Reset

He was demanding in the amount of love, attention, and respect he needed from his family, mostly, it seemed, from his son -- my husband -- as wannabe dad could never call him enough, see him enough, take him to lunch enough, or even think of his father enough.

And yet, in the last three months of his illness, his middle son lead the charge in scheduling round the clock presence of family in the first month, visited him no less than twice daily, played his favorite music, conferred with the doctors and nurses about outcomes and ifs and chances, and weighed options of nursing homes, while coming home in time to bathe LR and read him story after story until the baby's eyes were as heavy as his own.

His father knows now, as he sees his "hijo ingrato" from his heavenly abode, of the love that his second son had for him. He oftentimes did not deserve the respect he craved, but in all of the planning and decision-making that went on, each and every decision was made out of respect and based on "what he would have wanted." *

It will take time for wannabe dad to feel ok, not just from the grief of his dad's death, but from the should haves. Should he have called/saw/lunched/thought of his dad more? Of course. And even if he did all those things, he could always do more. There's always more. It would have never been enough.

So we go through it again, we reset our emotions and crank up the tears, and make the arrangements that were once so unthinkable, then we start the healing process. I don't know what it's like to lose a parent, but I do know what grief does to a person. It's no walk in the park.

My dear husband, please take the time to grieve this loss, and I will be here to help you through.

(*if it's not obvious, there was no advance directive in place, no funeral pre-planning, and no estate planning done by my father in law, which made it triply difficult to determine what he wanted and at the same time weigh all of the input from his wife, her kids, and my brothers in law. Lesson.)

Passage

It's quiet in the house right now, the sounds of my husband breathing mixed in with the cat wiping the wall near his litterbox -- strange kitty -- while I lay here churning out these thoughts and any moment now the 19-month old "baby" will signal his need for comfort not really needing the milk but that's an added bonus. For both.

We are headed to visit the girls at some point this morning, my husband's uncle in town for the first time ever to visit his brother my FIL, and my MIL is buried at the same cemetery so he wants to see her grave. Long winded description aside, we haven't been to the girls since a couple of posts ago, and no doubt the grave marker is clouded over with mineral deposits and dirt and I don't have the slightest amount of strength to resume the scrubbing.

It's not because of an overwhelming sense of grief and trepidation. It's pure, unadulterated lazy. I have most certainly shifted my passion for hard scrubbing, constant lamenting, and acute pain to raising LR, working to keep us afloat financially while husband builds the business back up, and figuring out what to make for dinner. And I am tired, getting my not-morning-person-ass out of bed at 5, sometimes 5:30 and out of the house at 6:15/6:30, home by 5 and attempting to make dinner with LR suctioned to my leg or in and out of drawers, with some room to breathe after dinner during his bath by daddy, nurse before bed (there's that comfort thing again), then an hour or so before going to bed at 9/9:30 to jump on the wheel again. Weekends? I love lolling about the house, playing with the baby, running errands, visiting my cousin and new baby, but rarely going to the cemetery.

I think of them often, not every minute as before, but definitely each time I put on this wonderful gift of a necklace with three charms engraved with my childrens' names, a gift from A. And I haven't cried in a long, long time outside of watching Glee or SYTYCD. And it's sad but it's true.

Three years and three months later, I think back. I had twins. And they died. I'm a deadbabymama, but no one would ever know. I've only told two people at work. The rest think I'm your average, stressed out Mom, but I'm not. I'll never be one.

That makes me a better mom. I don't mean eating organic or because I've breastfed this long or because I put him in his carseat. I mean the amount of love that I have for him. Tremendous. Overflowing. Incredible, drowning amounts of love, hugs, endless kisses, as if it were his last few minutes with me. I look at him as he wobbles around, and think, holy shit you're MY kid, you didn't die, you're mine to love and raise and teach. I would not be the same mom had my girls not died. From them, I learned appreciation.

And the passage of time has helped create that in me. I didn't go through that terrible loss without it having an impact. No one does. I think deadbabymamas are better moms for their sub-babies in general (don't get all freaky on me, I'm not comparing them to non-deadbabymamas), they take less for granted and cherish more, I think more than they would have without the experience.

Would I have preferred not being one? Of course.

***

And there are a few people still reading this blog, which is surprising given my rare appearances. I hope I can be of any help, or provide any resources (I'm in the SF bay area, east bay), feel free to email or leave a comment. I am by no means an expert, but I've been there and I understand.




- Posted using BlogPress in the still morning

Unmentionable

Comments you just shouldn't say on face.book:

-Congratulations on a live birth!
-You're pregnant? Who's the father?
-You can't love your husband that much, not the way you talk to him when you're drunk.
-Great picture! But half your boob is showing.
-Great picture! You're so full of it.
-That is so not a cute baby.
-So he's your husband, not the one I saw in that other picture on so and so's page.
-You really eat that stuff?
-Your fake bake turned your skin orange. Stop doing that.
-Meet a guy and make a family, I'm sick of seeing pictures of your dogs.


I am so going down. Facebook can be lovely but some of the things people say are so ridiculous. It feels good to purge/unfriend and focus on the people I want to hear from, unfortunately I can't unfriend my SIL who always brags about her ___-year marriage and how they are still very much in love, but case in point bullet #3. Makes my skin crawl. She's not nice.

Sigh. Just some ranting on a Sunday morning, my loud niece is in the other room, we get to watch her today while her dad visits my FIL in the hospital.

I am in a mood today! Good morning.


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Restart

And just like that, the Julian calendar resets to greet another January. Usually this begins the post-holiday renewals, the brand spankin' new gym memberships and gym clothes, the stupid lists of resolutions that fall by the wayside along with the gym card in two weeks, the need to do things "different this year" and restart and recharge the soul.

But not around here. We're too busy for that.

My father in law had a stroke on Dec 15. We were all on edge wondering if he was going to make it, as he teetered on the edge of consciousness given his cocktail of pharmaceuticals upon arriving to the hospital unconscious. Understandably, it threw everyone for a loop. He's strong, drives all the time, loves to laugh, and hell he's only 74 years young. Holiday plans were tousled, and even pipe dream holiday plans went out to sea (my company gave everyone a mandatory vacation after Christmas and I thought it might be nice to take the baby for a road trip. Meh. But my BIL's family kept their Tahoe plans quite intact, even having the nerve to facebook about how relaxing it was to be in the snow and looking at the blue water, while my other BIL's family was separated on the day. Double meh.).

Wannabe dad's family surprisingly pulled together, his stepmom's kids were and still are a huge help, especially as they muck through funny finances and iffy insurance policies. After three straight days of researching nursing homes in the area, they finally picked four, because you have to have backups in case the first three either don't have space, don't have space for long-term patients, smell funny, or are understaffed, as my FIL was on the brink of discharge. Brink, as in, find something fast because the hospital is discharging him TODAY and he can't go home. He was released to one near our home, which incidentally and probably somewhat purposefully is the same one my going-on-97 grandmother has been residing for the past three years. My aunts are with her all the time and have tips for newbies like us.

And so begins the rehab and therapy. We hope he doesn't have a heart attack in his condition, as he's had three prior attacks and each one has left his heart just that much less workable. The internets, if you're reading this, please keep my FIL in your thoughts and send positive, healthy vibes to us for a speedy recovery. For all his stubbornness and insecurity, his newest grandson needs his abuelito.

***

In other news, LR has started gingerly walking through the house. It is so wonderful to watch. He spent months on his hands and knees, scampering through wafting dog hair as he crawled from here to there. His head is getting big, as I hold up t-shirts thinking they'll fit him, he screams as he tries to writhe away from the collar coming closer to his big nog and yikes, it's too small. Oh oops, that's a 6-9 month size. Toss aside. And he decides he'd rather roll over while he's on the changing table with a half-off diaper full of poo, so that takes some maneuvering of legs and sock-covered feet. He's thriving and healthy, a little on the skinny side, and hairy like someone in this family who doesn't write regularly in this blog. He has full conversations with us as we look at each other with what-the-heck-is-he-saying expressions on our faces. The other day I swore he said "Well, what are you going to dooooo?" He walks to the door to greet us when we come home (the dog always beats him to us -- darn). He kisses his stuffed toys, the air, our open mouths, the dog's leg, "Mah!!" He drops food on the floor. He hates cheese. He figured out not to eat the banana peel but the yummy stuff inside.

My heart is full. And I had to lose two babies to have this.

***

In the last month several people have asked if we're going to have another. Of course we will. Just not at the moment, or 9 months from now. I'd like to savor this special time with my boy, we can save the chaos for a year or more. That way we'll at least have some help. He can carry the diaper bag. I say all this under the assumption that my eggs make it down the necessary tubes at the right time and are still receptive to their spermy partners. Damn that lazy cervix, it really complicates things.

***

Wannabe dad said something funny the other day: You cook a lot more now than before. I laughed, saying I had no choice, we have no money to eat out. I'm no great cook, but thankfully most of what I make is edible and lately the stove has decided not to burn my dishes.

***

We never made it to the cemetery on Christmas or days near. Life got in the way. That day we hosted the family party (my side) since one family went to Disneyland, one family had a new baby, one aunt is single and it's too much work for one person, and one family's house is too full already (think hoarders). So our little home was packed with cousins and aunts who came late but showed up with fried fish; uncles, the quiet one and the one on a cell phone for an hour; sparkly scary Christmas sweaters; a gift exchange that included two snuggies, mysteriously won by the mother of the contributor; flying wrapping paper from my kid and my cousin's wife's sister's kid and my cousin's new baby girl, who wannabe dad almost didn't give back after holding her for an hour; turkey, salty ham, roast beef that leaked a sea of fat in my oven; a fake tree, a real tree, wine, and too many desserts that stayed even after the tree went back in the box.

Not to mention, wannabe dad's lack of sleep schedule given his hospital visits. We do need to visit the girls so I can wish them happy holidays and continue with my scrubbing project. Soon.

Missing

I've only been vaguely comprehending that they died three years ago. Plenty of reminders for sure, like Thanksgiving, my c-section scar (since cleaned up by my last OB), their absence. Their actual death day, the 24th, was like any normal day: up at 5:30 to nurse LR, at work by 7, doing the usual routine. At a meeting I noted the date in my notebook, paused a bit, then drew angel wings on either side of the date with the initial C in the arc of one wing, N in the other. My micro tribute. Only three people at my company know that we had babies who died, but not the date. It's OK, I don't need sad OMG I don't know what to say looks.

And so today, the third Thanksgiving without our girls, the second one with our boy. We are so grateful for our family, for what we have made with our lives, what we have yet to do, to create. I try to keep everything in perspective, I play pain olympics with myself, "it could be worse," and I make the best of our situation. (That's a very loaded statement, not for this blog, and a constant for me if I am to move forward and make progress.)

I am so excited to spend the next three days with my boys, big and little. What a welcome break!


- Posted using BlogPress on a full belly thanks to my aunt for hosting the feast

Respects

We are on our way to the cemetery.

Stopped for flowers, now stopped for tortillas, what the heck, it's on the way and they're yummy.



We live in a further city now, having sold our home and renting a much smaller home that is closer to my job. No longer of the self employed variety, blame the slow economy for creating all these changes for us.



After much scrubbing of three years' worth of mineral buildup, I got the marker only slightly cleaner. Mind you, I had to decide whose name I was going to work on first, I had to be fair even though they're dead. It was Nadia's because she's the second born, and got to go first this time.

Wannabe dad took the baby and dog for a few rounds throughout the cemetery while I scrubbed.




And scrubbed. I made some progress, I'll continue when we visit them again for Christmas.

Two days from now marks the third anniversary of their deaths. We are emerging, here and there, even though I can barely utter the word "twins" and seeing a set makes me wince. I don't think I'll ever get through that.



LR hanging out with his sisters' heavenly playmates. With cheerios.


- Posted using BlogPress from the cemetery

Three

Birthday pie for the girls.




Three matching candles for each baby.

Wannabe dad made steak for dinner.

My mom called and she sang happy birthday with us via speakerphone.

LR smiled the whole time and clapped at the end. He had some pie crust too.




P.S. He will wear that Halloween shirt from Auntie A until he is busting out of it.

All in all, a significant day, but not a sad one.

Love you, my girls.


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