On the extreme ends of the same spectrum

I have this crazy recurring dream of sorts (it happens when I'm awake not when I'm asleep...still it's an imagining that is far short of a "day dream" since it's more of a nightmare). Regardless of what I should call it, it is awful. I fear it.  And it's rather simple.  A friend or family member says, "Oh, Alicia, it's so good you're still the same old Alicia." No one has said this to me. But I fear it.

I am not the same.  Yet if you ask me exactly how I have changed, I fumble around for the specifics. So many ways. So many ways.

I've moved to the extremes, I believe. And--here's what's strange--it's the extremes on both ends of the same spectrum.
I am stronger and I am broken.
I am more compassionate and I am more judgmental.
I am much more open and I am much more private.
I stress much less and I worry much more.
I am much more thankful and I ask for much more in life (more than it can now give me).

And now the big question...why worry about whether other people "see" me now or not? Who cares, right? Well, that's tricky. We all want to be seen of course. (Sadly how deeply do we really get to know many of the people in our lives?) What's complicated is that all the people in my life want me to be happy again; they desperately want to believe that "I'm all better" and being "just the same" would prove that really. All of that bothers me because it feels like they are forgetting Miles and they aren't seeing me because they so blindly believe I'm "all better." But loss and grief are already so damn isolating. I feel that I've seen into this place that not many other people see. And if someone believes me to be the-same-old-me...well, then, I'm just all the more alone...in all my extreme-ness.

Books

I am totally predictable with books. I love a good memoir. Specifically, it seems, I love a good memoir that involves a mother and/or father (but always the mother) being a strong, independent, totally memorable, fairly outrageous, and rather crazy personality. I don't go out looking for that book description but it seems to be the one I like again and again. It started with Don't Let's Go to the Dogs tonight. Most recently it's The Glass Castle.

Honestly my "book memory" isn't that good. Mitch will recall details from a book for eternity. For me, it's more like 5 minutes...the perk is that I can reread books and love them as if they are new again. The thing that I've discovered as I reread these two books is that they both involve the loss of a baby (the sibling of the author in both cases), not as a focus of the book at all but rather as part of the life story of the authors. Perhaps it's just a coincidence, but it's got me thinking. Does this just confirm that the loss of a baby (and being part of "the club") is more common than we realize? Or that it becomes taboo to discuss the loss of a baby so it always seems rare? Or that the death of a baby influences a mother to a degree that she's more likely to be strong, independent, rather crazy, and fairly out-of-control? Or that it influences a family beyond measure and that the death of a sibling is not only part of their story but the (or at least one of the main) defining points of their lives?

I've come to no conclusions of course, but there it is...lots of wondering. 

Ages

My second child is now older than my first.

I still say, "There's your big brother Miles" as we look at his photo when she looks at each framed photo on our dresser. Miles will always be her big brother yet always a baby. It's just one of the seriously messed-up details that goes along with losing Miles. It's one of the things we deal with--because we have to (there is no other alternative really, is there?). Yes, their ages just crossed. I think of how old he should be, yet he'll always be four and a half months. I need that, I realize. Because all of my memories of him are real; all the thoughts of him from the day he was born until he was four and a half months are real. Imagining how he would be after that is just that--imagining.

Oh, Elliott looks so much like him; she is his four-and-a-half-month old sister...now daily getting further away from being his age and size. Will I ever have such a squeezable, kissable reminder of him? These days are precious. Because we have them with her. And because she reminds us of him.

At first glance

Though this photo was taken two months ago, I just came across it yesterday. The longer I looked at it, the more I laughed. But then I kept thinking about it all day and there's just something that's sticking with me that creates a feeling quite different than being amused.

As I've mentioned I wasn't a big fan of having my picture taken after Miles died--I didn't like that "proof" that he wasn't there--I didn't like freezing myself in that time, that place. So there aren't too many photos of Mitch and me until Elliott hit the scene in July. Now since I want her to have photos, that's that. Still, I realize, there's something really hard about seeing myself in a photo without Miles.

This photo was taken when we were in St. Michaels for my sister's wedding. It was Elliott's first venture out to a restaurant (ok, ok, so she had already been to Chickfila twice but come on). Honestly, Mitch and I were terrified of taking her, well, essentially out in public at all because she was such a fussy baby at the time. I was still feeding on demand, which at the time meant that I was feeding her about every hour because I never knew if she was hungry or not...so she was never completely full nor completely thrilled. In short, we were really happy-ish and pretty much at our wits end. ANYWAY, we were trying to enjoy our week off and decided to be super-adventurous and try to go out for lunch with our families. This photo makes me laugh because--for how our lives had been turned upside down by her--Elliott looks so tiny and harmless. Then it makes me laugh even harder because Mitch and I both look like we are in the newborn-trenches. Mitch is in a little bit of a daze, and I can promise you that his arm is under the table because he was gently rocking Elliott's car seat the entire lunch to keep her happy. And then me...I mean seriously. My arm brace was always on because my arms were practically broken from holding Elliott so much. And I definitely had not washed my hair in days. Then there's the fact that I was wearing the green moby wrap practically as an accessory just in fear that I would have to quickly plop her in there and leave the restaurant to walk for as long as it took for her to stop screaming. Exhausting. Hilarious.

Yet it's not the whole story. I think that's what kept sticking with me. Things aren't always as they seem, don't we all know that? Maybe we look normal, I realize. Yes, I think that's what was sticking with me. We look kind of normal, but our new normal is much more than is there on the surface...much more than what can be seen at first glance. And so I see the moment yet I see our whole story when I look at a photo like this.

I am a mother.

I am a mother.
I am a mother, and when I think of being a mother, I think of both of my children--Miles and Elliott.
And I say this in a factual way, not a sad, guilty, or sentimental way: For Miles, I felt like I was being the best mother I could possibly be--and it wasn't enough. For Elliott, I feel like I am doing my best yet never have that feeling of being the best mother I could possibly be--yet it's enough. And all of that leaves me feeling like there's no sense in the world. And I feel grateful and sad.
I fill my days with Elliott now. Smiling at her smile, laughing at her laugh, singing to her in the kitchen, holding my breath during nap time that she'll keep sleeping longer than 45 minutes this time. And I carry her around the apartment, catching glimpses of my Miles in our photographs. I think of him and smile. I think of him and the lump in my throat grows as I wish he were here as well. And now I see Elliott look at his photograph, too. And I think, how long until she knows, too, what we're missing?

Thoughts

"Could this really be my life?"
"Could I really have my daughter here in my arms and my son gone from me?"
Reality hits hard.

It starts with a small thought...
Elliott is three and a half months old; we're having so much fun with her as she "matures." And this is the age, I know, when Miles was at his best, too. He was off the ventilator; it was our best time with him.

And then more thoughts just rumble through my mind...picking up speed...
We've taken Elliott to Charleston, Maryland, Texas, Arizona, the Grand Canyon. And home for crying out loud. We've gone through so many things with her...breastfeeding and then adding in formula. Listening to her learn to make sounds, laugh. Holding her while she sleeps and then sleep training. Walking with her in the Moby wrap for hours and hours. We've done so much. And here's the thing. With Miles at this point, we were still in the hospital. It's shocking. All this time and we were still in the hospital. It's incredible what we did, withstood, lived, memorized--four and a half months. All that matters is that's when we had Miles. Those were our four and a half months of having our boy.

And the reality is that we had our Miles for four and a half months and now he's gone forever--I know it to be true but can hardly believe it. Hardly stand it.
And the reality is that our Elliott is three and a half months old. Creeping up on Miles' four and a half months. Soon to be older than Miles got to be.

Throwing money at a problem

Every time I wake up at night I watch her chest move up and down. I'm checking for breathing, reassuring myself that Elliott's been just fine these past few hours while we were both sleeping. It used to be easy to check when she was in the Moses basket next to our bed. I would peak in, sometimes slightly startling her in her sleep as I leaned in closer and closer; I was always sad to disturb her...but that was small potatoes compared to the relaxing joy I felt that she was ok. Now that she's in her crib in her little "room" (yes, our walk-in closet), it's even harder for me to check without disturbing her. A couple of nights ago, I crawled in on the floor. As I peered in, somehow she sensed it in her sleep and wiggled a little. I backed away quickly, running into the dresser and causing a huge crash. Lo and behold, she woke up.

Mitch sighs and nods. I take that to mean that he wishes I wouldn't worry. But he doesn't blame me that I do.

So I've got it in my mind that the only solution is a video monitor. With a video monitor, I won't wake her up, and I'll still get the peace of mind to know that she's breathing fine through the night. If it were cheap, I would buy it in a heartbeat. Since it's by no means cheap, I push myself to think about whether I really need it. Will the monitor really make me not worry about her health and not worry that I could suddenly lose her if I let my guard down for one second (even actually sleep at night)? Or is it just throwing money at a problem? Perhaps it's a dream world to think that a video monitor will fix anything. When you've loved a child and lost him like we did Miles, you know how precious life is. We know how precious Miles was and Elliott is. I want to do whatever is needed to make sure she stays with us and gets to live a full life; I wanted that for Miles too but wasn't able to do it.  And so I realize that these dreams, these wishes are so much more than anything that can be assured by a video monitor. So maybe I won't buy it, but maybe I will because either way, let's face it, I'm going to obsess.