Friends

One of my best friends came to visit us for a few hours yesterday.  She hasn’t been down here to see our home before, so it was a very pleasant event.  I have quite a few “acquaintances” but I don’t have many close girl friends (I can count them on one hand).  I’ve known the friend who came to visit yesterday for over 40 years.  We joke that we have to stay friends because we know too much embarrassing stuff about each other (haha).  We have also helped each other, been there for each other, through so many tough times we have lost count.  Yet we don’t see or talk to each other very often.  There were times over the past 40 years when we would only get together for a good visit once a year – and we worked in the same facility and lived only ~2 miles apart.  Life can get in the way when you are married with children (or child).  But when we would get together, we would catch up quickly, and it was as if we were never apart.  That’s the wonderful thing about good friends.

And then there have been friends who passed through my life but didn’t stay.  When I think back to why they didn’t stay in my life, it seems that those friends were there for a particular “point in time” or event, but we didn’t really have that much in common or have the same basic interests or values.  We would “click” for a while and then clash in some basic way.  Or there was a betrayal that we couldn’t or wouldn’t get past.  Or we really didn’t like each other’s spouse or significant other, which can make friendship difficult.  I can think fondly of them, for their contribution to that time of my life, but I don’t have any interest in trying to rekindle the friendship. 

Unfortunately, I don’t have any close girl friends down here - they are all more than 300 miles away, but only an email or phone call away.  There are women I like down here, and with whom I have some shared interests – but they are part of “couple” friends or acquaintances.  Given a chance and some nurturing one of them could be a close friend, but it seems that neither of us has the time right now.  Maybe we will, maybe we won’t.  

Rain, Snow, and Two Cars in the Mud

Yesterday morning we awoke to a pouring, pounding rain.  The storm arrived at ~3 am – I know that because it woke me up when it started, rain being blown so hard it sounded like rocks being thrown at the house. 

But we had a lost cell phone to pick up 70 miles away at the Walmart customer service desk.  The weather forecast said it wouldn’t start snowing until early evening, so my husband and I decided to make the drive and left about 9am.  On the way over we passed in and out of heavy rain and very light snow, but the drive was essentially fine.  We were only there for a half hour, or less, then headed back home.  What a difference an hour can make!  Within 20 miles we were in whiteout conditions, with 3 plus inches of heavy snow/slush on the road, and a heavy base coat of ice.  It was white knuckle time.  Luckily the traffic was light, with few cars on the road, but there were several times we started to slide, once or twice when cars were in the other lane.  My husband kept slowing down as the conditions worsened.  For the last 20 or so miles we rarely got up to 30mph.  We made it home, safe, but exhausted.  It kept snowing through the day and intermittently through the night and this morning, for a total accumulation of 6-8” of heavy wet snow.  Because of the heavy rains which preceded the snow, our famous clay mud was everywhere, including our dirt road, driveway, our neighbor’s easement road, etc.

This morning our neighbors were coming over at 10am for brunch and bridge.  We try to do that every week - to keep the old brains active, and to have a good time.  A little before 10 this morning they called to tell us they were stuck on their easement road.  The very same road that was washed out in one of our 3” rainstorms last summer, and which they had spent big money having fixed last Fall.  But it hadn’t been compacted enough to deal with this storm, so their wheels sank into the softened road base and couldn’t move.  My husband took his 4WD Explorer to rescue them.  10 minutes later I got a call from him (luckily we had picked up his cell phone) that he had slid off a soft shoulder into a ditch while attempting to turn his car around.  So I headed out in my little 4WD Escape, trying not to laugh too hard, and picked them all up at the intersection between our “main” dirt road and their easement road.  We had brunch and played bridge for a few hours, and then were ready to tackle the task of getting the cars unstuck.  We called another neighbor with a “vintage” 4WD Bronco, that has huge tires.  He also has a towing strap.  He was able to pull both cars out, but not without a little excitement as he almost got stuck on one section of the easement road. 

So that was our interesting day.  The only other excitement was my husband having to climb onto our roof to scrape the snow off our solar panels.  Next summer we hope to relocate them to ground level so we won’t have to ever do that again.

Looking for an Urn

I had a good phone conversation with my grieving children yesterday evening.  They both opened up somewhat about their feelings of loss, mostly likely related to receiving Liam’s ashes the day before.  The ashes make the nightmare of the past four weeks real – a reality shock that we wish we could erase. 

In the split second each time I awake during the night, between the haze of sleep and the reality of wakening, the last month hasn’t happened.  Then my brain clears, and it all comes back.  I endure this several times each night (I don’t sleep well) and every morning.  I wish I could hold onto the haze, hold onto what should have been.  But that never works – reality intrudes, sadness follows.  I remember a vivid dream during the first week after Liam died; in the dream we were a happy family with a healthy baby grandson, and then the dream tears started, and I was crying out over and over again, “this is the way it’s supposed to be, this is the way it’s supposed to be.”  I’m glad that dream was a one time event.

When I spoke with my children I asked if Liam’s ashes had come in an urn.  But they didn’t.  I asked if they were going to look for an urn, and on the previous night’s conversation it sounded like they would.  Last night it sounded like looking for an urn would be too overwhelming when added to the harsh reality of actually having his ashes.  I offered to look for the urn, they both seemed relieved to have someone else, someone they trust, take care of that task. 

I have now looked at what seems like 1000 different styles of infant/children cremation urns on line.  There were a few that I really liked, but I want to find the RIGHT one for my dear grandson, for my beautiful children.  We also called the local mortuary in our small town, but they would have to order one (luckily they don’t have much demand for small urns in this small town).  We asked them about local artisans, and they recommended a woodworker who has a shop about 20 miles north of here.  My husband worked on their computer about a year ago, so he knows the wife.  Next week we will take a trip up there to see if we can have a small wooden urn designed and made.  If that doesn’t pan out, there is a custom casket maker another 30 miles north who might be able to make an urn.  And then there is always the internet.

Up and Down, Tears and Smiles, and a lost phone

It started this morning with a “help wanted” ad in our local weekly newspaper – for a part time job with BLM.  I made a negative comment, then my husband made an incorrect comment about our finances, which I was quick to “correct.”  It went downhill from there.  He closes off when he is upset, so there he was, sitting at our dining room table, closed off.  I get upset when he closes off, so I went into my office and cried for a while.  Why can’t we grow up?  I calmed down, he kind of calmed down.

Anyway, we had decided yesterday, after a not so bad, but antsy day, that we would take a drive today to the closest Walmart – which is 70 miles away.  We woke up to heavy, threatening clouds this morning, so I thought the trip would probably be postponed.  But after the way the morning started, we decided to go.  We left about 10am and got back a little after 2pm.  The weather wasn’t too bad.  We passed through a few small squalls on the way, but none on our return.  

The bad news on our return is that my husband’s cell phone was missing.  Cell phones are all we have in our off-grid home.  It apparently fell off of his belt at some time during our trip.  When we were looking for his phone I tried calling his number.  Within a minute his phone called me back – it was the customer service rep at the Walmart, 70 miles away.   Guess what we get to do tomorrow, or some day soon?  Take another drive to pick up his phone.  Thank heavens for the honest person who turned in his phone.

Meanwhile, I am feeling a little down again now.  We were both in pretty good moods when we got home, but the nuisance of a lost phone pulled me down again.  That, and ashes….

My grieving children got Liam’s ashes yesterday, and that made me sad (and them sad).  They will find an urn this weekend.  That makes it all very real.  They still don’t have the autopsy report, which we all need for more closure.  Was there a cause or wasn’t there?  Darned health care systems and their stupid rules (and yes, I used to work for one).   They need it before my daughter in law’s doctor’s appointment in two weeks, so they can ask the right questions, and get good information.  Enough for now.

Cloudy, windy, and teary day

A storm front is coming through soon, so it is very windy, with big clouds racing across the sky.  It’s very uncomfortable to be outside – even though the temperature isn’t too cold, the wind makes it too chilly to want to walk. 

The weather matches my emotional state.  I’ve cried several times already today – once while driving up a canyon to see “my” bald eagles, and the other a long, desperate session a half hour after I got home from the drive.  I apparently needed the release, the cleansing action of tears today, and more than just a sad gentle cry. 

I keep being haunted by what should be happening at this time of this month in this year.  Liam’s due date was last Thursday.  I was planning to stay up in the city from just before his birth until 10 - 14 days after.  But instead, here I am, at home, no grandson, no joy, and lots of grief.   I’m trying to keep busy, but that isn’t working very well.  Thanks to the prednisone and its associated side effects, there is only so much I can do.  So I’m reading, listening to audio books, taking walks weather permitting, writing in my blog, but not much else.  Thanks to my heart being irritable I am hesitant to take long trips in my car (even though I drove ~700 miles last weekend).  My brain is still a bit fuzzy, so my Spanish lessons via rosetta stone aren’t working very well, and I’ve mostly stopped those for now.  I jammed the knuckle of my right hand index finger a week ago, and reinjured it yesterday, so playing my flute is out until it feels better.  Whine, whine, whine!!!!

I’m just feeling down today.  I do better on sunny days.  It’s going to be storming on and off for about a week, so I’d better get used to this.   

I will get better, feel better, it will just take some more time.  Time….

Out of the future and into the past

As I wrote on my previous email, I was in the city with my grieving children over the weekend, at which time we held a memorial service for Liam.  Yesterday while taking my daily walk on our dirt road, I realized that I had trouble seeing Liam in the present or future.  I could only see him in the past.  No more imagining walking along our road with his tiny hand in mine, pointing out the plants and animals and birds.  No more imagining holding him in my arms in our house as he falls asleep.  No more imagining putting him up on our neighbor’s horse for the first time.  He is now in my past – seeing him do gymnastics in my daughter in law’s abdomen, seeing my husband’s face of wonder the only time he has felt in utero movement, holding and rocking his dear empty body in the hospital after he was born, the joy of thinking of his future since June, but no longer able to keep him there, because that is not where he is.  He is in my heart, in my past.  I won’t forget you Liam, but I can no longer dream of things to be.  But I promise I won’t forget.

Liam's Memorial Service

Last Thursday I drove up to the city to be with my grieving children on the day that would have been Liam’s due date.  I stayed until early Sunday morning.  We had very “nice” visits, and “nice” talks on Thursday evening at dinner and later at their apartment, and the same Friday night.  On Saturday I spent most of the day with them, shopping, watching a downloaded movie, having burgers for lunch and sushi for dinner.  We talked a lot about Liam, but we never broached the nitty gritty grief mode.  Although my daughter in law and I had a good “talk and listen” about losing a child on Thursday night, it was as if the three of us were skirting around anything that would bring tears, that would break through the protective walls we had built around our grief.  They had to turn off the raw intense pain so they could function, so they wouldn’t fall apart.  I turned off mine so I would be able to get up there and function.  But I wasn’t too concerned about skirting the issue, because this was all building up to the memorial service, which I suggested/initiated, that we had on Saturday after dinner.  I knew that would break through the walls, release the built up pressure, and let the grief flow.  And it certainly did.

In the week prior to traveling up there, I searched online for songs and poems that would be appropriate for a memorial service for our beautiful child.  The only song that I felt was appropriate (and boy is it ever appropriate) was Still by Gerrit Hofsink.  The lyrics are amazing, the music and singer are perfect.  It pulls the tears right out of your heart.  And then I found a poem by Cynthia Kelly ("My grief is like a river") that was also perfect, if I would be able to read it through my tears.  I brought my ancient copy of The Prophet by Gibhran, planning to read a few passages.  I also brought the healing pouch I had made for them, some crystals and rocks, candles, a few potholders that had Navajo rug designs, and a sage smudge stick to cleanse us.  I knew my son would also add some crystals and rocks to the mix.

To set the scene, we cleaned off their coffee table and set it up with the rocks, crystals, candles, etc., lit the candles, turned off the lights, turned on the song (Still).  Within the first few lines of the song my daughter in law began to cry, keeping me company in my sobs.  When the song was over, I read the poem, and read from The Prophet, my voice breaking frequently, almost not able to make it through.  Then I said a few words, I don’t even remember what they were, and my son did the same.  Meanwhile my beautiful daughter in law was still sobbing, and sobbing, and sobbing.  She obviously needed a release and the beauty of the music, candles, crystals, rocks, and verses brought it out.  We ended up standing, hugging her to me, rocking her as a mother rocks a hurting child, (or as a mother in law hugs a grief stricken daughter) as her tears soaked through my shirt.  I tried to send every bit of strength I had through to her – my son hugged both of us for a while, then got out his guitar and played some of his beautiful music, as I continued to hold and rock his crying wife.  That lasted for a long time.  Then we sat on the couch for a while, as my son held her and we both held her hand as tight as we could, as we both rocked and comforted her and each other, not saying a word.  Then we used the smudge stick and smudged each other with the healing sage smoke.  After that we sat on the couch again, holding each other; she was then able to say a few loving words to Liam.  We just sat and looked at the candles, crystals, etc., on the coffee table until we were able to function, blow out the candles, turn on the lights, and join the world again.  It was beautiful, and a fitting honor to a beautiful child who wasn’t able to join us in this world.

I’m sitting here at my computer sobbing yet again, but that is ok, it will help me reach resolution of my profound grief, some day....

Every bit of my love goes out to you my dear children and I hope that the memorial for Liam was able to help release some of the pain and ease you through your grieving process just a tiny bit. 

And maybe this blog entry will be able to help someone else who is experiencing the same pain.

Prednisone plus grieving equals afib

If you have read my previous prednisone posts, you are aware that I’ve had many problems with prednisone, including extreme weakness and vertigo when on high doses, high blood pressure, high blood sugar, and an “irritable” heart resulting in an increase in breakthrough atrial fibrillation episodes.  Most were dealt with and/or resolved with lower dosages of prednisone.  However, add grieving for my dead grandson and a “broken” emotional heart, and the afib became a real problem.

After we got back from our emergency trip to the city to be with my son and daughter-in-law for the stillbirth of their son Liam, I starting having afib episodes almost daily.  They would last anywhere from 1 to 9 hours, at which point I would (thankfully) spontaneously convert to normal sinus rhythm.  I had already been having problems with an irritable heart and increased afib, just from the prednisone.  We had increased my flecainide dose and changed the timing from every 12 to every 8 hours, which seemed to be working fairly well for the month that I was on it.  I was also slowly tapering my prednisone dose, aiming for 10mg a day (although I’m still not there and probably won’t be for a while). 

But the higher amount and closer doses couldn’t compete with the broken heart.  My doctor even said that, stating “we can’t fix your broken heart until your broken heart starts to heal…”  But, we increased the dosage yet again, to a bit more than the standard recommended level, and put that increase in the middle of the day – since most of my afib episodes were happening at the “trough” (lowest) level at the end of the day (10pm) where the cumulative stress of the day must have been hardest on my broken heart.  We’re hoping that the trough level at 10pm will be a bit higher and will be able to keep the afib at bay. 

The first 3 days of the new dosage were a bust.  I panicked and tried to get into see my doc to talk about a different anti-afib medication.  Luckily I couldn’t see him for a week, which gave me a chance to calm down, and for the medication to start to work (it can take 3-5 days to adjust itself).  I cancelled that appointment today.  I’ve had two episodes since last Monday, one lasted about a minute, the other only a few seconds.  Very fast conversion to normal sinus rhythm usually indicates that the medication is working pretty well, although not perfectly.  Perfection isn’t even an option right now – “pretty well” seems awfully good to me. 

This week I travel to the city to visit with my grieving kids for a few days.  That will undoubtedly put additional stressors on my broken heart, but I will get through it.

Stillbirth – NO blaming, NO guilt, NO failure

One of the first things my beautiful daughter-in-law said to my son (and to my friend, and to me) when she found out her baby had died, was “I feel like a failure.”  This beautiful young woman who did everything right, both before and during her pregnancy, to ensure a good outcome – and she feels like a failure…  What can be said to her to let her know she isn’t a failure?  There wasn’t anything she could have done to save Liam, and there wasn’t anything she did that led to his death.  It just happened.  She is such a success – she has now endured one of the most painful emotional injuries possible – the loss of a child.  And she will survive.  It will take a long time, it won’t be the slightest bit easy, it will be rocky, there will be ups and downs, but she will survive.  

Fortunately we don’t see any blaming or placing of guilt in their relationship, by each other or by other family members.  Family and friends and be supportive, and they can be so cruel and stupid.  We are lucky.  Her only potential threat (for placing blame or guilt) is her mother – who has been instructed to not have any contact at all (and she better listen!!).  

So next time you are offering your “words of wisdom” to a woman who has miscarried or had a stillbirth, pay attention to what you say.  Don’t try to find causes that could place blame, don’t try to make her feel guilty (even inadvertently), and don’t let her feel like a failure.  And don’t ask her when she will try to have another child.  You can’t replace the dead child with another child – and it is disrespectful to ignorantly suggest that.  Just say “I’m so sorry; I’m told there is no greater loss than losing a child.  Let me know if there is anything I can do to help.”  Then shut up

The Dream Before

Here’s the dream:

One of my best friends is giving birth.  Pretty strange, I think in my dream, because my best friend has had a hysterectomy, and it should have been my daughter-in-law giving birth since she is almost 37 weeks pregnant. 

Jump without transition to the next scene, as dreams do.  I am holding the baby walking in the hallway of the hospital.  He is now definitely my grandson, not my friend’s baby.  He isn’t wrapped in a baby blanket, his chest is naked, which is unusual, and although he is small he seems to be much more mature than a newborn, holding his head upright.  He is making baby noises, but I hear them in my head as English.  I even say to those around me (who are nebulous dream people, not recognized) “can you hear it?  He is making baby noises but it is coming through as English?”  I wish I remember what he was saying… Quickly the baby becomes very restless, and tries to pull from my arms – upward towards the ceiling, towards the sky.  I’m afraid I will drop him and try to hold on, but can’t.  Then I remember what he is saying “I have to go, I have to go, I can’t stay.”  Then he pulls away/disappears – sudden and unclear, as is typical in dreams.

I wake up gasping but not upset, thinking what a strange, strange dream.  It was about 3am when I awoke.  I got back to sleep, but the dream stayed with me, not the usual fade away of strange dreams.

It was late that afternoon of the dream that my daughter-in-law called to say she had felt no movement all day, that there was no heartbeat when they got to the hospital, that our beloved infant had died. 

I strongly believe that he died around 3am, that he came to tell me he had to go.  I wish he could have told me why he had to go, but I guess that is asking for too much.

During the pregnancy, I also strongly believe that he “visited” me several times – really freaking me out the first two times.  The first was when he was at the “tadpole” stage.  It was almost morning, and I felt half asleep, half awake.  Suddenly there was a vision, for lack of a better word, of a somewhat round, strange looking thing, almost like a balloon, with a small tadpole-like thing floating inside close to one edge.  I had the feeling of “I’m here.”  Then I awoke with a start.  I thought about it, and then googled what a fetus would look like at my daughter-in-law’s gestation stage.  Exactly what I saw.

Four weeks later it happened again, but this time I was taking an afternoon nap on my recliner in the living room.  Again, a vision, this time an “alien” looking creature with a big head, small body, arms and legs.  Again, a feeling of “I’m here, I’m ok.”  Again, startled awake, and googling what it (didn’t know gender then) would look like at the gestational stage.  Again, exactly what I saw.

This happened one or two more times, but then I was put on prednisone and my brain was cut off from everything, including myself.  No more visions, until the last.

Do I believe I had communication with my grandchild while he was gestating?  Yes.  Does it make what happened, e.g., his death, any easier?  No, but perhaps a bit of comfort, particularly from the final contact.   I really think he came to say goodbye.  I wish I had realized it at the time and been able to pay more attention.

Many who read this will think I’m crazy, but there is so much we don’t know about our minds and our world.  Is this so very different from believing in a supreme being?  I guess I’ll never know….

Stillbirth - Nature's Cruelest Act

It’s been two weeks since the birth of my first grandchild, my grandson Liam, to my only child and his wife.  But instead of the joyous occasion we had anticipated for the past 8 months, it was a family and personal tragedy for all.  Liam died, in utero, at slightly less than 37 weeks gestation.   After a perfectly normal pregnancy he died.  After being active and healthy, up until the day before the activity inexplicably stopped.  He died.  HE DIED.  WHY??

What a cruel joke.  Not only is your child (or grandchild), who you have loved and nurtured with your body, who you have felt do fetal gymnastics, who you have laughed at as he hiccoughed inside you, who you have built decades of dreams onto (fairly or unfairly) dead, he now has to be expelled by the act of giving birth – not a miracle anymore.  What should have been a miracle is a painful, chemically driven, act.  You don’t get to see the first breath, hear the first cry, feel the first sucking on your swollen, ready breasts.  You do get to see the lifeless beauty that was your child/grandchild.  You get to hold him – and reflexively you rock him to comfort him.  But that is comfort for us not for him. You whisper to him how beautiful he is, and how you wish you could have met him.  Waiting, wishing, for his eyes to open, for him to say “it’s all a bad dream, I’m really alive, I’m really here.”  But that doesn’t happen, and you cry and you grieve and your heart breaks, as you look upon this beautiful, but dead, child’s angelic face.   

We took pictures, and professional pictures were taken, and hand and feet molds were taken, and his ashes will be given to my son and daughter-in-law in a week or so -  this beautiful child will not be forgotten.  Just because we never saw him breathe, or cry, or run, or hug, doesn’t mean he wasn’t very alive to us. 

I still became a grandmother – but my grandchild died.  I didn’t know I could cry this much.  I’m going through the stages of grief not just for myself, but for my grieving children.  As a mother I want to “fix it” for them – so in some ways it is double grieving.  There is nothing that can fix this, not even time.  Time will make the pain more tolerable.  Time will take this event from the center of our world to the periphery, so we can function and go on.  But time doesn’t make it go away – there is no bandaid for this.  Another child, sometime in the future, will help to push that pain to the periphery, but another child won’t, can’t, replace Liam.  Another child will bring the joy, and pain, of childrearing.  Joy and pain we won’t ever get to have with Liam. 

This raw pain will ease, I know it will, it has to.  But meanwhile I cry, and grieve, and finally was able to write in my blog, sobbing the whole time.  I sincerely hope that no one out there who reads this ever has to personally experience this pain.