CJay and I are doing okay as March 5 draws near. I feel a sense of regression — back to some of the grieving I was doing months ago. There's no getting around it though. We have to get to March 5 and 6, and we have to trample through the memories and the pain. I've been studying Isaac's pictures a lot lately. I haven't done that in a while, but I'm glad I can take the time now to retrace his small features and marvel at his hair, his fingers, and his funny feet. I'm thankful that grief changes as time goes on. It was incredibly difficult for me to imagine a life without the extreme pain, no agony, of losing Isaac. Unfortunately but expectantly, that sensation has surfaced again with his upcoming birthday. It's amazing what humans can endure, isn't it? Only 6 months ago, I would have told you I wouldn't survive this. I didn't care if I did. This road has been rough, and I would have never picked it (who would), but it's our road to travel. And I'll forever be thankful that we met Isaac traveling down this road.
Saturday, February 27, 2010
Getting closer
CJay and I are doing okay as March 5 draws near. I feel a sense of regression — back to some of the grieving I was doing months ago. There's no getting around it though. We have to get to March 5 and 6, and we have to trample through the memories and the pain. I've been studying Isaac's pictures a lot lately. I haven't done that in a while, but I'm glad I can take the time now to retrace his small features and marvel at his hair, his fingers, and his funny feet. I'm thankful that grief changes as time goes on. It was incredibly difficult for me to imagine a life without the extreme pain, no agony, of losing Isaac. Unfortunately but expectantly, that sensation has surfaced again with his upcoming birthday. It's amazing what humans can endure, isn't it? Only 6 months ago, I would have told you I wouldn't survive this. I didn't care if I did. This road has been rough, and I would have never picked it (who would), but it's our road to travel. And I'll forever be thankful that we met Isaac traveling down this road.
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
The Pit and the Pendulum: Part I
Edgar Allan Poe isn't one of my favorite authors, but I've always marveled at his ability to tap into the dark recess of human emotions. His writing is somber yet intimate. When I was younger, say high school, I didn't understand many of the feelings Poe described — for example, in The Tell-Tale Heart, the narrator is paranoid, insane, murderous. I never fully appreciated how someone could be insane or murderous, but I understood those feelings were real.
As we creep toward March 5, I've had Poe's works floating around in my mind. I'm not sure why. Maybe because he was a sad man who experienced a great deal of loss and pain. Maybe because now I understand some of the dark moods Poe evoked in his stories and poems. His writing reflects his fascination with death, and honestly, these past couple weeks and the weeks to come, I too will be focusing on death — how it changed us, how it leaves a hole, it's ability to redefine whomever it touches.
The Pit and the Pendulum is one of my favorite stories. For some reason, this story, with its prisoner who continues to hope in the face of certain death, reminds me of what CJay and I went through during Isaac's poor prognosis both before and after his birth. I hope I'll be able to convey what has been circulating in my brain these past few days. If not, at least I can stop thinking about it.
The narrator is a prisoner sentenced to death and being held in a dimly lit dungeon. After investigating his surroundings and discovering the room contains a deep pit, the prisoner falls asleep. He awakens to find he's been strapped to a wooden board. Above him hangs a pendulum, shaped like a crescent and razor sharp. The pendulum swings back and forth progressing slowly toward the prisoner's heart.
While I gazed directly upward at it (for its position was immediately over my own) I fancied that I saw it in motion. In an instant afterward the fancy was confirmed. Its sweep was brief, and of course slow. I watched it for some minutes, somewhat in fear, but more in wonder.
What boots it to tell of the long, long hours of horror more than mortal, during which I counted the rushing vibrations of the steel! Inch by inch — line by line — with a descent only appreciable at intervals that seemed ages — down and still down it came! Days passed — it might have been that many days passed — ere it swept so closely over me as to fan me with its acrid breath. The odor of the sharp steel forced itself into my nostrils. I prayed — I wearied heaven with my prayer for its more speedy descent. I grew frantically mad, and struggled to force myself upward against the sweep of the fearful scimitar. And then I fell suddenly calm, and lay smiling at the glittering death, as a child at some rare bauble.
There was another interval of utter insensibility; it was brief; for, upon again lapsing into life there had been no perceptible descent in the pendulum. But it might have been long; for I knew there were demons who took note of my swoon, and who could have arrested the vibration at pleasure. Upon my recovery, too, I felt very — oh, inexpressibly sick and weak, as if through long inanition. Even amid the agonies of that period, the human nature craved food. With painful effort I outstretched my left arm as far as my bonds permitted, and took possession of the small remnant which had been spared me by the rats. As I put a portion of it within my lips, there rushed to my mind a half formed thought of joy — of hope. Yet what business had I with hope? It was, as I say, a half formed thought — man has many such which are never completed. I felt that it was of joy — of hope; but felt also that it had perished in its formation. In vain I struggled to perfect — to regain it. Long suffering had nearly annihilated all my ordinary powers of mind. I was an imbecile — an idiot.
Our pregnancy with Isaac was like this. We waited for the pendulum to fall. We hoped. We chided ourselves for hoping. Some days I prayed for it to end quickly, for the pendulum to descend.
The prisoner doesn't die. The rats in the dungeon chew through the strap holding him to the wooden board and he is free — in one sense of the word. Much like Isaac's birth set us free. We were free from watching the swing of the pendulum (the ups and downs of our many doctor appointments). We were free from our hope that felt in vain. We weren't freed from what lay ahead — the agony of grief.
-----------------
This post was going to be too long, so I'll post the second half later. I hope I didn't bore you readers with my English lesson. :)
As we creep toward March 5, I've had Poe's works floating around in my mind. I'm not sure why. Maybe because he was a sad man who experienced a great deal of loss and pain. Maybe because now I understand some of the dark moods Poe evoked in his stories and poems. His writing reflects his fascination with death, and honestly, these past couple weeks and the weeks to come, I too will be focusing on death — how it changed us, how it leaves a hole, it's ability to redefine whomever it touches.
The Pit and the Pendulum is one of my favorite stories. For some reason, this story, with its prisoner who continues to hope in the face of certain death, reminds me of what CJay and I went through during Isaac's poor prognosis both before and after his birth. I hope I'll be able to convey what has been circulating in my brain these past few days. If not, at least I can stop thinking about it.
The narrator is a prisoner sentenced to death and being held in a dimly lit dungeon. After investigating his surroundings and discovering the room contains a deep pit, the prisoner falls asleep. He awakens to find he's been strapped to a wooden board. Above him hangs a pendulum, shaped like a crescent and razor sharp. The pendulum swings back and forth progressing slowly toward the prisoner's heart.
While I gazed directly upward at it (for its position was immediately over my own) I fancied that I saw it in motion. In an instant afterward the fancy was confirmed. Its sweep was brief, and of course slow. I watched it for some minutes, somewhat in fear, but more in wonder.
What boots it to tell of the long, long hours of horror more than mortal, during which I counted the rushing vibrations of the steel! Inch by inch — line by line — with a descent only appreciable at intervals that seemed ages — down and still down it came! Days passed — it might have been that many days passed — ere it swept so closely over me as to fan me with its acrid breath. The odor of the sharp steel forced itself into my nostrils. I prayed — I wearied heaven with my prayer for its more speedy descent. I grew frantically mad, and struggled to force myself upward against the sweep of the fearful scimitar. And then I fell suddenly calm, and lay smiling at the glittering death, as a child at some rare bauble.
There was another interval of utter insensibility; it was brief; for, upon again lapsing into life there had been no perceptible descent in the pendulum. But it might have been long; for I knew there were demons who took note of my swoon, and who could have arrested the vibration at pleasure. Upon my recovery, too, I felt very — oh, inexpressibly sick and weak, as if through long inanition. Even amid the agonies of that period, the human nature craved food. With painful effort I outstretched my left arm as far as my bonds permitted, and took possession of the small remnant which had been spared me by the rats. As I put a portion of it within my lips, there rushed to my mind a half formed thought of joy — of hope. Yet what business had I with hope? It was, as I say, a half formed thought — man has many such which are never completed. I felt that it was of joy — of hope; but felt also that it had perished in its formation. In vain I struggled to perfect — to regain it. Long suffering had nearly annihilated all my ordinary powers of mind. I was an imbecile — an idiot.
Our pregnancy with Isaac was like this. We waited for the pendulum to fall. We hoped. We chided ourselves for hoping. Some days I prayed for it to end quickly, for the pendulum to descend.
The prisoner doesn't die. The rats in the dungeon chew through the strap holding him to the wooden board and he is free — in one sense of the word. Much like Isaac's birth set us free. We were free from watching the swing of the pendulum (the ups and downs of our many doctor appointments). We were free from our hope that felt in vain. We weren't freed from what lay ahead — the agony of grief.
-----------------
This post was going to be too long, so I'll post the second half later. I hope I didn't bore you readers with my English lesson. :)
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
What I'm thankful for in '09*
My family has a tradition at Thanksgiving. After dinner we sit around the table and say one thing that we're thankful for. I didn't want to do that this year. I wasn't ready, but now I am.
I'm thankful for ...
Isaac - His 2 days of life taught me more than my 27 years. I've been living better since he left us. What a sweet child.
CJay - I desperately love CJay. In my weakest moment, he gave me strength. He kept me focused when we had to make the toughest decisions about our child's life. He makes me laugh and laughs at me. He's always kind and sensitive, even when he's exhausted. Not only is he extremely intelligent, but he's also practical, rational, and patient. There's no way I could have made it through 2009 without him.
My parents - Loyal. Thoughtful. Loving. Godly. Are they the perfect? No. But they gave me the skills to wade through this difficult year. They taught me what is most important in life, and when I held Isaac in my arms, I was thankful they had warned me just how much I would love him. I know they miss him too.
Seth (my older brother) - He confided in me about how excited he was to meet Isaac. He was there with us when Isaac died, making us laugh, playing music for Isaac on the iPhone, and keeping us all sane (or insane?). He stepped up and made decisions about the memorial service, the casket, the flowers, and much more. He took pictures of my postpartum butt, and he pointed and laughed when my hospital gown wasn't closed. He lives up to his big brother role quite well.
Devin (my younger bro) - I wrote an essay in college about Devin called "The Gentle Giant." I still think of him that way. He's so tenderhearted. He would have made an exceptional uncle to Isaac. I remember last Christmas when Devin put his mouth close to my pregnant belly and made animal noises for Isaac just so he would kick. I know Isaac would have loved Devin like I do.
CJay's parents - Bill and Connie are two of the most generous and sensitive people I know. CJay and I both wanted to protect them from the pain of losing Isaac. We worried about what it might do to them. They gave so much of their time to Isaac before he was born. Painting and hanging curtains and ironing and washing and assembling. They did and would still do anything we asked. I feel fortunate to have such caring and kind in-laws.
Those who cried with us - It meant so much to know that we had friends who were grieving with us. Thanks for keeping us close in your thoughts and prayers. Thanks for loving Isaac even if you didn't know him.
* In no particular order.
I'm thankful for ...
Isaac - His 2 days of life taught me more than my 27 years. I've been living better since he left us. What a sweet child.
CJay - I desperately love CJay. In my weakest moment, he gave me strength. He kept me focused when we had to make the toughest decisions about our child's life. He makes me laugh and laughs at me. He's always kind and sensitive, even when he's exhausted. Not only is he extremely intelligent, but he's also practical, rational, and patient. There's no way I could have made it through 2009 without him.
My parents - Loyal. Thoughtful. Loving. Godly. Are they the perfect? No. But they gave me the skills to wade through this difficult year. They taught me what is most important in life, and when I held Isaac in my arms, I was thankful they had warned me just how much I would love him. I know they miss him too.
Seth (my older brother) - He confided in me about how excited he was to meet Isaac. He was there with us when Isaac died, making us laugh, playing music for Isaac on the iPhone, and keeping us all sane (or insane?). He stepped up and made decisions about the memorial service, the casket, the flowers, and much more. He took pictures of my postpartum butt, and he pointed and laughed when my hospital gown wasn't closed. He lives up to his big brother role quite well.
Devin (my younger bro) - I wrote an essay in college about Devin called "The Gentle Giant." I still think of him that way. He's so tenderhearted. He would have made an exceptional uncle to Isaac. I remember last Christmas when Devin put his mouth close to my pregnant belly and made animal noises for Isaac just so he would kick. I know Isaac would have loved Devin like I do.
CJay's parents - Bill and Connie are two of the most generous and sensitive people I know. CJay and I both wanted to protect them from the pain of losing Isaac. We worried about what it might do to them. They gave so much of their time to Isaac before he was born. Painting and hanging curtains and ironing and washing and assembling. They did and would still do anything we asked. I feel fortunate to have such caring and kind in-laws.
Those who cried with us - It meant so much to know that we had friends who were grieving with us. Thanks for keeping us close in your thoughts and prayers. Thanks for loving Isaac even if you didn't know him.
* In no particular order.
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Awakening
“The years that are gone seem like dreams—if one might go on sleeping and dreaming—but to wake up and find—oh! well! Perhaps it is better to wake up after all, even to suffer, rather than to remain a dupe to illusions all one’s life.”
- Edna, The Awakening
I remembered something today.
I remember when the nurse came in my room on Saturday all those months ago. I remember being ready to leave, moving slowly, deliberately, so as not to jar my incision. I remember standing near the window in my room. The nurse was shorter than me and her hair was dark. She, like all the other nurses, exuded sympathy when she entered my room. Of course they knew. I remember the nurse saying she was sorry. Sorry about my baby. She meant it; I could tell.
I spoke as deliberately as I moved: "Thank you. He was worth it. It's really important to me that people know. He was worth it."
She began to cry and left the room.
It is as easy for me to forget that Isaac was worth it as it is for me to remember that moment and that feeling. Maybe it sounds odd, but the pain can be debilitating. Sometimes I don't want to go there. Most of the time I struggle with knowing that these feelings are just part of who I am. But so is Isaac. His short life and death awakened in me something that I may never fully understand. I think it's strength and determination and maybe some grace. It's been so hard, and Christmas has made this month even harder, but I'm so thankful.
Perhaps it IS better to wake up after all, even to suffer, rather than to remain a dupe to illusions all one’s life. After all, my life is richer and more meaningful now.
- Edna, The Awakening
I remembered something today.
I remember when the nurse came in my room on Saturday all those months ago. I remember being ready to leave, moving slowly, deliberately, so as not to jar my incision. I remember standing near the window in my room. The nurse was shorter than me and her hair was dark. She, like all the other nurses, exuded sympathy when she entered my room. Of course they knew. I remember the nurse saying she was sorry. Sorry about my baby. She meant it; I could tell.
I spoke as deliberately as I moved: "Thank you. He was worth it. It's really important to me that people know. He was worth it."
She began to cry and left the room.
It is as easy for me to forget that Isaac was worth it as it is for me to remember that moment and that feeling. Maybe it sounds odd, but the pain can be debilitating. Sometimes I don't want to go there. Most of the time I struggle with knowing that these feelings are just part of who I am. But so is Isaac. His short life and death awakened in me something that I may never fully understand. I think it's strength and determination and maybe some grace. It's been so hard, and Christmas has made this month even harder, but I'm so thankful.
Perhaps it IS better to wake up after all, even to suffer, rather than to remain a dupe to illusions all one’s life. After all, my life is richer and more meaningful now.
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
A Letter to Kay Jewelers
To Whom It May Concern:
I saw your latest Christmas commercial again last night. You know, the one where the mom is rocking her infant next to the Christmas tree. Her husband walks in and she says, "You're up? It's 2 a.m." He replies, "It's not just 2 a.m. It's 2 a.m. Christmas morning. Our first Christmas together as a family."
I know the powers that be are just tugging at the heart strings to make some sales. I know you think it's sweet and so many Americans can relate to that special first Christmas as a family. But there are those of us who are trying to forget that this SHOULD have been their first Christmas as a family. There are those of us who are buying gifts, trimming the tree, and watching movies in a vain attempt to forget that this year SHOULD have been sweet and memorable, but it's really not.
I'm not asking you to take the commercial off the air, but maybe give us a warning: "The commercial you're about to see is graphic, and viewer discretion is advised."
Thanks,
Whitney
P.S. I might feel better if you send diamonds or maybe gold.
I saw your latest Christmas commercial again last night. You know, the one where the mom is rocking her infant next to the Christmas tree. Her husband walks in and she says, "You're up? It's 2 a.m." He replies, "It's not just 2 a.m. It's 2 a.m. Christmas morning. Our first Christmas together as a family."
I know the powers that be are just tugging at the heart strings to make some sales. I know you think it's sweet and so many Americans can relate to that special first Christmas as a family. But there are those of us who are trying to forget that this SHOULD have been their first Christmas as a family. There are those of us who are buying gifts, trimming the tree, and watching movies in a vain attempt to forget that this year SHOULD have been sweet and memorable, but it's really not.
I'm not asking you to take the commercial off the air, but maybe give us a warning: "The commercial you're about to see is graphic, and viewer discretion is advised."
Thanks,
Whitney
P.S. I might feel better if you send diamonds or maybe gold.
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Prayers for a friend
My friend, Kimberly, is in need of prayers. Her son, Hudson, was born still at 30 weeks back in January, and she's now 10 weeks along with another child. She's seeing a specialist tomorrow because her doctor is concerned about something he saw on the ultrasound. I'm including the link to her blog, so you can read her latest post.
Happily Henninger
Happily Henninger
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