Four Years

A lot can happen in four years. You can have babies. Move houses. Change jobs. You can break.

And a lot can stay the same in 4 years. Your heart might have a crack that doesn't ever fill in. Your gut might get still tight whenever you hear a name. Your head might ache after replaying an event over and over. Your arms might still twitch anxious to hold the baby you didn't get enough time with.

We have a cabinet that I keep Henry's stuff in. He never saw the blankets and the turtle that was once in his crib, only a week away from snuggling him. But I have them in there. Along with every card, every note and every gift that was given to us after he died. And there is a box where I keep everything from the hospital. The gown I envisioned putting on his tiny body to bring him home for the first time. The hat the nurses put on his poor little head. The lock of hair they cut for me and tape measure where they marked his length. 19.5"I often wonder if he would have been much longer had he not got tangled up in that cord. He probably would have weighed more than 4lbs since he likely lost a bit of weight in the few days he waited inside me. But I'll never know or sure.

I'll never know a lot of things. I'll never know what it's like to raise a child with Down Syndrome. I'll never know the stress and worry about seeing specialists and fighting bullies. I'll never know if we would still have Sam and Bo. If we would have moved. If I would be a photographer. But those things don't matter. Because they can't be changed. I do not get hung up on those things. I try to be grateful for what has happened. The many positive things. And though there are days where I am grumpy for no reason, or I snap unprovoked, or I don't want to talk to anyone but rather just sit in the quiet, I know they are not without reason. And I'm beginning to allow myself to just stop and feel. Rather than push them off and ignore the hurt, I'm embracing it. Because I'm not healed. Pushing it away doesn't work. And maybe I'll never heal. I'm just doing whatever feels right. And now that Sam is old enough to ask questions, and now that he knows what the word "brother" really means, I answer his questions honestly for the first time. When he wants to play with the turtle in the cabinet, I tell him he can give it a hug because it was his brothers. And when he asks if it's Bo's, I'll remind him it's his other brother, Henry's. And that Henry lives in the clouds. Because that's what I believe.

I get a lot of messages and emails from people who have been through this or know someone who has. A stillbirth, miscarriage, infant loss. And no one knows what to do. It's not something you learn about unless you have to. It's not something you know how to handle unless you have to. I don't have the right answers for some people. Everyone copes differently. But I'll lend my ear and share my story in hopes that it's helpful to someone. And I don't feel know what the hell I'm talking about, I just told my son his brother lives in the clouds. But at the same time, I unfortunately do know what the hell I'm talking about. I will tell that person that it sucks. And they will always be broken. They will never be the same. They will move on but they will never be the same. They might not ever heal. I'll tell them it's ok to forget about it sometimes. And that it's ok to laugh and smile. And it's also ok to cry and yell or do whatever to get it out. I'll tell them that no one knows what to say to them, and that it's ok. I'll tell them some people might literally run in the other direction when they see them but it's not because they are that hard to look at, it's because that other person thinks they will say the wrong thing.

So as I go over and over this day 4 years ago in my head,  I'll remember the blue shirt I was wearing. And I'll remember knowing what the doctor was about to tell me but telling Phil not to worry anyway, saving him a few minutes of hurt. I'll also remember looking out the windows of my labor and delivery room at a sunny playground filled with kids playing innocently as I waited for my pitocin to start. I'll remember the eerie feeling of having met my nurse before although she was a stranger. I'll remember the heartbreak on my doctors face as this was his first stillbirth. I'll remember feeling numb as if I was floating above it all. And as I remember all of this and so much more, I'll take a few minutes of quiet to throw my head back, look up and search for my Henry. Because he lives in the clouds.

Party of Five

Tonight we went to the Ironbirds game. Sam and Bo's first baseball game and our first real outing as a family of 4. Cotton candy, hot dogs, some aisle dancing. We all had fun.

At one point I looked up toward the score board and saw these "Henry clouds". And I knew we were actually there as a family of 5.

documenting

and in the dark, i can hear your heartbeat

i tried to find the sound

but then it stopped, and i was in the darkness

so darkness i became

the stars, the moon, they have all been blown out

you left me in the dark

no dawn, no day, i'm always in this twilight

in the shadow of your heart

38 weeks 5 days. 

I hate this day. The day I gave a still birth to Henry. It was a Thursday then too. It also fell on a Thursday with Sam. Is that why I was "in labor" yesterday? Did I create a false labor in my head to avoid having this day again? I don't think my mind is that powerful, and I certainly know I have no control over my body anymore so I don't think I could have done that. But it's all still draining, exhausting, challenging, my mind and heart never so full of doubt. And then guilt. And nothing rational. Trying not to shut down. Trying to pull myself out of the darkness so that I can appreciate the light that is coming. Because full of doubt or not, I know he'll be here soon. And I don't want to be consumed with darkness when that happens. 

So what do I do? I document. Because I know remembering the times of darkness are just as important to remember as the times we are bursting with joy. They bring perspective. They remind us, once the light has come, of where we once were. And on this day I hate more than any other in my pregnancy, I'm documenting. Wanting to put it on "paper" to get it out. Because I don't like to feel the word "hate" when I'm literally full of life. Kicking, punching, cramping, rolling, heartburn causing life. It's not how I want to start Booger's life. So I'm shaking it out here. The only way I know how. 

ETA:
Although its always tough for me to hit the"publish" button after writing a post, I always feel relieved when I do. Writing these few words down this morning let me get the negative out of my head and make room to hear and appreciate the positive things from my Dr today. Booger is doing really well and we will get to meet him Saturday, if not before. :) thank you all for your encouraging words and thoughts during this otherwise difficult day.

Lifted

Henry's birth-day was well over a month ago but I'm just now getting to posting a few photos of that day. My grand plan was to release (or have Sam release) 3 balloons to honor him. Well, the cluster of a day started early. Maybe it was that we were about to settle on our house and move. Maybe it was just the cluster of the last few months, rushing by so fast with so many things going on no one knew which was was up. But nonetheless, we released balloons. It wasn't as I had hoped, but everything it was going to be. My grand romantic gestures tend to be lessened by the fun seeking two year old. So instead of taking that moment to reflect, we watched Sam as he tried to lift up the gravestones around the cemetery. It was hard not to laugh at his struggle and inevitable defeat as he realized they were just to heavy. But what he did lift that day were our spirits. Seemingly just as heavily weighed down as the granite, but lifted like feathers by that sweet, ornery little boy.

All film shots, which also explains the delayed post. Film is the cure to my need for instant gratification. I'm learning to like surprises. ;)
(sorry for the crappy quality- my Internet still sucks so I had to save and upload through my phone. Yuck.)

Within arms reach.

Today was our march. It was cold. It was raining. I decided a few weeks ago I wasn't going to walk the whole walk. I knew my body couldn't take it at 36 weeks. And I was right. Aside from the weather I would have been miserable. So I came before the walking started to thank my team for coming and braving the elements all for my Henry. I wore his bracelet around my ring finger and snapped some photos of the event.

Where we were standing it was hard to hear the speakers during the opening ceremony. As I walked through the crowd to get closer and take some photos, I heard them recognizing the top family teams from last year. As I heard them say Team HPB was the top family team, I didn't cheer or shout as other teams had. With my camera to my eye I pretended to take photos as the tears came. I stood in the crowd of strangers trying not to be a complete mess and so proud. Proud that my sweet boy who never breathed a breath of life was the reason over $8,000 was raised last year and almost $6,000 this year. Proud that since he came into our lives, he has pushed us to raise almost $20,000 for the March of Dimes. Maybe it was partly due to pregnancy hormones. Maybe it was tears of exhaustion which come frequently these days. Maybe.

But maybe it was the fact that it caught me off guard. Maybe that I was standing alone. I tend to prefer it that way. Dealing with life while standing alone, knowing my support only a few steps away if I needed it. Stubbornly resisting the urge to ask for help and pushing myself to be strong. Stronger. Strongest. I know that might be incredibly frustrating to my friends and family. But that's me.

As Sam has settled into the new house, he has slowly gone back to his normal independent ways. It took a few weeks, but he will now go to the playroom by himself. He will bring Daisy upstairs with him and color me a picture while I'm downstairs doing something else. He will bring the picture to the upstairs area that opens to the landing hold it up with a big smile while I tell him how great if is and how we will hang it up for Dada to see when he gets home from work. The independence upstairs lasts a few minutes then he is ready to come downstairs to me again. He prefers me at arms reach most of the time so his moments of bravery are bittersweet for me. I'm proud of him and his growth. And I'll hold a little tighter when I can knowing he is becoming my sweet and determined little boy. Who happens to be very good with his drawings. Or is it "markerings" when you use those fat markets that only color on the special paper? Oh well, you get it.

As I was thinking about the day tonight, I moved our Moses basket and rocking stand into our bedroom. Booger will be here in (likely) less than 4 weeks. And while Sam is venturing slowly further from my reach, I know Booger is going to need me close. And, surprisingly, I find myself needing him close already. Needing to be his support. Needing to be able to calm his cries or fill his tummy or wrap him tightly in a snuggle. Although I still have a sense of terror when I think about life with 2 boys, that feeling of being needed provides me comfort and soothes the fears just a little bit.

The day where I hold him for the first time is also within arms reach. And knowing that provides me a tiny bit more healing. The Henry wound on my heart patched a bit more by Booger just as it was by Sam over two years ago.

So maybe that's why the unexpected tears came today as I heard our recognition. Knowing I am still healing. Knowing I still remember. Knowing everything that makes my heart as whole as it will ever be is right at my finger tips. And knowing I need to reach out and hug it all very tightly. And not let go.

Manipulation and Dum Dums

What a day. I learned that Sam's head is incredibly hard, literally. Falling off the bed, he hit his head on the windowsill at 7am. Good morning. A HUGE knot. But the skin never broke. I don't know how.

I also learned that he is smarter than I thought. He used his injury to try to get what he wanted. This morning, wound still fresh in both of our minds, he pointed to the canister where I keep the Dum Dums. I said "no, it's breakfast time, we can have one later this afternoon". He looked at me, put his hand dramatically over his goose egg and started to whimper. I seriously thought to myself, "maybe one wouldn't hurt, the poor kid". Next thing I know, strawberry flavored drool is all over his pajamas and it's only 8:30am.

The pleads for sympathy rolled in all day. Pretending to hurt himself just for an extra hug or kiss. I'm happy to oblige. I dread the day where the injury takes more than a Mommy kiss to heal. Dread.

On another note, you might notice another page link listed above. You guessed it, it's time again for Team HPB to get out the walking shoes! Please visit the page for more info in how you can help this year.

My office being taken over by Sam. And George of course.

I love his little hiney in his cords. 

mystery

Considering the last photo I left you with, I'm sure you understand my blogging hiatus. Just a few things going on over here most days. The usual.

But for some reason, I decided to add to my madness and shoot a few rolls of film with an old 1986 Minolta a friends parents found for me. I have been reading about film for a while and following others as they jumped on the train venturing away from digital photography for a bit, but realizing how different the two really were had me baffled and instantly intrigued. I have NO intention of giving up digital photography at all. I love it. The idea of taking a challenge on like this is strange and exciting at the same time. I don't plan to use it during my sessions really, except to practice here and there, but see it as just some "continuing education", if you will. Learning to manual focus - because I have to with the Minolta - and learn to nail exposures rather than relying on Photoshop and Bridge to fix things after the fact can be nothing but good, right? 

Well I got my first scans back today. TechLab photo (in Belvedere Square) really did a good job and were extremely helpful so I can't blame it on bad scans really. But there are only a few that I would even think of sharing. What I strive to learn is what I have learned with digital; learn the camera, know your settings, and feel the moment during the session. I always feel the emotions during my sessions, even when I'm just taking shots of Sam I'm feeling the emotions of whats going on. During a newborn session I find myself calm and quiet soaking up the little things. When I'm shooting a 6 month old, I'm usually laughing, because the faces are hysterical. I'm rolling all over the floor, because they are too. I'm silly with older kids, making silly faces, asking silly questions or making fun at myself. With this first roll, I was trying to put the pieces of things I have read about exposure and light metering and underrating and overrating and all that new film stuff together that I was missing the emotion in most of my shots. 

 

At first glance, I was thinking, "Oh crap, these are awful." Exposure is all over the place, focus is off, great. I tell myself it's ok, I'll go back and read through the books and keep better track of my settings for my next roll and I'll figure it out. Maybe. But mostly, I was just bummed.

When I opened the back of the camera to put my first roll in, there was a roll in there already. I laughed thinking there was probably something crazy on there and if I developed it the lab tech would definitely give me a raised eyebrow. I went ahead and got it processed anyway, taking my chances.

So I went to the next set of scans from the mystery roll. There were only 6 photos on the roll of 24. And they all look like this:

My first thought was that I wished I knew who took these shots so I could send the negatives to them. And then I found myself just staring at them. Sure I've seen beautiful sunsets over the water. But what these shots by some mystery photographer did to me was exactly what I needed.

I used to take photos of the clouds after losing Henry. Whenever I would look up at the sky and see a cloud - not just any cloud, but those big, deep, substantial ones - I would swear it was Henry. And without fail, seeing them would bring a smile to my face and peace to my mind and heart almost instantly. Thats the feeling these mysterious photos gave me. It was whats missing right now in my chaotic life. . . that feeling of peace is so rare because I am ignoring it. I'm "too busy" to look at the clouds. I would probably trip and break my ankle if I looked at the clouds because I'm usually walking, pushing the stroller, carrying packages to the post office, trying to read or send an email on my phone, all while chewing gum. I know life will always be crazy, but only as crazy as I let it get. There will ALWAYS be time to just stop and look up and let that smile come as the calm sinks in through my pores. I need there to be enough time for that. For me.

It was the perfect time for these random photos. They reminded me of when I first jumped feet first into my camera after Henry. Here I find myself once again a beginner, green, and unsure of myself. And there popped my Henry cloud. Not in the sky, but on my computer screen. As if he found some way to come to me. Since too often my computer screen is what takes up my time that I'm alone, there he found me. And I'm smiling.

HPB

A few weeks ago on Henry's birth-day, I wrote how I didn't know what to think about it being two years ago that he died. I am beginning to grasp what has been going through my mind and though not many words are in my head to describe it, I'm going to see what comes out of my fingers as I type.

I began to realize my feelings, and the words that might best describe them, as I took this photo today. This is Henry's weeping cherry tree at my parents house. It has grown tall and beautiful these last two years. And I took a lot of photos today of its pink blossoms, its buds about to bloom and the beautiful tiny petals. A lot of photos more beautiful than this one. When I took it, two words came into my head and I knew it wasn't just describing this tree or this photo. This photo, to me, is both haunting and beautiful, and so is what happened to us and Henry.

I still have a hard time wrapping my head around it. So many things have happened in the last 2 years. So many things that have made my brain potentially permanently cloudy. And I have an ability to push thoughts in the back of my mind; way in the back where those clouds are extra thick and stormy. I don't tend to think about what actually happened, as in the details of the day and the details of the emotions. The grief. The pain. But sometimes, something happens and I stop and say in my head,  "Holy shit. Our baby died." It's almost as if it happened to someone else. It wasn't us. I feel so bad for those people that happened to. To loose their baby, I can't even imagine. It wasn't us. And then I remember laying on the table in the OB office, sonogram jelly still warm on my 39 week stomach, looking up at the doctor who's own tears were falling down on my face as she squeezed my hand. I remember thinking "I have to call my mom. She's going to be heartbroken." and "How is Phil going to get through this?" and then I heard "most of the time we never know why these things happen" as I was thinking "I knew the braxton hicks contraction 4 days ago was the last time I felt him move. Why didn't I pull the car over?" and "how am I going to deliver this baby?"

I called my mom and I think I called my sisters, but to be honest, I dont remember for sure. I cleaned up my face before walking back out in the waiting room. There were too many happy expecing mothers, I didn't want them to worry.

My defense system in my head is rock solid. I protect myself really well from feeling too much pain, stress, worry. It lets enough through that I'm human, but not enough that I am immobilized which is what I would have been had the system failed this particular day. It kicked in and Meghan went blank. Someone else took over and I got that IV, started that pitocin, cussed my way through 2 epidural attempts and thankfully only a few minutes of pushing. Someone else quickly held that baby boy. Looked at him not understanding.

Today, we walked honoring Henry in the March of Dimes, March for Babies. Our team raised WAY more than we expected and for a while I couldn't figure out why we have been so successful. I didn't understand why so many people would care that much about our little team, our little story. But I realized it really isn't a little story. It's likely, hopefully, the biggest story to happen in my life. People might care because they really are the ones saying "to loose their baby, I can't even imagine." Or it might be that it's not about us at all. Maybe they have their own stories. Their own death, heartbreak, struggles with pregnancy and miscarriage, premature birth, NICU stays, Down Syndrome. Maybe it's about them. There are unfortunately too many sorrowful reasons why one would want to help out a cause that strives to make sure every baby is born healthy. No matter who's story it is, no matter why someone is walking on a blustery, cold, early Sunday morning, it's about honor and remembering. For me, I needed to remember those details. To remember the pain. The raw hurt. The wound left open to heal itself that still seeps from time to time.

Our world changed March 26, 2009; but it kept moving on. I need to remember to let myself feel that hurt. Because if I don't, I'm just moving without any recollection of all that happened to get me where I am. Am I healed? No. I'm a damn good faker though, and I might get there one day. But I hope I don't. I hope I carry a little bit of hurt. Because all the photos and weeping cherry trees and "H" paraphernalia around doesn't make me really remember. The hurt does.

And it's haunting. And it's beautiful.

And the cause of my sore elbow this weekend. He is a booger not wanting to be more than 3.5 inches away from my side, but damn if he isn't worth the inflammation in my joints and pain across my forehead he caused. :)

two

Two years. Its strange to think it feels so long ago and feels like it was yesterday all at the same time. And I dont even really know what my feelings are about it this year. For once, I'm not quite sure what to write. 


And the fact that Phil is in the hospital and having more surgeries on his knee instead of here with us makes my thoughts that much more foggy. An infection at the site of his ACL repair done 11 days ago caused us to run to the ER yesterday where we (well, he) stayed for 11 hours until they admitted him and found him a room. After a tap of his knee (read: big ass needle stuck in his knee - without lidocaine - and removal of a huge syringe of fluid) they were able to determine he in fact had an infection and would need 2 surgeries 48 hours apart to flush the knee from any infection. Minimum 5 day hospital stay. The chances of this happening are 0.8%. But the classic Boyer luck (or obvious lack there of) strikes again! 


And of course it had to happen on the 26th. We couldn't make it to Henry's grave. I know it's ok and we will get there as a family the next possible chance we get. But I know it means a lot to Phil to be there on Henry's birthday. All I want is for him to start to feel better, start to heal and be able to move around on some kind of normal level. I'll fully admit, I partly want that for my sake, but I really want it so that  he can play with Sam like he used to again. If Sam were a few months old, he could still hold him, play with him, lay with him. But there is no stopping Sam most of the time. If you're playing with him, you are likely on your feet chasing him, following him around, running up and down the stairs, etc. I know Phil misses that right now more than I can fully understand. 


We already miss him and it's going to be a long week without him here. But his buddies are going to do what they do. Sit and wait by the window, watching for Daddy to come home so they can greet him with jowls that curl at the corners into a smile and a wagging tail and an arm flailing yell of excitement. 


We love you, Daddy.

And a few other things we have been up to this past week...

We play really well on our own, but we look to see if someone is near us every 25 seconds. . . 

We carry around random things all day. This day in particular it was an old tissue pack found in an old diaper bag. . . 

We walk around the house and talk as loud as possible and flail our arms around like it's super important.

We discovered we really like spaghetti. And Mommy discovered she really dislikes cleaning it up. But it was fun for all of us.

walking

After things happened that shattered my world, I kept walking. I didn't turn around. I might have slowed down here and there, but I kept walking. I always have to keep walking. It's the only way I get through. If you keep walking you are bound to come across some beauty. Beauty that comes from those world shattering moments. Beauty that you simply can't see if you stand still in the ruins.

Last April, we walked. We laughed. We remembered. We smiled. We came together and raised nearly $5700 for the March for Babies Team HPB. It was just over a year since we lost our Henry, and just 6 weeks since we were blessed with our Samuel.

When Phil and I decided we wanted to walk last year, we were excited to set up a team and hopefully raise a few dollars for this organization we believe in so much. I thought $500 as a team goal was probably too high, but I figured if we had to put in more of our money to meet it, then so be it. That $500 was met within a week of sending out the first email. So I raised the goal. And then raised it again, and again. And on the day of the walk I was so proud of all of my friends and family who were a part of this incredibly special day for me and Phil. We were the top family team in Harford County.

I remember participating in this very walk as a kid with a friend and her mom. I didn't know anything about the March of Dimes except that it helped sick babies. I now wish I knew why they were walking. I wish I knew their story. It might be like mine. But back then, it wouldn't have meant to me what it does now. I know that to some people this is "just a walk" or "just another fundraiser" and thats okay. But to me, this is by no means just another walk. This is our small way to keep Henry's memory alive. This is our small way to contribute to an organization that can help fund research so another family doesn't have to loose their Henry.

Please consider joining our team and helping raise money and awareness for this fantastic organization. If you don't want to walk but want to contribute, click below and donate online. Every little bit counts. And every dollar is appreciated so very much.

★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★


And since I simply can't post without a bubba pic (or twoish) . . .

 I'm not sure why he looks like a homeless man here? whats up with that hair?