Irreverent Eloquence

      Last year this day meant so much to me. I launched a week of self-reflection and forced positivity and I started with  Griffin's Shoes , a look at who I was as a newly bereaved mom, Griffin's mom.      This year, a dear friend messaged me to start my day, one who also shares the title of Bereaved Mother, telling me that I was on her mind and wishing me well. To be honest, with so much going on in our lives with four busy little bodies buzzing about, I had forgotten that it was Sunday, May 3rd. I forgot that this was the launch of "Beth Week" again  with its many days to reflect on who I am.      I acknowledged the reminder, though did I appreciate it? More than a year into this loss world, I find days randomly strewn into my calendar that have caught me feeling like Beth the Bereaved. I know I valued the label once, now I'm not certain I'll ask for it on a special day every year.      The history of this day is relatively new but I think it is we

     I talked to a really good friend today, reviewed our plans for the weekend and discussed how our week has been shaping up. She mentioned that she read last night's post, and before she could tell me her reaction to it, I confessed how frustrated I was that I couldn't push myself harder to get the details on paper. Then I twisted the sentiment, telling her how frustrated I felt that I needed to delve at all, that I had felt compelled to mark the date this way, lamenting. I was irritated that I couldn't have written about my evening with my kids in the here and now instead. She listened patiently and I could hear her giving me the space to get the stream of thought out, all the real emotions and the story of my night that went with it.       It felt better, marginally, to focus on the present and my success with my kids rather than all my failures. I was ambitious last night, after realizing that I had grocery coupons that were expiring and desperately needing to resto

         I can't write this post. At least not well. Not the way it needs to be written, with authority and pride, with the heart that it deserves. The first cut was the deepest, was the worst for me.  April is Cesarean Awareness month and with four of them, quite literally, under my belt I should be an old pro and be able to speak comfortably on the subject. Yet I really can't. There is not a single comfortable thought in my mind about this type of birth, this surgery that I have endured and survived so many times.  Maybe you know already, that my first c-section, my second daughter's birth, was a simple one. She was breech and though I disagreed with the plan, she was evicted too early at 34weeks because she was low on fluid and the doctor was worried.  There is so much you should know about how that one cut, the first cut, was not right. I'm certain it was textbook and perfectly executed. But it was all wrong for me.  How can I tell you without sou

(originally written 4/21/14)             I've never understood the gravesite part of death. Who chooses a plot in a random lot to be buried with strangers and why? In my healthcare directive I have written up what to do with my remains- I'm to be cremated and taken somewhere my family would like to visit. Scatter me in the lake, sprinkle me in the woods, plant me under a new tree to fertilize a tradition. I've wanted to be where my family is or at least somewhere they would like to come to visit me.        Despite this "wanting to be visited" part of my wishes, I've not really been one for cemeteries and gravestones. It seems antiquated and sad and very distant in my life where I've moved from city to city more than twice in the last eight years alone.        When my son died we needed to make decisions about his little body. There is no emergency fund labeled for just such an occasion as 'Death of Our Child,' so financially there was little

       I'm fed up. So over this. Ugh. Can you hear it? The juvenile whine, the annoying repetitive nature and immaturity in my voice. I hear it. I'm sick of it too, this attitude that comes with Grief. I have long held the belief that to enjoy the good times in life we need to endure tough times. It seems only logical to me that I could never appreciate the full depth of joy in life if I was born on a sunny day that never turned to gray.        Why then can I not logic my way through this Grief? It should be simple enough to say to myself, endure this difficult time and you will see soon, soon enough, how wonderful again your life will really be. I can say it, sure, plenty of times, coach myself in the mirror even. It doesn't seem to help. I am peevish with my reflection, irritated that I cannot be convinced that there is purpose here, in this loss.        Had we not endured enough? Was there not enough trial in our lives before this? Was it not someone else's turn?

If I could show you how this all feels, days and weeks, months, a year out from the beginning of this strange life, I suppose it might look like a bruise.  I've seen plenty as a mom and a nurse. Assessed cases of road rash and broken bones, surgical incisions and blisters. I've dressed wounds, packed fistulas and watched ulcers heal from the inside out. They are all gory things to me still, bloody and granulated, crusty and scabbed. Even the casted or stitched ones are sad, the pain so acute and necessary.  It's this pain I watch and treat. My little girls trip as they run in the yard, tip over on a bike with training wheels removed. I try to stand still as they pick themselves up, wait it out as they take the first breath and feel the force of the injury. So far, they've been so lucky, nothing broken. I've tried to be the mom that holds back on the band-aids, letting them ask if they are needed while knowing that most of the time, they are not. Most of th

       "It's in the water around here," the saying goes where I work. A few nurses announce they are expecting a baby and soon the jokes begin. "Don't get near her; it's contagious!" I always laughed at that because in a female-dominated field, someone is always pregnant. It even seems to go in waves, like a spreading disease, with multitudes of bellies peeking out of scrub jackets some months, then calm waters in the birth pools during others. We all realize that building families comes with the territory of working with young women, and it isn't unusual to see someone posting the expected third or fourth new addition to the family.       Not all that long ago that woman was me. I had our due date on the Baby Board- January 2014, and a little ? behind because we were expecting a surprise.Around the same time that I posted on the baby board at work, I started sharing our expectation with the world.        Three girls in tow, I'd run all over t

             My oldest daughter was five, five and a half she would tell you, when her baby brother died in childbirth. She remembers so much from that year of her life since it was full of Grief for her and all of us as a family. In the two months prior to her brother's death, she had been diagnosed with a chronic and lifelong illness, Type 1 Diabetes. Being the oldest, and a girl, or maybe just being our Charlotte, she took the news better than I thought a child could.         I took her in and asked for the diagnosis, though when it was given I was heartbroken and needed a moment to compose myself before explaining it to her. She nodded and absorbed the words, taking mental notes and needing minimal encouragement in those first few hours. In the two days of hospital stay to get her stabilized and us educated, she kept her stride and her good humor. It was when we were alone that she let her guard slip, lowering her shields and admitting how she really felt.         He

      I've been making changes in the house this week. Simple things that make the difference but really shouldn't matter in the least. I'm trying to retire those possessions that have outworn their usefulness, starting with my old pregnancy pillow. It had seen better days, days when it was new and bright white and full of stuffing and promise. Now it is ratty and pilled from washing and wear. After its last trip through the laundry, it is out of shape and worthless.       In its stead, I found my king-sized pillow and reinstated its position on my bed, encased in clean cotton and plumped up with haughty power. Last night I laid my head down on that firm support and sighed, cozied in with the window open and the down comforter grazing my shoulder to keep out the cool night's breeze. If you had asked me first thing, I would have told you that I slept well.       I didn't exactly wake refreshed though, and as I sat in my chair, sluggishly coming awake in the mor

     My girls write gift lists religiously. They come rushing up the stairs after a commercial, eyes alight with tiny imaginings, a new and wonderful toy or game filling their heart with desire. "Mom, for my birthday, can I have...?" they say to me with a smile wide, gleaming white baby teeth sparkling and winking at me.      It is easy to placate them in these moments, to tell them, "Sure, write it on your wish list." Christmas is the same, though longer and larger. As the holiday looms in the distance, any jaunts we take to the store are replete with requests as sweet as they are naive. We lie, white lies, about a mysterious man with a gift-giving plan who will make their dreams come true.      I sit thinking about these lists and lies regularly, though they don't trouble me deeply for the girls because I know the trinkets are superficial and easily forgotten. It's more for myself that I worried. I couldn't ask for any birthday gifts last year,

      I'm totally blocked. I guess it's a simple writer's block but in my reality, it is a little more messy than being incapable of putting my words on a page.      Our baby was born. It was messy and unplanned and traumatic and tragic. He was already going to be early and his entrance was even earlier than expected. It was painful in every way possible, our son's birth.       But we lived. Barely. I'd love to clarify that for you. It's just that there-in lies my block. I don't have clarity. I have a jumble. Our son is here. He is alive and for now, seems well. I lived, am healing physically and am going to work on the rest. My daughters are up to speed on the baby's birth and we are going to talk through every question they have on life and death every time they ask. I won't pretend to know how my husband is managing this whirlwind we have been living for the last year.          So for now, here's my first breakthrough on the block:

       TWW. 2weeks. When trying to get pregnant, this is the longest and most tortuous phrase in the whole of a woman's vocabulary. It is the window of time between ovulation and when you could possibly see a BFP: a + sign on one of those HPTs- pee sticks for those who don't speak the lingo.         I've lived that tww a few times when trying to conceive. I've wished time to fly while wishing the end of the cycle would never come. It's a tricky thing to want only one outcome and for each day to spin faster to get to the answer, but to not want the answer to be negative.         I'm living a different two week wait right now. I am waiting to have a baby. A baby. Not just a positive on a pregnancy test...that horrible surprise came months ago, when I had made up my mind to check the quality of my uterus but with the knowledge that I was not really desiring a pregnancy after loss, especially not any time so soon.         The days in this two week wait last

     This day has been sneaking up on us. Slinking, sly like a fox, as the days of our lives keep turning. We've known it was coming like every anniversary does. We've seen it a year in advance. January 24th, 2015, just a day right? A day like any other day.       Last year, this was just a day. A day when I drove my kindergartener to school in the morning, took a nap on the couch midday, while my one and four year old snoozed in their beds. We piled in the car in the afternoon and I took all three girls to the dentist, my 38week pregnant belly leading the way. It was an evening that started slowly, I sat and chatted in a friend's kitchen while the girls had a short playdate. I wondered if the beginnings of labor was coming on and when we loaded up again for the hour drive home, I was feeling a little more sure. The long hour drive home was quiet, those wild animals I had carted around were quietly snoring. I put my husband and my team on stand-by, I messaged a few close

       I've been crossing days off the calendar, letting the time flow through me languidly, waiting and watching my life unfold. The last few weeks have been rushed with holidays and sick kids and a death in my extended family. I've barely been able to think straight, which in itself means that I haven't been doing much grief work. My phone called my attention to that today.      I got a new one, a cell phone, as a Christmas gift and that upgraded all my apps. I was excited to download all the fun ones and grabbed "Timehop" as one of the first. I wasn't thinking about how it might catch me off guard, how it might plunge me into the distant past as well as the recent history. At first it was fun, showed my handsome husband in the sunshine on a trip to Mexico two years ago. Shortly after, a few holiday celebrations and cute photos of my girls growing.        It was the first birthday it flashed on Dec 28th, my middle daughter's traumatic birth and sub