Return to Zero

I sat down to watch Return to Zero with my husband--the first Lifetime movie in history I think he's ever been willing to watch with me. Because this one is about stillbirth. This one tells our story, at least, in some small part.

The words "based on a true story" flashed across the screen at the beginning, and I thought, yes. Yes. Based on a lot of true stories. A lot of devastating, heartbreaking, horrible, endlessly sad true stories.

And then I'm falling. Remembering. Lost in the experience all over again. The fear, the knowing yet not knowing, the weight of the loss, so sudden and violent. It rips out your insides in one fell swoop.

No heartbeat.

No heartbeat.

Sorry, spoiler. The baby dies.

I sat through all two and a half hours of it and I don't think I stopped crying. Minnie Driver captured that empty, hollow feeling completely. They ask, "Did the baby have a name," and I felt that hesitation--as if naming him made it final. 

I am naming a dead child.

I know what that's like.

And Paul Adelstein does an amazing job as the father--burying himself in doing something, anything. That helpless, lost feeling of a man without a direction. His honest portrayal of loss is poignant and painful to watch.

But it is all very, very real.

I hope everyone watches this movie. Not because it's an amazing piece of cinematic genius. This is a Lifetime movie we're talking about. But it's raw, it's emotional, and it shows stillbirth like it really is, for the most part.

We're all different, of course. Not everyone handles things the same way. But we all remember the moments we have in common.

We all remember the moment we found out. The first time we saw our dead baby. The last time.

We all remember that person who said, "Everything happens for a reason." We all remember the worst, most unhelpful thing someone said to us, like my sister, who said, "Dad got to hold the baby first up in heaven!" Or the awful, "Be grateful for the children you already have."

We all remember when our milk came in to feed a baby that wouldn't ever need it. We all remember the first time we had to face a pregnant woman afterward. We all remember holding a living baby at some point after holding our dead one. We all remember pretending, putting on a happy face, sinking into depression in the meantime, drowning our sorrows in our nearest comfort of choice.

We all remember, because we can't forget.

The most beautiful thing about this movie is its honesty.

I know it isn't easy to face the horrible reality of infant loss, even from the outside, but for many, many families, it is a reality they can't escape. They live it every single day, with every breath, until they die. It doesn't go away. It's not something you move on from or move past.

That's why I think Return to Zero is worth watching. Yes, there is (spoiler alert!) a rainbow after the storm. There is another baby. But that baby doesn't ever fill the hole in your heart. It doesn't change things. You're still the mother--or father--of a dead baby. Forever.

For baby loss mamas afraid to feel it all again--watch it anyway. It's beautiful. It's cleansing. It's like turning to that first mama you discovered had also experienced a loss, seeing the same look in her eyes, and knowing--she understood your pain. Finally, finally. Someone understands. It's that feeling, all over again. Being heard, being felt, being witnessed.

For people who have never experienced a loss like it and are afraid to think about it--watch it anyway. It will break open your heart, it will leave you raw but your perspective completely changed. You can't know the pain of that loss--but you can empathize, and that is your best gift to the walking wounded. I have been lucky enough to know women in my life who can do just that, who took time to understand, even if they couldn't imagine the unimaginable.

So thank you to Sean Hanish and his lovely wife, Kiley, for bringing their story to life for the rest of us. Your son, Norbert, was a gift to you, and now to all of us. The world. Thank you for sharing him. He will always be remembered.

Forgetting

I wanted to forget today.
I wanted to hide.
I woke up this morning from a dream that I'd found out I was pregnant.
April Fool's Day.
The day we lost William.
I hate this day.
I dread the jokes, the tricks, the "gotchas."
I've had enough "gotcha" to last me several lifetimes.
But inevitably, this day cracks me open wide.
My veneer is always as thin as an eggshell.
There is always, always a gaping, yawning maw at my back.
All I need to do is turn and look into the abyss. It is there, waiting.
There are days I want to freefall. But I don't.
Today, the veil between worlds is thin. Today, you could see right through my shell, if you look closely enough.
But I still thought I could escape.
We went to the movies to see "Big Miracle." It's a story with a guaranteed happy ending. It's based on a true story, so I knew it would be heart-warming and leave me feeling warm and fuzzy.
And then the baby whale dies.
That's right.
All these people have been moving heaven and earth to help this little family of whales, doing everything they possibly can to keep them alive and set them free.
Mama and Papa whale have been helping the sick baby surface, and you're sure, if they just get out to open water, all will be well...
And then the baby dies.
I forgot.
I forgot.
This is real life, not Hollywood.
Babies die.
And as I sat there in disbelief while the woman from Greenpeace sobbed over the baby's death, "We could have done more! He's going to surface! He can't be dead!" my own heart echoed her pain.
And then came the words, "There's nothing anyone could have done... he's gone."
Prayers. Grief.
And a mother and father who followed the path to open water.
Because life goes on, whether you want it to or not.
I wanted to forget.
But instead I turned and looked into the abyss, and it looked back at me.
The veil fell away.
I can't forget. Not today.
Cracked open, raw, exposed.
Free. Loved.
Beautiful. It's all so beautiful.
I love you, William.

End of the Road

We have decided to stop trying.

It's not a decision I came to easily. Really, I think the decision was made for me, and I was the last one to notice. I'm not in control - of my body or my life or anyone's life. It just isn't up to me.

Still, reaching for a golden ring and missing, again and again, just hurts too much.

Eventually, even I realize when I'm banging my head against a wall.

I wish it felt better to stop, as it does with walls and heads. But so far... no luck. Just more hurt.

Yeah, I should be used to it by now.

Census 2.0

I filled out the census and returned it. I hated it - they had to pick April 1, 2010 as the cutoff date? It would have been William's first birthday...

So anyway, I filled it out, hated not putting his name on it, and returned it. I even wrote about it here on my blog.

And then today a census taker showed up at my door.

COME ON! Really!?!?!?! I filled the %$*#&*#$&@& thing out already!! 

So I stood there for ten minutes, answering her questions. Hating hearing that date, "How many people were living here on April 1, 2010?" One less than there should have been, okay, lady!??

 And then at the end, she says, "I just have to make sure we're not missing anyone. So on April 1, 2010, there were no babies living here?" 

Jeeeeeeeeeeeez!!! NO! There were NO BABIES living here on April 1, 2010! There SHOULD HAVE BEEN! But there WASN'T!

 Can I go crawl in a hole and die now? I hate how things like this bring it all back. It was easier to deal with when it was new... now these things come out of nowhere at hit me upside the head like a baseball bat and I just sit there, dazed and stunned and in pain...

This Little Light...

I have an online friend from many-moons-ago who wrote me after William’s death and, like many here, have followed this blog and my ups and downs since his passing. I recently received this email from her. I thought I would share it with you, both because it was so moving to me, and because so many of you have done similar things to remember my William, and what I say in response is meant for her, but for all of you as well: 

"The real reason I am writing to you tonight is because I wanted you to know about the unique way I am honoring William in my heart.  I may not ever have shared this before, but I am an actor and occasionally do plays when I can find the time.  Right now I am doing a musical called "Quilters" which is about pioneer women and how they got through the good times and the bad, and it uses quilts as a metaphor for making do with what you had, for community in helping each other through, etc.  It's an all-woman show and is a charming (and emotional) show.  (I don't really recommend you see the show right now, as some parts might be too emotional or strong for you right now. Perhaps someday.)

There is a scene in the second act about the large families women had back then, and how childbirth/pregnancy was both a bane and a blessing at times. The actors say things like, "My eighth was Nan; she was always the quiet one" or "My second was Elizabeth.  She was the light of her daddy's eyes," etc.  Each actor takes multiple names for babies, and has multiple experiences with pregnancy, both good and bad. My character has 16 children, as some women did back then.

As in real life, there are miscarriages and stillbirths represented.  I happen to have been assigned the stillbirth.  My line is simply, "My third baby was stillborn" and with such a simple line, could easily be lost in the play. But we have taken the opportunity to give this line real meaning and time.  I come in carrying a cloth folded to symbolically represent a baby. I say, "My third baby was stillborn," and then I hand the baby to the oldest actress in the show.  Very simple, but I take time to kiss the baby tenderly and have great difficulty handing the baby over, giving the baby one last caress, and having difficulty moving on.  It's only a minute or so in time, but it gives a lump in the throat of everyone in the cast, and no one more so than me.

The moment is so meaningful to me because I am thinking of William.  In my mind, it's William I am speaking of, William whose little face I see, and William who I have such trouble letting go of.  Every night I dedicate that little bit of the play to William's memory and to you, in honor of your grief and that of grieving mothers everywhere.  Chances are there will be a mother in the audience sooner or later who has experienced a miscarriage, perhaps even one with a stillbirth, and I want to make sure that moment is treated with dignity and deep sorrow and the respect it deserves.

Anyhow, I wanted to let you know that each night we perform, a little bit of time and love is going out to William and to you, and each night we perform, William and you are remembered again, with love and sorrow and tenderness."

This was my response to her:

I just can't tell you how moved I am by your remembering William in your play. It's so comforting to feel his light shining on still, in some way, after being so quickly extinguished in this world. More people "know" my stillborn son than ever would have "known" him in life. If he were alive, he would be just another child, another smiling little face lost in the sea of our growing children. But because he's gone, because his going was such a heartbreak, we all remember, forever, his little baby-face. Strange, to say that, but it's true. And of course, I would take his growing, breathing, alive little body over 1,000 people remembering him any day...

But because I don't have him, because he is gone, I cherish what I have, and the truth is, my memory isn't big enough to hold him. He will never grow up or grow old, but he will and does go on, in your actions and thoughts, in so many other of my online friends' thoughts and actions and words. And in remembering him, we are remembering all of those lost babies - one sibling of sixteen, born still and lost to us all.

And thank you for thinking of me, warning me against "Quilters" because it might be too difficult. I'm at a stage in my grief, though, where I'm almost seeking out experiences like that. It's painful, but I'm not quite as raw as I once was, and watching/seeing loss like my own brings it back for me in an almost familiar/comforting way. It's validating, I guess. It happens, it happened to me, it really exists and it's as sad and heartbreaking to everyone else on the outside as it feels from the inside.

Thank you again. You are such a gift.

Easter Reflection

I can't do Easter without thinking of William.

We colored eggs and I remembered doing them last year, trying not to cry the whole time. I was only days into my losing him. I also remembered how I didn't buy him anything for Easter. I sat there and thought to myself... did I know somehow that I wasn't going to bring a baby home?

But the hardest part of Easter to me is the "He is Risen!" part. Because while I get the whole metaphor of eternal life... the point is, Jesus got to come back. According to the story, he rose again, walked around, talked, ate, slept, and did all-things-human after his death.

God is such a tease.

And when I think about communicating with "God" or whatever energy is out there, as my extended family is wont to do on this holiday... I just want to say, "Dude, don't talk to me. YOUR son got to come back."

How fair is that?

Not.

April Fools

My children, especially Miss Z., all LOVE to play tricks and today they were in April Fool's Day heaven. "Mom, you dropped your pocket on the floor." I look... April Fool! "Hey, Mom, look at that, it's a dry puddle!" Ha. April Fool!

But I have been an April fool since William was born, exactly on the day M. didn't want him to be. It's been a year of the coyote, the raven, the trickster. You thought you were going to have a baby? Ha! You thought you would get pregnant again after losing that baby? Well, okay... we'll let that happen... twice... and then say - April Fool!

I have watched women who lost babies after mine conceive again, and even give birth. I am watching bellies grow from afar while mine remains empty. I knew today would be too hard, knowing, not knowing. I could have taken a pregnancy test today. But I decided not to. Not today. I didn't want another horrible April Fool's joke.

Today I had to answer the question, "Are you pregnant?" on the tattoo form. I didn't know, of course, but I checked, "No." Tonight, right about the time William was born at 10:13 pm, I went into the bathroom and that question was answered for me.

Once again it all ends in blood and tears, just like last year. Full circle.

April Fools.