea. Someone (I'm going out on a limb here and assuming not the people who planted the mint) planted peonies, which I really liked, but were overtaken and smothered. I'm toying with more of those and something tall in the corner next to the door (butterfly bush?). I welcome suggestions.

:::

Because we've been busy with getting rid of houseguests and school and whatnot, the fishtank was cleaned and refilled (and forgotten pretty much, but) and has now been "established" for at least a month. We now have an ammonia sensor, not to mention a couple bottles of stuff to regulate water chemicals. The filter is clean and running. In total, I've probably spent $70 on fish-tank related accouterments. And yesterday, we went and bought two tiny feeder goldfish -- that bill was 28 cents. I told my mom this was apparently about guilt.

:::

We're now wading knee deep in Fall and in addition to the pile of minutia I need to deal with, I've added to my docket . . . .coaching. No, for real. I am now head coach of Bella's soccer team after a fair amount of arm twisting and then using the arm to beat my husband over the head with. It's nerveracking, it wears me out, it's hilarious. After more than 20 years of playing the game, coaching the first time really puts things in perspective and has forced me to return to the essential, the raw, the root: Don't touch the ball with your hands. Followed closely by, Don't take the ball away from your teammate. The point is to score a goal. (A point quickly retracted when my wee scrimmage team goes up 3-zip in about two minutes, and I then tell them I'm not counting any more goals until I see them use today's skill of pulling the ball backwards on the way to the ball going in the net.) For me, it's a valuable lesson in not swearing for an hour, not laughing (out loud), realizing that running around with eleven 5-7 year-olds wears me the hell out. Aging is not a pretty thing.

It's also served to remind me that I haven't completely turned into some bitter, pariah freak of nature that really shouldn't be around innocent lovelies, even if I do know a thing or two about how to effectively bend a corner kick. It's reminded me I used to love soccer. Apparently, I still do.

:::

It's my first fall with my new kitchen. Last year I wistfully looked at the recipes for baked apple whatevertheheck, and this year I'm itching for an excuse to make pumpkin cake. (Does one need an excuse?) We've ushered in the season of hot breakfasts, and afternoon cups of tea. It almost feels like my first settled fall -- the first one where I wasn't in fear about the spooky pregnancy, or tied in emotional knots, or running my house out of a makeshift kitchen while contractors took up residence in my downstairs. The first fall where I can now sit with my tea and pumpkin cookie and look at my favorite tree in the yard, and watch the yellow and red start to erupt behind it.

I wonder if life will be like this, always a series of firsts as Time that uneven bitch makes it way beneath my feet.

I'm sure there's more, but seriously, I'm still catching up on my August Tivo. Not to mention my blogroll. Which I feel like a real asshole about. I'll come say hi, I promise. PROMISE. In the meantime, what are your Fall plans if any? (I know this is loaded, any season is a ton of crap for some, so I'm really sorry. Feel free to tell me about those plans, too. Really.) Also, have any of you ever considered letting your parents live with you? Because when we moved here, we honestly thought this was in the realm of possibility. After August, we're both thinking we were fucking mental to have ever entertained that thought, and we've forbidden each other from speaking of It ever again.

I Think That Was Me on TV

Ever run across a fellow babyloss parent on television, in a book, in the movies, in a play? Were they sad or psycho? Depressed or drunk? Feel you could write this stuff better if given the chance? I've got a post up today on babyloss parents in popular culture over at Glow In The Woods.

Cusp of Solstice

(One of my favorite pictures of grandma with Bella, age 4 months)




(In the middle of my grandmother's very overly-long memorial service, Bella turns to me and says in conversational voice):

I wish I was at camp.

I wish I was at camp too.

*

Bella we missed you yesterday!

I was at the Deadness Thing for my grandma.


***

Funerals are odd in that they're sort of fun family reunions minus the fun. I shouldn't say that -- there's still fun around the edges, but sometimes the funny stories take a sharp turn and you find your eyes brimming over, or someone else's voice cracks mid-story and everyone's left fumbling in an unexpected pause of silence.

I got to talking with one of my mother's cousins from Florida, one I don't think I had seen in over a decade if not longer (there was a family reunion in '98, but my memory is a bit fuzzy on all the cousins -- the one great uncle had a LOT of kids). I spoke during the service, framing my discussion on my grandmother's lousy cooking (in a real stretch for me, I tried to make it funny and touching), and cousin told me how much she loved what I had said, and how many memories it pulled out for her. And after lingering over some photos she turned to me and put her hand on my arm and said,

I'm sorry, I only just heard that you recently lost a child.

I did the two sentence spiel I have canned for such occasions, and she said,

You know, my mother had a baby who died. Gregory. He was three days old. They say he choked, probably on phlegm that no one then thought to rid him of. He was perfect. My mother couldn't speak of him for years without fully breaking down. I grew up knowing my brother that I never knew.

You can't know how relieved this made me -- not that there was another deadbaby in the family tree, but that here was this grown, totally sane, well-put-together smart beautiful woman with a family of her own who had gone through this. Whose mother had gone through this. She in no way looked as though she were living under a bridge, and though I've only seen about 10 minutes of Jerry Springer and a grand total of five or so Oprah episodes, she didn't look familiar from either milieu. Phhhhheeeeewwwwww.

I told her how much I now appreciated the silver lining of being able to talk to Bella straightfowardly about things like Grandma's death and funeral, and Bella exemplified this moments later by delicately tiptoing on the fresh mound of dirt covering my grandmother in order to see what flowers were still alive after last week's burial. No fear, this one, King of the Hill of Death.

***

The cemetery in which my grandmother is buried is older than some, but for this region decided not "old" -- I think the stones closest to the church date back to the early 1800s (this was indeed a stretch of road where Washington rode and slept, and some of the churches just up the street must have older occupants), which give way to the recent, as you walk back through the yard, to the last row where my grandmother now lies. I always pause at the military stones to read which war, and how old. (There's a veteran of the Spanish-American war in the same column as my grandmother a few rows back, and I've already promised myself when I go to plant pansies and bulbs by my grandmother, I'm weeding his place and tidying up.) As a historian I'm always fascinated by family structures: how many wives/husbands over time, how many children, elderly sisters who are buried as neighbors. Now of course I laser in on the children: fourteen years old; ten years; three, one, and then . . . there it is. A life measured in days.





***

At some point in early July, when I realized summer was getting away from us and we weren't going to the Outer Banks because the family that we usually meet up with there had decided to go even farther southward (should we take this as a message?), I suggested that we quick find a close beach getaway for a few days or a weekend in August. I hope that laughing I hear is with me, not at me. August obviously got sucked into a maelstrom of houseguests, grocery runs, meals, trips to the country, funerals, services, cleaning up and out my grandmother's things, and that ever familiar drive-through of grief. I'll take the usual. So last Monday, I piped up -- mostly to myself -- let's go to the beach! And go we went, to a close one, for two days and one night. Beach for Bella, brewpub for us.

It was unseasonably chilly, extremely windy, overcast; there were tidal warnings, red flags, anxious life guards; wind burn, sand in every orifice . . . . . and it was AWESOME. The sand was clean and soft and perfect for castles, we bundled up in our covers and rash guards (save Bella, who is a leper when it comes to water, and ran around in her swim suit as if it were a sunny , still 92 degrees), read, napped, watched a pack (school? herd?) of dolphins swim by, oogled at the parasurfers, ate, slept, and went back for more. I made no decisions. I didn't make a meal. It was a slice of heaven.

Now I'm back staring at the yard I didn't weed for a month, the list of school supplies I didn't shop for, the soccer gear I need by next weekend, the garden that needs tending, the fridge that needs disinfected and I'm wondering, where did summer go? I could point to times when it was fast, and times when it was slow. Overall, it was . . . disappointing. I'm going to eat home-grown beet salad for dinner, and look forward to Fall.

Good Grief

Is Grandma going to die?
Yes love.
When?
This week.
Yeah, but what day?
They don't know.
The doctors can't tell you that?
No.

:::

A million moons ago, sometime in July, began the influx of house guests. They came to party primarily, and say hello, and for my mom there was also the added benefit of a high school reunion. At some point in this initial seizure of good times, my grandmother was hospitalized for dehydration.

I suppose no one ever foresees this kinda thing, but in that bout of institutionalization came MRSA. Followed by organ failure. The day my mother was to drive west for a few days of wine and old yearbook hilarity, we had a conversation in my kitchen about DNR's where I suddenly found the following words leaving my mouth, as though my lips were possessed by their own small wee brain:

I know all situations and doctors are different, but when we were at Children's . . . . . There's a lot of gray area in there between "yes" and "no." You can give them a half-assed answer, there's a lot of wiggle room . . . .

Under what circumstances does a daughter tell her mother these things?

For a while, grandma was "stable." And anyone with time clocked in the NICU knows "stable" simply means "not plummeting in a death spiral at the moment." It does not mean "good," or even "better." She wasn't eating. She recognized a vase from her china set when I brought in flowers. Me not so much. Because of the infection, we all had to suit up, and I had to wear gloves just to touch her.

There is no comfort in latex.

After stabilization came a stint at the nursing home, and decisions were made about hospice. There was no time line, but it was understood that she was seriously compromised and the next step -- whether in days, weeks, or even months; whether a small stumble or a flying headfirst leap -- would be her last. Plans were made to dislodge the house guests.

And then hospice called: we could expect only days. Flights were changed; my brother madly hopped on a red-eye.

And after dinner on Monday I drove out to the nursing home to say goodbye.

Did you touch her?
I touched her hair. It was so soft. She's not in pain, she's very peaceful. She didn't talk. She looked like she was sleeping. I told her you loved her.

It was deja vu all over again, sitting in a dark nursing home room, listening to her shallow, long breaths. Her eyes were closed, she may well have been sleeping, and I sat not knowing what to say. Again. A life so short, I couldn't possibly cram everything in versus a life so long I couldn't possibly cram everything in. I left it at I love you. Awkwardly hunched over a bed, this time with no suiting up but strict instructions to wash my hands very well afterwards. Some things never change.

My brother's plane touched down at 8:19 a.m the following morning; Grandma died at 8:00 a.m.

Bella, Grandma died.
Oh. Will we bury her?
Yes.
Can I help?
Yes.

Pieces of conversations slammed me: "We're going to the funeral home. I have no idea how long it will be; I don't know what they do there." I do. But I decided not to regale them -- they'd find out soon enough.

The funeral director offered to include ashes in the casket, and apparently there was a whispered conversation between my aunt and Mr. ABF about Maddy's remains. We were touched, but opted no. Grandma will be buried at her church, where she's been a member for 40+ years -- a move I couldn't argue was more perfect for her. It is not perfect for us.

The burial was Friday, a private affair, just immediate family plus one family who will not be there for the memorial service next week. Plus since my dad can't lift, we needed another pallbearer. We stood in the hot noontime sun, my aunt, my mother, and I wearing grandma's jewelry we had laid claim to the day before while sorting through her apartment. We went to a brew pub afterwards and drank and ate. And that evening, we all dissolved in tears.

Can we visit Grandma?
Next week at the memorial we will. And later this fall we'll plant flowers, ok?
Great.

It has been an incredibly long month. We've had uninterrupted house guests since July 29, and more are on the way this week. I have been in constant motion since July 27 or so, always planning the next 48 hours. I am exhausted.

For Bella's birthday my father gave her a fish tank, and since that fateful day, we've been through (I am not making this up) 8 fish. We finally realized the primary goldfish we bought was aggressively trying to make meals out of his/her compatriots, and then sadly the last partner we brought in brought disease with. Before the major cemetery ceremony, we had a few in the back yard. Until that got old.

Do you want to bury Lily in the yard or flush her so she goes back into the water?
Flush her. I'll do it.

Poor kid has overseen 9 burials in the past four weeks. The silver lining is that although there have been tears, there has been only honestly, no mincing of words, no euphemisms. No hiding, no secrets, no lying. No finding a babysitter. She has asked great questions, she understands perfectly that we will never see grandma again.

Mom, can you get another grandma if yours dies?
No love. No you can't.

Sadly, I know exactly where she's going with this.