Wednesday 19 October 2011

New Skin for the Old

Out walking with my mother, Jessica and Reuben, we run across two ladies walking their dogs. These are two of my mother's 'ladies' from church, members of that stalwart group that actually does most of the good rather than just talking about it. They are pleased to see us and, although I have never met them before, greet me like a long lost friend.

They crane their necks forward to see Reuben sleeping in his buggy and wave at Jessica, head bobbing away into the middle distance of the field. She is more interested in mushrooms, stick men and making nests in the grass than she is in ladies. Although the dogs catch her eye and lure her back toward us.

And the inevitable occurs . . .
"Is that  . . . her?"
"We prayed for her you know. Everyday."
"That's the power of prayer."
"She looks normal doesn't she? She's quite big."
"And he . . . he was . . normal? That must have been a relief."
"Everything happens for a reason."

Over the course of a conversation lasting less than five minutes, they have managed to squeeze in nearly every comment about the situation that I find unbearable. Death by the stabs of a hundred needles again. Even after all this time, I'm not quite guarded thoroughly enough against these jabs. They're so kindly, goddamnit. Look at those leaning, beseeching necks, asking to be thanked for their prayers. How can I spit out that I don't think their prayers made a blind bit of difference? How can I snap at their simple pleasure in her normality, in his normality? That something went wrong but then it went right. Because they requested that it be so.

So I thank them. Meekly. She is normal. He is normal. Not dead. Yes, yes, it was a relief.

Who knows. Perhaps their prayers did save her. I've certainly been wrong before. It is more than probable that I could be wrong again. Perhaps there simply weren't enough prayers to save Georgina too. Perhaps she wasn't meant to be. Perhaps there is a reason. In the face of all that kindliness and good intent, it is hard to believe otherwise.

* * *

I take Reuben to a baby group once a week. This group is specifically for babies under the age of six months. It is an interesting experience for someone whom, in the world of word association games, the word 'baby' is swiftly followed by the word 'dead.' And I'm still freaked out by baby dolls, let alone the real deal. I do enjoy going to this group, I hope he does too. But I always feel a little out of kilter, at one cool remove from the rest of the pack.

I didn't do anything similar with Jessica at the same age. She was in hospital and then I was supposed to be keeping her at home, away from germs. My first attempt to socialise with other mothers and their babies was when Jessica was about nine months old and resulted in my lugging her, her oxygen tank and associated tubing into the toilet and sitting there sobbing. Then going home. I did return and gradually spent less and less time in tears in the ladies room but it was never easy. Now it is easier but no less . . . puzzling.

Sitting there, amongst all of these babies, my head spins with the question, why does it only work sometimes? Why not for Georgina? Why not for me? Why not (as you're reading here I guess that I can assume) for you? I look at the circle of women and see those solid heads, the gentle curves of the limbs and tummies, those bright eyes, the weight of the organs and limbs. I hear the murmur of mother speak, that total engagement to the exclusion of all else. That deep joy and contentment and connection. And I feel regret. Deep, deep regret and bewilderment. I wonder why I am here. Why is Reuben here and not Georgina?  I wonder why you are not here with your child. Surely an accumulation of this much luck should attract a lightning strike. But I'm the only one who looks at all uneasy.

Lately I don't feel so angry. Or anything much. Distanced, sad. Just sad. And I feel like a fool. A sad fool.

A staircase that I had happily assumed had ten steps, had only nine. And here, in the baby class, I have that horrible lurching feeling that you get when you put your foot out, in the expectation of another step and there is nothing there. My stupid, groping, expectant foot goes plunging down onto nothing, just an absence. Lots and lots of other people knew that there were only nine steps as they watched me plunge downwards. They knew that the tenth step doesn't exist, that it is just a fable. They probably tried to tell me but I elected to ignore them.

As though I were about to step into, what I believed, was a bath full of warm water. And it turned out to be a bath full of rubbing alcohol or nail varnish remover. Something thinner and colder. Something that whispers, "Stay awake." I walk around with goose flesh and my hair standing on end and I can't identify who else might be living here, in the cold world, with this new skin. Chances are that they are here, in this room, in this class of mothers and babies, but that we won't recognise one another. My memorial necklace dangles hopefully in anticipation, "are you like me?" It winks and blinks at each new acquaintance. Or its absence signals, like a false siren song, "I'm like you." No regret here. He's normal you know.

Some weeks, I try and nod and chat and smile. Enthusiastically coo-ing and complimenting.
Other weeks, I'm just too tired.

"You'll always be a stranger in a strange, strange land."



And apologies that my musical influences seem to have stalled c. 2007. 

21 comments:

  1. "Death by the stabs of a hundred needles". Oh, what a quote. I couldn't find a better way to describe the inappropriate and hurtful things some people say. Albeit unitentional, it still bloody hurts. Ignorance is bliss for some and the smugness of people and their prayers shits me. It really does. No amount of praying for a miracle worked for us. And those prayers should have worked - for all of us.
    I'm sorry you had this experience. It knocks the wind out doesn't it?
    I just want everyone to be like me, but noone to be like me all at the same time.
    Love and light to you. I will always remember Georgina. I see her in my sister who shares her name. xoxoxo

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  2. I held a baby yesterday, for the first time since. It was fine, really fine. I found that odd. How was it fine? And how on earth do they make it out alive? I just dont get it any more. All in one piece, breathing and moving and with eyes open.

    it makes no sense to me now.

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  3. Having just experienced my 2nd loss of twins, at seperate times again, so I got to do it twice, again, I would have felt those needles if I could feel anything at all. After the first, it was said, "it's probably for the best", you know , to give the other the best chance of survival. But then, 2 wks later, when that didn't work out, i just got looks of pity. And one, "the only reason I don't cry with you is because I'll be here for the happy time when it all works out." Wish I could see into that crystal ball.
    I can't even speak to my in-laws, because they spew that "God's plan" kind of stuff & I may hurt someone if I have to hear it again.

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  4. It's so strange feeling like you've lived more than people who are older. I think that's the bottom line for me. Those little soothing, though false, reassurances are true for most people. It blows my mind...everyday. It makes me feel like I'm in on a secret with God(s)/god(s)/Goddess(es).

    You're the statistician in the group and I haven't run the numbers on this. But it seems like one of the prevalent themes on babyloss blogs is the dumbfoundedness. That image of coming down the shortened staircase is so apt but I think you're being too hard on yourself. It usually does have 10 steps. I thought it did. I think most of us thought it did. You aren't a fool. It was yanked out from under your foot. And unfortunately, those other women in your play group could have it anked out from under them at any time. Not that they'd believe you if you told them. That's just how it works.

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  5. I gave my mother's group 10 months. I think I did pretty well, as I never thought I'd last the first one. But I stuck it out, before I realised I just had to get away. I wasn't like these women and it wore me down, month after month. We had a lot in common, sure, but there was that one huge difference and I couldn't see past it and really, I don't think they could either.
    I wish all of my children were alive. Yours too.
    xo

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  6. Those hurtful comments - I think they hurt all the more because they are said by "nice" people. You feel bad for wanting to stab them in the eye because they offer their platitudes so pleasantly.

    And I so know what you mean about baby groups - I've only just started taking Toby to toddlers - I couldn't bear it when he was teeny-tiny. And the other mums are lovely and I know some of them from "the time before" and I feel so odd and uncomfortable as I sit there.

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  7. Those comments... Ouch... We've heard similar and, although you know their hearts are in the right place, it is still such an unbearable hurt...

    ((hugs))

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  8. You are a much better person than I am. I've heard that stuff for so long that I just can't nicely and quietly take it anymore. I would have punched them or tripped them or something.

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  9. Sending you lots of hugs and prayers, by the way. :-)

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  10. You really know how to get under my skin (in the good way)...

    Repeating my now typical pattern: read your post, think about it a million times, write a dumb little comment to let you know I'm thinking, hopefully come back later and "converse" further, marvel again at how much I like "strangers" on the internet more than people I have to deal with in real life. :)

    Muddled as usual,

    Cathy in Missouri

    P.S. You are the only person I know - in the world - who spells their name the same as mine. I'm Catherine, too, at least on formal documents.

    P.P.S. Nika M., I love you for this: "I would have punched them or tripped them or something."

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  11. Oh wow...yes yes yes. I had an experience like this on Monday night. I was at a yoga class. A woman I had never met was on the mat next to me in a tank top. She had a tattoo on her shoulder. It had a girls name and a date beneath it. You can imagine what was going on inside my head... did her daughter die too? should I ask. It's big enough, she certainly isn't hiding it. So after class...I asked, it is her sisters baby who is happily two years old who she loves and so she got her name tattooed on her. How fucked up of me that I was disappointed? I thought it would be a connection, someone else who understands my pain in real life, instead it is just another alive baby in the strange world of rush and roulette. I get a weird anxiousness attending my moms club. How do I belong here now? No one understands, their lives are charmed. I think we go for our children and the effort and normalcy. ONLY...there will never be anything NORMAL about our lives again. We have dead children.

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  12. Oh and the old lady Jesus freaks? Fuck them and all the really bad horrible stupid idiotic things they said...Nice or not, what they said wasn't nice. I don't believe in making excuses for ignorance.

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  13. It is horrible how desperate I am somedays. My son recently did a show and tell at school. He took a pair of his brother's socks that I had given him to for his memory box. The teacher told him she too had lost her little baby. So when I went for parent teacher conference, I searched for some sign, I waited with my breath held. I wanted to ask, to talk about it but she never said anything and neither did I. Every where I go I am looking for a sign, something to tell me that someone else around me knows what I am feeling, understands and wants to talk about it. So far no luck...
    I admire your strength for holding in your inner werewolf and not telling those women that their prayers were for shit and your Georgina is not here.
    I wonder how long does it take before you finally stop searching for that place to rest your foot, will we forever be walking off balance with a small hunch in our back and pain in our eyes???

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  14. Kate - thank you for remembering my dear girl. That is a beautiful summary, I want everyone to be like me and for no one to be like me. You've said in a few words what has taken me a few hundred.

    TracyOC - don't tempt me to start running analyses of these things! It's only a matter of time before my blog is replaced by spreadsheets. You are kind, I just feel like such an utter fool. I thought I knew but I didn't KNOW. I just didn't.

    heather - I've e-mailed you, I hope you are still using your old address. Please let me know if you don't get a message from me xoxo

    Cathy - I am permanently muddled and also have a tendency to find more understanding amongst 'the people in my computer' than those in my real life. Glad to meet another Catherine with a C, I always liked being Catherine until Anne of Green Gables made me all insecure with her . . "I'm glad you spell your name with a "K." Katherine with a "K" is so much more alluring than Catherine with a "C." A "C" always looks so smug." Made me distraught as a child. So from one smug Catherine to another! And as for being a Cathy, I would desperately love to be one as Cathy features in one of my favourite songs ever http://betweenthesnowandthehugeroses.blogspot.com/2010/10/day-one.html

    Renel - I have nearly asked that question SO many times, I always wonder when I see tattoos of names and dates now.

    Glad I'm not the only one who struggles with mother's groups or who needs to suppress the urge to punch and trip people Nika M.! xoxo

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  15. I'd tackle the prayer thing, but I don't know where to start because I don't believe it is as simple as your church ladies make it out to be. Did they not pray for Georgina too? And if they did why were some prayers answered and not others? The miracles that don't happen—that's what I'd love to hear somebody talk about, the purpose of prayer when it's not obvious, because I do think it has a purpose. I still pray.

    So, the baby group thing. I went as often as I could with Henry before his hospitalization and for four months (that's how long it runs here) with both my girls. Even when I went with Henry, I felt apart. He was there with his oxygen and impending surgery and the middle of the wakings and upcoming shots just weren't on my agenda. I kept going with him waiting for normal. I went with K. because I needed to go back. I kept going back, hard as it was sometimes, because I needed to figure it out, needed to learn to be with other moms, to talk about being her mom, to talk about being Henry's mom. I went back with E. when I had somebody to watch K. because I had done it with my two other babies and to see how I had changed. Despite it sometimes being awkward and often feeling like I didn't quite fit, I'm really glad I went.

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  16. I agree wholeheartedly with what Tracy said about the staircase. There should've been 10 steps. Most people get 10 steps.

    I think it's brave of you to go to the baby group. I find myself wishing, as I often do, that physical distance didn't play such a huge role in my life, that we could have a baby group all together.

    And I don't know how prayer works, but I don't think it works the way those women think it works. Even though I kind of wish it did.

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  17. A million wrong things said in the span of 5 minutes. Sadly I have been there.. and was there about 2 weeks ago with a neighbor and her friend. Sigh. Why is it so easy for some to understand and so hard for others? And why on earth would prayer work for one but not the other.. Ah. I must not get myself going tonight...
    xo

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  18. Just want to say I was here, I read, and I loved it. And I also love Arcade Fire. You and I have the same tastes in music apparently. : ) Brilliant post, truly. ~Lindsay

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  19. Oh yes, I know this, so familiar, but awakened by you with your beautiful words. Thank you for that. Love to you and your littles, all of them.

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  20. I guess I find my answer in the numbers. That the system works, except for x out of y times when it fails. And sometimes we are in those outliers.

    Great thoughts.

    I also take objection to people calling my surviving twin a miracle. Assuming they don't just think all babies are miracles, I take objection. In part it's the argument of why not his sister, but more so I think it is short-changing the serious work of medical professionals. If I had been given the choice on his birth or science or a miracle, I would take our medical team hands-down.

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  21. hey Catherine

    I haven't read blogs in months, and only catching up with some of my favorite people online these days...

    love you and your honesty, I'm siting deep in the abyss 200 feet under just now and sometimes feel just incredibly sorry for myself and angry etc and I ask myself, why me? And why no children at all? And then i read you post and I know for sure, it wouldn't make one bit of a difference. And i thank you for that. It's no more, no less, it just hurts like hell, doesn't it?

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