My dear,
darling, beautiful, Angel Rachael,
I was lying
in bed the other night. I had been in
bed for approximately five days and was hoping that things would start to look
up – and I realized that Valentine’s day was this week … thus - your birthday.
I lie there
for some time and thought about that.
Some years it flies by so fast it barely registers, sometimes the day seems longer, sadder, more
difficult. I had decided that this year
I was just going to ignore it all together.
I didn’t mean it as disrespectful to you, I just … was at a loss as to
actually … well, how to … feel.
So much has
happened lately and my heart seems unable to take on one more drop of pain or disappointment or heartache,
so as a defensive measure – I had decided that would be the safest course of action - to keep my precarious mental health from plummeting ever further and further ... away.
And then –
using some alien form of my fingers (yes, I will admit this) I was counting on
my fingers to figure out how old you would have been come Thursday and somehow
came up with 18! I know, I know – I USED
to have a minor in math – I am not entirely sure where my brain has stashed it ...
And it hit
me – you are about the age (18) that I picture you being! When people used to say “Oh, you will get to raise
her in the hereafter.” I would involuntary
blurt out before censoring myself – “Oh! Heavens no! She is a beautiful long brown haired beauty
that is positively perfect in every way and all I could do was ruin her – why, oh why would
I want to do that?” I don’t believe this
is the case in every case, but in yours – I do.
Either way – it got rid of them pretty quick and I didn't have to speak
of it.
But you
would just be 16 – a little young for what I had just been thinking about doing, but then I realized
something! Between the two of us? I am the only one here that thinks linearly! What does it matter to you if I write you a
letter at my concept of you at sixteen or write it to you when you are my
vision of you at eighteen … sometimes I can be ever so dense.
As I lay there that night - wondering what I would say to you, I realized that there was not much I would say ... but there was ever so much that I needed to thank you for - and you know what? Sixteen years seems like an awful long time to have not done this earlier ...
For
continuities sake and for anyone other than you reading this – I have recycled
a few of my writings – basically the day we ‘meet’. Our "Day One". I felt I needed to put that in before
finishing my letter to you – so, my darlin' – skip if you want – read it if you
want - I have changed both 'pieces' somewhat ...
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
3:30 am ...
Can't sleep.
Been
thinking about something ... something I wrote, something I lived through in an
August a very long, long time ago - and came out the other side.
One day -
just one little day.
I think I can, tentatively, say it was - so far (I
NEVER say never ...) the worst day of my life.
Why this
day? I watched a tornado whip through my house / backyard, I have had so many
horrible, unspeakable, shitty days dealing with 'Jessie Stuff' they are too
innumerable to count, I lost a baby at 4 1/2 months along, I have been
diagnosed with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, I have been so sick and in the hospital I
really wasn't sure if I wanted to live ... but the difference with this day?
Because I was alone.
Alone on so
many levels.
Long before
I had friends, long before blogs and Facebook or even phone calls from someone
- not a single way to stay connected, to just 'talk' to someone.
Alone with
my body dealing with the situation.
Sometimes I
just felt so lost, so far away from Heaven - I felt completely and utterly
alone. But really - just alone on that day - my mother and hubbie were wonderful
during this time.
But, it
seemed as if some of it ...
I needed to
walk the path alone.
I remember
writing something about my experiences with Jessie and saying that I had
"walked into hell and back out again". I have since learned that I wasn't even close!
I later
wrote that with this new experience: I barely got past the front porch and
'into' hell itself ...
I learned so
much about sorrow, suffering, pain, loneliness, loss, fear ... well, about hell
itself.
It is a much
bigger place than I thought!
And truly -
things could have been worse ... I know that. I learned so much from this
experience, but at a very, very steep price.
I grew from
this experience ... but it literally took years to work through, to come out
the other side, somewhat intact ... damaged and bleeding but standing ... '
Standing ...
These days,
this experience is just a memory, no longer a tragedy, just a part of my life.
It was a
long time coming.
I will
forever be thankful to my two healing years in Norway.
But back
then:
One day ...
Day One
of six
months of fear, terror and unspeakable, unfathomable, endless sorrow ...
This was me
stepping onto hells front porch ...
The beginning of the End …
“For a moment, wasn’t I the King?
If I’d only known how the King would fall…
Garth Brooks – The Dance
“Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall
Humpty Dumpty had a great fall
All the Kings horses and all the Kings men
Couldn’t put Humpty together again.”
Did I write about that day?
I don’t remember.
I was just in the mood to write it down.
I went into my ultrasound with no apprehension.
I was tired,
Gary was out of town, the house was dirty,
I had laundry to do.
I felt sick as I usually do when I am
pregnant, and slightly annoyed with Mom being so antsy about me calling her
with the results of the ultrasound.
This was an ultrasound with a high-risk pregnancy doctor.
Because of Jessie, I have had one with some of my pregnancies -
Ryan
(not with the baby I lost)
and now with who was to become
my Rachael.
The assistant starts, does measurements, etc., and she’s
very quiet, very confused looking.
Muttering things like something did not look
right. I’m laying on a plastic bed with a gown on and nothing between me and
the bed but the gown and that sheet of paper.
I started sweating – was
something wrong?
Would they tell me now, or make me wait like the last time ...
2 years prior? Sitting in a small room waiting for the people to try to track
down my doctor so she could call me and tell me ‘the results’.
Well,
duh,
if everything had been fine, I would have left that medical
building two hours earlier –
I’m not stupid.
Was I being stupid now?
No ...
Not stupid.
I was scared,
only scared.
No room for anything else.
The doctor comes in and says:
"Let’s take a look."
Now, some may want things told to them gently,
after the fact,
‘sugar coated’.
If so – don’t go to Dr. Carpenter.
As he started, he said:
“Something is very wrong here – I don’t see any amniotic fluid”.
“Is that bad?”
I asked as he was sweeping the thingy over my
stomach.
He said yes, it had something to do with the baby’s kidneys. Amniotic
fluid is basically baby pee and during the 45 minutes he had been looking, he
said the bladder did not fill up or empty - something it should have done at
least twice.
He could not find her kidneys.
That was bad.
OK, I’ve heard of dialysis ...
donors.
He kept up his informational dialog with me:
horrifying,
devastating,
coldly scientific
(falling, falling ... falling off the wall…).
A brand new mystery for him.
He tells me of a nuchal thickness at the base of the neck,
I ask him “What does that mean?”
and he quietly says that it is highly indicative the baby has a chromosomal defect.
There’s a rushing in my ears,
the room gets so big ...
I’m so small.
Everything is sparkly and glittery as if my life just shattered into a million pieces - floating about like dust motes in a ray of sunlight ...
Bright, shiny, horrifying still life ....
The doctor?
Where is he?
He’s so far away.
What is he saying?
(All the king’s horses and all the kings men…)
He wants to look vaginally – a different machine and my
pants need to be off.
The nurse helps me up and the paper is gone underneath me.
Dissolved with my sweat.
I tell her that’s what terror must do.
She tells me I am doing amazingly well.
I’m breathing and sweating and listening.
Is that really doing ‘amazingly well’?
As I learn throughout the months to follow –
I never figure out how to do this
‘amazingly well’ -
but people can be so kind ...
Then I remember the lady leaving right before me:
crying and screaming and
shouting.
The quiet comments of the nurses that she never even had the
ultrasound.
I realize something:
Expectations aren’t that high.
I go into my mental triage:
Deal with what you can,
Leave the dead and dying behind.
There’s nothing you can do for them …
but ...
there are so many…
too many…
I want to stay and look,
say goodbye,
say I’m sorry …
I'm so, so very, very sorry ...
PAY ATTENTION!
Do not get distracted!
Triage, NOW!
Work with the wounded:
The hopeful.
Keep it together ...
Don’t fall apart.
Breathe -
Ask the right questions,
Remember the answers …
Keep moving,
Keep moving ...
KEEP MOVING!!!
They are leaving you behind:
farther and farther with every new discovery ...
Run!
Run!
You have to catch up!
Talking,
Talking,
Talking,
You need to listen,
Pay attention,
Leave the dead behind,
You cannot do anything for them –
keep moving…
Keep Moving!!!
I am done.
“Discuss this with your husband"
the doctor says.
“You need to decide whether you want an amniocentesis to
verify the findings”.
Does anyone really want a doctor to insert an 8” very large
needle into their abdomen?
I found out.
The answer is no.
“Let me know what you decide.”
he says.
But I see it in his eyes -
he already knows.
There is compassion in his eyes ...
he knows what’s ahead ...
Not me ...
Soon enough….
I get dressed, go down the elevator.
Breathe.
Breathe.
When did I have to start telling myself to breathe, I think nonsensically?
Isn’t it an autonomic response?
Autonomic!
I am so thrilled that I could come up with a word when I needed
it!
Who knew a word would give me courage, strength that I wasn’t
completely … gone?
But still – I have to tell myself – breathe … breathe … or
it does not happen … and I start to see the glittery and sparkly still life world again ...
Where do I go?
Who will help me get home?
How did I get here?
Who will hold me on their lap ...
Rock me and tell me everything is going to be fine?
Nobody ...
Breathe ....
Nobody!
Breathe ....
NOBODY!!!
Breathe ...
Be good,
Stay calm,
Be professional.
You were given information:
Write it down -
It won’t stay long ...
The rooms are still spinning, the people are talking but I
can’t hear them ...
that roaring in my head.
Write it down!
You will forget!
You want to forget ...
But you can’t.
Mom is calling …
I write it down.
It was a lot - two pages in my day planner.
It is ugly,
It is devastating,
It is scary.
It’s all my hopes and dreams crashing on the rocks of a huge
giant surf,
with that wind blowing ...
.... loud.
I still cannot hear –
just blowing –
I’m still so small….
I write it down,
“The doctor thinks."
"The doctor says."
... but I knew
In what was left of my heart,
I knew ...
I knew I had to get home:
two kids and a mountain of dirty clothes.
Just work with today, get through today -
do the laundry.
I don’t have any clean underwear.
Can I find my way home?
Where’s my car?
What is this big building I am in?
I sit down and wait ...
It comes back.
I remember.
I find my car.
Mom...
What should I do about Mom?
I can’t tell her,
I would die listening to her heart break for me and my
broken baby.
I can’t do it.
I know in my heart that would be the last straw and I would
break,
And I can’t break right now can I?
Oh, God, help me, what can I do?
Help me,
Help me,
Help me,
Please Help Me!
He says:
“Marci”
and I am OK again.
Thank You,
Thank You,
Thank You God for Marci ...
I do the only thing I can:
I listen to Him and I call Marci.
“Get a pencil”,
I tell her,
“and write down everything I say.
Please don’t say anything.
It’s important,
It’s bad,
And I am sorry.
Keep writing …
And then you need to call Mom.”
Marci writes.
Her heart breaks,
but she writes ...
and she is silent.
Just as God said,
I needed Marci.
Got the laundry done.
Ruined a few shirts ...
That was Monday.
******
All the Kings horses and all the Kings men
Couldn't put Humpty together again.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A fun day, no? I guess all meetings are not supposed to be perfect!
As I lay there a few nights ago and relived this time of my life I realized that there were so many things I wished I could thank you for! And suddenly I thought - why not? So after pages and pages of prelude getting up to here - finally - I want to tell you some things and thank you for some things that I don't believe I ever have before ...
First – I want
to thank you for the kindness you showed my family by finding the most perfect
person known to us and clearly sending some messages for our ears only – or perhaps
my parents ears only.
After my
Grandmother Fern (your namesake, of course) had her ‘experience’ she had called
a couple of her ‘Bishop’ sons to come give her a blessing and after they had
done that, with a very sad voice told them “I think there is something wrong
with Lori’s baby” having six granddaughters pregnant at the time – this was not
a mere ‘guess’.
The message was sent –
and my mother received it and was prepared – thus being so antsy for me to call
her with the results. She had a plan –
while I was still clueless – but … yes – I did need to find out the way I found
out.
I want to
thank you for the other messages you gave my Grandmother that prepared me for
you – I will be forever in your debt that I knew what to expect all along the
way.
I was
thinking about the day I was coming down the elevator and having to make myself
breathe. And I recall being so confused
that a couple of times my vision started to tunnel I was so out of oxygen – and
still not getting it – I remember hearing a voice literally SHOUT in my ear:
BREATHE!!!
And startled I would intake a
lungful of air. I will not be surprised
to find out that was you – as it was a female voice and … well – it was sort of
in your best interest also!
I want to
tell you that while I mentioned on the first page that I was alone – that is
not entirely true is it?
You were there
with me – not just along for the ride – but helping. When I was frantic that you were not moving –
and since there was no amniotic fluid it was painful for both of us wasn’t
it? But each time I pleaded with you to
let me know you were still with me – that tiny twitch, or push or movement
brought tears to my eyes and a quiet "Thank you pretty girl" to my mouth.
A while back
I wrote that I had not lost a child, when speaking with a woman who had and
desperately wanted advice on how to go on living after losing her best buddy,
her 16 year old beautiful daughter. I
told her I was not the person she was looking for – I had nothing to give her –
like I said I had lost a baby, but not a child.
A friend of
mine, one day as our threesome was as usual having a discussion, she mentioned
that she had taken umbrage to that.
Perfectly fine – we all have our own opinions and we respect each others,
thus the reason we get along so well.
I
explained to her that I had no memories of late night feedings, of sweet baby giggles,
of tickle parties, of teaching you to ride a bike, of running through flower filled meadows picking
armfuls of flowers together, of teaching you to dance, of experiencing your first love, or your first heartache, or first joy ... I have no memories of that with you – thus –
I had lost a baby – not a child with whom I could relate to the grief she was
going through.
Yes – I had
gone through my share of grief – but a different kind. Knowing for six months and trying to prepare
for six months to watch your baby die is really, really not a pleasant
experience. There is something to be
said for a really big surprise at the end …
It really tends to mess with your head … well, mine anyway.
My friend
then said something to the effect that she did feel like she had those experiences
with the child she had lost. I didn’t
clearly understand what she was saying and probably should ask her and get it
straightened out, we all have our own unique experiences. I do not have these sorts of 'memories' – you have always been an adult, my
mentor, my protector, my advisor, my companion, my friend.
If there is
one thing that I am sure to the core of my being it is that you and Jessie were my
superiors, my mentors, my teachers, you were so much … more than I and I was in
awe of you and your strength. I have always
thought of you this way. You will always, always be my teacher, my mentor, my strength - it is a bond that can never be undone nor diminish.
I have to
thank you for the ‘ultimate’ sacrifice you made for me. I remember the exact minute you told me the
this was no one’s decision but yours and you were not going to let what was
VERY CLEARLY going to happen, happen – and irreparably damage something so
wonderful and good and special.
What a
hard thing that must have been for you – I will never be able to repay you and
any repercussions that it caused.
Please know that I will forever and always be in your debt for what you
did for me. You LITERALLY saved my life that day - me sitting there stunned as the doctor left for the paperwork, Gary buried in his own thoughts, Mom wondering where to look, or what to say.
But you and I?
I had that oh, so special privilege of knowing the when you were going, the where you were going, and most important - the WHY you were going. And I got to say my goodbyes and that I loved you more that I had words to explain it all. I had no more words for thank yous - but thank you, thank you, thank you ....
I talked
about ‘alone’ and how I really was not alone – we sort of were together – along
for the ride as mother and daughter – but like all good things –
Even that had to
end …
There was
a time when that ‘alone’ word did raise its ugly head – for it can be a very
fearsome creature and that was the moment I walked out of the hospital with
empty arms – you in the morgue – waiting to be transported to the hospital that
would do your autopsy because of all the studies done on you to hopefully help
other babies in the future.
A mother
walking out of a nursery of screaming, cooing, slurping, sleeping babies with
empty arms … and not – mind you as I had with Jessie and Ryan – to soon return
and pick them up – but walking away for good is literally alone as it
gets. And I mean that on a particular
level as the love of my life – Gary was walking beside me and stayed with me
every step of the way so I guess a better word would be:
Empty.
I felt
empty.
My perfectly
perfect beautiful quiet companion was no longer with me. How was I going to do this without you? My body was literally bereft, empty,
incomplete, destitute, it was like missing a vital organ. I had not a clue how to do anything about
this.
I remember
my friend coming over to the house the night before the funeral, pulling me out
to the front porch, taking her index finger and thumb, and while grasping my
chin – forced it up until our eyes met and with all the confidence in the world
she said: “You are going to be just fine."
I remember
in my head literally laughing at that!
Fine!?!
I was so lost in a deep
dark forest of everything evil and ugly and sad and scary - knee deep in muck and having no clue where to turn, what to do, where to go – how in the world would I EVER
find ‘FINE’ again? I was so far from
fine and so tired and so lost and so confused that it was just a big ugly dark swirl
in my head.
My eyes had
teared up and as I lifted my head to say something to the effect that maybe if
she could find me a seeing eye dog or clue me in that there were wee bitty
cairns marking the way – then MAYBE, just MAYBE I would wander near’ish to the
vicinity of 'Fine' ... when I heard her say – again, but this time with a wondrous beautiful lilt in her voice – “Lori, you ARE going to be just
fine! I’ll be right here.”
My head had
reached level and I was staring her directly in the face as I heard that second
sentence which rather confused me – and then confused me more – because as I
was looking directly at my friend – I realized that her lips had not moved at all.
And then I remembered - that lilt! That quiet, melodic, beautiful, otherworldly voice - I had heard it before! And suddenly the swirling stopped and I was calm again ... still a little unsure of how to find my way to 'Fine' but with you "right there" beside me, I had absolute faith it would someday, somehow, somewhere happen.
So many
things to thank you for – my friend, my love, my beautiful daughter. You have taught me more about life than most
living people.
You taught me about giving and sharing and sacrifice and helping your fellowman and doing hard things that are difficult for the sake of someone you will never know or see or even know they exist.
You have taught me about
love and endurance and courage and bravery and pain and joy and happiness and exuberance.
You have shown me the highest of highs and the lowest of lows and I am a better person for that.
But most of all, you have made me feel ... special, for having had the privilege of being your mother.
And when I say 'special' it is only because I cannot find the proper words to fully describe how it actually makes me feel. If you took all the joy in the world for the next millennium, and each and every beautiful sunrise and sunset, throw in a few billion beautiful birds in flight, a doe and her mother near a copse of trees being hit by the early morning light as mist rises up to meet the suns rays ... Add in every perfectly shaped tree that ever grew, all the colors of the rainbow, and the way the world sounds when waking for the morning when you are camping out in the wild ...
Then throw in a hundred million wonderful acts of kindness, triple that many smiles, all the love that a billion human beings can hold in their hearts, a million trills of laughter and one set of beyond beautiful blue - ice blue, sparkling, laughing, glowing, twinkling set of eyes and you would come close to what I mean by 'special' ... And even that does not even come all that close ...
But!
One day, my
love – when we see each other – eye to eye and hug fiercely and everything becomes
everything and there is no more nothing and time and space and life and death
and linear are just words that no longer have meaning – then, my
love – I will have the ultimate privilege of thanking you in person.
Until then …
Love You Forever ... Mom
