counter-intuition
I had only said, “babies in the hospital…” but got no further.
My son, he was hit by a car when he was four, interjected the man at the wood mill in that proud, defiant way that foretold the miraculous punchline. And the doctors at the hospital said “Unplug him because he’ll never live!” and we said “No way hosay! We LOVE our son and he’s a FIGHTER and he’s going to BEAT this!” and so we didn’t and he graduated last year and he’s a hockey star and so there you go, everything will be okay.
I stood there with a length of kiln-dried hackmatack in my hands, flooring for the three-kid addition we’d broken ground on the day I’d gone into labour, absorbing each word in the same way they tell you to chew each bite of food twenty times, to slow down, to be aware.
Sado-masochistically contemplating love and fighting spirit and flawed medical opinion a couple of short weeks after having unplugged my son.
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I drive a minivan, look in the rearview mirror at the definition of unneccessariness, at Liam’s gaping void. With the third row permanently folded down the back is like a cube van knee-deep in runaway groceries and spare-diaper flotsam and half-eaten, fossilized snack remnants that all roll from port to starboard like rats on an 1812 battleship.
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In a couple of weeks we take Ben in for his first NICU followup clinic in four months: physio, nephrology, nutritionists, developmental testing. And since we’re there already, we’ve been given a meeting with a neonatologist to review Liam’s autopsy report.
Autopsy.
A file or a binder or a stack of papers that quantifies the spent flesh and blood of my baby. Just how extensive was the mush of his brain? How full of shrapnel was he, exactly, from the explosion of my placenta?
Or as I hear it in fitful sleep: We were wrong. He didn’t have hydrocephalus and the bleed was correcting itself and you wouldn’t have had to suction out his airway every day and we told you he was dying on life support but as it turns out, his lungs weren’t collapsing after all. Oops.
The day we got the call that he was failing after the brain surgery, a kind neonatologist told us, “Don’t ever think of this as a decision, whatever you do. This is not your decision. Liam is telling us it is his time, and we are helping you to support him. We need to make him comfortable now, as much as we can.”
And so the nurses peeled away every sensor, unplugged each wire, freed him for the first time in his life.
You’re supposed to help your kid.
You’re not supposed to take away the machine that helps him to breathe.
You’re not supposed to do nothing but wait for his heart to stop.
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As we passed dildos and girl-on-girl pervy movies over the heads of our babies she looked at me straight in the eyes and quietly asked “How are you doing?” in that loaded, I-care-to-hear-the-answer way not many people tend to.
After a stunned moment I said to her I don’t know. I really have no idea how I’m doing and I’ve been pondering the question ever since.
I don’t cry every day, but that’s only if you count body-wracking sobs like Evan’s when he doesn’t get Kit-Kat for breakfast. If you count the times when my face drips in silent sheets like a shower curtain and I stare into space for ten minutes straight, well, then maybe it is every day. Maybe I’m not doing so well.
The suggestion of anti-depressants gets tossed around from time to time which I hear as the way you feel is not appropriate, and must be fixed, for you cannot be sad for the dead and useful for the living at the same time.
But I am not a zombie. Or if I am, I am a high-functioning zombie.
I play with Evan and nuzzle with Ben and smile and tickle and cook and socialize and work and make money. But what makes me want to scream is imagining myself chemically numbed and sipping fragrant tea with one pinkie finger in the air, chirping neatly, “Oh, yes, 2007 was our annus horribilus, because our son died you know, and what’s done is done, and this is the dignified way, because tears make the rest of the world squeamish. We are Moving On.”
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I am a spelunker hearing a faint mewing from the depths of a bottomless cave as the rest of the crew says We’re running out of time, we have to climb out now and I’m arguing We’re forgetting about him, and I can’t leave him here and everyone else says Baby? What baby? and I’m panicking in the dirt as they pull me away, reaching for something soft and familiar in the dark, for a very small baby boy, because he needs me, and he is lost.
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It’s rare that I’ve ever hesitated to post. I hesitate now for all kinds of reasons—not just because the last post included the words ‘vibrating butt plug’. Heartfelt apologies for the whiplash, and to everyone in my real world who’d rather not know quite so much.
sweetsalty kate
99 Comments
Reader Comments (99)
Can I, mom to three who are healthy and whole, dare to tell you there is no Moving On? There is no normal? There is only now and then and the daily battle to hold onto what is good in life?
Keep posting.
though i am sure it is not your intent, having read you for several months now, you need to know that antidepressants (whose over-prescription is rampant, whose effects can sometimes be as bad as the symptoms of depression, whose first suggested use rounds our shoulders, slumps our soul, chastises us for thinking of 'giving in' to not being able to fight our own battles) are not *always* numbing.
granted, it has taken me a long time to say that (to myself. to others, too, but mostly to me); that i was more fully me when not impeded by the chemically-induced explosions inside my brain. that i could hear myself think beyond the negative messages and the grief and the self-loathing and the guilt. i'm not saying they would work for you. or that you need them. or that you should take them. and in this situation, your thoughts, feelings, and visceral body memories of your mind-blowing loss seem *completely* normal and appropriate to me. (PS - i think you would have lots of people in the blogosphere asking, 'where's kate?!' if you turned into a tea-sipping, pinkie-waving automaton with a revisionist memory...)
even still, i really do get how bringing up antidepressants is a complete invalidation of your response and of your coping. i mean really, how are you supposed to feel? where's the timeline for the grief a mother feels after losing a baby? you are two instead of three. you have a twin reminder suckling at your breast, learning to do all the things that his brother won't. you are justified. you have had more than your share of sadness in the past year (meaning, much more of a dose than is commonly thought necessary for 'character-building') (and....scene! tongue removed from cheek)
i remember the anger i felt when antidepressants were first offered to me; i felt, 'ooooookay, here we go. everyone's heard enough outta me. let's just throw some magic pills at it and hope her darkness goes away.' it's a hard topic to broach. and the only person who knows if she needs/wants 'chemical' help is you. but please know that for some people (whose asyncopated neurons sizzle between their ears, dimming the colours of flowers and draining the laughter from bellies) antidepressants fortify the sharp corners of our scaffolding, and permit us to stand tall in our foundation.
sending you strength today and for the next few weeks. we are here to support you and to bear witness to your journey...thank you for allowing us into your space. and kate...it is not your fault. it is *not* your fault. you acted out of love and compassion, and there is no better place to crumple when you feel you are falling.
xoxoxo
That is what makes a blog personal. Your up, your down. Your sideways. You are human and that is what is wonderful about you.
As for the anti-depressants, I think that it is normal the way you are feeling. I counsel many families that are still grieving for the child they thought they had years after the diagnosis of Autism. But don't discount them totally. Sometimes people need a little help. And that is OK.
No one promised us a rose garden and for every miracle there are ten "failures" but sometimes I think in some odd way we gain more from the tragedy than the success. Still, if God came down and asked me I'd say "the easy way, the fun way, the way it was supposed to be, thank you" but he doesn't... and that part irks me too. I'm no expert but I think you are doing amazing all things considered. thanks for sharing as always :)
I couldn't even on what should have been his due date.
I just couldn't.
So yes...2007 was horrid and I don't want to feel that way ever again
I do this, too, Kate. My grief is different from yours, but the result looks similiar, and I'm pretty sure I'm not doing so well either.
So not helpful, I know. But I love it when you're honest here, so I thought I'd be honest, too.
I get here, and sit with tears for you that feel to me like tears with you but I know there is little or nothing to offer. I just can't not greet you and tell you that I feel loving, overwhelming emotions and want to pour them over and into you and let you do what you will with them.
Your skilled storytelling and inspiring, raw openness is a thing to behold. I send you love and support and just light.
As always, so beautiful.
I lost the love of my very young life when I was 20. As I result, I sort of became obsessed with grief. I wanted a handbook to show me how it was done and tell me how long it was going to last. Of course, I never found it, but I did learn a few things along my journey.
"Grief" (whatever that is) is something you have to go through. There is no other way around it.
Everyone grieves in their own time. "Or if I am, I'm a high functioning zombie." This was the key statement to me in your post. Do what you need to do to get through it. If that means taking 10 minutes a day to actively grieve in the quiet corners of your heart, do it. If you need to take antidepressants to help with the functioning, do it.
I also found the feeling that we were leaving him behind to be very difficult. I didn't want life to go on without him, but it has the funny way of doing it. That feeling has gotten easier to bear over the years. It's never fully healed (13 years later) but it is easier to bear.
Do what you need to do. Take care of yourself first and foremost. Take it one day (or hour, or minute) at a time. And remember that one way you can choose to honor Liam is to live a full and happy life.
Thanks for sharing with us. Sorry for the extra long comment.
keep on..
k
i sometimes feel like i should take your site off my bookmark. I sometimes feel like your readers have a car crash mentality, slowing down in our lives to stare at the occasional wreckage in the other lane.
The thing is, i can cant delete your site because your eloquence makes my breath stop, your experiences make the hairs stand up on the back of my neck and your bad days make me realise that i'm not the only mum having a hard time.
i look on here every day and some of your posts make me cry and some make me laugh but all of them make me think.
If i stop and stare at your lane - its only because i want to make sure that you are ok and that the emergency services have been called if need be.
i dont think you realise what a profound effect some of your posts have on your readers. I know we all wish you good days and want to scoop you up in our arms on the bad ones.
i just wanted to let you know - theres enough of us here to handle as much whiplash as you have to hand out.
Just keep writing - if it helps.
nickyx
Grief is a journey. You didn't elect to take the first steps on the path, would trade almost anything never to have taken them. But now you must trod the path. Every trip along this path is personal and tuned to the individual and the circumstances under which the journey began. My own experience tells me that, if you allow it, the pain will decrease with time.
But you must also let the pain go. Not the remembrance, not the love, not the humanity, just the pain. And if you elect to use one of the miracles of modern science to help you accomplish that, there is no one here who would think less of you for that.
I understand your concern about the medications dulling you or reducing the genuine edges of life to dull roundedness. There is also the viewpoint that the medications allow you to avoid and overcome the cesspools of emotion that can overwhelm you and prevent you from experiencing the wonder of the rest of your life.
I'm not arguing for you to take the meds, just reminding you there is often a very valid reason to do so and that you may improve the quality of your whole life.
Just like everybody here, I love you and wish for your peace.
I sit here, almost 10 years later, two more children have joined our family, and my heart leaps to the place where Gavin lives. That tenderest corner where even now, the tears and missing and longing for him surface. What can I say to you, but there is no destination, no other side of grief to get to. I have moved through, wallowed, mucked about in this place, his corner of my heart, this place I cherish and protect with a mama bear's ferocity. The acuteness fades, it does, in time. The fade sneaks up on you gently, mercifully, and in time the pain isn't so sharp.
Truly, grief is individual and unique to each of us. What does it look like to grieve our sons well? If there is laughter and moments of joy mixed in with the mind numbing, jaw dropping tears and sorrow: if we feed our families and ourselves, though poptarts and twinkies the meals may be: if we are connecting with friends and loved ones, even if there are some we cannot bring ourselves to be around. All of this is coping and you, dear Kate, are coping well enough. And well enough is all a grieving mama can do.
Even though we have never met, and probably never will, I feel a kindred soul to you and hold you in my heart. I hope you don't think that presumptuous.
Be gentle and compassionate with yourself. I wish you peace.
i wish you well, but support you getting well in your own way, and especially in your own time. we'll be here, eager to be helpful in anyway we can.
Love to you.
All of us reading your blog support you if you chose medicine or not. With deep grief, personally and professionally I suggest things like acupuncture, therapy, and doing things that make you feel less sad. If the sadness is winning and you feel that you can't parent then maybe the medicine is for you. I do the meds and I am not numb, I am just better able to cope.
Good luck finding your path. best wishes.
What this post says to me, and what the last post suggested, is the dichotomy of your world, if you will. You are indeed functioning, and beautifully if I might say, living and going to girly-girl wine parties or mom's groups and coffee dates and family outings, but there is a space within you that holds your Liam, and sure enough, it can't just rest quietly always. You're doing the right thing by letting it bubble over from time to time. You need to, when it overtakes you, feel him, feel everything you experienced. I send you positive thoughts of peace and strength on the day you head back to NICU. I am sure it will not be an easy day, emotionally.
I can't tell you to doubt yourselves. I can not do that, Kate. Never having been anywhere close to that place, the place of such flesh-and-blood loss, I just don't have the right to tell you anything on how to feel. But the passionate friend in me wants to take you by the shoulders and say, 'Do not doubt yourselves.' That kind doctor's words seem so, so right on to me. How gracious of him to speak up to you at that time.
Remember my friend, the one in Toronto with the little boy fighting for his life back in December? He was almost two, fatal heart-condition they'd been battling since birth? He passed away right after Christmas. He was 23 months old. They had to make the choice to stop medication, based upon what a series of specialists suggested was 'right.' According to various doctors and medical institutions, he was not a candidate for transplant. And so it was. Surely the hardest damn decision they will ever make, to watch the last days of their boy go by knowing any day might be his last. He withstood one month, the little fighter.
My friend sent out a card to all her friends here back in the states with a photograph of Luke sitting in his high chair, eating cereal, sometime in the past few months. Holy crap, that photograph pains me like nothing else. One day: alive. Months later: no longer. He was smiling in it.
But, he was very, very sick. And should he have lived with his own heart and made it past a miracle into age 7 or 8 or 20, his life was to be very compromised. That's not to say anything about the decision to end life-support or not. It's just a fact. And off meds, with no new heart, he could not make it. The body can only fight so long, and as parents, I do believe we care for our kids through sickness and health, but also in times like that. And where you say that 'it's up to you to take care of your kid,' well yes. But you did. You DID. And you still do: he's there with you in that minivan, shining down on all you guys. He's your angel.
XO
I have wrestled with the whether to go on a.d. myself, but I have decided to not go there yet. I may one day decide I need them, but right now I want to feel it all. And if my grief makes people uncomfortable, then so be it. You have to do whatever is right for you.
I hope you can find some peace, Kate. You deserve forgiveness from yourself. You are a mom and, naturally, fought like no one else could for your baby. I just hope you believe that deep down in your heart. It's so trite to say this is the way it's supposed to be and that we just need to accept it. It's hard to find any logic or make any sense of the loss of a child.
Somehow, someway, though, I do believe their is an amazing higher power taking care of little Liam. And I'm positive that Liam knows the love of his mama.
I have never gone through something like what you're suffering. But I have been empty and sad with grieving. And I resisted the use of antidepressants for a long time, worrying, as you do, that they would leave me numb or that they were a way of chickening out, of caving in, instead of fighting. I know not everyone's experience is the same, but when I finally did try a low dosage a.d. I felt; rather than that I was falsely happy or numb, that a vital piece of myself had been restored. Something I'd felt was missing for a long time but couldn't articulate. In fact I felt as if the numbness I'd been feeling for a long time was lifted. And although the sadness was still there, I was stronger and it did not overwhelm me.
No amount of drugs would make you forget or stop grieving for Liam. Whatever you decide to do know that you have my best thoughts and prayers and more empathy than should be possible for someone I've never even met.
Liam must be so proud to have you as his mama. And I think if you could hear him he would tell you that it's okay- you don't have to let go of him to keep living. Part of him will always be with you, and waiting for you, on the other side of this life.
As for AD's, I made the call the day I couldn't get out bed to deal with Bella. I just didn't care that a two year old was running roughshod through my house unattended for over an hour while I lay there, wishing I didn't ever have to get up. I didn't trust myself to drive without bursting into sobs. I felt like I was putting her life in some risk, and that's when I decided this was beyond normal grieving. Grief is not linear; it is backwards, forwards, fast, slow, circular. You may need help for the here and now, but know that this too shall pass. Thinking of you.
And never worry about people forgetting Liam. You opened up your world and shared him with us and there are hundreds of people who think of him with every photo of your boys - he's there in their smiles, in the light of their eyes, surrounding them with the flash of sunshine we see so often. He is in every word you write.
When I first read it I thought it was funny. But I'd never been depressed before either. Today I just see the wisdom of those words. Suppressing those feelings won't make them go away as you well know.
You are doing the right thing, Kate. Some people may not understand it. Some may be uncomfortable coming face to face with such raw emotions... But you, my dear, will be much healthier than they are in the long run.
And peace, Kate.
You grief is not on a timeline. Nor is mine, nor Bon's, or anyone else's who has lived and lost. Next month is 19 years without my mother, and even as I type this, I tear up and my heart wants to beat it's way out of my chest and scream for her.
If it was my son, or my daughter, it would scream that much more. If it was part of me, if I had felt them tumble under my heart, or sigh into my hands.
We grieve magic, and that takes time. A lifetime perhaps. There is no normal for you. We've all just forgotten what it means to feel.
It's the same reason that I didn't have an epidural. When you numb pain, you are missing something. You miss the transition. You miss the journey across to the other side. An abrupt one way or the other. Life is so much richer when highlights fade into shadows, when mountains roll into valleys. I'd take the stairs, not the elevator.
And the beauty ... you still get to the other side.
Like several others have said, we keep coming back knowing that we will get all sides of you - your humour, your warmth, and your sadness. And that's OK.
What a kind doctor. It's good to know they're out there, taking care of babies and parents.
As for feeling sad. That's normal. I needed to take antidepressants after my daughter's diagnosis, not just because I was sad but because I was chronically depressed. After I started taking them I realized I had spent a good part of my life depressed, but didn't know it. I thought everyone felt like that.
But antidepressants are not for everyone. Be sad, cry for your baby boy, carry him with you in your heart.