Alana Sheeren, words + energy

Legoland

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We spent yesterday and today at Legoland. On the drive down, I kept flashing back to our first visit, at the tail end of my four weeks of first trimester bleeding. Steve had work in San Diego so Ada and I spent a day touring the park. She had a blast while I fought nausea and concern. Almost a year later, with her daddy firmly in tow, she rode everything twice while I watched and smiled, delighted by her enthusiasm and the size of her grin.

Three moments stand out from the last two days. Three moments that remind me I am still healing.

We were standing in line at one of the rides, laughing at the shrieks as water sprayed, witnessing parents and children having their different experiences. Suddenly the world slowed as I watched a boy of around 7 get in and lean back against his father. Their level of comfort with each other, the way his father crossed his arms over the boy’s chest, the way the boy wrapped his hands around his father’s arms…the connection and ease between them reached deep into my heart. Tears streamed down my face. Steve looked at me and knew – he’d seen it too. It was the most beautiful, tender, private moment in the middle of this noisy, public place, and it broke my heart.

I had a brief conversation with a young-ish mom about her kids. I had been trying to figure out the age difference between two of them as one seemed only slightly bigger than the other. They were twins and her oldest was 3. You have your hands full, I laughed. Yes I do.  I stood there looking after her and thought, when did I become that person? The one who says inane things that are probably at the top of the list of what not to say to a mom of twins? Maybe it was the result of seeing so many children in one place, so many pregnant women, so many reminders of what my life is not. Maybe in trying to keep the hurt at bay, it crossed wires in my brain. Maybe I need to remember to keep my mouth shut.

We walked past a family today – three children under 6 and an obviously pregnant mom. As we passed, she said something about wanting to ride the roller coaster, after mommy has the baby. The flash of anger took me by surprise. I wanted to scream at her, How dare you? How dare you have four children when I can’t even have two, you irresponsible cow? Then it was gone. Almost seven months out and I’m finally pissed off.

I was thinking of these moments in the shower just now, feeling the weight of my sadness. Toweling off, I couldn’t look at my body without crying – at the heaviness of it, the red welt where the doctors opened me up, the breasts that should be full of milk. Tonight loss is a physical presence, sitting on my right in this anonymous hotel room.

Hello old friend. Pull up a chair. Have a drink. Tell me what you’ve come to say.

Heavy

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There is a heaviness in my body today, a heaviness in my soul. I woke in the middle of the night to my period, the cramping reminded me on a visceral level that there is no baby, only blood. Right before I woke this morning, I dreamed that Ada had been killed. Grief lies just below my skin, covering me in an extra layer of weight.

I cried on the phone to my husband – poor man – halfway across the country with a sobbing wife and nothing to do. Not that he can do much from halfway across the room either, except come closer and make room for my tears. I am tired of being unwell. This year has been hard. A miscarriage, a broken leg, 23 weeks of nausea, bleeding, fear, doctor visits, hospital visits, surgery, Ben’s death and now this grief. Today I am feeling the toll it has taken on all of us. I am ready for a lightening, for relief. I am ready to have the energy my daughter deserves from me. I am ready to feel good and healthy in my body. I am ready for the storm to clear.

There is no guarantee

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I am a mess today. I haven’t been sleeping well. I am struggling to fall asleep, to stay asleep – I keep waking to make sure Ada is breathing – and my dreams have been terrifying. They are either action movie style blood baths or someone I love is in danger – Ada, Steve, me. Right before I woke today I dreamed I couldn’t find Ada at a party. Then I heard her crying and finally found her in a room with a man who was going to try to molest her. The horror of it has yet to leave.

I told my chiropractor that I’m not sleeping and why. As usual he muscle tested his way to the truth.

Think about Benjamin. He pressed against my arm. Think about Ada. Pressed again. They’re both going to grief.

He checked my digestive system, which had improved Friday from my first week off gluten and it was back to not functioning. He helped me through my disappointment by telling me that it was an indication of another layer of what’s happening in my body. It took him a few minutes to determine if it was my under functioning brain or my emotional tidal wave that was the biggest problem. Emotions won.

Back to grief.

Your grief about Ada not having a little brother. No. Your grief that Ada doesn’t…no, does…what?

I didn’t answer.

Your grief that there are no guarantees. Yes. I start to sob. He works with me to release the emotion for a while then probes further. A deeply and stubbornly held belief that doesn’t serve you.

I spit it out because it’s been running through my mind along with I don’t want my baby to die.

I don’t deserve to be happy.

Bingo.

Oh, we’re here again. I’ve been here so many times. Why do I believe I don’t deserve to be happy? Why do I feel my son was taken as punishment and my daughter is next in line? I sob and sob. He works on me, finds where I’m holding it in my body and together we uncover a belief that was formed over 25 years ago. A belief that isn’t even mine but I absorbed and that has my unconscious mind convinced that I am not allowed to shine. It feels like a black hole in my body, like a shadow filled with anti-matter that keeps me stuck in a fictional past. My belief is the figment of a twelve year old’s imagination sucking in the energy of an adult world and it has held me in it’s death grip for far too long.

He gave me instructions then left me to see other patients, checking in periodically to support me until I had unhooked myself from the belief and in my mind at least, I was walking away from the past. It was magical and powerful and now I’m angry. Angry that my baby died, angry that every time I have a bad parenting moment and think, I don’t want to do this right now, I’m afraid I’m inking a death sentence for my child. I can’t stop crying. I don’t know how I’m going to get through the next three days with Steve gone again. I want to break things, throw my body through space and scream at the top of my lungs. I want to know that I will die before my daughter and that day is a lifetime away.

I want that guarantee.

With gratitude

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With life as short as a half taken breath, don’t  plant anything but love.  – Rumi

He never took his own breath but our son, he planted love.

Thank you, to all of you, for helping it grow.

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