“He doesn’t need anyone to take care of him anymore.”
I hang on to the relief I feel, knowing that nothing can ever hurt our son: none of the harsh realities of life, or the mistakes I would have made as his mother. I recall my stepfather saying that Theo had a perfect life, surrounded by love. What I don’t let myself think about are all the positive things he’ll miss in life, all the joy he would have experienced, all the wonder, and how much of that he would have brought us. I can’t bear that, not yet.
January 22–23
Jasper has a huge eighth birthday and seems to enjoy everything. Grace comes to my bed before the party, brushes my hair and puts it into braids. She hugs me tightly, looks into my eyes. “Do you need anything, Tia?”
I look back into her beautiful green eyes and see her as an equal, with a heart as open and sensitive as the wisest adults I know. Later, when I walk into the main house, I notice that all the girls have their hair braided like mine. Grace grins up at me.
I don’t feel as joyful today as I’d hoped I would, given that it is the birthday of our beloved boy, our one living offspring. We watch Jasper’s birth video, which has been perhaps my favorite possession these past eight years, a record of my most glorious, joyful experience. I watched it about a month ago, before any of the pregnancy issues were known. That seems lifetimes ago. Today, as I watch the video, it is with new eyes. I mostly think, That woman (me) didn’t appreciate her good fortune. She complained. She took credit for a miracle that had nothing to do with her.
*
Cecily brings Jasper a box at bedtime, and we sit together as he opens it. He pulls out a bunch of papers, looking puzzled. Cecily says with excitement, “I adopted you a gorilla!” The kit comes with adoption papers, a biography and photographs of Charles, the gorilla, and a little stuffed gorilla. As Jasper pulls out the plastic bag containing the stuffed toy, his eyes grow wide and he eagerly rips open the bag, obviously thinking this is a real baby gorilla. He just received live ants in the mail the day before for his ant farm.
After pulling it out, he says flatly, “Oh, it’s stuffed.”
“I’m sorry, Jasper,” Cecily says. “The real gorilla’s in Africa.”
Grace asks, “Is he coming here?”
We try not to laugh in front of the kids, but when they leave, we fall about in near hysterics. The laughing is odd, a great release, like crying but with the flavor of joy instead of sorrow.
*
I write in my journal:
All these things you didn’t need:
Your clothes waiting on the shelves Dicken carefully organized.
Your “born at home” shirt (a hand-me-down from Jasper).
The milk filling my breasts.
The empty changing table.
The gentle creams and herbs Dad was going to use on your cord and on your skin.
The car seat all strapped in the Subaru, in the middle seat so the boys wouldn’t fight over who got to sit next to you.
The body we grew together inside me all those months.
Jasper makes his own altar for Theo. He puts tiny food offerings on it, like the Eastern tradition of leaving food for ancestors. I come back from brushing my teeth and find him crying and praying by it.
*
I can’t read or watch movies. In the night I burst into sobs periodically, then lie awake just being with myself, and with the dark. We grieve more at night. Dicken calls it “Theo time.” Sometimes I hear him crying in his sleep, and he doesn’t remember it in the morning.
*
A close friend comes to sit with me for a while. She walks in and exclaims, “I love your room this way!”
“Dicken rearranges furniture as therapy.”
My friend sits on the bed as I gather up the pile of letters and cards around me. “Wow, look at all of these. There must be a hundred, maybe more!”
“And you should see the e-mails,” I say. “They’re from just about everyone we know, plus a whole bunch we don’t know, a lot of them people who’ve had a loss and wanted to reach out.”
“Is it strange to hear from people you don’t know?”
“No. Every single message, banal or brief or corny or run-on or eloquent, means a huge amount.”
“Anyone you haven’t heard from?”
“Yes, a few; a cousin and a couple of friends from the retreat group I was sure would make contact. I guess you can never tell. But I have to say, people are so generous.”
“You must feel loved.”
“Oh my gosh, yes. I think it takes something like this for us to know how loved and supported we are. I have the sensation that every thought, every prayer coming our way, is part of a huge number of hands underneath us, carrying us through this.”
“I was telling my sister that I’m so glad I know you, because, because …” She starts to cry softly. “I told her if I ever go through losing one of my kids, I’ll know someone who’s survived it. I’m so grateful to be close to you right now, to get to witness you going through this.”
I take her hands in mine. Hers are dry and cool, and I can’t remember if we’ve ever held hands before.
“You look so beautiful, so open,” she says. “You’re like a goddess or something.”
“I feel old and disheveled. I can’t take a shower for a few more days.”
“Well, you have this glow about you. I think you’ve been graced by this. I’m actually envious of you.”
What a bizarre thing to say, yet I understand what she means.
“Hey,” she says, “do you remember when you were in England, in your first trimester, and I sent you that e-mail survey—likes, dislikes, favorite color, food, and so on?”
“Vaguely.”
“I still have that e-mail. And do you know what you wrote as an answer to What is your biggest fear?”
“I hardly recall the e-mail, much less what my answers were. That seems light years ago.”
“You put, Losing a loved one.”
She mentions her husband. “If one of our kids died, I think it would break us up. I asked him if he would hold me all night if I lost someone close to me. He said, No, I’m not Dicken. But there are a lot of things you like about me. And I nodded, crying, and said that was true.”
“You have no idea how you or he would be if something like this happened to you. I used to hear about people losing babies and think there was no way I could survive that, and that it would ruin my life if I did survive it. If there’s one thing I’m learning in this, it’s that anticipating a potential loss ahead of time is pointless. It’s not at all what we imagine, and if it does happen, you’ll know how to cope in the moment. You don’t need to plan ahead.”
“So you’re not afraid of anything anymore?”
“Oh, I am, but I’m not going to indulge in worrying about anything as much. It really doesn’t help, I know that now. Plus I know I’m a lot more courageous than I thought I was. We all are.”
“You’re amazing,” she says.
“No, I’m not,” I laugh. “At least no more so than anyone else, you included.”
CHAPTER 17
January 24
I’m sleeping better, not so sore. Maud and I take a walk in the warm sunshine. Water fills ponds and streams, spilling over the banks like tears.
As we make our way on the trail above the farm, Maud says, “I’m sad for you because I think Theo was more your child.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, he seemed more like you, whereas Jasper is so clearly Dicken’s, the way Grace is Tom’s and Sam is mine. Theo is like you. He is so deep and internal, secretive. He’s about spirit and symbols and dreams, not so much about the concrete, physical world, or something like that.”
I ponder her words for a moment, recalling that when Paul did his first reading of me, he spoke of me as being in the imaginary world a lot, and in the energetic realms.
I tell Maud, “I know what you mean. And I like that, because Theo and I can meet in tho
se places. Maybe that’s partly why Dicken’s grief came crashing down on him so quickly, how his heart ached so much he kept clutching his chest from the moment we heard Theo would die. He is so physically present, grounded in the world, using touch and physicality to measure reality more than anything. I was heartbroken, but mostly so relieved and grateful and in love and blissed out by Theo’s presence that the sorrow and longing for him didn’t settle in until later. The dream world, the world of energy—in many ways it’s as real to me as physical reality, sometimes more so. I guess part of me knew I wasn’t losing him entirely. But I do miss his body. I’ll never stop longing for that.”
Maud is crying as we climb higher on the trail.
*
I love that Theo was one of the rare trisomy cases with no signs of a heart defect. His cardiogram test on the ultrasound was perfect; his heart tones were always strong and reactive. “The baby sounds great” they all told me, until the last day. Gabriella points out that Theo’s gift seems to be about opening people’s hearts. I agree.
January 25–26
We lie awake into the night talking. Jasper is sleeping between us, his breathing rhythmic and heavy.
“I wonder how much longer he’ll want to be in our bed,” Dicken says. “I’m in no hurry to move him on.”
“Dix, do you remember when Jasper was a newborn, and how several times during those first nights, you woke me, asking in a desperate tone, Where’s our baby?”
“Yes, wow, I haven’t thought about that since then.”
“I would point to Jasper, sleeping between us, and say, He’s right here. He’s fine, look. And you would say, No, I mean, where’s our other baby? It would always take you a few minutes to fully wake up and realize that everything was fine, that we only had one baby and he was right there with us.”
“Yes, that was really strange. I was convinced we had two babies and one was missing.”
“And do you remember how I dreamt of another little baby boy around that time, nine months younger than Jasper in one dream, and how I told you we should be careful about getting pregnant again right away?”
“I don’t remember that part.”
“I do. It seemed like a presence was making itself known.” I pause, then ask, “Do you think it could have been Theo, our little spirit child, already with us eight years ago?”
“I don’t know. Anything is possible, I guess.”
“I suppose it’s a stretch, and there’s no way we’ll ever know, but I like to think he’s been there, showed up for a short time in a body, then went back to being a sort of guardian angel for us.”
“That’s a lovely thought,” Dicken says, and I can tell he’s drifting off to sleep. I lie awake for a while longer, thinking of our strange parenting journey.
Maybe Theo’s spirit really was with us years ago. I hardly dare even to dream of this, but maybe, just maybe, he chose us because we could give him the chance to be born alive. The vast majority of couples go with traditional medicine for prenatal care, and testing would be recommended for any thirty-five-year-old woman. Most couples would opt for an abortion upon learning the grim odds for a trisomy baby’s survival.
Statistically, he should never have lived a moment on earth. How can it be a mere coincidence that Theo was born to two people who believe in trusting the process of birth and the wisdom of the body?
*
From a friend who visited us the day after the birth: The radiant beauty I experienced amid the sorrow in that hospital room will be alive in me for a long, long time. I’ve never seen you more beautiful and powerful. Nor have I experienced a family so richly, consciously, and openly navigating through a birth as you all did.
*
From a childhood friend’s motherin-law: Even at the time we lost our baby daughter, in spite of the trauma, we were so grateful for every moment we shared with her. We owe her so much for the lessons of the heart. We wouldn’t choose another way, even if we could. We had children in order to partake in a mystery. And I’ll share with you the words of a very wise visiting nurse, who said to me, “Don’t think of her as your little tragedy, she doesn’t know she’s sick. Just love her.”
*
Jennifer, our midwife friend, tells me she had four clients miscarry in the summer, all due in January or February. Tracy was due in March and miscarried in the first trimester. We turned out to be Rhione’s only January birth so far—because her other one went before thirty-seven weeks in late December. And during our entire time in the hospital, there weren’t any other women recovering from or giving birth. Odd. It seems like a pattern, like the stars were lined up in a certain way, that there was some sort of blackout in January 2006. January was a Friday-the-thirteenth month, and so was the previous May, the first month of my pregnancy.
I reread my journals, mouth agape at all the references to death in the first trimester of the pregnancy. I must have known. I want others to witness this too, to make it more real.
“Dicken, listen to this.” I begin to read from my journal: “June 24, I’ve been thinking of how this physical debilitation makes me feel so uninvested in being in the world, and how people who are ill must benefit from that in that it makes it easier to let go and die. For me the hardest thing to let go of would be Jasper. I also think it’s interesting that I’m feeling this whole lack of draw to being human when this soul is doing the opposite—being drawn into the human realm. Maybe we’re meeting at the threshold of life and the other side of life, whatever and wherever that is.”
We are both silent.
“Isn’t that uncanny?”
“It just makes me sad,” he says. “You suffered so much then, and now.”
I feel disappointed that he isn’t as amazed by this as I am. I don’t want to be sad all the time. I want to marvel, to celebrate this magnificent mystery, this proof that the universe is intelligent, that every tragedy is in its own way pristine, beautiful. I want to tell everyone I know not to fear loss. I want them to trust that the magic web will catch them, keep them sane and intact.
A close friend says, “I told my mom what happened, and she could only talk about how sad it is, how it’s a tragedy, pure and simple.”
I cringe at this, and wish I could speak to my friend’s mother, to everyone who hears of our “tragedy.” I don’t want anyone to pity me, to think of me as tragic. I want to reassure the world that all is unfolding according to plan, that suffering has a place, a purpose. I feel evangelical. For the first time in my life, I feel I have something truly important to say.
*
A woman I know from dance cooks a meal for us, brings it by, settles into the kitchen couch to talk for a while before her long drive home.
“You look beautiful,” she says to me. “I’ve never seen you so open.”
“It doesn’t make sense, but I really am okay, maybe better than ever.”
“You know, my sister doesn’t understand the blessing this is for you,” she says. “I told her your story, and she said you were crazy not to have an amnio. I tried to explain that you were thrilled to know Theo, but she just didn’t get it. She said she pities you.”
I know this woman’s sister judges me, and I feel defensive, for myself and for Theo. To me, she is negating the meaning of his life, wishing him away. My chest burns as I think of this, of how many people don’t understand, will never understand. I so badly want everyone who hears of this to know the truth, to know we are not pitiable, to know we don’t regret our choices. I tell myself people like this are the ones to be pitied: they live in their closed worlds of fear, afraid to come into the center of this experience and see it for what it is. They imagine desperate, wretched pain and misery. They imagine how they would feel if this happened to them. I know because I did this myself when I used to hear of a baby dying, or a baby being born with a disability.
I think people look for a reason, an explanation, when they hear about something tragic, so they can hang on to some imaginary sense of control, belie
ving that if they only do A, or don’t do B, C will never happen to them. The woman who was raped should never have walked to her car alone. The family that went bankrupt shouldn’t have taken on that expensive mortgage. The Weatherbys should have had an amnio. If they can distance themselves from the people these things happen to, they don’t have to feel so much. They don’t have to live with the reality that at any moment, something catastrophic can slice our lives open. They can judge from the false safety of believing they are different, that they are fully aware of and in control of their choices and what those will result in.
I am deeply grateful that with very few exceptions, my close family and friends are brave and humble people, unafraid to venture with us into the center of this and let the sad and stunning beauty rip their hearts open.
*
I begin to listen to music again. At first it was too painful; I couldn’t stand it. I prefer love songs right now, even though they hurt. Eva Cassidy, Coldplay, John Denver. The notes wash through my body and I am filled with the most powerful emotion imaginable. It is not exactly painful, but in a way it feels unbearable, like I will explode.
I am madly, madly in love with Theo, literally feeling I will go insane from this love, will die from it. I hear the songs and tears of joy fall down my face. I am so in love, I am so happy, I feel intoxicated. It is rapture, it is pure high. It is no doubt fueled by the lactation hormones, the post-birth chemical soup designed to bond a mother with her newborn so strongly she will happily forego sleep and comfort to ensure her baby’s survival.
I am filled with this powerful bonding drive, yet there is no object for me to focus the energy on. I can feel some part of my psyche searching, searching, searching for the beloved, desperate to keep him safe and secure, warm and fed. The muscles of my arms ache to hold the weight I expected. The gap expands inside me and makes every part of me sore, especially my chest, my heart area.
Yet even this ache is joy, is love itself.
I sing aloud with “Come What May” from Moulin Rouge:
Never knew I could feel like this
It’s like I’ve never seen the sky before …
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