Reverb10. Day 7.

Community. Where have you discovered community, online or otherwise, in 2010? What community would you like to join, create or more deeply connect with in 2011? (from Cali Harris)

Yesterday, in my Facebook inbox, was a message from a friend that broke my heart wide open all over again. A friend of hers had gone full term with a baby boy, only to have him die before he was born. In dead baby math, this is one of the worst losses. No hints, no warning signs, just utter devastation. The news sent me reeling back to the end of July, when I lay in my hospital bed, in shock, in pain, separated from reality by the constant beeping of monitors and comings and goings of nurses. I instantly felt great love for this couple I have never met. They have joined this secret community of hundreds of thousands – the sisterhood of the baby lost. It is a tribe no one wishes to belong to and far too many of us do. This is the community I was introduced to in 2010. It is huge, its arms are open wide and there is much support to be found. It was here that I connected with amazingly strong and incredibly sad women such as Angela, Vera Kate and Jessica to name just a few. Tonight in my meditation I began to cry for this community – for the woman who woke to find her day old baby dead at her breast; for my friend who felt her son’s final desperate struggle for life, blissfully unaware of what was taking place; for the family who joined us this past Sunday. The sisterhood of the baby lost.

At the same time, there are other communities that have surrounded me with love and support this year. The incredible families here in Ventura who delivered meals every day, then every other day for over a month after Ben’s death. People who had never met us, people who have only known us a short time. The family who took us in when I was on bedrest and Steve was working out of town, drove me to the hospital in the middle of the night, then took care of us again when I was barely able to walk from the surgery, or function from the grief. Our neighbors who cooked for us, walked the dog for us, helped my best friend clean the house the day I came home and my mom arrived. I have been awed by these people and grateful beyond words.

Then there are the friends I have known for years, or lifetimes. They sent cards, love, emails, food. They did what they could from a distance and I love and am grateful to them too.

Finally there is the community that I met here, online, mostly during last year’s version of Reverb10, the best of 09. Though some dropped away as I neglected blogging and tweeting through the ups and downs of my pregnancy, others have held my virtual hand, left loving messages, given of themselves in ways I never could have asked for or imagined myself accepting before this. This blog has reconnected me to people I knew, and has introduced me to others who are gifts in my life though our correspondences have been brief. The power of a virtual community is real.

In 2011 I intend to strengthen the circles I belong to, so that more connections are made, and circles begin to overlap. I intend to step back into giving since this year I learned to receive. I would like more time for Twitter, more time to read and comment on other blogs. I would love to put living, breathing, flesh and blood people to names I have come to adore through the ether. I want to deeply embed myself into my community here, spending time with friends, getting to know my city now that I can get out of the house. There is a spiritual, healing community that I want to deepen my connection with. I might not be clear on where I’m headed in this life, but I do know that is an important next step on the path. My last intention, though arguably the most important, is to participate more actively in the global community. I’ve been quoting Gandhi for years. It’s time to move into being that change.

When you know you can’t be pregnant, you don’t want to be pregnant, you are still recovering from being pregnant and your heart is broken, having extreme exhaustion manifest as pregnancy symptoms is a cruel turn of events.

*****

Reverb10. Day 5.

Let Go. What (or whom) did you let go of this year? Why? (from Alice Bradley, author of Let’s Panic About Babies).

This year I let go of the hope that my son would be born alive. I let go of believing I was in control of my life. I let go of my need to do everything myself and I began asking for help.

I am still letting go, moment by moment, of the fear that engulfs me now when night falls. I am letting go of who I was before this year – before the miscarriage, the broken leg, the stillbirth, the rending of my soul into pieces. I am letting go of habits and beliefs that no longer serve me, of some that have never served but that I have clung to tenaciously, such as, I am not enough. I am letting go of the need to have things done my way, of the desire to beat myself to a pulp for my imperfections, of the compulsion to say yes when inside I’m screaming, No!

I am letting go of objects, weight, meanings, attachments and the book club I founded six years ago. I am letting go of things that I want to hold on to. But I know that in order to fully step into myself, I need to release them, to simplify, to create space for what’s new.

*****

Reverb10. December 6.

Make. What was the last thing you made? What materials did you use? Is there something you want to make, but you need to clear some time for it? (from Gretchen Rubin, author of The Happiness Project)

Most of what I make these days has to do with a certain 3 year old, which is a blast. Lately I’ve been hearing whispers coming from deep inside that I need to work with my hands, to create in a crafty way I’ve never done before. I’m intimidated and my insecurities rush like blood to my cheeks when I think about outcomes and results. Even so, I am listening.

Last week I made a simple stamped ornament for another baby lost family whose son died after what I can only imagine was a devastating two days. I’ll be putting that in the mail tomorrow, sending love with my mediocre handiwork. The ever-inspiring fairy godmother wholly jeanne suggested I make a legacy cloth when I wrote here about getting rid of baby clothes. She’s promised me it’s a low-pressure, as-long-as-it-takes kind of project. She’s promised to hold my hand. I’m going to hold her to those promises.

I’ve also been craving all things felt. When I think of felt, I think grade school art projects but oh my, have you seen what’s happening on etsy? Felt is amazing – or rather, what people do with it who know what they’re doing, is amazing. I want to give it a shot and I’m ready to be humble. We’ve set up an art and craft table in the new house. In 2011 I hope to find myself there, working with my hands, feeding the cravings, and watching what unfolds.

Reverb10. December 4.

Wonder. How did you cultivate a sense of wonder in your life this year? (from Jeff Davis, author of The Journey from the Center to the Page).

Wonder.

Sunsets. Sunrises. Sunshine. Rainbows. Full moons. Shooting stars. Ocean waves. Prayer. Meditation. Laughter. Being mama to the most delightful daughter. Being married. Being pregnant. Not being pregnant. Trusting. Loving. Talking to angels. Talking to God. Gifts of spirit. Gifts of friendship. Gifts of love. Singing. Chanting. Standing on two legs. Walking, dancing, yoga. Breathing. Beauty. Holding on. Letting go. Growing. Growing. Growing. Gratitude.

Wonder.

Reverb10. December 3.

Moment. Pick one moment during which you felt most alive this year. Describe it in vivid detail (from Ali Edwards, Memory Keeping Idea Books).

The moment that drifted into my consciousness as I read this, the moment that I felt most alive was also the moment I was closest to death. It was a little after 8:30 am on Thursday July 29th. I had been at the hospital since 1:30 or so, wide awake, wondering who would be right, the doctor on call who thought my bleeding would clot again, or the Irish night nurse who’d already had me sign the paperwork for emergency surgery with the same shake of her head I’d seen a week and a half prior. My doctor had come in on his morning rounds, then left again. The wonderful day nurse who had taken care of me the previous visit had gone on to see her patients since her request to be with me had been denied. I was alone and felt the gush of warmth between my legs. They had taken away Benjamin’s heartbeat monitor hours earlier after struggling to find a beat that wasn’t mine. It’s likely he was already gone. I had moved from worry to peace, fear to acceptance in the early morning hours. I wanted my son to live but handed the decision to the Divine. The only hope I wasn’t giving up on was coming out of this alive.

I was lying on my back, the strange contractions coming regularly, feeling as though a vegetable peeler was taking away layers of my uterus, just behind my old Cesarean scar. The nurse returned, brown hair and tanned skin framing a warm smile and concerned eyes. I told her. She looked. I saw her face before she spun and walked out of the room. Suddenly where there had been stillness there was action. My doctor returned. My gown was lifted, the blue and white chux pad stained bright red exposed to the harsh hospital lights. He reached inside me once, twice, three times. I arched and pushed away, gasping in shock and pain. He apologized, I’m sorry I have to clear the clots, you’re full of clots, I’m almost done. He stood up, this kind, seasoned man who had once said in his heart of hearts he believed my pregnancy would be fine; this man who is disliked by many for his lack of bedside manner but who is one of the finest ob/gyn’s in town; he stood up, looked down at me and said, I don’t get nervous easily. I’m getting nervous. I nodded, understanding my life was on the line. Do what you need to do, I trust you.

I picked up the phone to call my parents back, having spoken with them only minutes before letting them know where I was. I’m going into surgery. Steve’s on an airplane coming home. I love you. I’ll call you later.

They were shaving me, a catheter was going in, my other hand was prepped in case one line wasn’t enough for blood transfusions. I heard voices, felt the whirlwind of activity that goes along with a life in danger – two lives, though at 23 weeks, no one had much hope of my baby surviving more than a few hours.

I called the friends who were taking care of Ada, who had been taking care of me. They offered company. I declined. I felt at peace, taken care of, loved. I had been feeling a hand on my left shoulder and the presence of angels all morning. Though no friend or family member was in the room, I was far from alone.

They wheeled me down the hall and into surgery. My doctor was on the phone with the specialist I had seen the previous week, trying to find out if there was any reason to believe Benjamin was big enough, strong enough, to survive. They moved me to the operating table and sat me up for the spinal. I remember cracking a joke just before the needle went into my spine. I flinched. The cocky young anesthesiologist hadn’t numbed the area well enough. He seemed shocked at his mistake. I remember everyone looking young and attractive, despite their shower cap headgear, face masks and sterile, monochromatic outfits. My doctor pushed open the door, still in his street clothes. I remember thinking, Wait a minute, aren’t you operating on me? Now? He told me that at 23 weeks gestation, the NICU wouldn’t get involved unless the mother asked them to do everything in their power to save her child. I smiled sadly and shook my head. Steve and I had talked about this after our last visit. 23 weeks was too young. My heart broke for the thousandth time.

The rest is a blur of white and blue, voices talking to me and to each other, the familiar tugging as they cut me open and began the process of removing my child. I left my body and went to my daughter, staying with her in my mind? spirit? until Carmen came to my side. He was stillborn. There were no signs of life.

They closed me up. Moved me to recovery. In that moment, everything had shifted and I began the process of healing my body and mourning my child.