Sick...
I've been in and out of the hospital since the 21st.
Life officially sucks, but then again…things could have been worse. Ethan's death is by far the WORST that my life is ever going to get. Any struggles I face now or may face in the future are minor compared to the experience of losing Ethan. I suppose life is easier to deal with if I view it in the retrospect, ya know? My health isn't the greatest, but hey…I'm alive right!
Thanks to the heat wave and all of these lovely Cali fires, my birthday week didn't pan out according to plan. My celebration on the 21st was cut short by my asthma attack. I was already feeling the chest tightness at Showgirls, but I was still able to maintain. I didn't want to be a party pooper and miss my own shindig so I kept puffing away on my Albuterol instead. Was this stupid? Maybe, but understandable right?
Eventually my rescue inhaler stopped working for me and we had to leave Butterfly less than two hours after we got there. My asthma attack made me feel like I rained on everyone's parade that night. Loveleen and Melissa followed me after I ran outside for air. They stayed with me to make sure I was okay. (Special thank you to you both!!!) And I felt really bad because Tik, Din, Hen, & Sandy had to leave with us since we all drove together. Nobody complained, but still….I felt bad.
Anyway, John hauled ass on the freeway back to Daly City since Kaiser was located all the way across town. My tightness got progressively worse and I couldn't make it to Kaiser SSF. John took me to Seton instead. After the nursing staff stopped lollygagging and got their shit together, I had about five breathing treatments and I still didn't feel right. My chest was still tight and I was starting to panic. They knocked me out and when I woke up I was on a breathing machine!!! They couldn't intubate me because of my pregnancy (yes, I'm pregnant) so the BiPap machine was the next best option. The BiPap did my breathing for me and forced air in and out of my lungs without sedating me. Sedation associated with intubation is dangerous for babies. (Especially really teeny-tiny ones like the one my belly. More on that later…)
Seton kept me for about two days because I wasn't stable enough for transport. They finally got me out of that urine smelling room and sent my back to Kaiser. I stayed another day at Kaiser and they sent my home on the 24th. I was better, but mos def not fixed. What a weekend!!!
Flash forward to my real birthday on the 26th. My asthma was fine since the doctor wanted me to rest a bit before I returned back to work. I was starting to feel better! I even volunteered at Kevin's school that day since it was his special day too. Later that evening John took me to Bella Vista in Woodside for a surprise birthday dinner. My birthday was pretty good. At around midnight I started to have severe abdominal pain and quickly felt my throat tighten up. My asthma kicked in and my eyes became watery. Within less than five minutes from the onset of my abd pain, my fingers were blue and John had to call 911. South City fire came and gave me an epinephrine shot, but I don't recall much after that. I thought I was going to die and I'm not saying this to be mellow dramatic either. My chest got tight very quick and I started saying Our Father in my head. I looked at Ethan's picture on the mantle and told him to keep me safe. Yeah, it was pretty bad.
I must've passed out because when I woke up I was at Kaiser SSF back on the BiPap again. They were doing an ultrasound to make sure the baby was okay and I was completely stripped of my clothing. I must have woke up from the draft. There were two familiar faces staring back at me when I regained consciousness. Two of the nurses who saw Ethan that horrible night in the Emergency room were with me again. Maybe it was a sign? Who knows…
For five years now I've had a condition that my specialist couldn't figure out. I have to carry an epipen with me everywhere I go. These "allergic reactions" always start with abdominal pain and my breathing deteriorates rapidly. This was the 3rd episode that was bad enough for 911 to be called. The first bad one was one month after Kevin was born and the second was one year later at a camping trip @ Lake Berryessa. I lose control so quickly that I am not capable of dialing 911 myself. I have several minor episodes too over the years, but I've been able to maintain with my rescue inhalers and or a quick drive to the ER. For the past five years though I've walked on eggshells and hoped that nothing bad would happen if I were ever alone with the kids. My doctors didn't really investigate, until now.
Well, I guess this must have been a wake up call for Kaiser since this was the first time they saw my immediately after my attack. (The first two times I was seen by other hospitals.) This episode has become somewhat of a blessing because I got hooked up with a really good doctor. When I was finally off of the breathing machine I had to opportunity to speak with him about my symptoms. He suspects my body might be reacting from a histamine release. They did tests to see if I have non-cancerous tumors in my belly. The tumors could release the histamine and create the "allergic reaction" that I've had to tiptoe around all these years. I had all kinds of specialty tests run on me during my two day stay in the ICU and I'll find out the results next week. What a birthday huh?
I was released from the hospital today and I'm finally home. I feel better now that I know they're doing everything they possibly can to figure this shit out. If my "allergic reactions" are caused by tumors, all they have to do is take them out. (After I give birth of course!) Then I'll never have to deal with this shit again. So even though life sucks right now cuz I'm not getting paid for my two weeks of sick leave (I exhausted my paid sick leave when I lost Ethan), there is some light at the end of the tunnel. Life could be worse, ya know? I'm still here. My health issue is finally being addressed. And my baby is fine.
Thank you God & thank you Ethan.
Sunday, June 29, 2008
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
Not enough...
Some things will never be "enough".
I have over three hundred pictures of Ethan. I cherish each and every one, but they are NOT enough.
I have his scent carefully sealed away in boxes and bags, but his tiny clothing is NOT enough.
I've held onto the three bottles he used and one canister of 2/3 full Nestle Good Start, but it's NOT enough. I will never hear the satisfying gulp of my baby's swallows ever again.
If my video camera didn't start malfunctioning the day he was born, I'd have more than 20 minutes of footage of my son. I could have hundreds of hours of footage and watching it would still NOT be enough.
Every night I go to sleep hoping that I'll dream of Ethan just so I can fool myself into feeling him in my arms again. This day has yet to come, but even so it still would NOT be enough.
Even when I have another baby, he/she will not be enough to replace Ethan. None of my children are capable of filling the void Ethan's passing has left. Each and every one of my babies has a special spot reserved in heart. No not one of them can replace the other. Having surviving children or "being young enough to make more" is NOT enough.
Nothing is enough to make this pain go away. Faith soothes me, but it's not enough to take my heartache away.
Ernest Hemingway is known for writing a very famous six word story. Yes, you read me right - six measly words. There is a writing genre called "flash fiction" and Hemingway's piece is a famous example of it. So why am I talking about Ernest Hemingway? Well, because the six word story was this:
For Sale: Baby Shoes, Never Worn.
Thought provoking, isn't it? I'm sure many parents who have lost a baby find that this story hits very close to home. Hemingway manages to paint the entire picture of heartbreak and closure in six very simple words.
I wish Ethan's death was a piece of flash fiction. If only it were all just a dream - a few minutes in my REM cycle of sleep. The nightmare of losing my baby boy has been more than a flash and I know it's duration will be endless. God, how I wish I that my story was fabricated like Hemingway's! Writing paragraph after paragraph, blog after blog, has NOT been enough.
I miss my son no matter how hard I try NOT to. I miss his smell, his soft skin, his cries. I miss that I will never have the opportunity to see my baby's smile, place my finger in his deep dimple, and hear his laugh. I hate that I sing his lullaby at the cemetery and not in my own home. I hate that I have to kiss the picture on his headstone instead of his face.
I still hurt...every day.
I am his mother, I should have been able to protect him! I know this sounds crazy. Who am I to change fate right? But imagine this and perhaps you will understand why I feel this way....
You are walking with your child/sister/brother/niece/nephew and you see a car speeding around the corner. Your loved one just stepped off the curb. Suddenly...the world appears to move in slow motion, but time hasn't slowed. The accident happens in matter of milliseconds and there was nothing you can do to stop it. You try to run as fast as you can to push your loved one out of harm's way, but the car outruns you. As loud as you try to scream - to get the car to stop - nothing happens. Your loved one dies in front of you. After the impact, the time doesn't seem slow anymore. The rest of the world is still whizzing by as your child/sister/brother/niece/nephew lays lifeless in the street.
That is what it felt like to watch Ethan die. That is why nothing has ever felt like enough. I could not protect my boy. I knew he wasn't going to make it before medicine told me so. Screams echoed in my head, I tried to believe it when people told me that he would make it, but I knew the impact was going to happen. There was nothing I could do to stop his death from happening. Time was ticking even though it felt like it took forever. The three short days we spent in waiting for answers, for medical intervention, for hope, felt like a lifetime. I knew the inevitable. Time slowed, but the world kept whizzing on by. Fate went on as scheduled.
He would have been four months old on Friday. The joy February 20th brought feels like it happened ages ago. I've forgotten what true happiness feels like. February 27th's affect is fresh in my head. The pain that day brought is still here to stay.
The world just keeps whizzing on by...
I have over three hundred pictures of Ethan. I cherish each and every one, but they are NOT enough.
I have his scent carefully sealed away in boxes and bags, but his tiny clothing is NOT enough.
I've held onto the three bottles he used and one canister of 2/3 full Nestle Good Start, but it's NOT enough. I will never hear the satisfying gulp of my baby's swallows ever again.
If my video camera didn't start malfunctioning the day he was born, I'd have more than 20 minutes of footage of my son. I could have hundreds of hours of footage and watching it would still NOT be enough.
Every night I go to sleep hoping that I'll dream of Ethan just so I can fool myself into feeling him in my arms again. This day has yet to come, but even so it still would NOT be enough.
Even when I have another baby, he/she will not be enough to replace Ethan. None of my children are capable of filling the void Ethan's passing has left. Each and every one of my babies has a special spot reserved in heart. No not one of them can replace the other. Having surviving children or "being young enough to make more" is NOT enough.
Nothing is enough to make this pain go away. Faith soothes me, but it's not enough to take my heartache away.
Ernest Hemingway is known for writing a very famous six word story. Yes, you read me right - six measly words. There is a writing genre called "flash fiction" and Hemingway's piece is a famous example of it. So why am I talking about Ernest Hemingway? Well, because the six word story was this:
For Sale: Baby Shoes, Never Worn.
Thought provoking, isn't it? I'm sure many parents who have lost a baby find that this story hits very close to home. Hemingway manages to paint the entire picture of heartbreak and closure in six very simple words.
I wish Ethan's death was a piece of flash fiction. If only it were all just a dream - a few minutes in my REM cycle of sleep. The nightmare of losing my baby boy has been more than a flash and I know it's duration will be endless. God, how I wish I that my story was fabricated like Hemingway's! Writing paragraph after paragraph, blog after blog, has NOT been enough.
I miss my son no matter how hard I try NOT to. I miss his smell, his soft skin, his cries. I miss that I will never have the opportunity to see my baby's smile, place my finger in his deep dimple, and hear his laugh. I hate that I sing his lullaby at the cemetery and not in my own home. I hate that I have to kiss the picture on his headstone instead of his face.
I still hurt...every day.
I am his mother, I should have been able to protect him! I know this sounds crazy. Who am I to change fate right? But imagine this and perhaps you will understand why I feel this way....
You are walking with your child/sister/brother/niece/nephew and you see a car speeding around the corner. Your loved one just stepped off the curb. Suddenly...the world appears to move in slow motion, but time hasn't slowed. The accident happens in matter of milliseconds and there was nothing you can do to stop it. You try to run as fast as you can to push your loved one out of harm's way, but the car outruns you. As loud as you try to scream - to get the car to stop - nothing happens. Your loved one dies in front of you. After the impact, the time doesn't seem slow anymore. The rest of the world is still whizzing by as your child/sister/brother/niece/nephew lays lifeless in the street.
That is what it felt like to watch Ethan die. That is why nothing has ever felt like enough. I could not protect my boy. I knew he wasn't going to make it before medicine told me so. Screams echoed in my head, I tried to believe it when people told me that he would make it, but I knew the impact was going to happen. There was nothing I could do to stop his death from happening. Time was ticking even though it felt like it took forever. The three short days we spent in waiting for answers, for medical intervention, for hope, felt like a lifetime. I knew the inevitable. Time slowed, but the world kept whizzing on by. Fate went on as scheduled.
He would have been four months old on Friday. The joy February 20th brought feels like it happened ages ago. I've forgotten what true happiness feels like. February 27th's affect is fresh in my head. The pain that day brought is still here to stay.
The world just keeps whizzing on by...
Sunday, June 1, 2008
Change...
I wish there were a way for me to shake the feeling of being incomplete. To cease from weeping when joyous moments can't be shared with my son. Nevertheless, I realize that this Earth will make me feel this way until I can be with my son again. This is my new life; I must live with it.
There are so many things that I should be happy about, but I find difficulty feeling the true euphoria of "traditional joy". Ethan's passing has changed my definition of personal happiness and I've learned to adapt to it. My face is different. I've looked at pictures and noticed this change. I couldn't quite put my finger on it until Friday, but staring at my commencement pictures made me realize that my smile isn't the same anymore. Naivety has been obliterated and my heartache is here to stay. Sometimes, moments feel forced.
I am convinced that the blemishes of life's hardships alter our souls. Not only do our insides change from emotional pain, but our physical features transform as well. Eyes appear tired. Wrinkles form. Smiles change. This physical effect is even more prominent once the spirit leaves the body. Our loved ones do not look that same when they are laying in a casket. Experiencing grief changes us too. We all change.
When Ethan's spirit left his body, his face was not the same. I can't describe how it changed, but it did. That was how I knew he was gone. There was a moment of peace and the weeping stopped. Calm came over John and myself and I felt my son's spirit enter the atmosphere.
He surrounded us.
John was holding Ethan when this happened. The calm was so soothing that John even drifted into momentary rest. It was at that very moment that Ethan's face changed. That was the instant a piece of my soul left my body. Faces changed for good.
Despite my inability to be "traditionally happy", I wouldn't call myself depressed. I still get up every morning and take care of business. I am still here, it just that my son isn't. Change is here to stay. I still smile. I still laugh. I am still me, but I am not complete. My very own psychological warfare has been prevalent these past few weeks and avoiding this inner inquisition has not been easy. One particular "why question" vehemently echoes in my head…
Why the fuck did this have to happen to my son?!
To drown out this violent echo I have to physically whisper…
Lord, give me strength to overcome this pain.
Over and over and over…
Each and every time, God soothes me. The Lord hears me even when I whisper. He hears all of us. Amazing isn't it? I have come to realize that my missing piece is in heaven with my son. A part of me died, but that part is with my baby. I'm okay. Ethan took a peice of my happiness to heaven and the empty space in my soul has been filled with heartache, incompleteness. It's simple diffusion - high concentration to low concentration - but I am with my baby. Something had to give and this idea is what helps me get through the day. Everything is gonna be alright.
I make a conscious effort to inject Ethan into our daily lives so the boys will never forget. When I walked across stage on Friday, I carried his hat along with me. My portable comfort is back; his scent doesn't make me cry; that part of my wound is healed. Commencement was a happy moment and even though this was "just" my AA degree, accomplishing this task took a lot of blood, sweat, tears, and sacrifice. I was happy, but I longed for Ethan to be there with me. A hat was not enough.
Yet...God continues to soothe me and my revelation gives me comfort. Although a part of me is gone, I am okay. A peice of my happiness, my soul, was taken to heaven by my son and I know that part is enough to cradle my baby. Ethan is with me and I am with him. Sometimes, I even call his name when I holler at the boys to clean their room or order them to stop making so much noise. Sometimes, I mix their names up when I tell people stories about my babies. These Freudian slips fascinate me and this is how I know everything will be just fine.
We are together. Ethan has a peice of his Mom with him in heaven. I couldn't ask for anything better.
There are so many things that I should be happy about, but I find difficulty feeling the true euphoria of "traditional joy". Ethan's passing has changed my definition of personal happiness and I've learned to adapt to it. My face is different. I've looked at pictures and noticed this change. I couldn't quite put my finger on it until Friday, but staring at my commencement pictures made me realize that my smile isn't the same anymore. Naivety has been obliterated and my heartache is here to stay. Sometimes, moments feel forced.
I am convinced that the blemishes of life's hardships alter our souls. Not only do our insides change from emotional pain, but our physical features transform as well. Eyes appear tired. Wrinkles form. Smiles change. This physical effect is even more prominent once the spirit leaves the body. Our loved ones do not look that same when they are laying in a casket. Experiencing grief changes us too. We all change.
When Ethan's spirit left his body, his face was not the same. I can't describe how it changed, but it did. That was how I knew he was gone. There was a moment of peace and the weeping stopped. Calm came over John and myself and I felt my son's spirit enter the atmosphere.
He surrounded us.
John was holding Ethan when this happened. The calm was so soothing that John even drifted into momentary rest. It was at that very moment that Ethan's face changed. That was the instant a piece of my soul left my body. Faces changed for good.
Despite my inability to be "traditionally happy", I wouldn't call myself depressed. I still get up every morning and take care of business. I am still here, it just that my son isn't. Change is here to stay. I still smile. I still laugh. I am still me, but I am not complete. My very own psychological warfare has been prevalent these past few weeks and avoiding this inner inquisition has not been easy. One particular "why question" vehemently echoes in my head…
Why the fuck did this have to happen to my son?!
To drown out this violent echo I have to physically whisper…
Lord, give me strength to overcome this pain.
Over and over and over…
Each and every time, God soothes me. The Lord hears me even when I whisper. He hears all of us. Amazing isn't it? I have come to realize that my missing piece is in heaven with my son. A part of me died, but that part is with my baby. I'm okay. Ethan took a peice of my happiness to heaven and the empty space in my soul has been filled with heartache, incompleteness. It's simple diffusion - high concentration to low concentration - but I am with my baby. Something had to give and this idea is what helps me get through the day. Everything is gonna be alright.
I make a conscious effort to inject Ethan into our daily lives so the boys will never forget. When I walked across stage on Friday, I carried his hat along with me. My portable comfort is back; his scent doesn't make me cry; that part of my wound is healed. Commencement was a happy moment and even though this was "just" my AA degree, accomplishing this task took a lot of blood, sweat, tears, and sacrifice. I was happy, but I longed for Ethan to be there with me. A hat was not enough.
Yet...God continues to soothe me and my revelation gives me comfort. Although a part of me is gone, I am okay. A peice of my happiness, my soul, was taken to heaven by my son and I know that part is enough to cradle my baby. Ethan is with me and I am with him. Sometimes, I even call his name when I holler at the boys to clean their room or order them to stop making so much noise. Sometimes, I mix their names up when I tell people stories about my babies. These Freudian slips fascinate me and this is how I know everything will be just fine.
We are together. Ethan has a peice of his Mom with him in heaven. I couldn't ask for anything better.
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