The Gift of Protest

This Saturday, January 21st, I will join hundreds of thousands of women marching all over the country in protest of our soon-to-be president, Donald Trump.

Like everyone else, I have my own reasons for marching.

It is interesting that the march should fall on the date that it does, because January 21st has very special meaning to me. January 21 was Clara’s due date. Of course, babies can be born many days before or after their due date, but since Clara was not born, I have come to think of January 21st as her birthday.

This year, on January 21st, my daughter would be one year old.

My daughter who died.

My wonderful daughter who died because she was diagnosed with a lethal fetal anomaly.

My loved and wanted daughter who died because her diagnosis gave us only two options:

Birth her and watch her die

-or-

Undergo a medical procedure known as abortion in order to end the pregnancy (and pain).

We chose the medical procedure.

Trump’s campaign, administration and mere presence in the public spotlight is a threat to women.

Just the other day a man who holds political office, claimed he was “inspired by Trump” and sexually assaulted a woman, grabbing her by the vagina and telling her no one would believe her. Fortunately for the victim, the assault was caught on surveillance video.

Trump, and everything he stands for, is a threat to the rights and well-being of women.

BUT WAIT, THERE’S MORE.

Trump, and everything he stands for, is a threat to many more than just women. He and his cronies are a threat to people of color, to immigrants, to the LGBTQ community, to our economy, our national security, our healthcare, our rights… you get the idea.

I’m marching on Saturday because Donald Trump is

NOT

MY

PRESIDENT

I do not acknowledge him. I do not hold an ounce of respect for the office while he is in it.

I will resist.

I march because if Donald Trump and his cronies had their way, I would have been forced into a healthcare situation that not only held dangers for me, but which could easily be classified as cruel and unusual punishment.

I march because I will not go quietly back to “when America was great”.

I march because I, the daughter of lesbians, will fight for the right to love.

I march because I have educated myself on our country’s history, I am listening to people of color and I will resist, with my dying breath, the politics and employment of white supremacy that continues to degrade, defile and dispatch the lives of black people.

I march for her.

For Clara.

Happy Day, my darling girl.

Mommy loves you so, so much.

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What We Keep In The Corners

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Tonight my oldest son and my husband went to the Bull’s game, so I did what any person with an ill-formed sense of judgment would do, and took my four-year-old to Chuck E Cheese’s.

In all seriousness, we had a lovely time. I watched Silas kick a much older child’s ass at a snowmobile racing game. The older boy spent the first half of the race taunting my sweet-hearted 4-year-old… and the second half of the game chewing through his bottom lip as my angel formed the older child’s taunts into a laser beam of drive and ambition with which he would calmly destroy all that the older child had ever held dear.

When he emerged, victorious, he simply looked at his nemesis the older child, pure innocence beaming from his little aura, and said “Fanks! That was fun!

Oh yes, he is my child. *evil grin*

ANYWAYS. Before we went to Chuck E Cheese, I took my little date out for dinner to Noodles and Company (his fave). Over pasta, we discussed the various ways that apples can be sliced and the way we like them best (thin slices, but not too thin). We discussed the many merits of Chapstick. We talked about Super Why and Eye of the Tiger. It was during a short discourse on Survivor that he, rather loudly and distinctly, interrupted me by saying, “Mom, it’s sad that my baby sister died.”

You could have heard a noodle drop.

I recovered myself from the land of montage music and replied that yes, it was sad and that it’s okay to feel sad about it. I wasn’t sure what else to say. It isn’t the first time that he has randomly brought up Clara, and it’s evident to me that he’s still working it all out. What struck me, though, was his okayness with the topic. Of course, he is simply too young to know that it is taboo. Too young to consider that talking about it might upset me, but I don’t see this as problematic. Instead, I am in awe of the way he lives his life completely out in the open. There are no dark corners where he hides things deemed too painful to discuss.

I love this about him. I am certainly not known for my lack of candor, but even I have a tendency to hold things close when I think they’re too messy for the world to see. Of course, there’s nothing wrong with this and people should never disclose more than makes them comfortable, but I’ve always found comfort in communicating pretty much all. Once you learn to live with the vulnerability which is inevitable with this way of being, it’s pretty damn freeing.

What’s more, I’m proud AF of the fact that we have handled Clara’s loss in a way that Silas feels comfortable bringing it up over buttered noodles in a very public forum. That tells me that despite our unimaginable grief, we have kept our experience with losing Clara from being pushed into the corners. It is not a taboo subject in our home. This not only feels like the healthiest way to handle it with our children, but it feels like the best way to honor her.

We will talk about her. She is part of our family. And, just like I told Silas tonight, it’s totally normal to feel sad about her not being here.

I feel sad about it every day.

But, I also feel happy every single day about having him, and Daddy, and Caiden in my life.

Life is dark and light. It is gains and losses, gratitude and regret.

And while tact and timing are social lessons that he will need to learn, I hope that he can continue to live a life with no dark and dusty corners.

…I also hope he continues to sweetly destroy anyone who tries to knock him down.

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The New Family – When Your Mom Comes Out

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I had the GREAT pleasure to spend some time chatting with Brandie Weikle over at The New Family, and my episode went live today! Have a listen on your commute home tonight and remember

YOU ARE ENOUGH.

Listen to the podcast directly on the site, or find them on iTunes, SoundCloud, Stitcher, and various other platforms!

The Anniversary, An Unexpected Adventure

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Dear Clara,

One year ago today, you were taken from my body.

One year ago today, I said the first of many goodbyes to you. I just can’t seem to stop saying goodbye to you, so often are you on my mind.

The last two weeks have been really hard. Like, trudging through quicksand, next level hard. And it’s no wonder. After all, last Labor Day weekend, we found out that you were a girl. Our first daughter, our sweet Clara. Three days later, we got the call that something appeared to be amiss. One week after that, we found ourselves in the office of a specialist, listening to a diagnosis that felt like it must surely be meant for someone else.

Five days later, you were gone.

It all happened so fast.

A fellow Warrior Mom has been reading a book called The Body Keeps the Score, by Dr.Bessel van der Kolk, which discusses the way that traumatic experiences literally reshape our brain, creating a physical record and replay function of the trauma, over which we have little control. It’s a book I intend to read very soon, but even without having read it, I am able to see just why the last couple of weeks have been so hard.

My body remembers.

My body remembers so well, that I spent the last two weeks fretting myself right into a case of bronchitis which landed me in the ER receiving a breathing treatment and a bag of fluids.

I made it to this day, though, and out of respect for the pain and my own grieving process, I decided to take today off of work. I’d be alone, well except for Milo Dog, and would be able to feel my feelings and let my heart guide me towards what activities would serve me best. Perhaps I would knit and send up a heartbeat for you with every turn of the needles. Perhaps I would take a walk in the woods and listen for you in the leaves, rustling crisply as they give over their supple green to the slowly encroaching Autumn hues and textures. Perhaps I would work on clearing the garden for Fall, pushing my hands into the earth and reminding myself of the oneness of it all, you included.

Parenthood had other ideas.

Silas was up half the night complaining of an earache and a headache. Milo needed to have a behavioral evaluation at a local boarder, so that we can board him for a wedding this weekend, and so my “Self-care Day” slowly turned into something else entirely.

First, I took Silas to the doctor this morning. Thankfully the ear ache is not an infection. Just fluid, likely caused by allergies. So we’re going to stick to the Children’s Claritin and try to make it through the rest of ragweed season without anything turning infected.

Milo’s behavioral visit was fine. We’re going to set him up to spend a full day there sometime this week, just so he can really get acquainted with the place before we leave him for an overnight.

By the time Silas and I left the dog boarder, it was lunch time. Since we had Milo with us, I decided to drive over to St. Charles (a little town on the Fox River that Daddy and I both love) and grab some lunch on a dog-friendly patio.

I ordered a beer. +5 self care points?

While we were waiting for our food, Silas informed me that he needed to pee. Just to recap, Silas is 4, cannot take himself to the bathroom, and we were on a patio with a 70lb velcro dog who does not enjoy being left alone.

I told Silas he needed to hold it. He said he could not.

I texted Daddy to see if he had any ideas. He did not.

Then Silas asked me, in the sweetest voice possible, if he could just pee in his pants.

I picked my heart back up off the pavement, slammed it back into my chest and mustered up the courage to ask our waitress if she would mind sitting with our dog for a few minutes while I took Silas to the bathroom. She very sweetly agreed, so I gave her a handful of treats for him and raced off to the bathroom, grateful for her kindness.

We returned to the table and as we waited for our order, I reflected on the way my day was turning out. Not bad, of course. It hasn’t been a bad day by any means. It’s just been so opposite the somber, introspective, grief stricken day that I had imagined it would be. By contrast, it’s been a day filled with so much life. From lingering bronchitis, to thankfully uneventful pediatrician visits, to dog boarders.  From inconvenient potty requests, to kind strangers, to a craft beer enjoyed under the shade of a towering oak tree, a dog snoozing at my feet and Silas zooming cars around the table top. It has been a wonderful, lively day.

There is, of course, a part of me who hurts immeasurably because you aren’t here to enjoy these days. However, as I sat on that patio, watching the dappled sunlight dance through the oak tree and smelling the first hint of dried leaves on the breeze, it felt as though you were telling me something about what today was really for.

Today wasn’t a day for grief. Today was a day for life. Crazy, messy, silly, happy, LIFE.

I left the waitress a hefty tip, along with a note, explaining how her small kindness had meant the world to a random Mom on a sad day. I then threw nap time windows to the wind, and we decided to visit Daddy at work, since it was just down the street. Why the heck not. Silas is napping now (late, and probably not for very long), and I’m sitting in the library, the room that was to be yours. Really, it is yours, I think it might always be. I’m overcome with the kind of peace and relaxation that only seems to find me in this room, and I’m finally doing something I had planned to do today. I’m writing. The words are just very different than what I expected them to be.

On a day which I expected to think only of death, you filled my heart and mind with appreciation for life, be it mundane or exemplary, or some spectacular mix of both.

Thank you for still teaching me, my Little Moon. I hope you always will.

We are all thinking of you, today and every day, and Mommy loves you, my darling girl.

I love you so very, very much.

Mommy

April Love, Day 6 – Books

This April, I am participating in Susannah Conway’s April Love, a month of love letters. Using her predetermined prompts, I’ll be writing a love letter to an aspect of my life every day (well, maybe) in the month of April. Thanks for tagging along!

Dear Books,

GAH. I love you. You have made possible the exploration of time and the redefinition of reality. You make me smarter. You make me wiser. You entertain. On top of it all, you very often provide a metaphorical refuge, a safe place, when things in life are hard. You let my mind escape the every day.

You provided a literal safe place, after we lost Clara. In those long and empty days, after we said goodbye, my heart broke every single time I passed the room that was to be hers. One day, however, things changed. One day, I looked into that room and didn’t see an unfinished nursery. I looked into that room and I didn’t see my own empty womb. Instead, I saw a library, waiting to be filled. I noticed the perfect way that the morning sun came in through the window, and I thought how sweet a little chair would look tucked into that corner, a place to sit and feel the breeze. My eyes wandered over the wooden floors and trim, across to the solid wooden door and realized that bookshelves, wrapping around the room in a similar tone of wood, would be absolutely intoxicating to my eyes, which so prefer natural, untouched finishes. I imagined filling the room with stories, true and untrue; with history, remembered and revered. I imagined all of my favorite characters coming together in one space, wizards and ladies in waiting, Queens and adventurers. I imagined all of the life that could be poured into that sad little room, by simply filling it with books.

It did not take long before we did just that. A lifelong hoarder of books, I filled the shelves easily after the furniture was purchased. However, the library is not just for me, and so we all brought in our books. Residents of the library are not just the likes of Elizabeth Bennett, Aragorn and Harry Potter, but the Cat in the Hat and Greg Heffley. We’ve got construction truck counting primers, hungry caterpillars and anthropomorphic warrior cats. We have comic books and compendiums, covering everything from The Beatles to Batman.

It is a lively room, indeed.

So, thank you, books. Thank you for being my teacher. Thank you for being my friend. Thank you for giving my mind a place to go, while challenging it to be more, do more, see more, and say more. Thank you for bringing life back into a room where I once only saw death.

I will be forever grateful,

Kelly

Capture Your Grief, Day 23 – Love Letter

sun-heart-autumn-leaf-39379.jpegAn Open Letter to All Parents Who Chose To Terminate a Pregnancy For Medical Reasons:

Since losing Clara, I have often been lumped into support groups or bloggers whose focus is Pregnancy and Infant Loss. This association is one that almost always makes me uncomfortable. I am hesitant because our loss was voluntary… sort of. I mean, our diagnosis meant that Clara would have been very unlikely to survive outside my womb, but still. I sometimes don’t feel comfortable being included among women who have spontaneously lost pregnancies, or who have had stillborn babies. I am often afraid that my presence must be insulting in some way. I am honestly not sure if I am welcome, and I feel like a fraud in their company.

Occasionally, this sensation is so consuming that I find myself being vague about how we lost Clara. Not wanting to offend, I sometimes leave out just enough information for our story to sound like a pregnancy loss, rather than an abortion for medical reasons. Some days I just don’t have the courage to weather the potential judgement. Some days my heart is just too sore.

So, I see you. I know. I know how hard it is. I know how much it sucks. I know the isolation. Among bereaved parents, we are a sort of sub-group, and one that does not get a lot of time in the spotlight. Sometimes, it feels as though we are the murky underbelly of pregnancy loss and parental bereavement. No one really knows where, or if, we belong.

The decision to end a pregnancy, for any reason, is a painful and heavy decision to make. Choosing to end a pregnancy when that baby is wanted, so, so wanted, is a waking nightmare. It is every bit as traumatic as unexpectedly losing a pregnancy or child, but it is different.

Do not let the isolation make you despondent. While we may not have an official awareness month and we might not feel as though we always belong among those Walking to Remember, we still have each other. We are not alone. You are not alone.

I don’t need to know why you ended your pregnancy. You don’t need to justify it to me, or to anyone. I know that, whatever your reason, it was hard, and I am so sorry you were ever in that position. I know that belonging to this particular group is sometimes scary, because it can bring judgement from people who really, truly, do not understand. It can bring angry words and vitriol. Hate and condemnation.

I will do my best to bring balance by telling you this:

I love you. I love you for being brave. I love you for making what felt like an impossible decision because you had the presence of mind to know what was best for you and your family, and then the courage to follow through. I love you for being here, for searching for your community. I love you, because you have found us. We are here. We are not the murky underbelly of pregnancy loss. We are Mothers and Fathers, bereaved. We are humans who, when faced with devastating circumstances, had the courage to make a difficult decision. As if that wasn’t impressive enough, you are still here to tell the tale. You survived. Every new day is a victory. Every new day is an opportunity for more healing, and for more growth. I love you because you are still moving forward. I love you because you inspire me to do the same. I love you because when I feel like I am on an isolated island of loss and pain, you remind me that this place, our little island, is far from empty.

I love you, because you are here.

Stay strong,

Kelly

 

 

Capture Your Grief, Day 9 – Family

We are very fortunate, in that my husband and I have remarkable families. Even better, all of our immediate family lives in the same state as us, with many of them just down the street. What this means is that, when things happen, we have a support network to fall into, and with the events of last year, we indeed fell.

When we received our diagnosis and made the decision to end our pregnancy, our family rallied. Trips were cancelled, days off were scheduled, meals were cooked, shoulders were available for crying, phone lines were tied up and everyone made themselves available for either comfort or counsel, often both. We do not take this blessing lightly. My husband and I are both very aware of our good fortune in the relationships we enjoy with our parents, grandparents, brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles and cousins. We both know, through loss or estrangement, what it feels like to be without family, and it makes us all the more grateful for these beautiful people who jumped in to catch us when we fell. We would not have made it through our loss without them.

Whoever your family, whether they be by blood or by choice, take a moment today to thank them for being in your life. We all need people to catch us when we fall.