Tuesday, March 25, 2008

Remembering Ethan...

I have been thinking of ways to thank the Intensive Care Nursery for taking such good care of Ethan during his last days here on Earth. I asked our social worker for ideas of what we could do to show our gratitude in memory of Ethan and she came up with a wonderful suggestion...

To express our thanks, John and I will be donating some soft blankets to the ICN.

When we held Ethan in the ICN, all they had were hospital blankets to swaddle him in. The staff doubled them up for warmth when John and I held him the night before he was disconnected from the ventilator. (The day they took him off the vent we brought comfortable blankets from home to personalize the moment.)

Hospital blankets are thin and not nearly as warm and snuggly as the fuzzy kind you can buy at Carters or Target. I didn’t mind at the time, but now that I think about it holding Ethan in a "real" blanket probably would have made things more personal and less "hospital". (If you’re a parent or have a baby in the family you should know what I mean.)

The ICN has rocking chairs so why not warm blankets? If you can’t take your baby home, it should at least feel a little more special when you’re there. Parents come there all the time to hold their babies and I’d like to think our contribution will change the ambiance for the moment. Precious time should be spent feeling special.

We’re going to buy some blankets tomorrow. If you would like to contribute a blanket in memory of Ethan please let me know - you decide whether you want your blanket be gender specific or unisex. I can pick it up from you or you can drop it off at my house. I’ll be collecting for the next two weeks. I plan taking a trip to the ICN after his 40th day (April 6th).

Thanks in advance for helping us remember Ethan.

Sunday, March 23, 2008

Smell...

When I took Physiology last semester I learned that smell is the most powerful sense linked to memory.

Our ability to associate different scents with specific memories occurs due to a link in the limbic system, otherwise known as the emotional part of the brain. Certain smells will uncontrollably conjure up vivid memories. These memories can set off heavily-rooted waves of emotion depending on what or whom we associate that particular scent with.

Sometimes smell will make us remember things we have forgotten.

Wednesday will be the five week mark of Ethan’s passing. The last time I inhaled my son’s intoxicating scent was the day his spirit left his tiny body. That was also the last time I cradled him in my arms...

...the last time I felt like my arms were full.

The day he passed, I immediately boxed up the clothes he wore in an attempt to preserve his sweet smell. I wanted to hold onto as much of Ethan as possible and his scent was part of that. Because I already knew that smell triggers powerful memories, I didn’t want the last "scent memory" of my son to be associated with formaldehyde. I was already anticipating that preservation would have robbed my baby of his signature smell. I know "saving a scent" sounds totally crazy, but grief makes you do crazy things.

I was clinging onto whatever I could.

Today was the first time I opened up the box and smelled his clothes. My arms felt especially empty today and I just wanted to feel like Ethan was still around. Ironically, the first outfit I took out was the last one he wore, the outfit he was in when we took him to the emergency room. Immediately after I pressed his clothing onto my face and inhaled deeply, I unexpectedly started crying.

I know I may seem like a masochist for doing this to myself, but I really missed Ethan today. Smelling my baby made me realize how much I miss nurturing him. It made me remember what it felt like to have him in my arms. I didn’t think that smelling him would affect me the way it did. Had I known that I’d lose it at that very moment, I probably would have waited a while before I opened up the box.

When he was in the ICN his smell was comforting, it didn’t make me sad. John and I carried Ethan’s hats everywhere when we were playing the waiting game at the hospital - it was portable comfort at the time. I suppose I was just trying replicate that comfort to make myself feel better.

My crying jag and the sadness I’ve felt afterward was totally unexpected. It made the reality of him being gone even harder to cope with.

I mean, he’s really gone.

Everything feels so real today... realer that it has ever felt. Before Ethan was born I washed his newborn layette and folded it neatly in drawers. We had to start fresh since Ethan was a surprise pregnancy...everything he had was brand new. He was so loved that his wardrobe was huge - at least enough to last him his entire 1st year! I distinctly remember being excited with anticipation as I prepared for his grand entrance into our lives.

All of the preparations I made before his arrival were put away this weekend; his drawers have been cleared out. I folded up the clothes I washed and boxed up the stuff with tags on them. Tomorrow we’re bringing everything to the ICN so the staff can use their discretion to distribute it to needy families. I guess sitting there staring at his empty drawers while smelling clothing heavily infused with his scent made me remember how much I miss him. I created my own terrible juxtaposition and the contrast didn’t make any sense.

I smelled my baby, but I had physical evidence that he was truly gone. The smell triggered memories of what it felt like to hold him, but my arms were empty. It made me feel a whole new level of anguish.

Once again my scab has been ripped off and my emotional hemophilia has set in. I think it might take a while for this particular bleed to stop.

At least I know opening up the box won’t make me feel so sad in the future.

Thursday, March 20, 2008

One Month Ago...

Ethan would have been a month old today and I still can’t believe he’s gone.

He should be snuggled beside me right now -- warm and cozy in my arms. I should be ranting about sleepless nights and the craziness of three kids, but...I’m not. It just wasn’t the plan for him or for me.

His birth and passing happened so quickly that sometimes I feel like it was all just a dream. If my body wasn’t still showing signs that I did indeed have a baby, I’d probably think I hallucinated all of this. If I didn’t have a memory, I’d think I was going crazy. My grief is still very much real and I keep praying for the sadness to subside.

My emotional wound is slowly healing, but the scab just keeps getting picked off. On occasion something will rip it off and my heart starts bleeding all over again. I feel completely helpless when sad memories of Ethan, the memories of him being sick, come flooding back.

Encounters with people who "heard what happened" or perhaps even hearing key words like brain, blood, or baby will start a slow bleed again. Seeing mothers with newborns Ethan’s age hurts even more;

I feel sad with envy.

If I’m going to remember my son, I want to remember him during healthier times. I don’t want to be sad when I think of him. I don’t want to envy moms with "living babies", but I can’t help it.

Every time my scab is ripped off and a bleed begins, it takes a long time for my heart to heal. I suppose I too am a hemophiliac in that retrospect. Ethan was Factor VII deficient and I’m deficient when it comes to emotional bleeds - we both have difficulty clotting.

We both need a little help to stop the bleeding.

The human mind is interesting. Sometimes I feel like my thoughts don’t make sense and I constantly find myself looking to John for validation. I am compelled to ask him if I’m going crazy.

I’m okay, but I’m not okay.

How can something so ridiculous make so much sense? Several of you have sent me messages and that has helped me more than you know. Writing has been therapeutic in itself, but I feel a little more sane when I know that my feelings are feasible and not just signs of me slowly losing my mind.

The upside to all of this "scab picking" is at least I can look forward to my wound getting a little smaller each time the scab is ripped off. Once I’ve gotten over the bleed, I know that the same scenario won’t trigger another one. I guess I just have to wait until all possible scenarios have presented themselves before I can say that I’m done bleeding. I’ll still have the scar, but the eventually the physical pain, the scab, will be gone.

With time, I’ll heal; I just have to find patience.

Saturday, March 15, 2008

Holy Angels...

I went to visit Ethan today. I usually see him once a day, but today’s visit was a little different.

Shortly after I arrived at the cemetery another set of parents, an older Filipino couple, came to visit their child. Much like Ethan’s, the grave was still fresh with the telltale sign of perfectly cubed grass. Like Ethan’s, it still didn’t have a headstone. I’m not 100% sure, but I’m assuming they were visiting their daughter because the plot was decorated with purple and pink flowers. I always noticed that particular grave since it was one of the few there that had decoration. There are a lot of neglected plots at the children’s cemetery. I’m assuming the barren headstones belong to parents who perhaps hurt too much to visit their children or may have "forgotten" about their children over time. Either way it still breaks my heart and I hope to God I never forget about Ethan. I know I won’t, but that’s an underlying fear I have. I don’t ever want to forget.

I made eye contact with the parents as they walked toward their child’s grave. Their daughter is only a few feet from Ethan so it was pretty much unavoidable. Their child passed away before Ethan did, but I’m not sure by how much. I wondered if they lost an infant as well, but I didn’t dare ask.

I mean, what could possibly be said to someone at the cemetery?


After we exchanged awkward nods I tried to mind my own business, but there was something distracting about that couple. Maybe it was because they were Filipino or maybe it was because we shared the same heartache of losing a child, but whatever the case may be I felt compelled to watch them interact with their child. I suppose I was trying to find some sort of sign or answer since they lost their child before I did.

I was caught off guard when the Mom knelt down and began to weep. I wasn’t expecting it and suddenly, I felt completely alone. This Mom lost her child before I did and she still had tears to shed. Her tears hadn’t dried up yet. My grief is fresher than hers, but I don’t have the urge to cry when I visit Ethan. I’m in mourning, but I don’t cry when it’s "expected". My tears always come at the oddest times and never at the cemetery. I’m sad, but it just doesn’t come out when it’s "appropriate".

This woman was a lot older than me, at least in her early 40’s, and I think it’s safe to say she’s more experienced with life. Although nothing can be compared to losing a child, I’m sure she’s dealt with death before -- surely she has lost a grandparent or maybe even a parent. Seeing her cry made me feel like an "inexperienced Mom".

Shouldn’t shedding tears be second nature for me?

I was hoping that watching them would help me identify with someone more, but it made me feel even more isolated.

Do I lack the "emotion" because I’m so young?

Ethan was the first major loss in my life -- I haven’t lost a parent or a grandparent. I’ve lost loved ones before, but he was the first direct link I’ve had with death.

So why wasn’t I crying for my baby at his graveside?
Shouldn’t this be worse for me since it’s my first "real loss"?
Shouldn’t this feel even more tragic since my first "real loss" just so happened to be my son?

It’s not natural to bury your child. It’s not natural to visit your baby at the cemetery. So why do I cry when I see his bottle or his clothing, but not when I see his grave? I feel sad, but my sorrow doesn’t manifest itself physically as often as I’d like it to.

I feel like my emotions are trapped inside of me. The confusing part is I don’t want to bottle it up nor do I try to hold it in. I want them to come out. Crying physically and emotionally hurts, but it’s healthy. I feel cleansed after I cry. I just think that I’m feeling so many things that it’s hard to make sense of it all. Everything is clouded by my own doubts and insecurities as a mother. My very own grief is creating a thick fog in my heart and in my mind. My vision has been compromised and I know shedding tears will help my acheive clarity. All I can do it wait for those tears to come.

I know time will help me heal, but I wish that time would come soon.

Monday, March 10, 2008

Untitled...

I've tried hard to get my feelings straight, but it's just not happening as quickly as I want it to. I know my strength is still there, but I can't deny the fact that my grief is worse now that I can't physically see Ethan anymore. I miss him and it confuses me sometimes. I'm hurting, but I'm at peace with where my son is. He is far better off in God's hands than my own. Heaven is a far prettier place than Earth.

I know this, but it still hurts.

My body is healing from childbirth and I'm still producing milk. Physically I feel like I have a baby, but my arms are still empty. Even though I know Ethan will always be with me, my heart aches because I still feel like I'm missing something. I don't understand how it's possible to miss someone that is essentially still around in spirit. I know he is with me, but I miss feeling his presence physically. I miss his sweet smell and his soft skin. I miss holding him and kissing his tiny lips. I hate that my arms feel so barren even though I feel his spirit inside of me.

I suppose it's because I continue to dwell on the fact that I'll never get to "mother" Ethan ever again. It hurts, but I also know that the heartache that I feel, the pain of not being able to "mother" my son anymore, is a worldly ache.

Ethan will always be my son in this life and in the next. I find comfort in that fact. I'm thankful that I was given the opportunity to be his Mom at all. Ethan was so special that there was a 1:500,000 chance behind his uniqueness. God chose him to be mine even if it was only for a short while. I consider myself very lucky in that retrospect.

I just miss my baby, that's all.

Wednesday, March 5, 2008

FAQ

"What happened?" is a frequently asked question that I still don't have the complete answer to.

To be quite honest, I don't know if I ever will have an answer to that question. I don't know if I will ever understand what happened or why Ethan passed. I'm finding a lot of strength in my faith in God's plan and from the outpour of support, but I'm not going to lie

...it still hurts.

Although writing has always served as a theraputic outlet for me, there just aren't words in the English language to express what I'm feeling inside. I'm having a hard time getting my feelings out liguistically and that troubles me.