Irreverent Eloquence

         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.  Ho...

(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,' s...

       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 be...

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 ...

             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 ...

      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, ...