torture...follows reward....follows torture...

There is a definite dichotomy that exists within me. When I have the opportunity to gush about my wonderful children, I'm always pausing in my head. Do I? Don't I? How well do I know this person? Does it matter? How will they take it? How will I tell them? The fact is, if you've ever asked me about my kids, you've probably witnessed my brain slow to a standstill while I work out the answers to those questions. And maybe I've told you the whole story, or maybe I've simply smiled and delivered your inquiry with one worded answers; the less details the better. When people do hear initially that I've had two sets of twins, and then I proceed to talk about three children, I can see their wheels turning. They're doing the math, they're thinking to themselves, "I heard two sets, right?". Then come the inevitable oos and ahs of praise and admiration for two sets of twins, "what lovely children!", followed by the let down of the "oh, I'm so sorry" that is always delivered with this terrible puppy dog eyed look of pity. I always feel an internal battle during these moments. Should I have said anything at all? Is this person going to tell me it was God's will? Can I not just talk about my kids and share like a normal person without having to ride this insane roller coaster of emotion while the words leave my mouth on autopilot, smile plastered on my face like a damn Stepford Wife? Could my biggest problem please be a tantrum over toys and not how to explain for the millionth time that no, Lucie isn't at the hospital, sweetie, she's dead, her body stopped working?
How many kids do you have? 3, 4? 4-1? Why can't it be easier? When will it stop feeling like torture and start feeling ok?

did you have to let it linger....

It's been a while since I've written. I think part of me actually felt like I was being self indulgent in my words. At the same time, isn't that what it's all for though? To indulge these feelings, to put them out there to the universe and hope they bring some good back?

Regardless, I'm back. Today I was thinking of spring's renewal; life eternal. I'm sad she's not here to enjoy the green coming to life. To witness bugs on the ground scrambling to their tunnels. To share in that with her sisters and brother.


I watch the three kids out in the sandbox and it affirms how lucky I am. Three beautiful, bright children who somehow manage to keep me grounded when I've wanted to float off. I'm missing her more these days when I see Helena doing something for the first time. Or when I catch her in the middle of a giggle fit like only a child knows how to have. I just try to hold on a little longer, keep her gaze a little longer, hope she holds my hand a little longer, listen to her squealing in joy a little longer. She's simply a phenomenal child, a gift in every sense of the word. They all are. With each sunrise, her childhood is passing. Soon they will all be teens, just trying to find a way to ditch their mom. Letting me know loud and clear, I'm not needed anymore. I hope that day never comes. I need them to need me, to want their mom, to want that embrace only their mom can provide.

So between now and then, I'll just linger a little longer with them. Admiring their innocence, their curiosity, their passion for the simple.

Levity

A lot of what I write is bogged down in self reflective sorrow and grief. For obvious reasons, of course. Many times I hesitate to write a more up beat post because the maternal guilt I harbor stops me, reminding me I am grief-stricken. And I am, I am. But I'm also so privileged to witness another human being paving their way in this world. Greeting each new encounter with the same level of excitement and curiosity. She's not jaded, she's not bitter, she's porcelain skin innocent. Her father and I watched her today as she realized that crawling is not reserved just for retrieval, but for travel. We watched her place hand after tiny hand in front of herself, lifting her knees with slight trepidation, showing us that indeed, this IS new and scary and exciting all at the same time. She looked up at us as if to ask, "Am I doing this right?" and we reassured her "Yes! Go Helena! Yes!!". As she giggled and gurgled down the hallway, we saw the delight wash over her face when she realized in an instant that she can chase after her siblings. Cheeks smooshed up to her ears, baring all eight teeth, our baby girl began forging her way through this world. We encouraged her to follow, we assisted when she nearly ran into the wall. But mostly we sat on the sidelines, hearts bursting, laughter echoing, as our daughter made her way.
It is in moments like today, where everything is okay, pain subsides, the void almost full.

Shining Light

Everyone is always telling me they're amazed at my strength. At how I manage to hold myself together when something so devastating as losing a child forced itself upon my world. I appreciate peoples' genuine admiration in that regard. It's nice that friends and family notice that I actively try to keep my head above water. It means I'm mostly successful at it, which in turn, means I'm somehow managing to meet my kids' needs.
The 26th came and went nearly as fast as Lucie did. The night before, I looked over old photos of their birth. I realized, I never got to look into her eyes. I'm sure they were just as blue as her sister's. They bring to mind tiny robin's eggs and spring moving in where the cold once presided. When you look into Helena's eyes, you are immediately rejuvenated; any clouds clear and the sun shines on green budded trees of your soul. Ironically, Helena's name literally means "sun ray or shining light". We never planned that. It just happened. Equally by chance, her middle name Grace, means "blessing". Indeed.

Full circle.

In a few days, it will be Helena's first birthday. No one can believe that day is here, least of all, me. I remember the day I went in for one of my last routine check ups and there were changes in the babies. I remember feeling the blood leave my head as the doctor was telling me about my admission to happen later that day. All I could think about was that it's time. Time to say goodbye. Time to say hello. Like some sinister twist on an Aloha.


I was walking around the house today, spotting stuff I haven't had the courage to part with or even deal with in a year. That tote bag of hospital paperwork- the only time I signed as your parent, where I actively made decisions as your mommy, tucked away in my closet. The tin containing the cast of your hand and foot prints that the nurses made for me. The teddy bear angel with the glitter rubbed off the wings, hanging from a suction cup on the side of the computer. Your photograph sitting in your twin's room, waiting to be hung. The blood stained blanket that once held you while I held on for just a little longer, sitting in the dresser drawer. Cards from all over with words of encouragement and sympathy. The plant that was sent to me for you and your sister, leaves turning black like some terrible cancer. Your urn- the vessel that holds the remains of your physical body. It's probably covered in dust, I'm terrified to pick it up for fear I'll drop it. I get cards in the mail about you. Just the other day I got one from the two nurses who were so kind. They washed you up, made sure you were warm. Baby, I can't believe you're gone. At night the computer screen goes to sleep while photos flash across the screen. I always seem to look up right when there's one of you in my arms.


You would have loved your brother and sisters. They're full of life, laughter, and love. They ask about you all the time, and I know your twin feels you still. I can see it in her calm, quiet eyes. In the way she rests her head on my shoulder. When she twirls my hair on her finger. I know that somehow, through her, I feel you too.

I don't know what happens when we go, but I'm just hoping you know how much I love you.

dedication, naive and true

This one is for all the mothers out there who have walked a mile in these shoes. This is for all the women who get up each morning and give the day their very best, no matter what they're feeling in that moment. For moms who wear sunglasses all the time to hide their tears. Women who can't listen to songs without breaking down. For those who cry alone in the shower. For moms who are trying to pick up the pieces. For moms who have other children to care for and somehow manage to pull it off. For moms who have to explain to their small children what death and dying is. For women who entered the hospital with child, only to exit without. For moms who have only a set of ink footprints or a photo as remembrance. For those moms who now visit tiny grave sites or have an urn in their house. For moms who can't bear to throw away any paperwork that has to do with their lost child; who saved the plastic bag their baby's ashes came home in. For moms who's friends forgot about them, who's family carried on with their own lives and forgot to ask "how are you feeling today?". For moms who found comfort in words on a screen because the people in their life are too scared to talk to them about it. For moms who find solace in the kind words of a stranger, who find a bit of peace from the people who were there when it all happened. For moms who feel like their spouse has forgotten. For moms who never let a day go by without thoughts of them. I dedicate this to those women who know what it's like to be me.

sometimes.

large fingers pushing paint
you're god and you've got big hands
the colors blend... the challenges you give man
seek my part... devote myself
my small self... like a book amongst the many on a shelf
sometimes i know, sometimes i rise
sometimes i fall, sometimes i don't
sometimes i cringe, sometimes i live
sometimes i walk, sometimes i kneel
sometimes i speak of nothing at all
sometimes i reach to myself, dear god

-EV




Sometimes I reach to MYSELF.


There have been so many times over the course of this journey where people have been so bold as to tell me, "God doesn't give you what you can't handle."

I have a strong reaction to that kind of "comfort" that I suppress for the person sharing, as I know it's what they tell themselves to get through their own trials and tribulations. But for purposes of full disclosure, I'll share here what I think of it.

Bullshit. It's complete bullshit. It makes no sense to me why a god who is hailed as benevolent, compassionate, and loving would even present the world with such pain as dying children. Children who live in hospitals. Children hooked up to machines. Children who never see the light of day. Children who never even had a chance. Or how a god such as He would allow such innocents to be born to people who aren't even close to being able to call themselves parents; people who can't even be classified as animals because they're just pure evil. Manipulators. Abusers. Murderers. And remarkably, this same god doesn't strike these villains down with one fell swoop. No, He lets them live on, wasting each day they have on this earth. To the believers out there, I'm sure this comes across as blasphemous. But to other mothers and fathers who, like myself, have been forced to let their own children- their babies go, this is a natural question and contradiction that resonates from within their souls. When you carry questions like this with you every day, you begin to see why people walk away from faith. Some say that God will instead give you the means to navigate through turmoil like this. If there is a God and if that's the case, I hope I'm given the peace to deal with a heart and mind that will always throb with the pain of void. I hope I'm granted the means to somehow understand how my child didn't even have a chance as I sit and watch the evening news rehash the day's crimes. But I'm not counting on those things for myself. I'm counting ON myself.
I muddle through this madness with my heart on my sleeve. I walked through the grocery store today, a fragile mess. Eyes brimming with tears growing, ready to spill over the edges and flow down my cheeks. As I approach our one year anniversary, I plan for the big celebration of Helena's birthday. I do my best to focus on her, a living light beam of dripping sunshine. But I won't deny the heartache I feel. I cry every time I search for birthday invitations for her. I cry when I look at birthday cakes. I cry because one should be two. I cry because the distance between my past with her and my present without her is growing.