Wednesday, January 26, 2011

January 26, 2011

David Cook wrote this song in tribute to his older brother who was dying of brain cancer.

A few weeks after his brother's death, he stepped in front of millions of people and sang it live--completely composed, professional, finding a place deep within him to overcome the incredible sadness and sorrow he felt.

The show must go on. Life, must go on.

At the three year point I can tell you that our lives have moved on from the moment where we heard the words 'nothing' and the moment where I held my stillborn son in my arms for the first and last time. There are times when I feel it was so very long ago, but others, like today, I feel like we have not walked but two steps away from those people in the hospital room.

I wish my son was here. I wish I could have had the pleasure of knowing the person he would have become.

Happy Birthday, Ronan. Mommy and Daddy love you and miss you.....

Tuesday, January 11, 2011

We Just Lost The Moon

I read about a woman on one of my message boards going into early labor. She had an incompetent cervix that began to open. They held off the inevitable for as long as they could, but the baby boy was born, very premature at 26 weeks.

People started sharing their thoughts and well wishes as they began their roller coaster ride in the NICU. The mom kept an on-line journal about the terms and updates they were throwing at her on an hour by hour basis.

I read this thread, and I said a prayer for her and that baby boy every night. I tried to reach deep down and find that positivity that the old me used to have at the ready. "Of course things would be fine", the old me would think. "I prayed for them--1,000 women are praying for them---so it will all be ok."

But the new me had a nagging feeling. It was a dark and thick feeling, like bubbling tar. The odds were not in this boy's favor. As I read the mom's journal, horrible words like brain bleeds, NEC, air in the gut, murmurs in the heart just made that tar-like feeling just get worse and worse. So much so that I could not even bring myself to comment on the thread. But I continued to pray, grasping on to the micron of hope that this boy would defeat the odds.

He didn't. That sweet boy passed a few days ago. The tar had been laid, and this new road emerged. And this poor woman is now on a path that she had already been on once before. It is fucking unfair, and there is no point in the universe to make someone suffer once, yet alone twice.

I want to live in a world where hope lives again. When someone's life is on the brink, I want to believe that they will be saved/make it/have at least a fucking fighting chance for a happy ending. Since Ronan died, I have realized that there are so many more tragedies than happy endings. Where are all the happy endings?

One of my favorite movies of all time is Apollo 13. Not because Tom Hanks is in it, (who the hell doesn't like Tom Hanks), or because I toyed with the idea of being an astronaut when I was a kid---it was because after all that hard work and effort by 10,000 people---after all the tears, the fears, and the prayers---the astronauts made it home safely. Hope prevailed. Happy ending achieved.

My ability to hope has been altered. It is skewed. The compass that runs it has been broken. And I have no idea how to fix it. I don't even know if it can be fixed anymore.

But a part of me, the residue of the old me, still wants to be believe it can be.

Wednesday, January 5, 2011

Time Keeps on Ticking---Into the Future

Happy New Year!

I write that, but then I have to remind myself that it is January, which begins the monumental highs and lows associated with this month. It includes the girl's wonderful birthday tomorrow and ends with all the painful recollections that start out like a mild mist and ends in a full blown hurricane that makes landfall near the end of this month.

I hate this month. I loathe it.

It started on the drive into work on Monday. My mind was focused on driving, happily listening to Duran Duran, remembering how I loved Simon Le Bon and wrote him a fan letter that I'm sure my mother tossed in the garbage rather than pay the air mail postage to send to him. Then my subconscious caught a glimpse of something, a sign, a bird, something--- and I was crying for no real goddamn reason, other that the fact that it was January, and that's what my mind does to me every January.

I feel different this year. I don't know if it's because it's three years out, but I feel less guilt about wanting to run away from what awaits us. The first year, I had to face it, all post-partum-y, sleep deprived, and uber guilt ridden. Last year, it was a quiet resignation. January 26th came and we paused, knowing we would have to stop and feel his loss all over again.

This year I am walking around with my ears covered like "la-la-la-la-la not listening". I stupidly think that if I keep moving that I won't have to feel what I have to feel. But then I see a picture on a Christmas card of my friend Ben's son, who was born on Ronan's due date in April 2008, and it takes all I have for me not to crumble to pieces.

I feel so old on this journey. It has gotten easier with time. But I feel the reason for that is because of distractions. If I didn't have so many distractions, I could sit in silence and remember how I felt holding him, and how it hurt so bad to not take him home. I could sit and remember how salty my tears tasted, and how the taste of them now makes me physically ill. I could reflect that my son would be three, and wonder if he would have had the same curls that his baby sister has.....

I will keep up my distractions until the sheer pull of the need to stop and grieve overcomes me.

And it will always overcome me, that's a given.

It's the law of this land.