[While I’m on creative sabbatical through the end of the year, I’m pulling some of the most popular posts from the archives and sharing them again. With October being a month to honor and bring awareness to pregnancy and infant loss, I’ve chosen some of the writing from the first year after Benjamin’s stillbirth. These posts bring tears to my eyes, because of course, three years later, I’ve forgotten what those early days were like. This is why I blogged through my grief – I wanted to capture the moments that vanish into the fog of memory. I wanted to always remember how devastating it was to lose my son.]

Ada and I have been having these lovely conversations before bed the last few nights. We talk about all sorts of things. She usually says something about the baby or her brother. Last night she wanted to be reminded of his name.

His name is Benjamin, sweetheart. Or you could call him Ben, or Benji.

She smiles. Where is he now Mama?

His body died my sweet, but his spirit, the part inside each of us that makes us who we are, his spirit is watching over us, taking care of us.

She smiles again. He’s in our hearts Mama.

Yes, he is. He’s in our hearts forever.

An angel. She knows this from the book the hospital gave us for her.

I nod. An angel. You can talk to him if you want to.

I don’t want to.

Okay sweetheart, you don’t have to.

Mama, what’s my brother’s name again?

Benjamin, I smile. Or you can call him Ben or Benji.

P.S. Today is Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day. If you’d like, you can light a candle at 7pm wherever you are in the world, to add to the wave of light honoring the sweet souls that could only touch life for a moment before leaving again.

[While I’m on creative sabbatical through the end of the year, I’m pulling some of the most popular posts from the archives and sharing them again. With October being a month to honor and bring awareness to pregnancy and infant loss, I’ve chosen some of the writing from the first year after Benjamin’s stillbirth. These posts bring tears to my eyes, because of course, three years later, I’ve forgotten what those early days were like. This is why I blogged through my grief – I wanted to capture the moments that vanish into the fog of memory. I wanted to always remember how devastating it was to lose my son. (Note: These posts are very raw)]

Benjamin died a month ago today. I am not ready to be bleeding again, but I am.

Last night as I was getting ready for bed, I found myself staring at another toilet bowl full of blood. My post-partum bleeding stopped just over a week ago. I didn’t know if it was too early for me to get my period. I didn’t know what was happening. My body trembling, images of those other nights flashing through my mind, I once again called my doctor’s exchange.

I explained my situation, asking her to excuse my tears. The operator put me through to Labor and Delivery at the hospital. I wondered if I’d get Sally, the Irish nurse who was there my second and third visits. The one who told me the IV was the size they would need for a blood transfusion and had me sign the papers for the emergency surgery, just in case. Another nurse answered, I explained my situation again. I’m sorry, let me get the doctor. I waited, trying to hold back the sobs.

The doctor came to the phone. It was the same one who saw me the night before I lost Benjamin. I really liked her. She was calm, reassuring. She gave me hope. I don’t know if you’ll remember me, I was in a month ago with heavy bleeding at 23 weeks. She remembered. Yes, you were Dr. C’s patient and he did the surgery. I’m so sorry. She must have asked about me. She was gone by the time I was wheeled into the operating room. Maybe she saw the flowers I sent.

I explained what was happening, asking if I needed to be concerned. She said no, they don’t call it a period until after 6 weeks because the hormones aren’t regulated until then but the bleeding wasn’t abnormal and could last four or five days. She shared the danger signs and reassured me that if I’d reopened my incision, I’d be in too much pain to move. I thanked her, hung up the phone and lost it.

I cried until I gagged, stopped, cried again and again and again. Images of my bleeding, the fear, the trips to the hospital, the letting go, the nurses, the doctors, the operating room, the news that he was gone, stillborn, no signs of life – all of it a disjointed movie in my mind’s eye. Steve held me as I sobbed that I missed him, missed Benjamin. I would have given anything to feel his little weight on my chest again, to see my son and trace the lines of his tiny limbs lightly with my finger, careful not to pull his paper thin skin. I cried until I couldn’t cry anymore. Then I went to bed and lay awake, waiting to see what the bleeding would do. Finally at 3am I took some ibuprofen to dull the cramps and fell asleep.

I am not ready to be bleeding again. I wanted some time for my body and my soul to stitch themselves back together before another toll was exacted. I am exhausted from grief and the sight of bright red, the feel of it. I keep having to remind myself there is no baby to be lost and that I will be fine.

Living life after Benjamin is by far the hardest thing I have ever done.

I miss you my son. I love you, always.

Mama

At the World Domination Summit this summer, I attended the premiere screening of the documentary Indie Kindred, by Jen Lee. The film features 10 independent artists talking about creativity and collaboration. These women are singer/songwriters, painters, writers, and magic-makers. I fell in love with each of them as I watched them be honest and vulnerable on the screen.

Sitting in the audience, tears streaming down my face, I knew what I had to do. Now, after months of thinking about it, knowing that it felt both crazy and essential to my well-being, I am about to launch into a creative sabbatical.

From October 1 through December 31 I will be spending my workday writing, reading, dancing, painting, taking photos and generally getting reacquainted with my creativity. There will be no blogging, no teaching, and no newsletters until January.

This is my oxygen mask. After years of putting others’ on first, it’s my turn to breathe. I want to use this time in the most heart-centered way, so that come 2014 I’m rested, filled up and on fire. There are a thousand things I want to do with my life, with my particular gifts, but doing them from a place of depletion…well, it just doesn’t work. As Lisa Nichols says, you’ve got to serve from the overflow.

I’ll be pulling some of the most popular posts from the archives and sharing them here while I’m away, and there’s a remote possibility that I might sneak in and post something. (I’ve been known to change my mind on a dime when feeling inspired) But life has been telling me to turn inward this last year and though it took me a while to catch on, I’m listening now.

You can still find me on Facebook and Pinterest. I’ll be unsubscribing from lists and blogs for a while, but I’ll always answer email. And I’ll be checking in here too, so you are welcome to leave a comment. I just won’t be pressing publish on anything new.

And now, I’m wondering…what’s your oxygen mask? What do you really need to do this fall to take care of you?

Tell me in the comments, shoot me an email or let me know on Facebook. I really want to know.

with so much love,
Alana

P.S. Click here to find an Indie Kindred screening near you.

P.P.S. You have no idea how hard it is for the over-achieving, people-pleasing little-girl-inside to allow this kind of a decision. But I’m standing in trust and in the truth of what I preach, not knowing where it will take me but believing it will be good.