Afterward I feel relieved, soft. Dix says, “If you really want another baby, I’ll get on board for that.”
*
In the night, I dream that Paul says my body would be fine with another pregnancy. He doesn’t seem to recall telling me I was at the end of my reproductive years.
March 1
I go down to the office and find Dicken in tears over the medical bills—“Not the money but the reminder of what we went through—what you went through,” he says.
Then I see an unopened envelope from Dad on the desk. I know Dad is sending us some money to help with the bills, so I open it. Inside is a check for half our medical costs.
I show Dicken the check, saying, “Look at this and feel how supported we are.” We both cry.
March 6
In the co-op today, I see a woman with an infant in a front pack. She’s on her cell phone, complaining to someone about how exhausted she is, how she hasn’t slept more than a few hours in a row for weeks.
I turn around and walk the other way, though I want to go up to her and say, Do you have any idea how lucky you are? I haven’t slept well in weeks either and I have no baby! It is so much easier to have a baby than to think you are going to have a baby and then not have a baby. If you only knew, you would stop complaining!
My friend Mary comes over for tea. While we’re talking in the kitchen, Kevin walks in and says he’s hungry.
“What do you feel like?” I ask.
He shrugs, pouting, his eyes on the floor.
“Toast?”
He shakes his head.
“Eggs?”
Another head shake.
“Well, can’t you think of something? Help me out here.”
Tears start to slip down his cheeks. As usual, I’m surprised by how suddenly they come on, and how fast they fall.
“What is it?” I say, my tone sharper than I intend.
“I hate the food in this house! I hate the food in this country! And I’m so bored!”
I just stare at him.
“I hate my life! I wish I could go back to Costa Rica!” He knows we’re taking him there for a visit this summer, but that’s not what he’s talking about. He’s saying he wants to leave us and go back for good. Does he mean it? At nine years old, could he truly know what he wants?
I stare at him some more, then say, “Really? Well, it’s your life, Kevin, and if you really think you’d be better off in Costa Rica, I wouldn’t stop you just out of selfishness.”
He looks up at me, the tears stopped. He eyes me carefully for a long minute or so; then his face relaxes. He cocks his head and says, “I think I’ll stay here for two more years.”
“I love you and hope you’ll stay with us, but more than that I want the best for you.”
Mary, who has been listening this whole time, tells Kevin about her son, who has been agonizing over whether he should be here or in New Orleans.
“Even grown-ups feel confused about where they belong,” Mary says.
Kevin is listening intently, and comes closer to me.
“Life decisions are hard, however old you are,” I say. “Like how Daddy and I don’t know whether to have another baby or not. It’s really hard. We go back and forth, and there’s no way to know the right answer.”
Kevin sits by me on the couch and asks me to make him some toast.
Dicken spends the evening with Kevin while I take Jasper to a birthday party. When I get home, Dicken says Kevin seems to be in a much better place, relaxed and laughing and wanting physical closeness.
*
Meanwhile, Ben and Paula’s pregnancy news is alarming—an ultrasound showed their baby has a single umbilical artery. They’re having an amnio tomorrow. Poor Ben was very upset when they got the news. He’d just heard my whole story a few days earlier, including the fact that Theo’s single-artery umbilical cord was one of the first signs of possible trouble.
*
I feel depressed, maybe because of my period. I just can’t find much fun in anything, like dinner with friends the other night, or watching the Oscars. I feel relieved and reassured when I’m at my best, distracted at times, and debilitated and half-insane at my worst. I don’t fit into my clothes. I don’t fit into my life. I can’t get to sleep at night; I lie there feeling dizzy, scared. I can’t relax: my body is holding on, bracing for another shock. Tired, mostly uninterested in external goings-on, I wander familiar terrain like a visiting zombie.
Outwardly, everything appears as it was before, this house, this husband and children, yet I don’t know what I’m doing here and I don’t remember the woman who created all of this. Who was she and where did she go? Is she coming back?
March 7
At breakfast I am rushing and knock over the bottle of maple syrup on the counter. I shout, “Goddamn it!” as Dicken swoops in and rights the bottle before all the syrup spills out.
“What’s the matter?” he asks. “You seem really tense.”
I take a deep breath and close my eyes. “Well, I’m really aware of wanting to check things off my internal to-do list, things of little true consequence, like fixing the car windscreen, getting the paintings out of barn storage to Mom’s house, recycling, and so on. I want to finish working on the taxes.” As I talk, I have a breathless feeling that I’ll never catch up with myself.
“You don’t need to do any of that,” Dicken says. “I’ll take care of the taxes. The rest can wait.”
“The last thing you need is another task like taxes. You work way too hard as it is.”
“You sound mad about that.”
“I guess I am. I judge you for being a workaholic.”
“So you want me to be like our guy friends who sit around drinking beer most of the day?”
I think of those friends and feel disgust. “No, I judge them too. No one can get it right.”
“Well, maybe you could be more supportive of how hard I work. Or just leave me alone!”
“Why are you being so mean?”
“Daddy!” Jasper, who has been eating pancakes nearby, chimes in. “Don’t be mean to Mommy!”
“Oh my God, this family is falling apart,” Dicken says, his face red.
“You always say that the moment I show any neediness,” I say, my voice becoming loud and firm. “Fine, have it your way. I’ll toughen up and sort myself out and get off your back.”
Dicken looks at me for a long moment. “You seem so hard and distant when you get that way. I actually prefer you when you’re needy. You seem more present.”
“What am I supposed to make of that? I’m confused.”
“I am too. It’s just that I love it when you’re sad about Theo and stay in bed writing.”
“But you never do that,” I point out.
“It’s kind of like you’re doing that part of the work for us, and I’m doing the active part. Does that make sense?”
I nod. He takes me in his arms.
I guess it’s my job to be sad right now, not to distract myself or put pressure on myself to do more than I really feel up to.
I can see that it helps Dicken to be doing as much as he is, to be functioning and bringing in money and writing out the checks and picking up the slack around the house. Letting him take care of me is bringing us closer, so it makes sense that we should just grieve in our own ways. When I fight to overcome my inertia and be more like him, it actually creates distance between us.
But there’s no simple solution here. Sometimes being who we are and telling each other the truth only seems to bring more struggle. He’s distressed to see my pressured self again.
Hearing his assessment of me as less present makes me sad. It makes me feel I’ve lost everything Theo gave me. I’ve forgotten. I might as well not have gone through all that suffering.
March 8
Tonight Kevin won’t eat his dinner. He is pouty and sullen.
“What is it?” I ask, hearing the annoyance in my voice.
“I hate the food he
re,” he says, tears beginning to spill over his cheeks. “I miss Costa Rica. I hate my school.”
“You have such a good life!” I say. “If you could just shift your terrible attitude and realize how lucky you are, you wouldn’t be so angry and unhappy.”
“You don’t know how I feel,” Kevin says.
Anger begins to boil inside me. I go find Maud for some coaching.
“What do you feel in your body right now?” she asks.
I close my eyes and describe the red pulsing rage, the feeling that something is trying to crush me into a small mass.
“I just want to make Kevin small, rub his nose in the dirt,” I say.
“Sounds like that’s what happening to you inside.”
Maud helps me get in touch with the bigger picture, how it’s really me I’m mad at; I’m the one who has everything and still isn’t content. How can I be with Kevin’s big feelings if I can’t be with my own? I feel compassion for the part of me that wants the world to make me happy, to have everything go my way. You think you should be happy because you have so much, I tell myself, and it’s really, really disappointing that you still feel so empty and unsatisfied sometimes.
As the evening unfolds, I notice myself in the flow of the crazy stream of life at the farm—Maud and all our kids plus a gaggle of friends: noise, mayhem, mess; meltdowns, shrieks, tears, pouts, self-inflicted exiles. At one point I’m making toast and I drop Dicken’s butter dish, the second or third one I’ve broken. I finally got Mom to replace it after two years of trying to make him one myself. Each of my efforts exploded in the kiln, except for the one that disintegrated in my luggage while I carted it across Costa Rica. When the replacement butter dish slips from my grasp and crashes on the floor, all I can do is laugh—not my usual reaction. And the mess doesn’t bother me.
Tonight the storms of emotion come and go. I find myself laughing, not resisting.
March 13
I take Kevin to an open house for Boys-to-Men, a weekend of therapeutic work and initiation which he’ll attend next month. Bill, the leader, is very impressed by what Kevin says in the interview, and tells me, “He’s a little shaman!” I’m excited for Kevin; I think he’ll really get into it.
Meanwhile, he’s the fourth in reading in his class—and that includes the grade above his. He says his teacher told the class today, “If Kevin has that many points and has only been speaking English for a year, all of you should be doing better.” I am very proud; I even cry a little. I try not to overemphasize the achievement, telling him I’d love him even if he didn’t do so well.
In the evening we call Costa Rica. Liliana, Kevin’s aunt, who took him in for two years before we adopted him, tells us she’s pregnant. A big surprise; she’s already a grandmother. I am delighted for her and hear myself say, “You’re so lucky!” She says she’s not so sure.
And there is good news from Ben: their baby is fine. It turns out the cord is a double, not a single. What a relief. Amnio confirmed that all is well. It’s amazing how many people we know who’ve had false scares. I just wish I could count myself among them.
March 14
We do a tree-planting ceremony today—Theo’s ashes; Jasper, Grace, and Sam’s placentas, which have been stored all this time in the deep freeze; and a lock of Kevin’s hair, all placed under an apple tree, an Orange Pippin cross. It snowed last night, and the moon is full, just like on Theo’s birthday.
March 18–21
People have stopped calling as much. No one brings meals by. I get a card or letter or e-mail once in a while, but not daily anymore. I go into the closet and look at the baby clothes on the shelf. I should put these away, it’s time, I tell myself. But I already know I can’t do it.
Instead, I go down to the office and look up WinterSpring, a local grief-support organization several people have mentioned to me. I dial the number and leave a message asking for information about their services. I get a call back later that day. A woman tells me they have an ongoing children’s program and an upcoming eight-week support group for bereaved parents.
I ask her to send me the sign-up forms. Then I tell her all about Theo. At one point early on in our conversation, she tells me her daughter died several years ago.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I say. “Is it any easier now?”
“Yes. When it had just happened, I never thought I could feel okay again, but gradually, I did.”
I’m afraid she will go on to tell me more about her experience, which I know should interest me but at this moment does not. Luckily, she asks me another question, and I get to jump back in. I talk a lot, feeling an intense desire to share my story, Theo’s story. It feels more central and important than anyone else’s story right now. As I speak, I feel clear, solid, articulate, and I imagine I must sound impressive to this woman. She must be thinking, What an evolved person. She’s got it all together. She doesn’t need our services. I don’t realize how badly I’m trying to convince myself this is true.
*
A few days later, I’m in the office opening mail and find the sign-up form for WinterSpring. I tell Dicken about the group, adding, “I don’t think we really need this. We have so much support.”
Dicken is typing on his computer and doesn’t look up. “I agree,” he says. “I feel like I’m doing okay.”
I leave the form on my desk and head up to the bedroom. Lying down, I start to feel dizzy. I think of the boys, Kevin back at school, Jasper playing at a friend’s house. I think of Dicken down in the office, working away as if nothing has happened. I try to imagine going down there and sitting across from him, editing one of his articles. I know I can’t do it. What is wrong with me? Everyone else is moving on, but I’m stuck. I can’t move my body, but I don’t want to stay here in bed anymore. I make myself move and step by step get back to the office. I sit down and stare at my computer.
“Want me to help you with anything?” I ask Dicken quietly.
He doesn’t answer, and I start to feel a falling sensation.
“Dicken!” I wail. “What about me? Can’t you see that I’m not doing well? That I need help?”
He looks startled, turns away from his monitor and gives me his full attention. “Yes, I see that,” he says. “And I’m sorry. I wish I knew what to do. I guess I’m just moving on, and you’re taking a little longer.”
“Is there something wrong with me?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Well, why are you able to move on and get back to work, and I still feel like this just happened? It actually feels worse than it did at first, and I’m scared it’ll keep getting worse forever.”
Crying, I run up to our room. Dicken follows me, sits down on the bed beside me.
“I’m sorry, I don’t know how to help you.”
“It’s just so scary to feel like we’re not in the same place anymore. I loved when we were so close, sharing every moment of this. Now, I’m alone, and I can’t stand it!”
“I’m right here,” he says, but he sounds far away, like a voice in a dream.
“When is it going to feel better? When is he coming back? I can’t do this anymore, I really can’t!”
I scream and flail on the bed while Dicken tries to get ahold of me, but I won’t let him.
“I hate you for leaving me here!” I yell. “How could you be so cruel?”
“I’m right here.”
“What’s wrong with me?”
“Shhhhhh. It’s okay.”
*
Later, I go downstairs and see that Dicken has filled out the WinterSpring group form with both of our names.
April 6
It’s the first night of our WinterSpring bereaved parents group. We walk in late and join the seven other solemn-faced parents. Dicken immediately begins to cry.
“Sorry we’re late,” I say.
“No problem, we were just about to start introductions,” says a dark-haired woman with an English accent and a soothing voice. “I’m Christin
e, and I’ll be facilitating the group. I’m so glad you’re here.”
We go around the circle, passing a Native American talking stick, introducing ourselves and our children.
“I’m Jerry and I’m here for my son Brent, who was twenty-five. He died of a heroin overdose last month.”
“I’m the mother … of … Brent,” whispers a pale woman. Christine hands her a tissue and tells us all to breathe.
“I’m Scott and I’m here for my son Diego, who was born premature and only lived a week.”
“I’m Alice and I’m here for my daughter Sage. She was twenty-two, murdered by the father of her baby girl.”
“Everybody breathe,” Christine says.
“I’m Lucinda and I’m here for my son Theo.”
“I’m Dicken … and … I’m—” Dicken is sobbing. I haven’t seen him cry this hard since the cremation. Other parents hand him tissues.
“Take your time, sweetheart,” Christine says.
“I’m … here … for my … for my son … Theodore Simon …”
“Well done,” Christine says. “It’s so important to speak the names of our children. To say aloud who we are here for. And it’s healthy to cry. Emotion is what I like to call energy in motion. Emotion. Crying, or any form of emoting, lets that energy move through us, which is the work of grief and mourning.”
I immediately like Christine; she is warm and reassuring. She keeps using the word “permission.” “We have to give ourselves and each other permission to be where we’re at. There are no rules when it comes to grieving. So don’t should on yourself.”
When we go around the circle again, sharing if we choose to, I talk about Theo’s birth and death. I notice how I don’t share the joy part. I match the rest of what I’ve heard tonight, the sorrow and the pain. Later I will feel remorse about this and promise myself to honor his whole story in the next meeting.
When it’s Dicken’s turn, his voice is hoarse. “I just feel so sad,” he says, beginning to cry again. “I feel like I did when my dad died …”
“Every new grief brings up unresolved grief from our past,” Christine says. “It’s like we’re right back there, in that moment from long ago.”
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