Blue Scilla from Celia

     The day I lost Celia, I too lost my faith.  I lost faith in fate, destiny, spirituality and most of all G-d.  I was, prior to my loss, a spiritual person with a slightly eclectic belief system.  Yet since losing my daughter, I have found it hard to believe that any higher power could allow such a thing to happen;  that a child's life could be taken before it truly began.  I have heard many say that Celia's death was part of G-d's plan.  I did not want to know a G-d who made plans like these.  I have found myself enraged at what most of us call G-d.  But I also have found myself feeling confused and disconnected.

     I have been brought up in the Jewish faith.  That means I have been taught, and teach others, about the extensive customs, rituals and traditions that the living do when a person dies.  How we treat and take care of the body, what we wear to show we are in mourning, why we have funerals and say prayers; were all part of what I have been brought up to know.  However, in Judaism, at least in my experience, we are not taught about what happens to the person who has died.  Sure, we know that their body no longer goes on living and we are taught to believe in the neshama, the soul, going somewhere else to await the arrival of the messiah.  But we do not know where that place is. Unlike in Christianity we do not speak of Heaven only of the heavens.   For that reason, as well as others, I find it hard to identify with the idea of my child as an angel.  I cannot picture her with feathery wings laying on a cloud somewhere high above us all.  

     This loss of faith has left an even deeper emptiness that adds further isolation to what I have already been experiencing.  I, therefore started asking friends what they believed happened to a person when they died.  I heard touching stories of dreams of their loved ones assuring them everything would be alright, of feeling a person's presence in the wind, of signs their loved one had sent in the way of orbs or hearts and so many other stories that were meant to warm and reassure me.  But I didn't feel reassured.  I felt lowly.  I have not experienced any of those things.  And so I began to feel that I was undeserving of such a feeling of peace and connection.  Some might assume that I have not been exposed to those types of experiences because I have been "closed" to the idea of such signs, yet I feel as if the opposite were true.  I so desperately have wanted some evidence that Celia's soul had survived and she forgave me for not being able to save her.  

     

     Yesterday I went walking.  As I walked, I tried to keep my mind occupied by listening to an audio book.  If you ask me what it was about, I would be unable to tell you as all I could concentrate on was what the next day, what is now today, meant.  April 2, 2013 would be, is, six months to the day since Celia died.  This amount of time seems significant to me.  I am sure, had she lived, instead of writing and sharing this blog, I would be sharing photos of her smiley face with some sign showing everyone that my baby was six months old today.  I would take pride in all the "ooh'ss and aww's" of how adorable my daughter was.  But instead of pictures of my six-month-old to share I have a six month old memory of loss, trauma and heartbreak.  My journey, so far, may be difficult for others to witness.  I understand.  Watching a person deep in grief, misery, shame, and guilt.  It must be difficult to bear witness to such seemingly self-distructive behavior.  As I walked, I thought of all these things.  Then, as I came upon my house I noticed a cluster of purplish-blue flowers blooming under what would have been Celia's side window.  I have lived in this house for seven years and have not once seen such a flower in or around my yard.  I sat next to the cluster of flowers and began to cry.

 

Blue Scilla from Celia

      "Celia" I whispered softly as the tears flowed.  Could this be the sign that I had been searching for or could it be some figment that I have created to ease my suffering?   I suppose I could choose either answer, but I choose to believe that these beautiful little flowers came from my daughter.  I choose to believe that she sent them here just for me.  After taking a few photographs, I continued with my day.
     When evening fell I listened in on a teleconference designed to help grieving mothers and the people who support them move forward with their lives.  I found it to be unhelpful and began to again feel the dagger of loss in my chest.  "What are your biggest challenges to healing?" The professional on the other end of the phone asked.  She instructed us to write two of these challenges down and be as specific as possible.  I did not even have to take a moment to think.  I instantly knew my biggest challenges were: 1) My incomparable sense of guilt over the death of my daughter.  If it had been my body that failed, then how could I move beyond that.  If it had been my midwife that failed, and I am not asserting this to be the case, then I am the one who chose her, so truly that was my failing too.  All the roads of what if's lead back to me.  2) Feeling pressured or shamed by other people's timelines and judgements, whether or not those judgements were true or simply my own perception or projection.  And 3) I have no desire to truly live.  I have no intentions of ending my life, but the idea that I should "move on" or be in the world knowing what could have been, what was supposed to have been, and is no longer, seemed impossible.
     Somewhere in the abstruse teleconference land, was another woman, who through our losses has become a dear friend.  She too had found the teleconference to be unhelpful.  I believe the term she used to describe the content was "plastic."  Instead of ending the eve of Celia's six month birth day with the uncomfortable, plastic words of a stranger, I chose to confide in my friend, Camilla.  "Tomorrow it will have been six months," I pointed out "and a Tuesday."  Celia was born and died on a Tuesday, my first surgery was on a Tuesday, I was readmitted to the hospital with an infection to undergo more surgeries on a Tuesday, on a Tuesday, on a Tuesday, on a Tuesday.  It seemed as if the day were always going to be a day full of suffering.
     Camilla offered empathetic words and then simply stated "That's your day...your's and Celia's..."  Until that moment I truly hadn't thought about the day in that way. Yes, Tuesday was the day I lost her, but it was also the day I got to hold her in my arms.
     I went on to lament of the cemetery being closed, the brick not yet being installed at the zoo.  Then I remembered the cluster of flowers beneath the window.  I sent the picture to Camilla and told her what I have already told you of their origins.  Camilla immediately identified the flowers  "Blue Siclla...beautiful" she went on to research the meaning of the sign my daughter had sent.  "Forgive and forget," was the message she had found.  She feared the discovery of the message would upset me. The forget part was certainly curious.  I began to wonder.  I started analyzing the easy one, forgive.  I am sure if I am to live a life at all I will need to move towards forgiving myself.  I will also need to be forgiving of others. The cliche' words some speak, the way in which some have retreated from my side, and yes, even the cruel things that have been uttered will all, in time, need to be forgiven.  The harder half of the message, forget, was strange in this situation.  Or was it?   I was never going to to forget my daughter, so that could not possibly be what was meant or what it would mean to me.  Perhaps forget was meant in the way of letting go.  Not, of course, letting go of my daughter, but in the letting go of the drowning pain I feel.  Letting go of the harsh words that I have snorted to myself and others have spoken to me.  As my mind raced to analyze such a message Camilla continued her research of the meaning of this flower.  "Bluebell," she informed "is another name that covers many types of scilla.  They symbolize humility associated with constancy, gratitude and everlasting love."  By this point in our conversation Camilla and I were both in tears.  Though these tears were different.  For the first time the tears I shed did come with the searing pain of loss.  Rather, they were a comfort a reminder of the love that I have for my child and the love she would have had and seemingly does have for me.  I was becoming incredibly warmed by these flowers.  Scilla, when uttered, even sounds a little like Celia. Camilla went on to find Cicely Mary Barker's Scilla Fairy.  She is a coy little sprite who comes with these words:

Scilla, Scilla tell me true, 

Why are you se very blue?

Oh, I really cannot say

Why I'm made this lovely way!

I might know if I were wise.

Yet-I've heard of seas and skies,

Where the blie is deeper far

Than our skies of Springtime are.

P'r'aps I'm here to let you see

What that Summer blue will be.

When you see it, think of me!

Cicely Mary Barker

     Am I cured now? No, I cannot say that I am.  But am I better?  Yes, for the first time, in six months, I am better than yesterday.  

   

The Shame of a Childless Parent

     August 2012, I had entered my eighth month of pregnancy.  I had many friends, several of whom had children of their own, who were eagerly awaiting the arrival of my little one and even went so far as to claim "dibs" on baby snuggles.  However, the anxiety of possibly becoming a single mother was mounting and I craved community, even beyond the backbone of support that was my existing friends and family.  I wanted to feel a sense of kinship and belonging to a community of likeminded young families; families who believed in the methods of attachment parenting, natural home births, cloth diapering, breastfeeding, and the like.  After asking for guidance on the subject, my midwife's apprentice lead me to a support group with an online forum and an active real life presence full of potlucks, craft swaps, nights out, play dates, the works.  The parents, mostly mothers, were diverse in background, but all were drawn to the attachment parenting lifestyle.  The moment I joined I felt fully held by the members of this group.  An abundance of empathy, compassion, help, hope, laughter, and love exists there.
     I immediately felt comfortable posting queries with concerns and felt like a valuable member when I was able to weigh in on someone else's.  I even was able to put my social anxieties aside and I allowed myself to be present at Mom's Night Out gatherings.  I attended mother blessings for women, who like me, were soon to birth a life into the world.  A support group mother, pregnant as well, even shared her  own mother blessing with me so I too cold have the experience of receiving gifts, rituals, poems, stories, and blessings of strength and hope from heartfelt mothers.  In a short time, these women, many of whom I had not and may never meet in real life, became my sisters in a way I had never imagined. Therefore, when on October 2 at 4:30 AM I was kneeling on pillow posting my "ok, I'm in labor!" thread in the midst of a long strong contraction, I thought it to be a completely normal action.  Though I was in no position to read the posts at that time, I knew that messages of support, excitement and easy labor vibes were pouring in.  I imagined myself as a conduit to receive such blessings and let them flow through me to my child and thus into the world.  
     Somehow, all my preparations, all my imagery, all the support I had received could not protect me from the trauma of this labor.  Somewhere near the border that morning and afternoon share, the peace of birth died and took with it my beautiful child, my heart, and my hope.  My lack of activity on my support group labor thread was understood to mean that I was still working to birth my child.  Many eager mamas continued to post sending encouragement and good vibes.  At 4:55 PM my "ok, I'm in labor" thread changed names to read "ok, I'm in labor! UPDATE: Baby's here."  This is what was written by my midwife's apprentice, my friend: "I will let Lisa update more later.  Her baby is here but please send Lisa all of your prayers and good vibes." Vague as it was it sent the message that something was wrong.  Still, many had hope that perhaps I or the baby were suffering a minor complication.  Support poured in as fast as my tears could flow and on October 3 at 5:45 AM, I informed my online community of sisters that my baby, my beloved Celia Jane, had died.  
     I thought perhaps the death of my child might also mean that my affiliation with the parenting group would die as well.  However, the support from this group continued to flow both virtually and physically.  Threads containing prayers and thoughts for myself and my Celia checkered the online board.  A thread containing information on how to send money to help me cope with my financial burdens was started.  A still separate thread began where mothers could organize the preparation and delivery of meals to my home.  The outpouring of heartfelt and tearful support from this community of parents has left me touched and eternally grateful.  
     The truth of all that has been said about this online parenting support group makes it so much more shameful to say what I am about to say.  But, as does everything since the death of my daughter, this parenting group looks different to me.  Where once I saw a community with which I shared a kinship, I now see a group that has a bond I cannot share.  The members of this group are parents, mothers.  I do not know what that is like, not as they do.  These mothers have children they get to hold in their arms, snuggle with at night, children with which they can laugh, and create new experiences.   They have children who will draw them a picture, sing them a song, tell them they love them.  Yet, I am mother without a child.  It is this fact, this truth, the pain of mothering a dead child and having no others, that leaves me with the sting of envy.  I find myself jealous of these women.  I would never place any of them or anyone for that matter in the shoes that I now stand.  But still the jealousy of their lives, difficult and stressful though they may be, presents itself every time I see the pictures of their babies who were granted life.  I now struggle with my membership of this community.  Childless though I may be, I am still a mother of sorts and that longing for community has not left me.  Nevertheless, I fear the loss of my child and my true emotions, may prevent me from truly belonging.