Growing Inside

471

2009-12-14T17:14:00.003-05:00

I've written 470 posts on this blog. This one is 471. I think it will be my last for a while. Maybe it will actually be my last on this blog. I'm afraid to write that, because now that I live far away from all my friends and family - except, of course, my core family, my husband and daughter - I am already feeling isolated enough. But I am needing to withdraw, similar to the need I had back in September, which clearly I didn't do a very good job of sticking to.

Let me see if I can explain...

I started this blog to chronicle my second pregnancy. It was going to be for my future child to read when s/he got old enough. It was going to help our families and friends stay connected to us as we moved abroad and were pregnant far away. It was going to help me stay connected too. 10 weeks later I wasn't pregnant anymore, but occasionally I kept writing. And I wrote on my other blog, the one I'd started much before this one, which wasn't about pregnancy or babies or babyloss, just about life. Then I got pregnant again, and I started writing here again. I stopped writing on my other blog the night of Tikva's ultrasound. And I kept writing here, more and more.

This place has been a refuge. A place I've gone to to share, for support, to support. Here I have felt less alone. Here I discovered how deeply people can love. Here I have chronicled my journey loving Tikva. Here I have honored my daughter, marveled at her, remembered her, longed for her. Here I have made friends I would never have known if I hadn't lost Tikva. Here I found a community when I felt lost at sea.

But it's gotten hard to be here.

Lately it makes me sad here. Both my own story, and others'. Lately I don't feel joy when I hear that another babylost mama is pregnant. Lately I feel like the last woman standing. And I am resistant to share that, because I don't want the comments that assure me that it will happen to me too, really it will, that so many people want that for me too. I don't want the pity, the Poor Gal... and she is so deserving.

And I find myself questioning everything I've written here and on Glow in the Woods for the past year+ since losing Tikva. All those words of hope and trust and faith and wonder; of belief that I am, it is all a part of something bigger; of believing that my body is healthy when day to day it is acting up; that I am not too old to have more children, that it will happen. I'm tired of being inspiring, reassuring, supportive, there for others. I'm tired of receiving emails asking me to make something for another babylost mama as she approaches her babyloss anniversary. I'm tired of being part of this.

And I am beginning to doubt all my lovely ways of looking at the world and experiencing this messy business, because in the end it still hasn't gotten me pregnant, and I still miss my girl, and I still cry every day, and from what I've chosen to share here, I'm not so sure anyone really knows that.

I think I've wanted to write this for a long time, maybe it's what I wanted to say in September. But I've been hesitant to for obvious reasons: not wanting to offend anyone, not wanting to seem bitter, not wanting to disappoint, not wanting to let go of a community that has held me and loved me - and find myself adrift, alone when I already feel really alone.

I've hesitated to write this because of family members who love me and whom I know have been wanting me to do this for a long time. I've hesitated to admit that my husband has been right all along, that this place - for me now - can be toxic (my word, not his), the opposite of healing. That it doesn't help me anymore to read other people's blogs about loss, in the same way that it probably wouldn't have been incredibly healthy if I'd gotten the job in the prenatal department at the children's hospital, focused on research around all the ways in which babies struggle and die.

I'm not sure what it is that I DO need, besides, maybe, three months on a beach in Mexico. It's scary to leave home not knowing where you're headed. But it doesn't feel good here for me anymore. It's a sad place, and while I have always been fearless about crying as many tears as my soul needs to release, I am tired of feeling sad. I am tired of hearing each day that another family has lost a child. I am tired of being a receptacle for sorrow, for fear, for loss of hope and its regaining - my own and others'. I am tired of being inspiring when I don't feel inspired.

I just want to be a regular woman again, loving my husband and daughter, trying to get pregnant without so much riding on it, looking for meaningful work, figuring out the logistics of going back to school at 38, and making a new home in a new place.

Thank you for being here with me, for paying attention to my journey. It means a lot. I already miss this place.

Kitten Love

2009-12-10T20:10:00.002-05:00

Our house just got even more full of love...
Introducing the two new members of our family:
A little boy and a little girl, brother and sister, 12 weeks old.
It just got a lot warmer here...

Little miss is very shy... and so pretty.

Little man is more curious and bold... and so sweet.

Little man looks out for his sister.

This is from the first few moments we brought them home, still getting ready to come out of the carrier.

It's going to take little miss some time...

The Movement of Time

2009-12-06T11:00:00.004-05:00

Sunday mornings Dave and Dahlia go off to Sunday school together - he teaches, she learns - and I get a quiet morning to myself.
It's different than the time I get to myself during the weekdays because it's the weekend and I don't feel pressured to get anything done.
I can move slowly, putz around.
I usually take a really long shower, turn on the heat lamp in the bathroom and stay in there for a long time.
I did that this morning, and let my mind roam...

In my mind this melody was playing:

Adagio For Strings - Samuel Ba...

And I felt awe at the mysterious way in which time moves.

It was my anthem of exactly two years ago
As I lay on the red couch in our apartment in Jerusalem,
Five space heaters on full-time to keep me warm despite the cement that surrounded me,
The ice packs that soothed my burning skin
As I waited for the pain of shingles to go away.
Miserable.

I listened to the music, earpieces in my ears, hoping to drown out the relentless jackhammer outside my window.
I listened and went into a zone that allowed me, somehow, to cope
Without pain medication I could not take because I was pregnant.
Not an escaping, but a dropping deep within my pain.
I think also surrendering to my fear.
I worried about the baby in my belly
Even though doctors told me shingles wouldn't affect her (we didn't know she was a her yet).
I worried about where she would be born,
If we could pull off a home birth in Israel
And where that home would be unless I wanted to push my child out to the music of jackhammers.

I wished more than anything that I could transport myself back to California,
Away from the noise,
Away from the isolation,
Away from the terror I felt as the pain just lingered on and on.

This morning in the bathroom I put oil on my skin
Because it is so dry right now from the heater that warms our house.
I used the last of a bottle of oil I've had for exactly two years:
St. John's Wort oil I got while in Jerusalem to help restore the nerve sensation where the shingles had left scars.
There is still a spot on the left part of my chest where I can't feel anything several layers down,
Where the skin is discolored.
The smell of the oil took me right back there
As if I could feel the cold apartment all around me,
Hear the construction noise outside,
Feel the restlessness of my uncomfortable body trying to find ease out of pain.
I used the last of the oil this morning,
Two years later.

I looked down at my belly, today,
Still showing a very faint pregnancy line a year and a half since I delivered Tikva.
I love that it is still there.
I hope it stays always, until a new one takes its place and they blend together,
Until my belly stretches again.

It snowed when we were in Jerusalem,
A week after our ultrasound.
Right when we were waiting for amnio results and all offices were closed and we just had to wait.
Dahlia and I went outside to build a snow woman (with boobs) and make snow angels.
Then we came inside and she watched cartoons while I emailed our travel agent to get our one-way tickets to come home two weeks later.
It was cold and Israeli apartments are not built for cold.
I let one of the space heaters blow straight onto my body.

The houses here in Ohio are properly insulated so it stays warmer.
But my blood hasn't thickened yet so when I'm alone at home the heat is always on.
I'm not here reluctantly like I was when we were in Israel.
I can feel myself making this place home in a way I never tried to there.
Four years is long enough to settle into a place,
Even though I know we'll be leaving here eventually too.
I appreciate our house, our neighborhood, the simplicity of life here.

And yet I'm a little bit bored (read: I need a job).
And a little bit lonely (read: I haven't made those few deep friendships yet, and knowing how much goes into building those, I'm not sure if I will).
And a little bit homesick (read: I left my heart in San Francisco).

Winter is not my favorite season,
Even in warmer California.
My body loves warm, moist heat (as in Mexico or Hawaii).
My body likes being outside in the sunshine.
My spirit likes to feel loose, not constricted or cold.
I am much happier in few layers of clothing.
Basically, I much prefer summer to winter.

I am thankful for my sunroom
Where I can be warm and surrounded by the crisp light of mid-day outdoors,
Where the sun can come in without the cold.
I am thankful for my kitchen
Where I can make hot chicken soup from scratch.
I am thankful for the phone that allows me to connect with my friends back home.
I am thankful for my trusty laptop, my retreat, my escape, my connection.

I am thankful for Dahlia, my goofy magical fairy,
Who shakes her booty and beatboxes silly songs because she knows it makes us laugh
And she loves the feeling of getting laughter out of us.

Gannet Girl wrote something so beautiful a few days ago.
She lost her grown son, so many years older than Tikva was.
And yet it got me right in that yah-yah place.
Especially this:

and there is no such place
ever
again
there is no season of the year
in which they are all held
in my arms

I let myself cry these days.
I let the tears just flow.

In a moment glancing at Tikva's photo in our dining room,
Her little face peaking out and watching me.
(Angie asks: How can someone so beautiful be so dead?)

In a moment of frustration that Dahlia won't wear a coat when it's less than 30 degrees outside
And I so want, need for her to stay healthy, to stay warm and well and just listen to me because I'm not trying to be a nag, all I want is the best for her.

In that first moment waking up this morning from dreams of missing California.

I'm learning that it's okay not to feel totally at ease all the time.
I'm learning to be more comfortable in that liminal place in between one thing and another.
I'm learning not to wait until something changes to feel better
And that sometimes it's okay not to feel better
But to just be with what is.

Confidence

2009-11-29T18:19:00.007-05:00

On Friday I got on Skype with some of my oldest friends.
Women who have known me for almost 30 years.
Some whom I haven't seen in more than a decade.
One - my Karina - who is my constant, and who calls me daily from California.

Sometime before either of us was born, something big and powerful looked over all that was ahead for me in my life and said,

To make it a little easier throughout, I will give you your Karina. You will meet her early on and you will be close to each other forever. She will witness and love you unconditionally and reflect all you have been through and how you have blossomed. Your paths will move in parallel all of your lives.

(Karina and me, holding each other's babies, January 2004)

We met at the beginning of fifth grade, both of us a little different, born in other countries, weird foods packed in our lunches.
On the first day of school each year - even though I've been out of school for 16 years - I count the years and honor our anniversary.
This September was 28 years.
That's a long time.

She claims that it's equal, that I give to her as much as she gives to me.
That we just get each other in a way that only we, with our history, can get each other.
I honestly could not have gotten this far without Karina.

When Dave and I first started going out, there was something familiar about his nature.
Something about his positive outlook, his faith in life, his confidence, his comfort with people, his ease.
That familiarity reminded me of Karina, and I knew that I could do this journey with Dave as my partner.
Dave asked Karina what he should know about me, and she replied, Gal's neat.
What more could you ask from your lifelong friend?

I loved seeing them all together over the picture on the computer.
I wished I was there with them, these gorgeous women I knew as girls,
There with their gorgeous mothers who had been in their thirties when we were kids,
And their gorgeous children... Three generations of beauties.

All but two of these friends are from Russian families
And for all these years I have been held by Karina's family as if they were my own.
I don't speak Russian at all, but when Karina's mom talks to me,
I understand what she says by a sort of osmosis - feeling the emotion in the sing-song of her language.

Karina and I were talking on the phone today and she told me about a video she had watched with a few of these friends.
It was taken at our high school graduation.
She talked about how for the most part, most of us looked like younger versions of ourselves, but pretty much the same.
Maybe a little less grounded, a little more flighty, bubbly,
But pretty much the same.
Except me.

That's because I was carrying 50 extra pounds, I said.
But it was more than that, Karina pointed out.
And Karina knows me sometimes better than I know myself, so I listened.
She's right, it was more than that.
She spoke about confidence, and how she sees me hold that now, as an adult, as a woman.
She noticed that that confidence just wasn't there back in 1989 when I was a few days away from 18.
She's right, it wasn't.

Maybe it was that I was newly fat, and didn't feel at ease in my body.
Maybe it was that a few years before my parents had gotten divorced and my mom had quite suddenly left our home forever.
Maybe it was that I'd always been a head taller than my friends, who developed years later than I did - the contrast that made me feel large even before I actually was.
Maybe it was that I didn't have a boyfriend... and oh how I wanted a boyfriend in the way, I was convinced, everyone else had a boyfriend.

But then I went back to before high school, even to before my totally awkward and totally void-of-confidence, embarrassingly insecure junior high school years.
And I realized that I just wasn't incredibly confident for most of my life.

Don't get me wrong - about some individual things I was confident:
I knew I was smart and good at school and getting good grades.
I knew that, even if I didn't have stick-skinny legs at age 12, I did have a pretty face, a nice smile with naturally straight teeth, and big eyes with long eyelashes.
I knew that I had a nice voice and could sing on key.
I knew that I was mature and responsible, and a good babysitter, a kid adults trusted and enjoyed being with.
I knew that it was pretty cool that I'd already lived on three continents by the time I was seven, and spoke French... even if those experiences also contributed to what made me feel different.
I knew I was creative.

But that overarching confidence, that sense of ease in one's skin, ease in one's soul, comfort with one's self...
I just didn't find that until so many years later.
Maybe it's the nature of being younger than 25, no matter who you are... but I don't think so.
I didn't bother to take a poll about this at my 20th high school reunion last summer,
But I'm pretty convinced that some of the kids I grew up with who appeared to feel good about themselves in spite of braces and badly permed hair at age 15 really did feel that way.
How and why that is the case, I really have no idea.
How and why I lost whatever deeply-rooted confidence and trust I may have had as a very young child, I'm not really sure.

Maybe it was just part of my journey, part of what I needed to go through in order to get here,
To this place of grounded, trusting, grace-guided womanhood.

I said to Karina on the phone,
Oh how I would love to go back in time to myself at 17, give myself a hug and a glimmer of the confidence I have now.
She finished my sentence,
Let her see you now, so she knows she'll get through it, to all that is ahead. See the wonderful man you married, your beautiful daughter... And all the hard stuff ahead too.

After I got off the phone, I had a flash of myself in 1991 on the roof of my apartment building in Westwood, Los Angeles.
Sophomore year at UCLA, one of the most depressing years of my life.
I filled probably five journals that year with endless longing,
Passages about how low I felt, how alone, how trapped in a body that didn't feel like my own.
In that flash, I sat next to the jacuzzi, my feet dipped in the hot water,
Probably staring down at my thighs, lamenting how large they were
As I wrote in my journal, hoping no one would disturb me, comfortable in my sad loneliness.

(Pregnant with Dahlia at sunset on a beach in Patara, Turkey, August 2003)

I wonder what it would have been like that night on the roof if I had encountered myself,
Back in time from 18 years ahead.
If that Gal had said to me,

Hang tough. You'll lose the weight. You'll release this sadness. You'll find your joy. You'll have adventures, you'll play. You'll fall in love. You'll walk down the aisle. You'll have babies, some who will live, one you will lose but not completely. Things will be great. Things will be hard. But you'll grow and you'll strengthen and you'll work hard and you'll shine. And throughout you'll be held and loved and blessed by lifelong friends, family who know you deeply. Kindred spirits. Keep moving towards that, and I will see you there.

I think she would have given me great confidence, that Gal, if I had met her on that rooftop.

(Pregnant with Dahlia at the Burning Man Decompression Party, October 2003)

On Skype the other day, I felt it.
I felt I had arrived.
I felt grounded, confident, beautiful, me.
I felt it because in my beautiful friends, I could see it too.
And there is no way they could have grown into such amazing women
Without my having gotten here too.

Thank you ladies.
I love you.

Gratitude

2009-11-26T11:08:00.002-05:00

I'm expressing gratitude and other emotions today on Glow in the Woods.

Woah, Nelly!

2009-11-16T13:53:00.004-05:00

Those of you who were born before, say, 1980 might remember the computer game, Little Brick Out. You'd navigate either with a miniature joystick or the arrows on your keyboard, moving a little paddle up and down in order to hit a "ball" (actually just a square on the screen) against a wall (a solid row of squares). The goal was to break through bricks in each layer of wall until you'd cleared them all. This image doesn't really do it justice, because the version I played was DOS-based (which means pre-Windows) with greenish white bricks, paddle and walls against a black screen. I was really good at Little Brick Out, and I wasted hours of pre-adolescent time perfecting my skills. I think I even kept track of my scores on a piece of paper taped to the monitor of my first-generation Apple 2E.

I'm feeling a bit like the ball in Little Brick Out right now. Flying all over the board, trying to hit a target. Sometimes doing so, other times bouncing back to my paddle to try again, sometimes missing the paddle entirely and using up one of my three tries. Undaunted, because I can always hit the Play Again button, start over, and give it another try. But feeling kind of all over the place nonetheless. And I never found a version of the game where the little ball gets to take a break and head to Hawaii for a few weeks.

For the last four weeks or so, I've been waiting to make a big announcement about having gotten the perfect job for me. A job at the local children's hospital working on behalf of babies like Tikva and parents like me. It would be incredibly meaningful, and it felt amazingly right each of the five times I went there for interviews. I felt Tikva so close as I walked the halls and smelled familiar smells. A few times I even got tears of inspiration in my eyes. It was looking very likely that I had the job, and I actually let myself get excited, trusting how right it felt, how meant to be. It felt amazing sharing not only my professional skills but my personal story in each interview, connecting with doctors there on shared experience. And then they decided to completely change the job description, and overnight I was out of the running.

Woah, Nelly! Time to stop, reevaluate, and figure out where to go now.

I wasn't delusional. This job was really happening. The change in plans had nothing to do with me, and just happened last week, after weeks of conversations. Weeks during which I put my job search process mostly on hold, trusting that this thing that felt incredibly right would unfold perfectly.

Perhaps it still has? Perhaps there is a reason for this, and the job would have turned out to be the wrong one in the end? Perhaps 6 months from now, sitting at my desk reading research about one of the thousands of causes of prenatal or neonatal death, I would have burst into tears and realized that this work just hit too close to home? I don't know.

Still, I chose to have a peaceful weekend. I chose to enjoy my time with my family and work in my garden. I chose to put aside all thoughts about my next brilliant plan until Monday morning. And at 8:22 AM today, I was on the phone looking into nursing programs. And after yoga class, I went to one of the local community colleges and filled out my enrollment application so that I have the option of starting some classes there in January.

And this is where I start to feel like the ball in Little Brick Out. Bouncing around amid too many options for nursing programs, none of them clearly turning out to be the easiest and and most obvious choice. Then asking myself how on earth I can even think about going to school full-time when Dave is already the full-time student in the family. Then unsure whether to go for the RN, which requires an Associates degree (and no GRE), or get a bachelor's or master's degree, which doesn't necessarily take more time. Then pausing entirely and asking myself, Do I really want to be a nurse? Can I do this? Go back to school after 16 years? Do I really want to?

Right about then, the little brick is ready to jump from the screen and hit the beach. (Have I mentioned that Ohio is completely landlocked and I haven't seen a seagull in over 3 months? There is just something wrong with a place devoid of seagulls.)

Here is another place the little brick in my brain likes to bounce around, not too productively: That I wish I had gotten a more useful college education like, say, a degree in nursing, which would put me in my 16th year of nursing right about now. Or that I should have made a change of careers about 8 years ago, when I first started feeling the need to get out of the kind of work I do... or even 5 years ago, when I really started feeling less than inspired. Wish I had known what the heck I wanted to do instead back then... Dave is quick to remind me that I actually tried making that change, exploring things like homeopathy, holistic health, midwifery. Shoulda woulda coulda... A totally useless place to be, so I hit Game Over and start a new round.

Interestingly, I didn't completely collapse this weekend after getting the call from HR about the job not working out at the hospital. Yes, I did feel disappointed, and I did cry in Dave's arms, and I did express frustration that the whole thing could have been handled better by them. And I did feel despair at the idea of starting my job search again, of still searching for a job 3 months into the process. And I did feel exasperated that I have to even find a job working at a desk at a computer, when what I really want to be doing is taking patients' vitals, being present at their bedsides, and giving them compassionate care. And I did feel moments of complete - but thankfully short-lived - panic about how long it will take me to get a job and how much of our savings will get eaten through in the process of my search. I did say to Dave with frustration, What am I supposed to be learning from this? But I didn't spiral downward, didn't completely lose hope and inspiration. I may be reconsidering things, but I still trust that I am on the right track, even if the track looks different than I expected.

It's a new experience to just know that I am in the right place, even if I have no idea what things look like even a mile in any direction. Even if another email pops into my inbox just now telling me that I didn't get a job for which I was completely overqualified, I know that there is something much bigger at play in my life right now. It feels very unconditional, this notion that I am not going to wait until X, Y and Z have happened in order to trust life, in order to believe it is good, in order to feel good here. I may not have the deep-and-profound-thing that will give my life here in Cincinnati the kind of purpose rabbinical school gives to Dave, but I am starting to get that it may not be about meaning and purpose, at least that happiness does not have to be attached to that. Sometimes just making a garden beautiful is meaningful enough.

I felt like emotional crap on Friday, stunned and frozen by the unexpected. I decided I would not spend the weekend at my computer researching nursing programs and job options. Instead, I would focus on what matters most - the sweet giggles of Dahlia getting out of her seat 16 times during dinner so that she could tickle her Daddy. The two of them hunched over the box of cookies and cream while I tried not to overconsume the box of New York Super Fudge Chunk I was hoarding. I looked at them and at the abundance of our beautiful Shabbat dinner and said to them, Everything that really matters is right here.

And I looked at the photo of Tikva in our dining room and thought, That includes you, Tiny Love.

***

I've been feeling Tikva so close lately, like she is communicating to me each time I turn a corner in my brick game. I've been crying a lot, too, big releasing cries that feel like new layers of the experience of losing my child. In a split second, I can be right back in the ICN with her, on one of the final days of her life, almost able to smell and feel her in the soft folds of her neck, just between her pointy chin and tiny ears. I am back in the courtyard where she died in our arms. I am walking in Golden Gate Park by myself sometime last fall, looking for signs and wondering what I am supposed to do next - with my mother's heart, with my life. I am at yoga class down the hill from UCSF, haunted by the pull of that place where our story unfolded.

She's there in all the memories, and she's here in the ladybugs, the earthworms, the lavender, the one rose blooming on the challenged rose bush I inherited to care for in our backyard - that incredibly bright dark pink color that, with golden orange, always makes me think of my Baby Girl. She's there in the little gold 18-month dress hanging on display in the store at the mall, and I can see how beautiful she would have looked in it. She's there in the baby who smiles from her mother's shopping cart at Trader Joe's. (I swear babies must feel it in me, this longing, because they stare at me as though I am Elmo.)

***

One of my favorite things in the world is the way in which patterns repeat themselves throughout nature, and how that nature includes our own bodies. The leaves have mostly fallen from the trees here, and I find myself staring at the bare trees, noticing how their ever-branching limbs resemble the blood vessels in our bodies. I love that. I love spirals, and the way they are also everywhere - in seashells and the new leaves on a fern unfolding from their stems. I love how the cracks that appear daily on my hands make me think of the cracks in a dry desert. If find all of that incredibly soothing, a reminder that there is some rhythm, some synchronicity to what can feel so random and arbitrary.

If I am like a tree or a desert, then I must be a part of something bigger, and I must be held.

Missing You Still

2009-11-11T20:57:00.003-05:00

I miss you, Tikva.
I am missing you especially right now.
Missing your sweet softness,
Your cute little face looking up at me,
Or sleeping peacefully.
Just missing you being here.

I feel you close and feel your absence at the same time.
I'm having one of those moments when I stop and it hits me...
You died.

I wonder if that will ever stop happening,
Even if it only happens once in a while.

Lately I've noticed how floppy the skin is on my belly
From carrying two girls inside as you both grew.
It's not something I think about a lot
But lately it's something I touch and feel and see each time I bend over to dry my hair after a shower,
And I think of you
And how big my belly was when you were growing inside me because there was so much amniotic fluid you couldn't swallow.
And I have that thought,
You died.

The past few weeks I was reading The Lovely Bones
And you have felt so close,
Of course.
It's told in the voice of a girl who is dead,
About what happens to the living after she dies,
About her connection to them still and theirs to her.
It's a gorgeous book
And I cried and cried
And felt awe.

I love that you feel close, Tikva.
And I wish you were in my arms
Or toddling around on your new toddler legs.
That is my favorite age ever in a child: almost 18 months.

I miss you, Sweet Girl.
I wish you could've stayed.

Asking Why

2009-10-26T08:09:00.001-04:00

I'm asking questions today on Glow in the Woods...

Oh Positive

2009-10-25T20:05:00.004-04:00

Yesterday as I watched Swan Lake (the ballet) with a restless almost-six-year-old by my side,
My mind started wandering.
I was thinking about how I've noticed that,
Most of the time in most families,
The first child resembles the father (in many ways, not just looks)
And the second child is more like the mother.

Dahlia has the same blood type as Dave,
One of the more rare types.
So it must be that Tikva had the same blood type as me.
I realized in my wandering thoughts that I never found out my second child's blood type.

I could see from the first time Tikva opened her eyes,
A week after her birth, when she'd had her surgery and was taken off the paralytic medication,
And more and more with every week of her life,
That she looked like me.
So many times I would look at her and feel as though I was looking at my reflection,
Like going back in time and meeting myself as an infant.

Something about her essence, too... not just her looks.
She just felt familiar.

So I emailed Tikva's doctor, saying hello to a woman who has become a friend,
And asked her what Tikva's blood type was.
I knew the answer before she wrote me back: O+
Just like me.
Of course.

I wonder how Dave and I will mix when we have a third child,
If we will have another child who will resemble me in the way Tikva did
Or if number three will look like Dave too.

I wondered what Tikva would have looked like during each stage of growing up,
As a toddler,
As a child,
As a teenager,
As a young adult,
As a grownup,
As an old woman...

It's hard to really know what she looked like as an infant
Because of the way infants change so much so quickly,
And because she always had things attached to her face that changed her appearance.

But I know that my daughter was a beauty.
I know she had luscious lips and big inquisitive eyes with soft eyelashes and expressive eyebrows.
I know she made the same worried focused look with her eyebrows as I do.
I know she had a regal pointy nose and sweet little ears
And the softest skin with peach fuzz on it.
I know she had soft dark hair and squishy little cheeks.
I know she smelled good, smelled like her.
I know she was gorgeous
And would've been beautiful at every age.

Beautiful and brave
And pure love.

Revisionist Storytelling

2009-10-20T20:13:00.005-04:00

Dahlia and I are at the pediatrician's office so that our new doctor can look at a 10-day old bump on her leg that seems to get getting bigger as time goes on.
The waiting room is packed with kids of all ages and their parents, mostly mothers.
Two kids are wearing paper masks over their mouths and noses.
A few kids are snotty, but no one looks that miserable.
Everyone keeps to themselves, as if afraid of spreading or catching germs.
I have to admit that I wonder what germs we're exposing ourselves to by being there.

A mother across from us is there with her toddler and infant twins in carseats.
The toddler is squirmy and restless, and clearly unhappy about her mom's policy that she has to stay in her chair.
When there are other kids to interact with? Are you serious, Mom?
Dahlia walks over to her and hands her two board books we've finished reading from the waiting room shelf.
The little girl is delighted to be interacting with another child, the mom says thank you.
For the second time in about 10 minutes, she pull a bottle of antibacterial gel from her bag and lathers it on her hands and all over her daughter's,
As well as on the arms of both of their chairs.
As her daughter squirms out of the chair for the third time, she picks her child up and puts her on her lap.
And she makes her stay there until their name is called.
Away from germs, hopefully safe.

The whole scene is fascinating.
Antibacterial gel abounds in mothers' purses.
The energy of fear is palpable
I am mesmerized by it all.

***

I wonder how I would approach it all if Tikva were alive.
Perhaps we'd all get flu shots in case that could protect her, with her weakened lungs.
Perhaps we'd carry antibacterial gel in our bags too, in case that could kill just one germ that might give her pneumonia.
Something like a flu isn't scary with Dahlia or with us.
It could be with a baby like Tikva.
I can't really say, though, it's too hypothetical without her here...

***

I went to the gastroenterologist today and we got into a side conversation about just this.
In his words, we're approaching the common flu as if it were an ebola epidemic.
He talked about how when his children were small (very recently, he was somewhere between my age and early forties) he encouraged them to get dirty, to put dirt in their mouths, to eat off the floor.
Probably not literally, but I got his point.
We were the same way with Dahlia.
Germs were not our enemy, not something to be feared.
We understood that getting intimate with dirt as a child builds your immune system
So that you can resist much bigger and badder things later on.

Dahlia is radiantly healthy.
When she gets a cold or a stomach bug, which happens once or twice a year, she is better in 24-48 hours.
She doesn't get green snot that runs out of her nose for weeks.
She has never had an ear infection.
She has had rashes that come and go for years and coughs that last for months with no other symptoms,
Things that baffle but don't actually worry the doctors we've taken her to.
More than anything, though, she is an incredibly healthy child.
Her immune system is strong, and she has proven this time and time again.

***

I, on the other hand, am a different story...
Or am I?
Lately I am starting to view my personal narrative about my health differently than I have for much of my life.
And the more I see it in this new light, the more that comes my way to affirm my new perspective.
In order to explain, I need to rewind.

I used to tell my story about my health like this:

1.
When I was 15, my parents got divorced and I began burying my sorrow in food.
I got fat, gained 60 pounds with the help of Ben and Jerry and grief.
My 5'4" thin-boned frame did not like carrying all that weight, which mostly resided in my butt and thighs.
I had a lot of pain in my knees.
I was not only fat but totally out of shape.
My closest friends in college were bulimic, and I had my own challenges with overeating.
I was scared of where I might take my desire to be thin.
When I was 20, I sought the help of a dietician and lost most of my excess weight in a healthy way.

2.
Shortly after that, I broke out in terrible acne all over my face, for about three years.
Since I knew nothing then about how much damage long-term use of antibiotics can wreak on one's body,
I was put on antibiotics for the acne, for about two years.
The acne didn't clear, until one day it just kind of did.
When I was 22, I went to the ER because it was agonizingly painful to swallow food.
I was diagnosed with esophagial ulcers, probably a result of the antibiotics.
I healed slowly by taking medication and eating a lot of soup.

3.
Shortly after that, I sought the help of an alternative practitioner to do a big cleanse and replenish the good bacteria in my system that had been wiped out by the antibiotics.
I made shakes with psyllium and bentonite and herbs and felt pretty amazing.
The practitioner recommended I not head off to Europe for the 7-month solo journey I was planning.
He was worried my good bacteria was not replenished enough,
And said it was not in my karma to do so.

4.
Off I went to Europe anyway.
In Italy, I ate some bad shellfish and got really sick.
For several days I would sleep for 12-14 hours at a time and wake up weak and exhausted and feverish.
Eventually I felt better and I continued on my travels, without visiting a doctor.
I felt mostly okay for the rest of my adventure, with occasional days of feeling badly again.
When I was 23 and back home, I went to the doctor and had my first parasite test.
Nothing was found.
When I was 24, I had my second parasite test.
Nothing was found again, but I still didn't feel great.

5.
When I was 26, I went to Martinique, another solo voyage.
I ate my share of shellfish there too.
During that week, I realized something wasn't right.
I just wasn't pooping and I'd been having headaches that wouldn't go away for weeks.
When I came home, I saw a chiropractor who also did homeopathy and herbs.
She was sure that I had parasites, but I told her that I'd had two tests that had found nothing.

6.
Shortly after that, I looked in the toilet one day and saw blood.
The doctor I eventually found who guided me towards wellness over the next two years told me a story about a patient he had had years before who was a proper Southern belle.
She'd come to him with abdominal pain and he asked her if she'd ever seen blood in her stool.
Blood? How would I know that?
The poor woman had had a terrible case of colitis probably for many years but had spent her whole life never once looking in the toilet after using it - because that's just not what a Southern lady does.
Well, let's just say that not a day goes by that I don't look in the toilet.
Not after the past 13 years.
(Apologies to those less intimate with their bodies for the up-close-and-personal nature of this post.)

7.
My very special doctor straddled the fence between western and alternative medicine.
He taught the western medicine course at the local acupuncture college.
He knew about tests and treatments most doctors never learn about.
He told me that he and I would work together to get me well.
He held my hand on the long road of healing from not one, not two, but five parasites that had been living in my system for three years since that fateful meal in southern Italy - finally diagnosed by a mail-away lab in Arizona.
He told me two of those parasites would have eaten away my liver in another year if they'd continued to go undiagnosed.
I took three rounds of antibiotics to kill them (ick!)
And got on steroids and antifungals and a zillion other drugs and supplements to heal the resulting inflammation and bleeding.
He called it parasitic colitis.

8.
When I was 28, I had a conversation with my future husband the very first time we met at the Burning Man festival about what we were planning to burn in the fire when they set the wooden man aflame on Saturday night of Labor Day weekend.
I went into my bag and pulled out a huge Zip.loc baggy and a two-inch thick folder of papers.
I was going to burn all my leftover medication and all of my medical records and insurance files from the two years I'd spent healing from colitis.
I told him I needed to do so in order to truly heal, to believe that I no longer needed them, to trust that it wouldn't come back.
It felt amazing to throw them into the fire.

9.
When I was 31, I gave birth to radiantly healthy Dahlia,
Whose Apgar scores were all 10s.
Who latched on immediately and nursed healthily and grew easily.
I lost my pregnancy weight in a month,
Then got even thinner.
I had a hard time keeping weight on, especially while nursing.
I lost a lot of hair and got sick a lot.
I felt drained from it all, but happy.

10.
A year or two later, I didn't feel like I was ready to get pregnant again.
I went to see a holistic practitioner who gave me supplements that helped my hair grow back
And helped me feel more vital, helped me stop getting every cold that came around.
Then the colitis came back and I stopped working with her.
I felt like something I'd taken had been too intense, had triggered something.

11.
I was completely stunned and very bummed that the colitis had come back, 7 years later.
I thought I'd gotten rid of it for good.
I didn't want to go back on steroids - I hated how they made me feel emotionally.
So I kind of just lived with it, learning where every public bathroom was throughout Oakland and Berkeley.
I worked with an acupuncturist who helped keep the symptoms on the mild side.
And I decided to get pregnant.
And I miscarried at 10 weeks.
And we headed off to Israel, and I finally decided to take the prednisone.

12.
Three months later the colitis had healed again.
A month after that I got pregnant with Tikva.
Two months after that I got the shingles.
Two months after that her CDH was diagnosed.

13.
Three months ago, just as we were getting ready to leave San Francisco to come to Cincinnati,
The colitis came back again.
I immediately went on steroids - no time to feel like crap (no pun intended) - and a few other medications.

Three days ago I went off all the medications - I am healed, symptom free, back to normal.

***

It's an impressive medical history, isn't it?
I won't bore you with the list of medications and supplements I've taken in the last 18 years,
Which is about twice as long as this story.

This is the thing, though:

I used to get kind of excited telling people - doctors especially - the story of my health, or lack thereof.
It gave me kind of a charge, it felt validating - I got a lot of knowing nods, a lot of sympathy, a lot of,
Wow, that's just terrible. I am so sorry. You sure have been through a lot for someone so young!
My story gave me an identity that I got really comfortable with over the years.
It defined me.
It became who I was.
I became the girl whose one-thing-leads-to-another cycle of ill health was about 80% of who she was.
I didn't really know how to be without this huge part of me.
I didn't know how to tell my story a different way.

My story defined me.
And it became a crutch, something I relied on,
My illness something I couldn't live without.

***

Several years ago I worked with a great therapist who did EMDR with me.
During a session, I went back to my 15 year old self, sitting on my living room couch watching Welcome Back Kotter reruns and eating Ben & Jerry's New York Super Fudge Chunk.
I could almost feel it going down my throat, taste the extreme sweetness.
I remembered deliberating in my mind whether I could justify eating half a pint alone,
Sometimes even a whole pint.

Mid-session in that therapist's office, I started crying.
And I changed: I got fat burying my sorrow in Ben & Jerry's.
To: When I felt alone with no one to comfort me, that ice cream helped me get through the hardest thing in my life (at the time) without doing something more harmful to my body.
It was my way of coping, my way of nurturing myself.

Drained and invigorated, I left the therapist's office and walked across the street to Who.le Fo.ods.
I bought a pint of New York Super Fudge Chunk
And took it home to Dave and Dahlia.
We each had a scoop, and I retold my story to them:
This was my favorite ice cream when I was a teenager.
It helped me feel good when I felt bad.
I'd never told the story that way before.
For the first time since I was 15, I didn't feel angry at myself for gaining all that weight.
I didn't feel regret about the stretch marks I still wear on my body to remind me of those pints of ice cream.
Instead, I felt awe at what I'd gotten through intact.

***

Here is how I'd like to retell the story:

1.
When I was 15, my mom left and life was never the same in our family.
It was hard, but we got through it.
There was a lot of love in our family that remained,
We stuck together and loved each other,
Even if we yelled and cried too.
I found comfort in food, in doing theater, in my friends.
I nurtured my younger sister through her own journey to regain her footing.
I helped my dad figure out how to parent as a single father.
I got good grades in school and did a lot of extracurricular activities and went off to college.

2.
I struggled in college with my weight and my emotions.
I went through dark tunnels alone,
Wrote fiercely and filled dozens of journals.
I cried a lot.
I made new friends, amazing friends I still love.
I got help and lost my excess weight and started feeling good.
I found a wonderful therapist and for the first time I let out the tears and the anger I'd been holding inside.
I began to feel lighter, freer.

3.
I went off to Europe and Israel in search of myself,
In search of my parents and their history and my own.
I took hundreds of photographs,
Filled more journals,
Met people from all over the world,
Connected with family and family friends,
Learned about my parents in a new light,
Got to know who they were when they were my age.
I got sick while traveling, but it didn't stop me from continuing on my journey.
I traveled for 7 months on less than $4,000.

5.
I finally got the right help for my illness and worked fiercely to get better.
I refused to let anyone tell me I would have this illness for the rest of my life.
I refused to let my insurance company get away with not covering every treatment, even alternative ones.
I committed myself completely to my healing until I got well.
Until I could eat bread and cheese without worrying again.
Until I could eat chocolate ice cream again.
I burned all my leftover meds and medical records in a big fire in the middle of the Nevada desert,
The same place and the same summer I met my husband.

6.
We got married.
I got pregnant easily.
We had a healthy happy magical child.
My breasts made milk that nourished her for 18 months.
It took a lot out of me to do all that,
And I got some help to regain my vitality.

7.
My illness came back, but not as intensely as the first time.
I sought other ways of feeling better so that I wouldn't have to be on medication.

8.
I got pregnant easily again.
Ten weeks later my body realized that child wasn't going to make it
And it released the pregnancy.
I allowed myself to grieve healthily,
Still trusting my body.

9.
Finally, I got tired of feeling held back by the illness,
So I took the medication
And I believed that it would work
And it did.

10.
I got pregnant easily a third time.
I got the shingles.
I wondered about my less-than-mighty immune system.
I doubted my body's resiliency.
I felt intense physical pain.
And I got through it - 6 weeks on the couch, in excruciating pain, miserable and very far from home.
But I got through it.

11.
Tikva's CDH was diagnosed.
I was terrified.
I questioned everything.
Wondered if my body hadn't been ready to stay healthy, much less sustain a healthy pregnancy.
I thought about how I might have caused her condition.
I cried.
I prayed.
I braced myself for the big leap of faith ahead.
I asked for help, for support, from everyone I knew.
I hoped like I have never hoped before.
I allowed myself to be held by something bigger than me.
I carried Tikva inside me with courage, with faith, with love.
I pushed her beautiful body out of me.
I loved her completely, unconditionally.
I held her while she lived.
I held her while she died.
I buried my child.
I wrote for my survival,
Shared my every thought and emotion so as not to feel alone,
Also hoping that it might help others.

12.
When my illness hinted that it was back again just before our move,
I braced myself again and got on medication right away.
No time to mess around,
No time to be sick.
We set off cross-country.
We had car trouble.
My colon wasn't happy.
It was hard.
We made it to our new home.
I wished we had more than one bathroom.
I began cooking good food in my new kitchen.
I started to heal.
I believed I could heal.
I healed.
I got off the medication.

***

Last week I called the provider of my (crappy, overpriced, extremely limited, high-deductible) medical insurance.
(I'll spare you my rant about our miserably pitiful health care system, except to say that I believe without a doubt that there is a special ring in hell reserved for the people who created private insurance companies.)
I learned, to my surprise, that I was past the 12-month pre-existing condition period on my policy and could now see a practitioner for my pre-existing condition and they would cover it (after I paid my $50 co-pay, that is).
I thought it would be a good idea to check in with a doctor who specializes in all things colon and make sure there was nothing I should be doing that I hadn't already done.
So today I went to see Cincinnati's top gastroenterologist.
He was lovely, and after our conversation about the outright panic over the common flu, we talked about my colitis.
He wanted to know everything, so I gave him the abridged version of the above health history.
He scrunched up his face and said, I'm not sure it really is ulcerative colitis.
If it were colitis, you would have responded to the medication much faster.
I think you may have healed on your own from whatever was going on in spite of the medication.

And this is the thing: I think he's right.
I remembered my beloved SF doctor from way back in 1997 saying that it wasn't ulcerative colitis (which is a chronic autoimmune condition) but parasitic colitis, which is a fancy way of saying inflammation caused by parasites.
I remembered how I felt that morning doing yoga in upstate New York when I just knew I was already getting better, knew that I would heal, and soon.
I thought about how I already was starting to feel better when I went on the last medication that I could easily attribute my healing to.
I thought about what Julie said, how I was doing healing on a huge and deep level, healing some really old stuff, for good.

True transformation,
Reconnecting to my most essential self.

***

I left the doctor's office and went to Dave's school to pick him up.
As I sat in the car with the window rolled down waiting for him,
I looked at a small red leaf on the ground.
I felt my essential energy as though it were oozing out of me from every pore.
I felt so deeply myself, completely incapable of being anything else with anybody I meet.
I thought about Tikva and how much I feel her within me, by my side, guiding me,
So close.
Tears filled my eyes just as Dave approached the car.
I'm having a moment, I said.
A past moment or a future moment? he asked.
A past moment.
Are you thinking about Tiki?
I nodded.

***

We're not getting flu shots.
We're taking our cod liver oil and probiotics and extra vitamin D.
We're eating well.
We're staying warm.
We're washing our hands, but not frantically every minute, and just with regular soap.
We're trusting our bodies.
We're understanding that just because germs are around, it doesn't mean we're going to get sick.
We're believing in the strength of our bodies and our immune systems.
We're not attaching to the fear.
We're not taking in the fear.

Fear is energy, and it doesn't serve us.
Trust and hope and love and wellness are energy too.
They feel much better.

***

I believe in my body in a way I haven't believed in my body for as long as I can remember.
I believe that my liver can cleanse easily of all the medication I've taken in the last three months.
I believe that I will get pregnant easily again.
I believe that I will carry a healthy child, birth a healthy child, love another healthy child and watch that child grow up with Dahlia for the rest of my life.
I believe that I can have two more children, that I am still young enough, that my body is nowhere near done with this babymaking thing.
I believe that there will be a tiny speck of Tikva in that next child, that I will see it in a glimmer in that child's eyes.

It feels good in my body.
I feel good in my body.
My body with the stretch marks on my thighs and breasts.
My body with the jiggly butt and thighs because I prefer sitting at my computer to going to the gym.
My body with the very faint mark still slightly on my belly from my pregnancy with Tikva.
My body with the shingles scars on my chest and back and arm.
My body with those annoying hemorrhoids and persistent zits.
My body with the hair that's thinner and grayer than it was before I had Dahlia.

My body that has the most amazing capacity to heal...
Profoundly and completely.

What She Said...

2009-10-15T21:21:00.004-04:00

Did everyone already read this amazing post by Kate of SweetSalty?
I'm speechless, in an I totally adore and worship this woman kind of way.
Thank you, Kate.
I totally adore and worship you.

In The Flow

2009-10-13T20:33:00.006-04:00

What if we are all just a whirl of atoms, little cells of energy colliding and interacting with each other,
Passing by each other - noticed or unnoticed - on our way to places big and small?

What if these cells come together sometimes as a person - as who we are this time around -
Sometimes as animals or plants or clouds or flowers or wind or rain or birds or sunshine?

What if, when we're not who we are anymore, we just get reabsorbed into all that is,
Simply reconfiguring into new forms, new groups of energy coming together in different ways?

What if we can reconfigure even who we are in this life, reinvent how we exist by the choices we make, experience things differently by putting on different colored glasses?

Kinda takes some of the pressure off of the part of me that is so absorbed in the all important work of being.

***

As I drove to pick up Dave from school today, I thought about all this while looking out the window.
I noticed the leaves changing colors - every hue from green to red.

I looked at students crossing the street near the University of Cincinnati and thought,

There goes a bunch of cells,
And there a bundle of energy.

Look at that sweet couple holding hands...
I wonder how their chemistry collided the first time they noticed each other.

Even the turkey driving way too close behind me on the freeway made me ask,
I wonder what his journey is all about in this life.

***

I just can't look at things the same way anymore,
Not after knowing, loving and losing Tikva.
Not after learning to connect with her in a different way.
Not after realizing that she is still so close to me,
Even if she is so far away from the physical space she used to inhabit when her cells came together as Tikva my baby.

I just can't see it anymore as just what is in front of me.
It's impossible for me not to see it all as part of something bigger.

Something shifted in me recently.
I can tell you exactly when it happened, though I can't really explain why it happened when it happened.

I was in the Hudson Valley of New York, a solo weekend without Dave or Dahlia,
There to celebrate the wedding of one of my oldest and dearest friends.

I was nervous about going, about traveling with colitis,
About sharing a room with a bunch of other people,
Being out of my routine for a few days.

And I was excited too.

I'd had a challenging month leading up to the trip,
Tested to my limits by my physical body, by all the changes of moving and settling in.
Frustrated to be searching for work I didn't love doing anymore,
Fearful that I would have to settle for something much less than perfect.

One night with Dave, I started bawling and screaming at the Universe,
I am so tired of being sick! I am so over this! I feel awful! It sucks to be in my body right now. I want to be well... now!

Something about that scream cracked something in me - and I think the Universe cracked open just a tiny bit to hear me.
It was as if I had to get to that place of absolute and total scream in order to have it heard, received, and to get a response from Life.

And a tiny shift began in me, and I just waited and allowed.

Then a few weeks later I found myself in this beautiful part of New York State
And I woke up early on Saturday morning and went down to the kitchen and ate a few fresh locally grown organic berries
And wandered upstairs to where people were doing yoga.
And I bent forward into downward dog and stretched and folded and breathed aaaaahhhhh...

And that's when I felt it.
In that exact moment, I knew everything would be okay.
I just knew.
Not because anything different was happening down in my colon to prove it.
I just knew in that moment that I was already healing, it was already healing and would continue to.

I ate the most amazing food that weekend.
Organic, local, fresh vegetables and fruits, much of it raw and fresh and juicy.
I felt completely nourished - literally and in my soul.
Love was in the air, there with my oldest San Francisco friends.
I sat outside breathing the cleanest air imaginable and felt great,
And so did my body.

And I brought that sensation home with me, deep within me where it had screamed to come out weeks before, where it had been born out of that crack while doing yoga in New York that Saturday morning...
And it's still there, and it's growing.

***

Do you ever have those moments when you are just in the flow of life and it is in synch with you?

I am a big fan of the idea that the one thing we are completely in charge of is how we choose to experience our lives.
As sweet Amy says, Attitude is only everything.

Lately I feel like I've been making a lot of choices, as if I am playing a Choose Your Own Adventure game.
I feel like this time, this place - these four years in Cincinnati - is a blank slate for me.
I have no history here, no past here, no work experience here, no reputation here, no nothing here except what I create.
It's as if I've been given this new opportunity to completely create what I want to be, do, experience.
Yesterday I had a job interview at one of the city's museums - a job I totally could have gotten if I'd wanted it - and I realized,
Wow, if I wanted to reinvent myself as a member of the art world, I totally could! I really can be anything I want to be here.

I've realized that I don't have to do work I no longer love.
I've realized that I can work in the medical field even before becoming a nurse.
I've realized that this is the work I am meant to do, and there is no reason to settle for anything less.
I've realized that when I walk into the hospital for interviews, I feel Tikva so close to me, encouraging me, proud of me, with me.
I've realized that when I'm in the flow, things work out as big and beautiful as I am capable of imagining them.

I am choosing to do work I love, work with meaning... and the opportunities are responding by presenting themselves in abundance.
I am choosing to make friends and connect genuinely with new people here... and these new friends are not only responsive but so deeply welcoming and forthcoming.
I am choosing to go to yoga class to nurture my body... and each time I go, I make a new friend without even trying.
I am choosing to make nourishing food from scratch each night for my sweet family... that feels really good.
I am choosing to relish the sweet joy of sitting with Dahlia as she does her first homework assignments for kindergarten, totally amazed at the way her mind is exploding with learning.
I am choosing to fill our house with plants to nurture and love and grow.

I am choosing to feel good in my body... and my body is responding with profound and complete healing on a cellular level.
I am choosing to feel the excitement of what it will be like to be pregnant again, to carry our next child inside, to bring another member of our family to life for that child's own unfolding journey.

It feels good.

Momentum

2009-10-08T11:11:00.007-04:00

I am feeling totally inspired by the momentum of my life.
My ship is pointed where I want to go and I am sailing!

I have been busy - in it, living it, and clearly writing about it all much less.
Great things are brewing over here in my professional life
And I can feel that the meaningful job I have been wanting is just around the corner...
I can already see it, and the image in the lens is getting crisper
With each conversation I have...
And I've been having many, with fascinating people and also with the Universe.

I am applying for nursing school and beginning the process of preparing for the GRE and getting through my many science prerequisites.
I am undaunted by how much there is to do, because I am finally here, doing it after talking about it for a long time.
I don't feel like any exam or biology class is going to get in my way,
Because this is where I am going, where I am meant to be going.

Yes, it's exciting.
Extremely.

I feel like Tikva is the wind in my sails,
Encouraging me to move forward,
To help children like her and their families.
I am so meant to do this, so much.
With my Tikva by my side, I feel like I can do it all.

Thank you for the light that you are, Sweet Girl.
I am doing this in honor of you.

A Great and Noble Life

2009-09-28T22:08:00.002-04:00

Some thoughts to share tonight as I jump peacefully into the year 5770 on the Jewish calendar.

The Lonely Gemini

2009-09-20T22:00:00.004-04:00

For years I had a really strong connection to my astrological sign. Being a Gemini explained a lot about me to myself. I really identified with the dual personalities within me. It just made sense. Maybe that's what you do when you're in your teens and twenties - believe deeply in things like astrology, search for meaning and understanding about what feels like the most important person on earth: yourself. Attach yourself to one single thing that makes perfect sense, explains it all.

It just occurred to me that I haven't thought much about being a Gemini lately. It has been a long time since it's been the go-to reliable lens through which I understand myself. Sure, I still find it interesting that I am a Gemini and so is my mother and so is Tikva. Fascinating that the two of them share a birthday, and that I knew from very early on in my pregnancy that they would. But it doesn't really explain very much to me anymore. About myself. About my daughter who is a spirit.

I want to get Tikva's astrological chart read by someone who really knows astrology, because apparently it is pretty extraordinary. All of her planets are in six houses, and these six houses form an hourglass on her chart. There are no planets in the other six houses that form the other hourglass. Sometime during the week when we were sitting shiva after she died, my friend London looked at her chart and to her it all made perfect sense. That Tikva had come and done all she needed to do in a flash. Maybe her astrological chart would explain something that would help me feel a little more settled... about why she had to come and go so fast, about why she chose me for her Mama, about my own meaning to myself.

I am feeling my dual personality a lot lately, and it's taken until tonight for me to connect that with being a Gemini. It doesn't explain everything anymore, but for the first time in a long time, tonight I realize how much I have been feeling the duality. I recognize that there is a lot of contradiction in the mix of emotions running through me lately. And yet there they are, each feeling side by side with its counterpart. The dual personalities of this Gemini.

I've been feeling a lot of conflicting emotions lately...

Too many people read my blog, it makes me not want to write.
What if I stop writing and people stop reading?

I miss my friends, I feel very alone.
I don't want to be around anyone, I just want to be by myself.

I feel energized and inspired to find meaningful work.
I wish I had a trust fund and didn't have to work and could stay home and write and make art.

I am excited to go to nursing school and inspired to become a nurse.
I am terrified about making such a huge change that I know my soul needs so deeply.

I so deeply want to have another baby, I can almost feel what it will be like when I am pregnant again.
I am so scared my colitis will linger and months will go by and then it will be too late.

Maybe I want to start a new blog, breathe new life into my spirit with newness and change. Tell only a few people about it.
Am I ready to move from this space? Am I leaving my Baby Girl behind? Where will I find myself without this community that has held me, especially now that I am so far from home?

My body is healing.
My body is scared.

***

It's strange leaving everyone you know except your husband and daughter and starting a new life in a new place. Strange not knowing when or if you will return to the place you are from. Strange to hear the voices of those who have held you together only through the phone or on email. It's strange relying on your husband and daughter almost exclusively for support, for familiarity, for home. It feels lonely right now. Hard.

It still feels strange that this is my home now, this new place. I know why we came here, and I know it is for good. But I haven't found my place here yet. I haven't found myself here yet. I feel so far from those connections where I will eventually be able to be completely me with new friends. So no matter how I fill my time, no matter how busy a day gets - even when I am inspired and motivated and excited about the steps I am taking to find a meaningful job and get into nursing school - there are those slow-down moments when things get still and quiet and I feel that aloneness and...

***

Flashback. I am 9 or 10 years old and it is very late and I am wide awake, elementary school insomniac, staring at the ceiling of my bedroom, unable and unwilling to go to sleep. Part of me is afraid to fall asleep because what if I don't wake up in the morning? It's not a fear of death exactly, more a fear of being alone.

Alone.

I saw a piece of a movie once when I was about that age, a movie I wasn't supposed to have seen, and the only thing I remember about it is that a woman is accidentally buried alive. Nobody knows she is still alive when they bury her, and when she wakes up she is in a coffin six feet under the earth. Gasp! What could feel scarier than that? What greater loneliness is there?

Alone forever.

When I turned 25, I went skydiving with my sister. We went tandem, each of us attached to an instructor. It was exhilarating and I loved it. Would I ever do it again? Would I ever try it alone, attached to no one? I don't think I ever could. Not because I am afraid that I would forget how to open my parachute, but because then I would be totally alone, in the middle of the air.

Totally alone.

What is that? Where does that fear of aloneness come from? And why does it keep coming up? Is there something I am supposed to learn from all these experiences? Something I am here to overcome?

Alone because my baby died.
Alone because my experience of her loss is completely different than that of my husband.
Alone in my body that is challenging right now.
Alone with the many fears that sometimes overwhelm,
With the millions of little worries that fill my head.

I wrote once that it can feel like a board meeting in my head, with all the voices that fight for the floor.
But it can feel lonely here too, especially when they quiet down a little and I realize it's just me.

Dave would probably say that I am here to understand that I am never truly alone... That I have always been, that I am, that I always will be a part of God, of Source energy, that my essential energy is part of all there is and therefore all there is is a part of me. That doesn't change when you die. That's why he doesn't long for Tikva like I do, because for him she is always here, only without form.

Why is that hard for me to settle on? Why do I still feel alone? Especially if there is always a duality inside me... another side of myself to keep me company.

Like The Wind

2009-09-14T23:19:00.001-04:00

RIP, Patrick Swayze

Nothing Is Finished

2009-09-08T11:35:00.001-04:00

"Nurture all that is authentic by acknowledging three simple realities: nothing lasts, nothing is finished, and nothing is perfect. To accept these realities is to accept contentment as the maturation of happiness, and to acknowledge that clarity and grace can be found in genuine unvarnished existence. Filled with subtlety and depth, this way is a river flowing toward and away from you, and always within you."

Richard Powell

(Thank you, Laurie)

On Hope and Love

2009-09-03T14:00:00.003-04:00

I try not to censor myself here, and after my post yesterday, I worried at what I had put forward of myself, because in this blogosphere, all we know of each other is what we read in that moment. Sometimes I just write what I'm feeling in the moment, and then afterwards I feel differently. Sometimes I wonder what my voice sounds like to others. For those who might be worried about me after my most recent posts, and those who aren't...

I still have hope. A great deal of it.
And a great deal of love.
They are what Tikva taught me so deeply,
And I do her no service by forgetting that or wallowing in any kind of abyss since her loss.

That is what has always drawn me to the red tail hawk, the feeling of infinite possibility, of lightness on the wind, of flight.

I love life. I cherish it.
I believe in goodness and light and hope and love.
I haven't stopped believing in them, not even in my darker days, and I won't.
It's just not my nature.
It's not my choice.

Life has great meaning, even during the darkest moments.
Especially during those moments...
I feel like I am coming out of the last few days even more sure of that.

I smile when I think of my daughters,
The one who radiates aliveness before me and challenges my being to the core,
And the one who lives in the incredibly delicious air I breathed when I opened the front door this morning and saw a flock of small birds scatter to the trees.

I plan to keep smiling...
Even if there are also tears.

Taking Space

2009-09-03T09:22:00.002-04:00

I need to retreat again from this blog world.
I need to intentionally create space between my spirit and body
And all the pain and suffering that is around me.
I need to stop myself from hearing when more babies die,
When someone else gets cancer,
Etc...
For the same reason I don't read the paper or watch the news,
Because I am just too emotionally sensitive and raw.

I'm not sure exactly what that means for my own blog,
But I know it means I will be staying away from reading other blogs.
It doesn't mean I don't care.
It just means I need space.

I'm going to open the door,
Step outside,
Look at the morning sunlight on the trees,
Listen to the cicadas,
And breathe in the fresh air around me.

That's what my body and spirit need most.

Deflated and Aching

2009-09-02T09:37:00.002-04:00

Two days ago I tweaked my lower back trying to rotate our mattress with Dave.
I collapsed on the bed in pain and just started weeping,
Dave's warm healing touch on my sacrum.

Last night I went to bed with a migraine
That lingered still this morning when I awoke,
For no good reason, at 5:20 AM.

I can't quite reinflate after learning about Jet's passing yesterday,
And I am still weeping,
Completely at a loss and with more questions than answers.

How can you regain any shred of hope, of trust, of faith in life
After losing all three of your children,
One at a time?

How do you go on without feeling completely beat down,
Overlooked,
Smacked in the face repeatedly by life?

Life feels completely overwhelming right now
And I am ready to resign from the role of grownup
And return to more carefree days.

Unfortunately no more "grown-up" grownup is showing up to fill my shoes,
To coddle me and take care of me and relieve me of all worry and responsibility...
So I'm in this role whether I like it or not.

Baby don't worry about a thing... Every little thing is gonna be alright.

Is it?
Is it really?
It's not alright for Jet's parents today.
I don't know when it will be.
I am completely at a loss,
Finding myself wanting to take all their pain away,
Knowing that I can't.

This morning I had a text message and photo on my phone
Announcing the birth of a healthy baby girl yesterday,
The first child of an old friend I met during college and have seen a few times since.
The contrast was striking.
I was speechless.
A healthy baby girl
Born on the same day another baby died.
How do you integrate all of that,
Consolidate these two pieces of news together?
Or is that not the point?

How do you trust each person's journey,
Trust that it is exactly as it is supposed to be?

See what I mean about more questions than answers?

Last night I lit Tikva's candle, read Mirne's blog, and then just looked at the photos of Tikva on my own blog.
My child...

I asked Tikva to hold me tight, to send her love and comfort my way, to welcome Jet to the realm of baby spirits.
And I thought about my Baby Girl, and it all just came back up for me in such a huge way
After learning about Jet yesterday.

It came back up just how unfair it is to lose a child.
It came back up just how hard it is to rekindle hope after having it trampled on.
It came back up just how small Tikva was when she died.
It came back up that my child was born incredibly sick,
That I buried her over a year ago.
It came back up that my second child - my child - is gone,
That she always will be.

The way in which this community has come together for Mirne and Craig,
The way in which we are sorting through this together...
It sustains me, keeps me from falling completely apart permanently.
And it puts me in a place where I find myself at least weekly since losing Tikva,
Where I realize just how vast this community of babylost parents is...
Just how frequently it grows,
Just how often and how many babies die each day.
It's the two sides of one coin thing - appreciating that I am not alone here
While resenting the universe because I am not.

I am going to be home a lot the next three days
As Gypsy Rose is at the mechanic's finally getting repaired.
Somehow I need to keep myself from being at the computer constantly.
Perhaps I'll take a few naps,
Send out more resumes for job openings,
Make a collage.

I am impatient for the colitis to clear up from my body,
Aware that stress and overwhelm don't really help.
I am ready to be off the medication
Which I am sure is contributing to the headaches I've had lately.

I am ready for my body to feel better,
For my heart to hurt a little less,
For my spirit to feel more buoyant,
For life to settle down and feel less overwhelming.

As Dave would say, May it be!

When I think about the places in my body where I feel pain lately,
I connect with my first, second and sixth chakras.
First, my sacrum... where I ground myself with the earth.
Second, my abdomen... my emotional center.
Sixth, my third eye... my deepest intuitive self.
I'm not exactly sure what it all means,
Except that these are places into which I can breath deeply,
Where the healing is going on at the deepest level.

Trust my journey...even when it feels mysterious and unruly.

My Mantra

2009-08-30T20:48:00.001-04:00

Love Yourself As You Are

2009-08-29T20:28:00.005-04:00

Lately I feel like I am the mother of an adolescent.
I really had no idea how much five and a half resembles twelve and a half,
Especially in a daughter.
I'm not exactly prepared for this quite yet.
I was busy working on preparing for the idea that when Dahlia actually does hit puberty,
I will be close to hitting menopause.

Perfect timing.
It should be lovely at our house right about then.
Dave is already planning the separate edifice he'll be building in the backyard - his manspace.
I think right about then I'll be moving - solo - to the south of France.
Either that or it might have to be boarding school for my adolescent.

Earlier today as I was deep cleaning years of grime in the corners of our new bathroom,
Dahlia came to the door and announced,
I'm fat.
Then she pointed to her belly, and asked to see mine.
After telling her she's not fat, I showed her my belly,
Bulge and all.
My belly's fatter than yours, she continued.
Bellies are supposed to be round,
That's what bellies do, Dahlia.

How do you tell your daughter she's not fat without making fat a bad thing?

The whole time a little voice inside my head is saying,
Really? Already? You're only five? Where do you get this?

Then she changed her outfit a third time,
Unsatisfied with how her second skirt fit on her body.
And that same voice in my head is saying,
Aren't you too young for this?

Then I say, to clarify, to make sure she knows, to try and get some sense of where it comes from,
You know that the Disney princesses aren't real, right?
You know that their bodies aren't what women really look like, right?

Yes, Mom, you've already told me that. I know.
(Exasperated voice, rolling eyes, reminiscent of an adolescent.)

Sigh... I am so not ready for this.

*****

I have spent a LOT of my life disliking my physical self,
Incredibly insecure, wanting to be anything but what I was.
I don't think it started quite at age five,
But it was definitely well ingrained in me by the time I was nine or ten.
I wished my hair was straighter, less frizzy, more blond than brown.
I wished my legs were more wiry, thighs less thick.
I wished my nose was more pointed, less bumpy, less Jewish.
I wished my skin was clearer, smoother.
I wished my clothes were more name-brand, more hip.
I wished I was more popular, that boys would like me as more than a friend.
I even wished my family was more American, more normal.

You could not pay me enough money to go back to junior high school.
It was over 25 years ago, but I remember it like it was yesterday.

*****

LOVE YOURSELF
AS YOU ARE.

THERE IS NO ONE
QUITE LIKE YOU.

*****

That is all I want her to know.
There is no way to teach this to her except by living it.
It's a hard one to live sometimes.
I get it, I really do.
In my head, I believe it...
On a concept level, I really do love myself.
But on a deep feeling level, I wonder...

Do I really love myself AS I AM?
Will I ever really love my flabby stretched out thighs?
The same thighs I began hating at least 28 years ago?
How do you unlearn that?

How can I not love my thighs if they are a part of me?
How can I not appreciate the legs that allow me to walk,
That carry me?
Do I still love them even if I don't use them as completely as I could?
Why is it that exercise comes so reluctantly to me?
Why am I so inherently lazy when it comes to using my body to its fullest capacity?

No wonder I am so triggered when my daughter tells me she thinks she's fat.

*****

I was fat for part of high school and part of college.
Then I had serious acne for three years.
Lots to hate about myself then.
Lots of time spent incredibly uncomfortable in my skin,
Wishing I could wake up one day in another body,
A thinner body,
With clear skin.

For many years after that, my greatest victory was having lost the weight and kept it off.
Then I got sick with colitis for the first time,
And I got really skinny,
Size 0 skinny.
And I felt awful, even if a part of me secretly enjoyed being so thin.
And I stayed thin for many years after that, no more than a size 4.
Even after having Dahlia, I went right back down in weight.
But I wasn't healthy, felt really depleted, had a hard time keeping weight on, and I'd get sick a lot.

During my pregnancy with Tikva, I asked my body to keep on some of my pregnancy weight after I had her.
And I did, and still have - an extra 10 pounds from before carrying her.
And I stayed healthy all winter, for the first time since I can remember.
I feel better at this weight, less cold all the time, more solid, more resilient.
Even with the flabby thighs...
Even with the belly...
Even with the colitis...
Even with the acne.

*****

I'd like to spend a lifetime after this one as just pure spirit.
Take a vacation from having a body,
Because inhabiting a body is a lot of work.
I am grateful to my body for its resilience,
Its ability to heal,
Its ability to hold me, to carry me, to recover when I haven't always treated it as well as I could.

Thinking about Tikva,
how hard she worked in her body,
I am even more grateful for those precious gifts:
Breath. Sight. Digestion. Touch. Life.

I of all people should be able to remember that.
So why is it so hard to feel peaceful in my body?
Why is it so hard to believe that I will heal - as I have before - from the colitis?
That I won't have colitis on and off forever.
That my skin will clear.
That I won't always have a headache for four days during and after my period.
That it really doesn't matter how many stretch marks I carry on my thighs.
That going grey means it's time to have fun with hair color, even go blonder if I want to.

(I don't sound convincing, do I?
That's because I'm not yet convinced.)

*****

If I'd been born in Samoa 150 years ago,
I would be trying to fatten up in order to feel beautiful.
It's all relative...

*****

In the end, the vessel that carries my soul won't matter.
In the end, it will end up in the ground,
Merging with the molecules of the earth around it.
In the end, my soul will merge once again with all that is and all that ever has been and all that ever will be
And my body will be just an empty vessel,
Like Tikva's.

Strange how something like a body can be so important,
And then so unimportant.
Her body is the reason she is not alive anymore,
And yet now it doesn't matter anymore.
It's no longer where she is.
My body has been such a point of struggle for me for so many years,
For so many reasons...
And yet eventually I will leave it behind,
Hopefully thankful for all it has given me.
For its gifts.
I hope when it's my time, I can feel that gratitude.

Perhaps the point is to feel that gratitude already.

*****

There must still be a small part of me that believes I had something to do with why Tikva was born so sick.
It's that same part of me that blames myself for getting colitis in the first place so many years ago.
The same part of me that blames myself, even before that, for getting fat in the first place.
It's the part of me that blames myself for all the pain and sorrow I have put myself through,
All the struggle that could have been avoided
If I'd only known better then...

Hindsight is 20-20.
I know... it's not fair to blame.
I made the best possible choices then with what I knew at the time.
I could be gentler with myself,
More forgiving.

I once looked in the mirror and said out loud to myself,

I am so sorry.

I forgive you...

*****

God, I thought I was past this - years past this.
I have a strong sense of myself,
Incredible confidence,
High self-esteem.

And yet... this.
It's still here, and it is so triggered now that I see it in my daughter.
I am terrified for her, for all that is ahead for her.
I want to shelter her from the hateful looks she is capable of giving herself when she looks in the mirror.
I want to take her away to a small hut on a mountain, far away from everything and everyone that could influence her negatively.
I want to take us both away from mirrors, and media, and a wardrobe full of clothes we search through to make us feel beautiful on days when we don't.

My frustration that she finds herself here makes me impatient.
I want it all to go away, for her to skip over it all and get to a place where she realizes, on a cellular level, that her beauty really does come from deep within.

It's taken me 38 years to just barely start to get that, to believe it.
I need to be patient with her, understand that she has her own process to go through,
In her own way, in her own time.

Still, I just want to shelter her from it all,
Have her see herself through my eyes,
Where all I see is the sparkle of her blue eyes encircled by her long dark lashes
And the humor in her facetious smile as she teases me.
Where I look at her - from the inside out - and think,

Some day, someone is going to fall so madly deeply in love with you,
And I am going to be so jealous of them...

Transformed

2009-08-25T06:18:00.000-04:00

I have a new post up on Glow in the Woods today...

Shechechiyanu

2009-08-19T08:09:00.008-04:00

A Jewish prayer said when doing or experiencing something for the first time...

We've had a lot of firsts in the past month.
First cross-country road trip as a family.
First time seeing Zion, Bryce, the Grand Canyon.
First time eating at the Cracker Barrel.
First, second, third night in Gallup, NM.
First day in Cincinnati all together.
First night in our new home.
First big house with a big grassy backyard.
First purchase of brand new couches and beds.
Dave's first time using a lawnmower.
Dave's first day back in rabbinical school.
My first time in 15 years looking for a job in a brand new city.
Our first time researching buying a brand new car.

And today, Dahlia's first day of kindergarten.

(She's that big already?!)

At the local public neighborhood Montessori elementary school
With so many kids who are so much bigger than her all around.
Black and white kids, totally integrated in a way that I don't think they are in any other neighborhood in Cincinnati,
Or in many other places in this country.
I can't tell you how happy that makes me, that this will be part of Dahlia's school experience.

Teachers and parents from the PTO welcomed us as we came in and walked to her classroom
In this new LEED-certified green building.
Her classroom is gorgeous...
Serene, tranquil, beautiful, open, bright, calm.
A blue goldfish in a bowl.
Montessori-style areas for learning that look like little corners for meditation.
Peace prayer flags hanging on the wall.
Teacher Kim wearing a pink summer dress.
She's pretty, Dahlia says about her teacher.

This is going to be so good for Dahlia.

As I pulled out of the school parking lot,
All You Need Is Love played from a CD Sharon made us for our travels.
I thought about my big girl who just started kindergarten,
And my Baby Girl who is in the wind,
In my heart.

Some other shechechiyanu moments from the past week...

Our first hike on the trails to the creek in nearby French Park.

Our first celebratory dinner on the porch,
Prepared by Dave for our seventh wedding anniversary.

Dahlia inviting Daddy into her pool on a hot muggy afternoon.

I am surrendering the urge to be in control of everything,
To try and stay one step ahead of it all.

Instead of feeling totally overwhelmed at the prospect of buying a new car and all that goes into that,
I am going to allow myself to get excited about it...
After all, I've never owned a brand new car in my life, and I am 38 years old and should experience this.
What kind of car do we want to get?
Anything is possible...

Same with the job search...
An opportunity to reinvent myself and what I do,
Make a hole in the box and climb out,
Try something new, a new environment.
Trust...

Now the house is quiet,
Quieter than it has been in two and a half weeks.
Just me and whirring of the fans.
Summer rain seems to be making its way here.
Even the crickets are quiet outside.
Perhaps a nap waiting for me on our cozy new mattress.

The Harder Moments

2009-08-18T08:11:00.002-04:00

Last night Dave, my ever-the-optimist partner on this journey, reminded me about what is good about a bad day:
That each day ends eventually, and you can start over the next day.

I'm glad it's this morning, and no longer last night...

When I cracked with PMS and the prednisone in my system,
Which I'm taking to get my colitis to calm down again,
And the colitis is stressful in and of itself,
And just overwhelm from big decisions about whether it's even worth it to fix the busted head gasket in Gypsy Rose or whether we should just sell her now, cut our losses, and get a new car,
Whether we can even afford new car payments while I don't yet have a job,
Which makes me feel like after 15 years in the nonprofit sector I've boxed myself into a professional corner where I have no choice but to do work that I no longer love doing...
Etc. etc. etc...

And then Dahlia threw a tantrum when I was trying really hard to stay calm while trying to help her
And she threw her swimming goggles in my direction and unintentionally hit me really hard in the eye

And I came completely undone

And screamed and cursed at the top of my lungs,
Started crying and left the bathroom,
Where Dave had rushed in to take over with Dahlia
Who needed to get calm as much as I did.

I spent a good bit of time beating myself up for being a shitty mommy,
A terrible example for my daughter of how to manage her emotions and not throw tantrums.
Dave reminded me to be kinder with myself,
That I can let my daughter see my humanity,
That we all turned out fine even though our parents yelled and lost their cool plenty of times.

The inside of my lips is chewed raw
And I really want to just bite off all my nails,
But I'm not, because I hate how they look when they're bitten off.

Dave calmed Dahlia down and got her out of the bath.
Dahlia came downstairs and hugged me and said she was sorry.
I cried and hugged her and said I was sorry.
Dave made dinner.
Dave cleaned up after dinner.
Dave got online and researched our particular car problem, our particular car, and put together a bunch of information for me to take to our mechanic today.
We looked at new cars online and talked about what it would cost us each month if we finally, for the first time in our married lives, got a brand new car.
Dave suggested that I wait until I feel more empowered about my job search before applying for more jobs.

I did feel empowered, over the weekend when I submitted my resume and several versions of a great cover letter to 6 jobs at Cincinnati Children's Hospital and the University of Cincinnati.
Jobs where I could use my experience but in environments that are different than those I've worked in before.
Then for some reason yesterday I got totally deflated about it,
Frustrated that I've spent about half of my 15 years in this industry wanting to get out of it.
Frustrated that the kind of work I know how to do is work that puts me at a desk in front of a computer most of the day.
Wishing pre-nursing and nursing school wasn't going to take so damn long to get through.
Wishing I could just write creatively and help people and make art for a living.
Wishing I had a trust fund...

Did I mention the prednisone is giving me zits?

It rained last night and it's grey today.
It feels right, not gloomy actually,
But cleansing.

Only one thing on the agenda today: Go talk to the mechanic.
Otherwise, it's going to be a mellow day,
And Dahlia will be thrilled to find out that she can watch as many videos as she wants,
Since kindergarten starts tomorrow so this is her last day of summer vacation.
Maybe I'll hang up the towel hook in the bathroom.
Maybe we'll make more collages in the sunroom.
I just need a mellow day...
One with no screaming.

I am not in charge.
Clearly.
Trying to control anything just doesn't seem to be working right now
So I surrender.
I am not in charge.
Is that what this is all about,
What I'm supposed to be learning right now?
That I am not in charge and don't have to be?
That I can't and don't need to control it all,
To always be in control?

Hm.

It's been a HUGE month plus of dealing, dealing, dealing
With everything that crossed out path.
Wrapping up, packing up, departing...
Crossing the country in a temperature-challenged automobile...
Arriving, settling in, unpacking, enrolling our daughter in school, buying furniture, finding grocery stores...

No wonder I'm exhausted.

Just writing it all down makes me sleepy, and it's not even 9 AM.

What If...

2009-08-15T22:34:00.004-04:00

I just watched The Curious Case of Benjamin Button and I am sitting here wondering,

What if we all came to the ends of our lives and died as babies?

Remembering nothing,
Yet knowing everything...

Kindness

2009-08-15T08:08:00.001-04:00

by Naomi Shihab Nye

Before you know what kindness really is
you must lose things,
feel the future dissolve in a moment
like salt in a weakened broth.
What you held in your hand,
what you counted and carefully saved,
all this must go so you know
how desolate the landscape can be
between the regions of kindness.
How you ride and ride
thinking the bus will never stop,
the passengers eating maize and chicken
will stare out the window forever.

Before you learn the tender gravity of kindness,
you must travel where the Indian in a white poncho
lies dead by the side of the road.
You must see how this could be you,
how he too was someone
who journeyed through the night with plans
and the simple breath that kept him alive.

Before you know kindness as the deepest thing inside,
you must know sorrow as the other deepest thing.
You must wake up with sorrow.
You must speak to it till your voice
catches the thread of all sorrows
and you see the size of the cloth.

Then it is only kindness that makes sense anymore,
only kindness that ties your shoes
and sends you out into the day to mail letters and
purchase bread,
only kindness that raises its head
from the crowd of the world to say
it is I you have been looking for,
and then goes with you every where
like a shadow or a friend.

Words That Bite, Words That Soothe

2009-08-14T07:26:00.003-04:00

On Glow in the Woods this week, Kate wrote about words and how they make us feel. There is so much there, and it has made my mind spin with thoughts, things I want to write. Things I have been thinking a lot about lately. Things I am quite honestly hesitant to write about for fear of offending someone. For the full context, read Kate's post first. Let's see if I can answer her questions...

What words have been pinned to your back, and why? How do you feel about them? What words make you feel small when you hear them, either applied to you or to someone else? Tell me about the words you’ve reclaimed that make you feel like a giant. Help me redefine the ones that leave a sour taste in your mouth as well as mine.

Tell me about your necessary spaces. Tell me how you protect them.

* * *

You are so strong.

To be honest, I hate being told that.
It makes me resentful that I have had to be so strong, so often throughout my life, at much too young an age the first time, and ongoing since.
I know they mean well, those words. I know there is admiration there, respect, recognition.
They're true. I am strong. Damnit...

But sometimes I don't want to be strong. Sometimes I want to completely fall apart at the littlest challenge. To be that person people talk about saying,

Wow, she really isn't going through this well at all, poor thing. We should help her along, make sure she makes it. Hold her together because she's not doing a great job on her own.

* * *

I hate when I hear myself saying, She didn't make it.
Because she did make it. She just didn't survive.
Well, actually, she did survive... in spirit, always.
But that's just semantics.
Doesn't really comfort me most of the time.
Still, she did make it. In so many ways.
And yet she didn't.
And that makes me sad.
I wish she had.

Angie has a piece of art she made on her blog that reads,
She's not an angel. She was my baby.
Exactly.

* * *

If she had survived, overcome the odds against her, would I be walking around calling her my miracle?
I hate that word. It rubs me raw, makes me squirm with irritation.
I hate hearing that babies who made it against the odds are miracles.
And I hate being told, Tikva was a miracle.
She inspires me.

Because it's no comfort. I didn't want a miracle. I didn't want an inspiration.
I just wanted a baby, a child, a daughter I could watch as she grew.

* * *

Are you reading blogs? Disappearing into your babylost world again?

That one makes me want to clobber someone.
Like there is something to explain, to apologize for, about finding community, needing support, accessing the places where I am reflected, seen, heard, understood.
As if I am lingering here too long, as if I should be done with this part of my healing already.

I will never apologize or explain myself for being here. Never.

* * *

I am so sorry your little girl is not here with you.

Those words feel good. Simple, sweet, honest.
They are really all that needs to be said when people don't know what to say.
Those words, I appreciate tremendously.
Because they acknowledge that even though I do feel her close to me, it's still not enough, still not the same, still no replacement for a healthy, living her.

* * *

Julia wrote a phenomenal comment to Kate's post on Glow, rejecting the whole idea of ugliness.
She questions why society around us is so surprised that we are changed by our dead babies,
Especially when that same society doesn't bat an eye that we are changed by our living ones.

So about the ugliness...

I don't know that I am especially interested in meeting living children who survived a diaphragmatic hernia.
Lately I'm not even sure I want to know about them.
It's hard to admit that, it's that shadow place...
That place where I allow myself to actually feel envy, jealousy,
The hundreds of Why theirs and not mine?
Those questions that don't really make me feel very good, the ones I am mostly able to avoid most of the time.
And yet they are there, needing their attention too.

Why theirs and not mine?
Why couldn't she have been in the 30% instead of the 70%?
Actually, she was in the 30% for a while...
Until she wasn't.

And I do resent - too strong a word? - the comfort and ignorance of those whose births were easy.
Whose babies came out just fine in spite of the smugness that they didn't need ultrasounds, monitoring, to be mindful of not going past due dates...
I don't exist in that resentment. It doesn't make me seethe.
But every once in a while I just want to scream,
You are so fucking lucky that you have the luxury to still believe that you had anything to do with that. Just don't get too smug about it...

* * *

You're so lucky you have Dahlia.

Yes I am lucky. She helps me survive this.
She is living proof that I am a mother, so that nobody forgets just because my baby is dead.
But she doesn't take away from the loss of Tikva.
I would never put that on her, either.

She reminds me that my body can do it right.
But oh how I hate that word, as if I did something wrong in making Tikva.
As if there was something wrong with her because her body was too fragile for this life?
As if she was anything less than perfect?

Still, it's easy to doubt my body, and I do plenty of that, and I try not to, but it's still hard.

* * *

My necessary spaces...

Time alone.

Conversations with myself.

Writing.

Those sweet, sweet spaces where a comment comes into my blog that just makes me feel, Aaaahhh... Thank you.

Sharing my story.

Sleep.

The space to integrate this huge jag where the world shook for a split second and the plate tectonics of the earth shifted...
Ever so slightly, unnoticed by everyone but me.
And sometimes others who can slow down just enough to notice too,
And let me know they notice.

I will never apologize or explain myself for being here. Never.
That's how I protect my necessary spaces.

Thank you for sharing space with me.
For hearing my words.
For being gentle with yours.

Cincinnati Or Bust!

2009-08-12T11:00:00.000-04:00

A photo montage of our epic journey from San Francisco, CA to Cincinnati, OH...

Mom, pancakes at Denny's are the perfect lunch food!

Somewhere in Utah, we stumbled onto a museum with real fossils of dinosaur tracks.

The earth starts to glow in reds and golds on the way to Zion National Park.

Arriving in Zion, a place I've been wanting to visit for years.

The little hiker.

My two (kosher) hams.

Ice cream in the car on the way from Zion to Bryce Canyon.
A completely stunning drive through the golden Utah rock.

Big horned ram on our path. Gorgeous!

I finally made it to Bryce, after dreaming of it for years like Zion!
Have you ever seen anything so golden and magical?

Dahlia was a brave little hiker as we zig-zagged down into the canyon.

Exquisite... I felt like I was back in Petra.

Me and my big girl, surrounded by gold.

The way back up was arduous, but we made it.

Dahlia captured a heart butterfly in the cement.

Totally pooped out after the long hike out of the canyon.

Through a mighty rainstorm in an overheating car, we made it to the Grand Canyon...
Even if we were a little distracted by the fate and stamina of our trusty Gypsy Rose,
It was incredible to be there.

A rainbow in the wispy clouds above.

I loved this crow, who sat perched on this rock for ages.
I sat and watched him for a long time.

There he is, still on the same rock.
I have a feeling he's not the first bird to have discovered this vantage point.

Things to do while stuck for three days in Gallup, NM...

Draw pictures and decorate them with stickers.
(Thank you for the sanity-saving infusion of new stickers, Laurie!)

Go to the movies... Ice Age: Dawn of the Dinosaurs in 3-D!

Unload and reload Gypsy Rose several times, each time thinking we were really leaving.
(Notice not especially pleased look on Dave's face.)

Enjoy two ridiculously filling, high-startch meals at the Cracker Barrel.

Play at the air-conditioned playground inside McDonald's while Dave visits the Pep Boys a zillion times to check on Gypsy Rose.

Hightail it out of there as soon as we possibly can!
(Thank God for the portable DVD player.)

And rainbows...

Cadillac Ranch, Amarillo, TX
Only in America...

Spray paint cans were everywhere, so we grabbed some and went to work.

Passing the St. Louis arch on our last day of driving...
Cincinnati, here we come at last!

Four mechanics and about $800 later, Gypsy Rose has decided to stop acting up.
She probably needs a new head gasket, but there's nothing to be done until she proves it,
And she doesn't seem to want to do that now that we're not driving 500 miles in a day.

It was epic, but we made it.
And now, this is where we live.

(The window on the bottom left is one of four windows in my sunroom...)

Moist Summer Silence

2009-08-10T22:19:00.002-04:00

Quiet here means crickets, and I love them.
They're abundant, so it's not just one lonely cricket cutting through the real quiet behind.
These crickets go at it, and it reminds me of Mexico...
And I love Mexico.

Much further in the background, every so often, a train passes and whistles.
But it's not close enough to bother me.
Sometimes I don't even notice it.
Other times it reminds me of the faraway train whistle I would hear at night lying in bed when I was a kid.

Closer in, there is the whir of the fan above me.
And that's it.
Just quiet.

Our little street probably gets about 8 cars driving by it in a day.

It rained - poured and thundered - this afternoon so everything cooled off.
With all the sunroom windows open,
The crickets are loud
And the room is cool.

And it smells so good.
Moist, green, lush,
Like Mexico.

Seasons... real seasons.
What a concept.
We don't really get those in California in quite the same way.

Every once in a while I have this thought: I live in Cincinnati.
It's not about where I don't live anymore.
There is no value judgment in the thought.
It's just a realization: This is where I live.
This is where I will live for the next four years.

This is where I am unpacking my house, my things, my life.
This is where I am getting entrenched.
Letting myself get entrenched after so many nomadic years.

I'm happy here right now,
Settling in.

My house is spacious.
My kitchen is gorgeous and there is space for everything.
I have already made us some really delicious meals here,
Meals worthy of my 38 years
(As in, I'm 38 now, I should be cooking fancier meals).

I have my very own room of my very own,
Where my art supplies await me,
Creative juices watering in my mouth.

Dave has an office to do his rabbi thing in.
Dahlia has a big bright room with all her toys.
We have a garden, which next spring I will begin tending.

We are here, finally here,
In this place we have been imagining for so long.
I swear I dreamed up this sunroom where I sit now.
(I must always have a sunroom, everywhere I live from now on.)

And this place happens to be in Cincinnati, Ohio.
Who woulda thunk it?

Today I went to Dahlia's school and met with Maria, the principal.
She's probably a few years younger than me and was lovely.
I told her about Dahlia, about our lives the last few years, about Tikva.
I told her that Dahlia is very comfortable talking about her sister,
And that she will at some point probably tell everyone she meets at school that her baby sister died.

I met Dahlia's teacher today, too.
Her name is Kim.
She was a breath of familiar Bay Area air,
Even though I am pretty sure she's from Cincinnati.
She has a big bright smile and is full of love and calm energy.
She was rearranging the classroom after reviewing her feng shui book,
And her husband has a raw vegan food business that sells nationwide.
I felt like I was meeting her in Berkeley,
And I left with a huge smile on my face.
Came home and told Dahlia and Dave all about her.

Both Maria and Kim gave me hugs when I left the school.

I know I'm not the first person to say this but...
People are really nice in the midwest.
Friendly, and they take the time to wish you a good day or weekend,
Even if they seem like they'd be too busy to.

At the farmer's market on Saturday, I discovered Amish meat.
All natural, no hormones or antibiotics, and it doesn't cost a small fortune.
I bought produce from the Amish farmers too.
All new for this California girl.

There is one big wall in my sunroom, facing the long opposite wall of windows.
I have boxes full of paper, all colors and patterns and textures.
I'm picturing a huge collage on the big wall...

God it smells good in here right now, after the rain.
If I had a couch in here already, I'd be falling asleep.

One Angel Card

2009-08-10T15:32:00.002-04:00

One Angel Card got left behind two years ago when we packed up to go to Israel.
It was left behind in the very back of the top drawer of my desk, otherwise empty.

It was the card with COURAGE written on it.

Seems appropriate...

I think I've stepped fully into courage over the past two years...
And then some.

I think it's safe to put that card back now, in its box with the other cards.
I know it's there if I need a reminder of that thing I hold inside.

Updates

2009-08-08T17:35:00.003-04:00

Thank you for ALL your love and prayers for Baby Makenzie and Rudi.

Baby Makenzie went home from the hospital today and is doing well.

Rudi will soon move to a rehabilitation center from the hospital. Yes, he turned a corner a week or so ago, has been of the ventilator, is eating and talking and sharing his feelings about all he has been through. He has several more weeks of recovery ahead, so please keep the warmth coming his way. When asked what really helped him during those very hard weeks, the doctors said, "Divine intervention."

One, Part Two

2009-08-07T22:08:00.002-04:00

God, this year has been hard.

This year since Tikva came, lived fiercely, deeply,
Left an imprint on my life and on my heart that remains always like a tattoo,
And left this realm, this plane of existence to return to Source.

This year since holding her, saying goodbye.
This year of in-between, of not knowing how I was going to get through each day,
Take each step forward.

And yet I have.
And yet I'm here.
My heart cracked, but still whole,
Expanded.

And yet the tears flow.
I miss my little girl.

I wish she were here.

A year ago I felt lost, alone.
I was calling around in search of a support group,
A therapist for Dahlia, for me.
I felt like the only person on earth who had lost her two month old baby girl.

At some point I stumbled onto Glow in the Woods,
Discovered, with relief and sorrow, that I was so not alone.
Now I write on Glow each month,
Share my experience, my journey with other babylost mamas and papas,
Try to help and support, to hold and comfort.
I am still stunned each time I learn that our community has grown.

It's a bit strange not to be in San Francisco tonight.
But I think it's also a good thing.
Some distance, even if it doesn't release the invisible cord that still connects me
To that garden at UCSF where I held my Baby Girl for the last time.
It probably always will, even while the thread becomes as thin as a spider's web.

I wonder what this second year will be like.
What will I feel this Rosh Hashanah, marking two years since Tikva was conceived?
What will I feel next January 23, two years since her ultrasound?
What will I feel on June 10, her second birthday?
Will I be pregnant again with her brother or sister?
What will it be like next August 7?

For now, I am here
Sitting in my sunroom,
Fan blowing overheard,
Laptop on my lap,
Music playing,
In Cincinnati, Ohio.
Our new home for the next four years.
The beginning of a new chapter,
The next part of our story.

I carry you with me always, my sweet Tikva.
I know you remain with me too.

Feeling You Close

2009-08-07T10:58:00.005-04:00

Last night before bed, I did what I do every night.
I went into your sister's room to kiss her sleeping sweetness goodnight.
As I walked towards her, I saw you so vividly in her profile,
More than ever before.
I called your Daddy to show him and he said he could see it from across the room.
She looked so much like you just then,
Just like you in this moment captured in a photo.

I felt you there, as if a piece of you was inside Dahlia, showing yourself to me, saying, "I'm here."

I slept deeply last night, and long this morning.
I woke up feeling peaceful.
I've been feeling you so close this past week since we arrived in our new home.

I have seen glimpses of you in the butterflies,
In the fuzzy caterpillar,
In the rabbit nibbling on clover,
In the tiny birds that play on our roof,
In the fireflies outside last night,
In the flowers that surround our house.

I have heard your whispers and whistles
In the crickets,
In the chirping,
In the quiet,
In the breeze.

A year ago tonight
Your heart stopped beating
And we said goodbye to your fragile, gorgeous little body.
I will never forget that night,
But more than that,

I will never forget your life.
I will never forget you.

For you are so much more than my baby who died.

You are my mighty precious inspiration,
The one who called out from deep within me
A woman who before you was only a piece of herself.

I do miss you here, Tikva.
I do long for you.
I do cry.

I do feel the place where your precious human self is missing,
Where you would be playing in our new garden on the strong little legs you were just learning to use.
I am aware that all your baby clothes are now in a box in our basement,
Waiting for the day when another little one joins us,
Aware of how beautiful you would have looked wearing them.

I do feel the place where you are missing,

But I can't do so without feeling all the spaces in which you are here,
Where your energy fills each tiny space in between all that is...
Surrounding me,
Holding me,
Showing me the way with your grace, delicacy and gentle sweetness.

There will never be anyone like you, Tikva Ahava.
Thank you for your gifts,
For your trust,
For your love.

I love you always, Baby Girl. Always.

My Space

2009-08-05T22:57:00.004-04:00

Tonight I set up the furniture -
Rather mismatched, but kind of coordinated at the same time -
In my sunroom.
Lots of tabletop to do art, a vision I've imagined for a long time.
A comfy glider to sit in next to the wooden chest where I will keep Tikva's things.
A desk for the more mundane administration of life.
The armoire that was too big and heavy to lug upstairs and will hold our linens.
And lots of light from windows all around.
And it will make a welcoming guest room for visitors...

I spent a lot of today getting Dahlia's amazing room set up
So she could play in it with all her new friends from the neighborhood.

It felt good to spend a little time on this space for me tonight.

Now I sit on the glider,
Where I nursed Dahlia in Oakland years ago,
Computer on my lap.
Nice soft light.
Ceiling fan whirling gently above me.

Tomorrow when I open the shutters,
I will be surrounded by windows
And the flowers outside.

***

We signed Dahlia up for kindergarten today
At the neighborhood public Montessori school.
And we went to their open house tonight
To tour the school, meet other parents
And learn about the after school programs
(Which are refreshingly inexpensive).

Our new mechanic here is still trying to figure out what is going on with Gypsy Rose.
It could be the water pump, it could not.
It could be the head gasket, it could not.
Mechanics across the country are baffled...

It's a lot, and we've been here less than a week.
But there is time to get settled into everything
Slowly.
The key word is slowly...
I am realizing that it doesn't all need to happen today,
Right now.
In fact, if it isn't all put together until November
That will be just fine.

***

It's almost August 7, and I have been feeling Tikva so close.
I look at her pictures and I miss her so much.
I think about a year ago this Friday
When I held her for the last time,
Said goodbye to my sweet Tiny Love.
One year almost...
So much time and yet so little.

I still have a hint of the line that formed on my belly when I carried her...
I hope it never goes away.

Please Pray Deeply for June

2009-08-04T17:50:00.002-04:00

Today I learned that June Lin, the sister of my long-time friend Jean, was recently diagnosed with non-small cell lung cancer in an advanced stage. June is a non-smoking, 37-year old and she has been hospitalized since last week. She is expected to start chemo and radiation this week. The cancer has spread to her brain so the prognosis is nothing less than terrifying. Remarkably, June hasn't felt much discomfort or vision problems and she is prepared to take the most aggressive course of treatment possible. She is ready to take this thing head on and she is is so calm and still has a sense of humor about it all. The survivor rate for lung cancer is low but Jean (and I) truly believe that she is in that miniscule percentage of patients who has what it takes to get through it.

Please pray for her, spread the word, and add her to any prayer chains you might be a part of. Thank you.

Adrenaline Crash

2009-08-02T22:48:00.000-04:00

Too exhausted to function.
Aerobed inflated.
New home welcoming,
Especially the crickets outside
And the warm breeze coming in through the window.
At last, some real summer (aka no Sunset fog)...

Tomorrow we get our treasure trove of belongings out of storage.
Can't wait to see what we own after two years.

I saw Tikva in a little rabbit nibbling on grass in our front yard this morning.
Tonight I feel the missingness of her.

And her presence.

Goodnight.

You Get What You Get

2009-07-27T22:56:00.000-04:00

I think it is exactly as it's supposed to be that we are here in Gallup - together, safe - on Tikva's yarzeit.
I'm not exactly sure why, but I need to trust that.
Even if our second dinner at the Cracker Barrel didn't taste quite as good as our first two nights ago.
Here we are, peaceful, held by something bigger that we can drop into and to which we can surrender the need to control.

Dave reminds me of God's palm, where I find myself sitting, where I can let go.

Still, I cried deeply before and as I lit the yarzeit candles.
One traditional one that burns for 25 hours.
The other a candle from Tsfat in Israel, which Tikva's grandma Rosie had gotten to light when I went into labor.
We got matching candles there together about a week before the ultrasound that told us about Tikva's CDH.
I planned to light mine when labor began in our Jerusalem apartment,
And Rosie would light hers back home in Las Vegas.
When we were in Las Vegas last week, I saw the candle in a cupboard and asked if we could have it to light on Tikva's yarzeit.
I'd already lit mine...
In the weeks before she was born,
On the more difficult nights of her life when I needed to connect with her while she was in the hospital,
And in the weeks following her death,
It became her Tikva candle that we lit before lighting the Shabbat candles on Friday night.

I still light a Tikva candle each Friday,
So tonight with the yarzeit candle I lit a Tikva candle too.

And cried.
Missing my Baby Girl.
So deeply appreciating and loving her.
So deeply thankful for my big girl Dahlia,
Who reminded me, like she did the day of Tikva's unveiling,
You still have me.
You still have me alive.

And her sweet love that she gives me every day, saying:
My Mommy!
And Tikva's Mommy!
And the Mommy of our next baby!

I look at my sweet family and feel so grateful for my precious husband and magical older daughter.
I feel my sweet Tikva close to us, and at the same time I feel a space where she isn't.
Fullness and emptiness at the same time.
It is what it is.
This is what I get.
I'm not missing all the blessings.
Just feeling all the feelings.

I look at her picture from the night she breathed her last breaths outside
And I still feel disbelief, loss, wonder.
I look at her beautiful face and think,
I gave birth to such a gorgeous little girl whose body just couldn't make it this time around,
So her spirit had to go to bigger and better places.

I still wonder what she really looked like
Underneath the tape and tubes,
Without the puffiness caused by her medication.
I still think she would have grown up to look like me.
I still know she would have been so beautiful.
She was so beautiful,
Is.

Tonight in Gallup, NM, Tikva,
On your first yarzeit,
I miss you.

Tonight I am releasing tears I have held in,
Without really knowing,
For weeks, days, hours.
Releasing some of the stress of the past few days,
The past few weeks,
The months leading to today,
The days ahead until August 7,
The first anniversary of your passing on the solar calendar.

I miss you, my brave and beautiful little gal.
I just miss you, miss the feeling of you.

*******

The day after Tikva passed, I wrote this:

I am forever changed because of you, my Sweet Tikva.
Changed in a way I can't really explain.
Changed in an irreversible way.
Changed in a way I needed to be changed.
I am a stronger, wiser, more humble, more patient, more grateful and more loving soul because of you, my Tikva.

I will hold you in my heart forever, and I trust that eventually my heart will hurt a little less every day.
I will feel you in every breath of wind that touches my skin.
I will remember you as I breathe deeply my own breaths.
I will lean on you, remember your might and your presence, when life feels hard.
I will share your story with everyone I meet.
You will always continue to touch hearts and lives as you have already.
I promise you this.

I love you, Tikva Ahava.
I love you as my gift to forever lift your spirit into the wind.

Going With the Flow

2009-07-27T16:25:00.000-04:00

Dahlia asked this morning if we could spend another night here in Gallup, NM.
Well, her wish is granted, because the new radiator for Gypsy Rose won't arrive until tomorrow.
We'll be spending Tikva's yarzeit here.
I'm pretty sure we'll always remember Gallup, NM.

Some good news: Rudi is doing much better and seems to have turned a corner.
It looks like they will be removing his ventilator tomorrow.
He is really wanting to communicate, and will be able to do so once it is removed.
A friend shared with him that we're on the road and thinking of him, and Rudi sent us love.
Hearing about this brought a huge smile to my face.

Really helps me keep things in perspective...
We have time, we have enough money to pay for the repairs, we have each other, we have our health, even if mine is a tiny bit challenged right now.
We have this nice hotel, the pool, internet access, and if we get bored there's a movie theater and a Walmart down the road.

Perspective

2009-07-26T22:26:00.000-04:00

I said that I wanted to go the Grand Canyon for some perspective.
Not that I'd lost perspective...
Actually I think I did really well keeping sight of the big picture over the past few months.
But still, I felt like seeing something really big and vast and eternal-feeling on the cusp of this next part of my journey would be good for me.

Zion, Bryce and the Grand Canyon... places I have wanted to experience for decades, literally.
It reminded me of when we went to Petra in Jordan, during the early months of our time in Israel,
Right when I was realizing I was pregnant with Tikva.
I had wanted to go to Petra - to see it for myself - since I saw something about it on TV probably during high school.
And so off we went, the three of us, Dahlia just three and a half, yet pulling her own in the heat on her own little feet.

I took the same desire - to see, to experience - to this southwest corner of the USA,
Along with this perspective I was opening to...

Be careful what you ask for, because you will always get it.
It just might look different than you expected.

We made it to Zion and had a beautiful afternoon riding on the shuttle and stopping for Dahlia-length "hikes" to see the views of this first canyon.
We made it to Bryce, even hiked the 1.3 mile loop into this second canyon and back up.
We made it to the Grand Canyon and stayed there overnight.
In spite of the sporadically overheating car
And the rainstorm as we drove the 25 miles into the village along the canyon.
We saw, we strolled around, we sat for a while, taking turns making sure Dahlia knew where the edge was at all times.
We were a bit distracted by the still TBD reason for the overheating car.

Perspective, yes.
But not just because of how HUGE and ENDLESS and GORGEOUS the Grand Canyon is...

Perspective also because of my awareness of this cusp we are on...
This beginning.

Perspective because we had no choice but to be present with what was - not the ideal of what could be if our car was working fine, wasn't filled with all our belongings so that we have to see the sites carrying our laptops in our backpacks, and was maybe 11 years and 100,000 miles younger.

Added perspective courtesy of the colitis flare-up I seem to be having,
Which certainly doesn't make things easier.
Definitely some effort being put into awareness about how I could really be triggered right now,
Since I left for Israel 2 years ago with colitis.
Even that, though, isn't really getting me as much as it could.
Because I've been through it before, and I know how to treat it,
Physically, emotionally and energetically.

So we're in Gallup, NM, spending a second night here because sweet (and newly named) Gypsy Rose - car of the wandering Jews - was not going on to Albuquerque today and she needs to go to Pep Boys to be diagnosed and fixed in the morning.
We're in the heart of Indian country, the heart of an America that is worlds away from the sheltered bowl of the San Francisco Bay Area where I spent most of my life.

I am just opening up to it all.
Feeling flexible during these few days on the road about whether the meat I am eating is organic, what goes into a McDonald's chocolate milkshake, how much Cartoon Network Dahlia watches in the hotel room, how late she stays up, if she eats ice cream every day.
Cincinnati is definitely pulling us, but since we haven't actually landed there yet, I am not really focusing too much on the need to get there faster than our cross-country journey is allowing.
The insides of my lips are a bit chewed up from watching the temperature gauge on the car go up and down and up again,
But I am connecting with a time a few weeks from now when we'll be looking back on these few days in Gallup and smiling at the adventure, proud of ourselves, and beginning to settle into our new home.
I've had enough experiences in my life where I've gotten to that point when I was looking back on something hard and realizing I was now through it; how good that felt...

So I know it's coming here too.
Our car will be fine and we'll get to Ohio safely.
I will see Dahlia and Dave's sweet faces when they see our new home for the first time.
The colitis will calm down and go away.
Dave will start rabbinical school again next month, finally.
Dahlia will start kindergarten and make new friends.
We will settle in - immerse completely, unpack everything - to our new home in Pleasant Ridge.
I will get a good, meaningful, interesting job that gives me good medical insurance.
I will get pregnant again.
Our family will grow.
I will start my nursing prerequisites.
Dave will become a rabbi.
I will become a nurse.
Etc...

Big picture... there are a lot of BIG things showing up around me right now to remind me of that.

Tikva is close, as we approach her yarzheit - the anniversary of her passing on the Hebrew calendar - which begins Monday night at sundown and lasts for 25 hours.
Tikva is close, her spirit floating with us forward.
I felt her there as I watched the happy birds doing flying games around Bryce Canyon.
I see her there in the glow of the red in the rock mountains and canyons all around us.
I see her in the wind that blows the frayed Stars and Stripes outside my window overlooking the train going by along Route 66.
I know she's here because Dahlia is talking about her even more than usual this week.
And I keep noticing the Tikva Ahava tattoo close to Dave's heart.
I've been working on Tikva's quilt in the car,
And today as we sat in McDonald's for a few hours while Dahlia made instant friends in the indoor playground, we ate French fries and drank milkshakes, and waited to learn more about our car.

She's close...

Almost a year ago, she left her weary body.
Next to that, the events of the past few days feel like small potatoes.
And yet she helps me through them,
Reminding me of the big picture, of the perspective I am capable of holding gently.
Of what matters.

I miss her.
I would give anything for the extra work of being right in this same challenging moment with a one year old child.
But I get her in a different way, and I'm letting that in.

Walking around Zion a few days ago, I realized that I'd forgotten about her for a little while.
All the energy of a few days in the car with a still-acclimating five and a half year old who required so much non-stop attention.
Dahlia can be truly distracting and requires a lot from her parents right now.
I was fully immersed in being Dahlia's mommy.

Then I saw something beautiful at Zion and Tikva popped into my consciousness -
She does that when I see beautiful things -
And I realized I'd actually forgotten about her for a good half day, maybe more.
I felt no guilt, just noticed.
And since... she has been so present, so here, so with me, so close.

What's that you're working on?

This? It's a quilt I am making for my deceased baby girl.
To remember her, honor her, and to comfort myself through this strange - and strangely becoming familiar - experience.

No easy answer to that question. No one has asked me yet, but I know it's probably coming eventually.

The hotel room is quiet while Dahlia and Dave go for a swim in the indoor pool.
The American flag outside is still blowing away in the warm wind.
This evening's big decision: Applebee's for dinner, or back to the Cracker Barrel?

Proven Fact

2009-07-26T01:54:00.000-04:00

The lure of chocolate chip cookies will get a cranky tired five year old up a long steep climb out of a canyon.

The promise of beautiful scenery and magnificent, unreplicable views along the way will not.

A Suitcase Full of Hope

2009-07-24T01:07:00.000-04:00

I'm revisiting the past few weeks leading to our departure from San Francisco on Glow in the Woods tonight.

Empty House

2009-07-18T21:46:00.000-04:00

One last post from our now empty house before I turn off my computer and put it in the car.
A few nights with family, then Monday we hit the road.
First stop, Las Vegas to see Grandma and Grandpa.

Thank you, sweet house.
You've been a solid and cozy container for this big chapter of our big journey.

Urgent Prayers Needed for Rudi

2009-07-17T18:00:00.000-04:00

Rudi has a collapsed lung, and the doctors have inserted a tube to reinflate it. The blood clot in his leg is now traveling to his lungs. So he is in challenging shape right now and needing HUGE prayers and love sent his way. Thank you for holding him in your hearts.

Double Rainbow

2009-07-12T22:19:00.000-04:00

The double rainbow shining over Rudi yesterday...

The love and prayers you are sending to Rudi are really helping him and his family. Rudi continues to make progress. Each day he needs less oxygen from his ventilator, and all of his vitals are normal. His temperature went down to normal too, and he no longer needs blood pressure medication. His breathing is continuing to improve. He is still being sedated, though less than before, because of the ventilator tube - and his awareness is limited. He sometimes opens his eyes, and his amazing wife Janie thought he recognized her this morning. He has responded to some of the doctor's questions by nodding.

Rudi's progress is projected to be steady over the next several weeks. They will gradually wean him from the oxygen, ventilator tube and sedation. This means that he is likely to be in the ICU for 1-2 more weeks, possibly longer. Please keep your prayers, love and good thoughts coming. Thank you!

Makenzie Update

2009-07-12T11:23:00.000-04:00

Makenzie's xray was negative.
She is doing okay.
Reflux, they say.

More Prayers for Makenzie

2009-07-11T12:32:00.001-04:00

Please continue to pray for Baby Makenzie.
Her oxygen level keeps dropping so they are getting ready to do an xray.
They think she's getting an infection.
Thank you.

Connection

2009-07-09T23:23:00.000-04:00

A truly amazing connection with Gannet Girl...

This Is Love

2009-07-09T21:15:00.000-04:00

by Rumi

This is love:
To fly toward a secret sky, to cause a hundred veils to fall each moment.
First to let go of life.
Finally, to take a step without feet.

Update on Me

2009-07-08T18:55:00.001-04:00

I have been a nail biter since I was about 4 years old.
I think I took up this nasty yet incredibly comforting habit by watching my mom bite her nails.
I don't bite them down to the skins, and I've never taken to biting the skins themselves.
But I definitely bite them, and they rarely get very long.

On and off - mostly off - for the last 34 years, I have stopped chewing on my nails.
Rarely for very long. I think the longest I've gone was about a year.
I resumed the habit around the time Tikva was born,
Appreciating that God had given me these really useful things to chew on that would always grow back,
Giving me endless hours of comfort and something fidgety to do during stressful times.
I swear that biting my nails has helped to keep me calm MANY times in my life.

A few months ago, I looked down at my hands and thought, "My nails look like crap, and my fingers look stubby."
So for the past two months or so, I've managed to stop biting my nails.
Sort of... occasionally, usually when I'm bored or distracted, I will chew one down a bit, then file it round to make it fit with the rest.
But all in all, my nails are long now, and look much better than when I chew them.

The inside of my lips, however, is faring less well than my nails.

Hey, something's gotta give...
There's a lot going on right now.
And as I explain to Dahlia when she complains that being a kid is no fun,
Being grown up is no walk in the park.

Deep Prayers for Rudi

2009-07-08T16:46:00.000-04:00

It is 1:45 PM in California and within the hour, Rudi is going to have a lung biopsy.
Please pray DEEPLY for him for the next few hours, because in his condition, any procedure is risky.
Hold him in light, love, faith and wellbeing.
Thank you.

Please Pray for Rudi

2009-07-07T00:53:00.000-04:00

Dear friends near and far,

Our dear sweet friend Rudi is in the hospital in Oakland, CA tonight with a very serious case of pneumonia and fluid in his lungs.
I want to ask for everyone's deep and constant prayers of healing for Rudi,
Trusting that prayers from all over the world will help him toward recovery and health.

I so want Rudi to know that he is held, not only by us, but by something much bigger...
And that wellness abounds for him.

If you pray Jewishly, Rudi's Hebrew name is Reuven Yehudah.

Rudi was our neighbor for three years before we moved to Israel,
And he quickly became a very special friend.
He is a precious part of our Jewish community here.

Thank you for holding him in your hearts.

Love, Gal

Baby Makenzie Update

2009-07-04T12:05:00.000-04:00

Baby Makenzie is doing well.
She is off the C-PAP and digesting her mother's milk, which she gets through a feeding tube, just fine.
Apparently she is a feisty little girl.
Thank you for sending her love...
And for your continued prayers.

Moving Boxes

2009-07-03T00:06:00.001-04:00

Time to get practical...
Does anyone in the San Francisco area have empty cardboard boxes taking up space in their garage?
If so, we could use some to pack up all the items we are returning from the generous souls who helped furnish our house this year.
Thank you.

Welcome Home Carly

2009-07-02T00:10:00.001-04:00

Sweet Carly and her parents are thrilled to be back home tonight after almost a month in the hospital.
Thanks to everyone who kept tabs on her and held her in your heart.
She is truly a mighty being... and I know a mighty being when I see one.
She has more work to do, so keep holding her and sending love her way,
But she is now able to heal in the comfort of her own home.

They are a very special family, truly bright lights, all three of them.
I am thankful to Chris and Lani's blog for unintentionally connecting me to them...
There is incredible beauty, I think, in connecting with a family with shared experience
Through another family I know only virtually because we are both learning to live our lives after losing our babies.

I really felt Tikva there with me when I visited Carly in the PICU at UCSF for the second time last week.
I tried to explain it to Dave afterwards, because it wasn't exactly that I felt Tikva floating there,
In the PICU so close to her courtyard where the Hope and Love stones sit.
More than that, it was as though I felt Tikva through me,
And her energy - and I suppose also that connection to God/Source I am able to feel by connecting to her - allowed me to simply be present and peaceful as I held little Carly's hand.
It felt really good... Tikva gave that moment incredible meaning, and being there gave her short life added meaning too.

I think I will be okay working in a hospital when I'm a nurse
As long as I remember that connection.

Operation Beautiful

2009-07-01T00:45:00.001-04:00

I found this on beautiful Tracy's blog and it gave me chills, tears and smiles...
I just had to share it.
Spread the word.

Continued Prayers for Baby Girl Makenzie

2009-06-30T10:08:00.001-04:00

Please keep praying for Makenzie, who has taken a difficult turn.

They've apparently vented her now, sounds like CPAP from the description.
Also a tube in her bellybutton that acts as some kind of umbilical cord.

She started off breathing pretty well, then they added oxygen last night and now...more help is needed.

Mission Accomplished

2009-06-29T13:33:00.000-04:00

I spent less than 48 hours traveling to and from Cincinnati this weekend,
With the express purpose of finding us a home for the next 4 years.
I drove by a lot of houses that were possibilities,
And saw two primary ones from the inside.
One of them was clearly our future home, I could just feel it when I drove to it and walked in.
It's in a beautiful, quiet, safe and diverse neighborhood.
It's close to the school we have hoped for several years to send Dahlia to.
It's close to the library, the community center, the local art center, Trader Joe's, a big lovely park with walking trails
(Something to replace Golden Gate Park, perhaps, for our sanity-inducing walks).

The house is big, bright, spacious, colorful, and has a big back yard for Dahlia.
It feels good there. Right.
Such a reward for all the patience and waiting we have done for so many years to finally get there.

And the rent... Boy is life inexpensive when you get out of California and away from the coasts!

I saw two hawks flying in the sky far away while I was sitting in my rental car talking to Dave about the house.
Seems there are hawks in Ohio, too, there to bless our journey.
And lots of butterflies.
Tikva is definitely close no matter where we go.

It felt great to be charged with this "reconnaissance mission," especially the way Dave and I communicated virtually by phone and email and text messages and video to make it happen.
We are a rock-solid and mighty team.

It was sweet to see some of Dave's rabbinical school friends who have been there for the past year,
And to know that we'll be joining them very soon.
It's so nice to know that there are people waiting for us.

I treated myself to a nice dinner and a glass of wine at the Chicago airport on the way home,
And a bag of chocolate covered raisins for the flight.
Had a nice chat with a woman who was doing the same thing.
Well deserved.

We leave San Francisco July 20 and will take our time driving cross-country and have a little vacation.
We move in August 1, and Dave and Dahlia both start school the third week of August.

Now I can move onward down my list of to-dos!

Prayers for Baby Girl Makenzie

2009-06-29T13:22:00.001-04:00

I just learned that a friend of a friend just had her baby girl early, born today at 30 weeks in Florida.
She is just 2 pounds, 10 ounces.
I don't know much more, but would love to ask for prayers and a bunch of love to be sent her way.
Thank you all.

Rest in Peace

2009-06-25T19:22:00.000-04:00

I am completely at a loss for words to learn that two unforgettable icons of my youth have left us today.
Tears.
Chills.

That smile...
That hair...
Those eyes...

That voice...
That intensity...
Those eyes...

Rest in peace, Farrah and Michael.
We will always remember you.

Getting Comfy With My Emotions

2009-06-22T10:22:00.000-04:00

I'm talking about my feelings on Glow in the Woods today...

Unveiled

2009-06-20T01:22:00.001-04:00

It's beautiful, absolutely gorgeous.
Just like my girl.
So fitting, such a perfect way to honor her, remember her.
It's a dark sage green and it looks like it belongs there.
It is a work of art, a lasting gift.

I read this today when we gathered with family, all of us dressed in bright colors, for the unveiling...

My Sweet Tikva,

For the past few days I’ve felt so peaceful. And a bit suspicious. Knowing that this wasn’t all I was feeling, just underneath my calm exterior. And yet still calm, not to be dismissed as insignificant. For the past few days I have felt you so close to me. On your birthday last week. When I visited another little girl working hard to get well at the hospital, where I believe you’ve been watching over her. When I sat on your bench in the courtyard and made origami stars to leave next to the Hope and Love and Forever Angel Spirit rocks I left there a few weeks ago. I felt you there in the wind on my face, and saw you in the calla lilies that were such a bright yellow I thought they could not possibly be real. But they were. So many flowers in that garden where your mighty spirit left your body ten months ago, in the heart of that big place where your human journey unfolded.

That feels almost passive, as if your journey unfolded without you at its helm, steering the ship. When in fact you were in charge, from the very beginning. You and God, you as a magnificent part of God. You guided us every step of the way, Tikva. You told us when to believe in you, when to travel to the ends of the earth for you, when to hope and have faith. You taught us how to love unconditionally.

You taught me how to love like I have never loved before.
You opened up a part deep inside my heart that is now open forever, never to close.
You gave me the gift of true compassion, as pure and sweet as your incredible soul.

Now I listen to the gentle flute concerto that I heard in the car sometime during your life, which I found and listened to in the final weeks, mostly at night, sitting in the glider while I pumped milk for you. Such an act of faith, of hope, pumping milk that I always wondered if you would have a chance to finish. I think a part of me always knew you probably wouldn’t, and yet it was one of the biggest things I could do for you – and for me – to continue to hope, to give you love through the nourishment of my body, to feel like I could do this one thing for you that no one else, no doctor or nurse, could do. I could give you my liquid gold filled with love. That had to feel good inside you.

When I close my eyes I am right back there, to those moments where I confronted the darkest parts of my soul – the fear, the sadness, the anticipatory grief of what it would be like to be without you, the longing for things to be different than they were, for you to be there in my arms, nursing at my breast, peaceful and well. I know you felt me during those nights, when we were connected deep within each of us. I felt you there close to me the night of August 7, when I had just come home from the hospital for the last time, silent with shock that your journey in your body was over and I would never see you or hold you or touch you or look into your gorgeous eyes again.

And I have felt you so deeply, so many times since. Seen you in the Red Tail Hawk that visited me in the park, outside our window, perched in a tree, flying high above with the seagulls and crows. Heard you in the sweetness and gentle sadness of that flute melody. Saying to me, I love you, Mama. I’m with you. I’m sorry not to be in your arms, but I am even closer – in your heart – where I began my journey when you dreamed of me before I was conceived.

I could never have dreamed that you would be as magnificent as you are, Tikva!
As graceful.
As mighty.
As beautiful.
As sweet.

Did you smile inside, Tikva, even if you couldn’t smile on the outside? Even though you had so much big work to do in so short a time? Did you feel warm fuzzies from the love we showered on you? Did you feel as good in my arms as I felt holding you? Did you feel my heart beat against yours when our skin touched? Did you feel my hand holding your face, feel me accompany you the night your spirit left your body, so that you would not be alone until you knew that you were enveloped in God’s palm, that you would be okay? Did you know that a little part of my heart has stayed with you since then?

It has been a hard ten months without you. I have missed you so deeply. It has also been a time of magic connecting with you. With and without, at the same time. I don’t get to wrap you in a sling against my body, but I get to envelop you in my heart, and wrap myself in your spirit, breathe you in the wind and the sweetness of your snapdragons and roses. Hear you in the humming and whistling of the birds. Feel you in possibility, and the feelings of hope I am still – somehow – able to muster from deep in my soul.

I know you don’t want me to feel heavy, to feel dark or bitter or abandoned, to feel like my life is over without you. I wondered, when I learned that you would be born very sick, how I could ever survive losing my child. But my life is not over. Surprisingly, it’s not even close to that.

Because how can my life be over when I have been cracked open by you?
When the journey has just begun?
When there is so much love to share and feel and grow?
When I have important work to do?

There are seven blades of grass on each side of your headstone.
Seven like the days of creation – look at all you created in your short but boundless life!
Seven charkas of the spirit body.
Seven, divisible only by itself and one – you always were, are, and will be a part of God.
The grass is rooted in the earth and reaches up towards the heavens.
The grass blows in the breeze, bending easily.
I see you there, in all of it – the earth, the grass, the wind, the sky.

Thank you for the gift of you, my Tikva Ahava, my Hope and my Love.
Thank you for choosing me, for trusting me as your partner on your BIG journey.
Thank you for blessing me with your tiny hand on my heart – imprinted there forever.
Thank you for blessing me with your eyes gazing deep into mine – soul to soul forever.
Thank you for being my second child, my daughter – forever.

I love you, Baby Girl.

*******

Dahlia came over and hugged me after I read, and she whispered in my ear,
You still have me.

I do, sweet girl. You are my light. I love you so much. So much.

Dahlia released ladybugs into the grass,
And they crawled onto the flowers and the stone,
Onto those of us nearby...
And they flew all around.
(Can you see them in the photos above?)

And even before we opened the box they had come in from the plant store,
Someone noticed there was a ladybug that had flown to us and landed on my back.
A little spirit visitor...

And just as I was about to leave,
When everyone had gone to visit the other family members buried in the same cemetery
And I was standing near my car with my Dad, Dahlia and Karina,
Preparing to visit my grandmother, Aloisia at the cemetery down the road,
I noticed in the sky the Red Tail Hawk circling above the baby section of the cemetery.

Naturally... How could Tikva soar above us in any other way?

Hi, you! Hi, Baby Girl. Hi, My Beautiful...

I felt you in the powerful wind that brushed my face
And ran its fingers through my hair as I had walked, earlier, to the bathroom.
I know you were there, so close.

It's you! You are so close. You just look different now...

Sweet Girl

2009-06-18T10:14:00.000-04:00

The video of Tikva and us from last June 17 is viewable by all now. Sorry for not setting it that way originally.

The Most Amazing Day

2009-06-18T01:38:00.001-04:00

(To watch this directly from YouTube, you can go here.)

Before June 17 is over, I wanted to post this footage from June 17, 2008.
I watched this a few times today, remembering the most amazing day, the most amazing birthday of my life, a year ago.
Remembering the incredible love and hope and light that surrounded Tikva on the day of her surgery,
And how smoothly everything went.
Remembering learning from Laurie that the Red Tail Hawk had flown by twice while I was in the pumping room.
Remembering seeing Tikva's eyes when she opened them for the first time after the surgery,
When she could finally be taken off the paralytic medication.
Remembering the three-hearts bandage that Tippy the surgeon cut for her scar.
That was the day I got my Miss Piggy socks.

I cried as I watched.
I smiled too.
I felt so much love for my most beautiful Baby Girl.
I felt some longing to be back there, to that day.
To the hope and positivity, the possibility and all that was ahead.
I felt sadness that Tikva is not coming with us in body when we leave San Francisco in a few weeks.
I sure would love to be strapping her into her carseat next to Dahlia when we hit the road.

I have no regrets, though.
I loved her completely, unconditionally.

I still love her, I always will.

I loved her without knowing the outcome,
With no illusion of permanence.
We did everything we could and then some for her
And I feel like I can leave here feeling the peace that comes from that.

I felt good today on my birthday.
I often feel kind of melancholy on my birthday,
But I think I got my freak-out out beforehand yesterday.
So today I was able to just feel good, clear, peaceful.

I felt super loved today, enjoying having no distractions from my birthday,
Nothing bigger to do like send my husband off to Cincinnati to move all of our belongings cross-country before we left for Israel (2007)
Or support my baby daughter while she had major, potentially life-saving surgery (2008).
Today, in 2009, it was just my birthday.
Thank you to everyone for showering me with so much love.

I took myself shopping and bought some brightly colored clothes today.
A 38 year old woman who's been through some serious and heavy sh*t (I'm sorry, but the word stuff just doesn't quite fit here) needs brightly colored clothes.

And my sweet husband took me for a picnic on the beach of a lake and we ate the most delicious food
And watched the tranquility and life of nature flow by...
Crows, turkey vultures, ducks, a mama deer and her baby, a snowy egret.
I love snowy egrets; they are so beautiful in flight.

When the sun set the gentle wind died down, the water got even more still and the quiet grew even more silent
And it reminded me of being in the Sinai in October 2007,
When I first suspected I was pregnant.
Nothing like that kind of quiet outdoors.

I could feel Tikva so close today.
She was there in all the animals that visited us.
She was there in the wind.

I think I am going to like 38.

The Three of Us

2009-06-18T01:26:00.000-04:00

It's hard having a living child and missing the one who's gone... Dahlia doesn't distract me from Tikva, and I don't want her to. In fact, she reminds me of Tikva in so many ways, even though Tikva was younger. And she talks about Tikva and her own loss and grief, and needs our help to hold her through it and help her understand. She asked me just the other day, not for the first time, "Why did Tikva die?" With a look on her face that showed she was trying hard to figure it out, to really understand the incomprehensible. I can't imagine how confusing it must be for a five year old...

Dave and I handle stress and pain differently. I can't speak to how he experiences it, but I experience it differently each day. Yesterday I exploded, melted down, and yelled. Not about Tikva, but about other things. Unaddressed sadness, perhaps. We take turns having our little erruptions, and sometimes they are bigger than others, and sometimes we can hold each other through them, and other times we just need to take and give each other space.

I guess the thing that stands out a lot for me right now is just how much we are a surviving family of three, not a couple who lost their baby with another living daughter. Dave, Dahlia and I are going through this together - just like it is the three of us who knew Tikva and have to learn what it means to be a family without her here.

Goodbye 37

2009-06-17T01:48:00.001-04:00

Hardest year of my life, being 37.
No doubt the biggest,
Even though I have had my share of big years before.
Three and seven are sacred numbers in Judaism.
Numbers I have always liked.
Together a prime number.

In Judaism, seven represents the days of creation.

I'm not sure how I feel about leaving this year of my life,
But I think I am ready to start a new one.

Eight represents eternity.

This year ahead, I will continue to create this new self I am becoming...
This eternal self.

Liam

2009-06-15T16:41:00.000-04:00

Today I'm thinking of Liam and holding sweet Kate in my heart.

Keep the Love Coming for Carly

2009-06-14T20:06:00.000-04:00

Please keep holding sweet little Carly in your hearts and positive thoughts.
Thank you...

One

2009-06-10T19:07:00.000-04:00

My Darling Tikva, My Sweet Baby Girl ~

A year ago today, at 2:22 am, you came forth into this life, into your own body separate from mine.

At this time last year, I sat at your bedside in what would become your corner of the ICN,
And just watched you be, touched your soft skin, felt the pure awe you would draw from me each day.

You were so beautiful in your gorgeous and fragile little body.
You were so strong, with so much work ahead.
You were so small, so soft, so sweet.
There was so much you couldn't do on your own that babies usually do effortlessly...
Breathe, eat, be held.

And yet so much worked perfectly.
Your heart, your brain, your beautiful eyes, all your organs except your lungs and airways.
It's still hard for me to reconcile that you couldn't survive
When so much of you was so strong.
When you came in with such a mighty spirit...
Ready for the world.

For the past two weeks I've had a queasiness in my stomach,
And it was its worst all day yesterday.
Today I woke up and it is barely there.
Body memory, maybe...
The part of me that wanted to keep you inside me forever.

I sat and looked at your photo album this afternoon,
And imagined a parallel reality where you are still alive,
Home with us.
What it would feel like to celebrate your first birthday,
How far you'd come, how many hurdles you'd overcome.
It feels almost strange that you are not here in your physical form anymore.

I miss you, my Tikva.
I miss your smell that is still on your Lambie in the jar.
I miss your warmth emanating from your soft body
Into my hand touching you.
I miss, even, sitting at your bedside in the ICN,
Just being with you.

I see pictures of friends' babies smiling
And I wonder if they have any idea how blessed they are to see their child smile.
I wonder if you would have smiled outwardly if you hadn't been so nudged all the time by tubes and wires
And working so hard just to breathe the air you needed.
I wonder if you were smiling, still, on the inside
From the warmth of all the love we gave you.

I don't think I realized how amazing it was to watch Dahlia smile when she was just a month or two old.

I love the memory of your Daddy showering you with a love bath.

Your sister in her princess regalia, touching you so lovingly,
Wishing for you dreams of happy and not scary stuff...
Knowing in her four and a half years exactly what to do and say.

Your Nonno reading you Goodnight Moon, sweet gentleness in his eyes.

The joy I felt when I held you for the first time.

The beautiful day of your surgery.

The day you were extubated and we could see your gorgeous luscious lips completely.

Holding you the afternoon you put your little hand down my shirt and fell asleep touching my heart.

I love the feeling of when I held you safely inside my belly.

Even the bittersweet memories of pumping milk for you in the middle of the night,
My heart connected to yours, wondering what kind of a night you were having...
I miss that too.
That purpose
That pure unencumbered love
And hope
And desire.

I don't know how I will feel on August 7, but right now I can tell you this:
The day of your birth - and the days of your life - feel much greater to me than the day you died.
Because you lived, Tikva, and it is your life - IT IS YOU - that touched me.
You are not my daughter who died - YOU ARE MY DAUGHTER WHO LIVED.
You are my mighty one, my magical one, my prettiest.
You are the light that continues to touch my soul.
You are the beauty and love I carry with me always,
And try to spread around me.

You are my Tikva Ahava,
My Hope and my Love...
Always and forever.

I love you, Baby Girl.
And I miss you.

Happy First Birthday.

~ Your Mama Always

Prayers for Carly

2009-06-10T19:02:00.001-04:00

Please send heaps of love and prayers to little Carly, who is working hard on her healing nearby at UCSF.
She is a mighty being, surrounded by the love of her amazing parents and so many others.
I know Tikva is watching over her with a close eye...

The Cult of the Red Tail Hawk

2009-06-08T19:19:00.000-04:00

I have this consistent image of being settled in our new home in Cincinnati, everything in its place.
I see myself going to a store and finding a cedar chest.
In it, I will put Tikva's things...
The box that tells the story of her life.
The album of photos I made.
The shrine I made for Day of the Dead.
And other things too...
The nightgown I wore when I birthed my second child.
The clothes I wore when I held her for the last time, outside.
Maybe the shirt I wore only once on the day of her funeral.
Maybe, eventually, the sweater Michelle gave me which I wore almost every day during the second half of my pregnancy,
Throughout the foggy cold summer at UCSF,
And so much of the time since.
Maybe also the scarf Laurie made me that I wore that night and so many days since.
When they get holes in them, I will add my Miss Piggy socks,
The ones Dave gave me for my birthday on the day of Tikva's surgery.
I'm wearing them now, my Miss Piggy socks.
They make me smile, thinking of the love of my husband and the hope I felt that day.
It makes me a little sad, too, but I still wear them.
Maybe I'll add the hamsa necklace I wore during most of her life,
Which I love but haven't had the heart to wear since.
Maybe I'll put my journal in there, too, when it is filled.
A printout of all my blog entries since Tikva was conceived.
My I'm with Tikva t-shirt.

Her story, her mighty life, all together.

I have another consistent image...
It is of a beautiful wall in our new home,
And all the homes that will follow.
A wall away from direct sunlight,
Where I can hang Tikva's prayer flag quilt,
Where it won't lose its brightness from the rays of the sun,
But still be lit beautifully by indoor light.
Next to the quilt will be the photos of Tikva that I am waiting to have framed until we get to Ohio.
The big one of her peering out at the camera just a few weeks before she died,
Which is a still I made from a video Dave took while holding her...
Her big brown eyes so wide, so penetrating.
And some smaller ones of the three of us with her - our daughter, our sister.
Our beloved.
I see this wall following us in all our homes for the rest of our lives,
Perhaps following Dahlia too once Dave and I are gone.

I have these images sometimes of my grandchildren and great grandchildren
Opening the cedar chest way in the future
And looking slowly through Tikva's things,
One by one.
Getting to know this baby aunt and great aunt they never knew
But will surely know.

On the plane to Las Vegas last week, Dahlia told the woman sitting next to us,
My sister died.
I don't think the woman heard, and I didn't push it.
She tells people about Tikva a lot.
She talks to us about her a lot.
She's not stuck... she's just integrating,
Figuring out how it all fits, probably understanding in some deep place that this is something she will always carry too,
Just like me and Dave and everyone in our family.
We stand by her on her journey of understanding, patiently.

Life is juicy, messy, crude, and beautiful... all together.
I don't think we can shelter our children from life.
But we can be there with them to explore it together.

The morning before Dave and I went back to visit UCSF a few weeks ago,
I went for a cup of coffee with sweet Amy.
While we were talking, I glanced over at a computer that was sitting on a table across from us,
Open to a photo of a bird, huge wingspan stretched, coming head-on at the camera.

I joke about our Cult of the Red Tail Hawk, and how my friends have slowly become believers.
The Red Tail has followed us closely since the weekend before Tikva was born,
When Dave witnessed one swooping out of the sky and capturing a pigeon in mid air just a few feet away from where he stood.
I saw the Red Tail fly by my labor room window the afternoon before Tikva was born.
Red Tail flew by twice the day of Tikva's surgery.
Red Tail has been so close to us since Tikva died.
I found a Red Tail feather when I walked in the woods of Mt. Parnassus the morning I escaped yoga class, crying.
The day of the March for Babies, Red Tail visited me twice close up,
And Laurie, who was with me, said, "Now I get it."

So that morning at the coffee house with Amy, as I looked at this photo,
I knew before asking that it was a Red Tail Hawk.
I got up to talk to the guy whose computer it was and asked, What kind of bird is that?

It's a Red Tail Hawk. I photograph them.

Of course you do, I thought to myself.
How could it be any other way?

Amy got up to join us as he showed me his website and the hundreds upon hundreds of the most incredible photos he has taken of the Red Tail Hawks of San Francisco. This incredible artist, Walter Kitundu, is a MacArthur Fellow and also a musician, and he happens to belong to the Cult of the Red Tail Hawk too. No joke, this guy is deeply connected to the Red Tail like Dave and I are. He knows which bird is which, where they live, what their behaviors are, and he captures the moments of their days with some of the most gorgeous photographs I have ever seen of any living creature.

I didn't go into Tikva's story when I told him how much I feel connected to the Red Tail, but I did ask if I could put his website on my blog.

And then this happened: Amy, who stood next to me as Walter showed us some of his hawk photos, said, That's my house!

As if there hadn't been enough magic already, she had spotted the ornate roof of her house in one of his photos, Red Tail perched on top of it. It was, indeed, her house, and this particular bird, named Patch, lived in the park across from where she lives.
Of course.
How could it be any other way when Tikva is involved?

Walter told me that in a few weeks, baby Red Tail Hawks would have hatched at Sutro Heights and I might be able to spot them there.
Sutro Heights is one of my favorite places in San Francisco,
Reminding me of the sweet years Dave and I lived next to Ocean Beach,
Taking walks there together, and then with Dahlia when she was a baby.
We went there yesterday, in search of Baby Red Tails.
We didn't see any, probably because there were too many people everywhere on a sunny day,
But it was so beautiful up there, and smelled so good.
We just sat and looked out at the ocean,
And I felt how much I am going to miss its infiniteness when we are landlocked in Ohio for four years.

I felt a deep love and gratitude for this magnificent place that has held us on this difficult journey.

We left some hope and love a few weeks ago in the garden at UCSF where Tikva breathed her last breaths.
I could feel her presence in the wind as we returned to this place again.
A new little baby with brown hair slept in an isolette in Tikva's spot in the ICN.
We hugged Tom, her doctor, and he remembered how transcendent it had felt to be in the garden with us that night.
We ate chocolate in Stephanie the social worker's office one more time, remembering Tikva's mighty existence.
The young receptionist at the ICN desk asked me how my daughter was doing,
Not knowing that she had died because she rarely had her shifts when we'd been there.
She didn't make it, I replied, but thanks for asking.
I started to cry and buried my face in Dave's chest.
He told me later how gracefully I'd handled that.

There's no place for me there anymore, Dave said.
He's right. Our daughter isn't there anymore.
But the tape that hung up her prayer flags still marks the walls in the back bay of the west wing,
Too high for anyone to take it down without standing on a chair.
One of her nurses pointed this out, and I smiled.
Even though hundreds of babies have come through the ICN since August 7, 2008,
I think a precious part of all those hearts Tikva touched with always remember her.

I get stuck sometimes in frustration,
Feeling like one of those t-shirts that reads,
My friend went to Paris and all I got was this lousy t-shirt.
My sentiment reads more like,
I had this amazing child and loved her unconditionally for 2 months, and now I have to be satisfied with this huge life experience and the magic of regular hawk sightings.
I really just wanted a second child, healthy and alive and keeping me up at night and just beginning to walk.
When I sat on the beach in Sinai, wondering if I was, indeed, pregnant and worried about the twinges I felt near my right ovary, unable to settle completely into the sweetness of possibly being pregnant, but still incredibly excited...
It was not a huge life experience that I was anticipating, but another child joining our family for years to come.
You just never know what you're gonna get.

At preschool they say, You get what you get, and you don't get upset.
Well, you can get upset, but you still get what you get.

Dave is right, I grew in a way I never could before knowing Tikva.
I'm still learning from her with every day.
And...
And I miss my Baby Girl.
And I would give back everything I've learned to have her in my arms again.
And I long for the purpose and the joy and the raw clear love I felt every minute of every day she lived.
And I hunger for the feeling of her in my arms, her smell and her softness and her gaze into my eyes.
And I am scared of how it will feel to leave this place where her story unfolded.
And I worry that there won't be any Red Tail Hawks in Ohio.

On my last of four visits to the headstone company over the last few weeks,
I left feeling so peaceful and good after watching Danny, their main sculptor,
Carve the stencil that will create grasses on the side of the headstone,
Grasses that look like they are blowing in the wind
While they are pointing upwards toward the sky,
From the Source of the earth to the infinite Source.
I pictured the grasses in my mind's eye before we ordered the stone,
And I needed their help to get them just right,
To get the whole stone just right.
Dave and I chose all the fonts,
Unique ones, pretty ones, ones that flow and are sweet and beautiful,
Like our daughter.
It had to be perfect, and Henry and Pierre and Danny have been very patient with me, ensuring that it will be.
That's what you do when there isn't much more you can do for your child.
You create something beautiful for her.
I know it is more for us than it is for her, but still...

Tikva's prayer flag quilt is pure magic.
Every time we've worked on it, new sparks of beauty have been lit.
Now there is embroidery, thanks to Laurie's inspiration,
And all of the flags are sewn together in a circle,
Thanks to Elizheva, my quilting midwife.
Last weekend with my girlfriends, I wore the quilt like a poncho,
Enveloped in Tikva love.
I see myself finding a bubbe in Cincinnati to help me finish the quilt,
Because there is still quite a ways to go.
But boy is it beautiful already.
Of course.
How could it be any other way?

In the weeks, months and years ahead I want to be like this guy...
Peaceful, calm, smiling, laughing, remembering that I don't need to be so serious all the time,
Even if life is serious business and I am a serious girl here to do serious work this time around.
Dave keeps reminding me that good times are ahead, and he has noticed that each time I look at him both with belief and a cynicism that good times are really truly possible.
Sometimes I really believe him from the bottom of my heart.
To be honest, I know that there is goodness ahead, peace, calm, smiles, laughter.
It's just taking me some time to feel something other than, I'll believe it when I see it.
But I am more of an optimist than a cynic, even if I am a bit of a Chicken Little and Dave is my sweet Pollyanna.

We went to an old Universal Studios-like western town near Las Vegas the other day with Dahlia and some friends.
They had a petting zoo and some hammy melodrama about cowboys.
They had a pretend cemetery with some make-believe headstones with funny epitaphs.
This one caught my eye, poignantly realistic, especially for those times.

One more thing...
I am madly deeply totally completely in love with Dahlia...

Thank God for Dahlia.

Neglected Blog

2009-06-01T23:36:00.000-04:00

I am not ignoring you intentionally,
My sweet little blog,
My sweet little community that loves and supports.
I am not really ignoring you at all.
I am not too busy, even if I am busy.
I am maybe a little preoccupied by all that needs doing over the next 6 weeks before our move.
I am needing a little space right now, from my blog, from other blogs.
I am still checking in, though, only less frequently,
With a little more space between.
But you'll still see me and hear from me, commenting here and there.

I have A LOT to write about, but don't feel ready to write it all down.
But I will, I haven't let you go, my little blog.
I will write more soon.

The past few weeks in brief...

A visit to UCSF for the first time since the night of last August 7.

A strange, traumatic, and very ridiculous mishap at the dentist's.

Many trips to the headstone shop in Colma to finalize the design for Tikva's stone.
(Emotional much?)

Two trips out of town... one with my little family and a big group of friends,
One with four amazing girlfriends for a special getaway...
So nourishing, so needed, so could've stayed another week!

Tikva's quilt is amazing... just keeps growing and evolving.

Getting on the plane to take Dahlia to Las Vegas to visit her grandparents on Thursday.
Thankful the flight won't take me through a storm over the Atlantic Ocean
(So strange, how life can completely change on a dime).
Wondering if Mercury really has gone back out of retrograde today.

Woke up incredibly aware that it's June today,
And June is a BIG month...
Tikva's birth day: June 10
My birthday: June 17
The day a year ago when Tikva had her surgery... so much hope!: June 17
The day we will unveil our daughter's headstone: June 19
Father's Day: June 21
My last day at work: June 25

And onward...
My 20th high school reunion: July 11
Our estimated departure date for driving to Cincinnati: July 13

Lots of deep breaths...
Ppphhhhh

Tikva's Rose

2009-05-20T00:31:00.000-04:00

Tikva's roses are blooming,
Attracting the bright rays of the sun.

The deer enjoyed a meal from the first blooms...
I like to think that Tikva is as much in those deer as she is in the roses.
Maybe they smelled so good to her that she wanted to taste them.
Now that Auntie Marty has blocked off the bush so the deer can't get to it,
The roses can bloom in peace.

Gorgeous...
Just like my Baby Girl.

I miss you, Tiny Love.

To Be A Warrior

2009-05-19T10:18:00.000-04:00

Today on Glow in the Woods, I'm putting on warrior shoes.

How Do You Fill Your Jar?

2009-05-13T00:59:00.000-04:00

My cousin Angela sent me this beautiful story today. Talk about perfect...

A rabbi stood before his yeshiva class and had some items in front of him. When the class began, wordlessly, he picked up a very large and empty mayonnaise jar and proceeded to fill it with golf balls. He then asked the students if the jar was full. They agreed that it was.

The rabbi then picked up a box of pebbles and poured them into the jar. He shook the jar lightly. The pebbles rolled into the open areas between the golf balls. He then asked the students again if the jar was full. They agreed it was.

The rabbi then picked up a box of sand and poured it into the jar. Of course, the sand filled in all the cracks. He asked once more if the jar was full. The young scholars responded with a unanimous yes.

The rabbi then produced two glasses of wine from under the table and poured the entire contents into the jar, effectively filling the empty space between the grains of sand. The students laughed.

Now, said the rabbi, as the laughter subsided, I want you to recognize that this jar represents your life.

The golf balls are the important things; your family, your children, your health, your friends, and your favorite passions; things that if everything else was lost and only they remained, your life would still be full.

The pebbles are the other things that matter, like your job, your house, and your car.

The sand is everything else; the small stuff.

If you put the sand into the jar first, he continued, there is no room for the pebbles or the golf balls.

The same goes for life: If you spend all your time and energy on the small stuff, there is no room for the important things. Pay attention to the things that are critical to your happiness. Play with your children (or if they aren't with you physically, allow yourself time each day to be with them in your heart and thoughts). Spend time with your parents and grandparents if you can. Take time to get medical checkups. Take your partner out to dinner. There will always be time to clean the house and fix the disposal.

Take care of the golf balls first; the things that really matter. Set your priorities. The rest is just sand.

One of the students raised his hand and inquired what the wine represented. The rabbi smiled. I'm glad you asked... It is a reminder that, no matter how full your life may seem, there is always time and space to share a glass of wine with someone you love.

***

How do you fill your jar?

Surpassing Myself

2009-05-12T23:45:00.000-04:00

My darling friend Amy sent me this last week...

“Finally I am coming to the conclusion that my highest ambition is to be what I already am. That I will never fulfill my obligation to surpass myself unless I first accept myself, and if I accept myself fully in the right way, I will already have surpassed myself.”

- Thomas Merton

I've been sitting closely with it since, sitting with the idea of just being me
And loving that me that I am.

A Mother and A Daughter

2009-05-11T00:16:00.000-04:00

I took a nap in the middle of the morning today
After making French toast for Dahlia, Dave and me
(Because no one in our house makes French toast like I do).
I got into bed, closed my eyes, and I thought about Tikva.
And I thought about Ann.
A mother and a daughter who are no longer with us in this physical plane.
I thought about what this Mother's Day must be like for Ann's husband and daughter,
Who turned 7 the day before her mother died.
I hope they felt my love.

I did not know Ann.
She and her family are friends of a good friend of mine.
I am grateful to this dear friend for sharing Ann and her family with me.
A few days ago she sent me a clip from a news special from last fall about cystic fibrosis.
It was about Ann, and I was able to see her sweet face and beautiful family.

This is Ann.
Can you see the sweetness and the courage?
For all of you who have held her in your hearts,
This woman you did not know personally,
I thought you might want to see the beauty and strength of her heart in her eyes.
Thank you for holding her in your prayers.

It is important to honor a life,
No matter how short.
It means a lot to me that this woman lived,
That she loved and was loved, continues to be loved,
That she will be so deeply missed.
It means a lot to me that she touched hearts,
Hearts even of those who did not know her.

In the past week,
I learned that Ann was living her final days.
I learned that she died.
I learned that someone very special to me is pregnant.
I learned that a good friend has lymphoma.
I learned that another good friend is engaged to be married.

I am starting to understand that this is how it is
And always will be...
They exist together, the dark and the light,
The sorrows and the blessings,
The arrivals and the departures.

Sometime mid-week, my friend who is friends with Ann and her family told me something that gives me great hope...
Faith in people, in humanity, in the power of hope, in the power of love.
She told me that when Ann and Jason met, both knew that one day - who knew when - she would die,
And that it would be difficult.
And yet they still chose to love each other, to marry, to make a family.
They lived and loved deeply, for all the time they would have.
Unconditionally.
This gives me hope.
I guess it is the same thing that gave me hope when Tikva was coming, when she came, when she went:

That we still choose to love,
Even without knowing how much time we will have,
Or if we will ever get back all the love that we give.

To honor Tikva,
To honor Ann,
Keep loving deeply, completely...
Because we just don't know how much time we're going to get to love.
All we have is now.

Happy Mother's Day to all the very special mothers out there,
Whether your children are in your arms,
Grown up and out of the house,
Or brushing your face gently in the air that you breathe.

Rest Peacefully, Sweet Ann

2009-05-09T23:41:00.000-04:00

From Ann's husband Jason:

Dear Friends & Family,

I am so sad to tell you that Ann passed on Saturday morning.

While we (& soooo many others) love her so much & will miss her incredibly, thankfully she went to God peacefully & surrounded by me & her parents. She also lived (nearly 4 hours) past Katie's actually birthday, thank God!

Ann has already shown me a very clear sign that she is watching over us, which has eased Katie & my pain a bit.

Thank you all for all of your support, help & prayers thoughout the past 7 months.

Please Pray Deeply for Ann & Family

2009-05-06T17:29:00.000-04:00

I just received this message from Ann's husband... Thank you for holding this precious family in your hearts.

Dear Friends & Family,

They tell us we will likely lose Ann imminently.

Please pray that she makes it through till Mother's Day, as Katie turns 7 on Friday & has her birthday party on Saturday.

THANK YOU SOOO MUCH, AGAIN!!

Our Sincere Gratitude,

-Ann, Katie & Jason

Mothers Holding Hands on Mothers Day

2009-05-06T12:58:00.000-04:00

This is a beautiful ritual organized by Gannet Girl... please check it out and contribute if you feel moved.

Relief

2009-05-05T14:33:00.000-04:00

Looks like we are going to Cincinnati after all this summer.
Good thing, because the winter coats I ordered for Dahlia and me arrived yesterday,
And they have furry hoods and are actually cute.
Phew! I am relieved and feel like we can proceed with our... dare I say the word... plans.

The Flip Side

2009-05-05T12:30:00.000-04:00

I have listened to a lot of Creedence Clearwater Revival over the last few days
And so has Dahlia when we've been driving in the car together.
She now knows most of the words to the songs about rain -
Have You Ever Seen the Rain and Who'll Stop the Rain,
And is truly appreciating some good ol' rock n' roll.

Something about that music just makes me feel good... better.
It helps that my period is over and my hormones are on the more pleasant side of their up-and-down cycle.
There is a lot of clearing happening inside me, too...
I don't discredit that and blame it all on my cycle.
It is a LOT of letting go.
That's what the tears are doing - clearing, cleansing, processing, releasing.
Moving through the month leading up to Tikva's birth day,
Remembering, reliving, reconnecting with how everything felt within and around me in the month before she was born,
When I still carried her safely inside me.
Except now I can connect with the fear, worry, sadness, mistrust that I felt then
Undistracted by the hope I was also able to summon up.
Because now I know that Tikva didn't live for very long.

I think I knew even then that she would only be with us for a short time,
Even if I never quite admitted it.
I couldn't then.
How could I?
I just loved her.
Purely.
Completely.
No matter what.
And yet I still knew, I think, that I would have to let her go a million times
Until I finally had to let her go completely.

Dave said to me the weekend of the March for Babies,
Only if you let her go, will you have her forever.
He's right, I know that, but it still breaks my heart.

I found out I was pregnant with Tikva when we were in the Sinai in Egypt, on a vacation during our time in Israel.
We were actually in Petra, Jordan the first time I suspected it,
The day my period was due and we walked for hours and hours around this incredible relic of human history that I had dreamed of visiting for years,
And I didn't feel tired at all.
Lying on the quiet beach in Nuweiba, Sinai,
As Dahlia played with the little Bedouin girls who were trolling the beach selling cheap jewelry from China,
I began connecting with the little one I felt growing inside me.
And I couldn't quite settle into peacefulness about it.
Something nagged at me just a little, and I felt a consistent twinge of cramping in my right side that made me worry I was having an ectopic pregnancy.
I attributed my worry to the fact that I'd miscarried before, and it was harder to trust that something wasn't going to go wrong again.
I even had an ultrasound at 7 weeks to prove to myself that my baby was indeed growing inside my womb,
And I felt the most amazing comfort when I heard her heartbeat at that visit and every subsequent visit to the doctor.

I wonder now if I wasn't connecting with something bigger on that Egyptian beach.
I wonder if perhaps a part of me knew, in that way that we are - I believe - able to time travel to different times in our lives and something can speak to us about all that we don't know yet in our minds, but feel hints of in our hearts.
Did something in me know even then that I would lose this child after loving her for 47 weeks of my life,
And a lifetime afterwards?

Did I tell you about the hawks I saw the day of the March of Dimes walk?
The one soaring over the trees of the Presidio in the distance as we walked along the San Francisco Bay towards the Golden Gate Bridge on a beautiful crisp blue day?
The one who visited Laurie and me that afternoon in Golden Gate Park?
We were on the grass talking, stretching our tired legs, and Laurie looked up past me and there was a hawk, not even 10 feet away, standing over some rodent it had just caught, and looking at us with its huge eyes.
Laurie had heard me talking about our Tikva connection to the red tail hawk, but she hadn't seen it yet.
She was totally blown away, and so was I.
I just looked at its big wide eyes and largesse.
Then it flew just a few inches above our heads - wingspan so wide - and went to a tree with its prey.
And what about the hawk who visited me later that evening?
When I was turning on a video for Dahlia and Maia in the living room and I was helping Dahlia close the curtains to block out the glare of the setting sun, and a red tail hawk flew directly towards me standing at our window - wingspan so wide - and landed on the telephone pole just outside our window.
He sat there for a really long time, long enough for Dave to capture on film, before spreading his wings and flying off towards the park.
I don't think the hawk hangs out this close to just anyone around here...
I lived in San Francisco for almost 10 years in another lifetime, and never once noticed a hawk until we returned last spring.

Tikva was so close to me that day, so close.
Dave joined me at the window with his video camera and said,
You get that. It's different than what you expected, but it's what you get.

I imagine I will always feel Tikva's presence and her absence side by side.

Driving over the Golden Gate Bridge on a foggy misty day listening to Creedence with Dahlia,
I was able to feel appreciation for my body, in spite of - or perhaps because of - our complicated relationship.
I was able to appreciate my strong immune system and the fact that I got just one mild 36 hour cold all winter.
I was able to appreciate how well my digestive system works, consistently, after all these years of struggle.
I was able to appreciate my strong mind,
My lungs that are strong (I never appreciated my lungs like this before knowing Tikva),
My legs that hold me up, grounded on the earth, in spite of the flab they carry,
My ears that can listen to music,
My voice that can sing along on key
(I would have loved to be in a rock band),
My ability to dream, to dream big, to point my ship in the direction of what I desire.
I felt deep appreciation for the ever growing and deepening love I get to share with my husband,
A man who is completely and forever committed to me, to us, to our family.
For the amazing child that is Dahlia, growing so magically before my eyes into a being like no other.
I felt appreciation for the rain that is cleaning the air and nourishing the earth outside.
I felt appreciation for the friends who hold me, who understand me, who know me sometimes better than I know myself.

Last night on the couch, Dave looked down at me as I cried with my head in his lap.
This has not been a fun year, he said.
It hasn't. It's been the least fun year of my life.
I have felt moments of joy, yes.
I have felt the deepest love imaginable.
I have been burst wide open and forever changed.
But it has not been a fun year.
Dave said, Let's have a lot more good times together.
More good times... I need those.

I want to know, have you ever seen the rain?
I want to know, have you ever seen the rain
Coming down on a sunny day?

I have.
It's all there, always there together - the shadow and the light.
The sorrow and the joy.
Rain on a sunny day.
Sun shining from behind rain clouds.

Big Time Prayers and Love Needed for Ann

2009-05-03T16:42:00.001-04:00

This is from Jason, husband of Ann, who has cystic fibrosis and needs our love and prayers:

After 12 days in the ICU @ UNMH, unfortunately, Ann is not doing well. The level of CO2 in her blood (& lungs) is extremely high, >113 (s/b ~45) and is not diminishing regardless of her ventilator settings. She is also requiring higher & higher levels of oxygen (>80%).

As you all have always been sooo generous with your prayers, we kindly ask that you continue those prayers & positive energy for/towards Ann.

Thank you, & we continue to be tremendously grateful for and humbled by all of your kindness & generosity!

Our Love & Gratitude,

-Katie, Ann & Jason

Control vs. Ease

2009-05-02T00:54:00.001-04:00

Sometime in the months just after Tikva died, I took a book off my bookshelf and started reading the section about pregnancy. The book, Healing With Whole Foods, is written by a practitioner of Chinese medicine, which I have found great healing in over the years. I still do: acupuncture is amazing for my body, and my acupuncturist has become a guide and friend on this journey since I was still pregnant with Tikva. I don't remember what I sought in that moment as I read this piece of the book - perhaps an answer to the whys of Tikva's short life and death.

What I found was not comforting; in fact, it was so disconcerting that I closed the book, put it back on the shelf, and haven't picked it up since. I don't remember exactly how it was worded, but in essence it talked about the toxins that can weaken our bodies, and how if enough gets toxic in the body, and if the organs of the body are not strong enough, things can happen in response - things like disease... things like birth defects. In essence, this book was suggesting that it was very possible that my body caused my daughter's birth defect. And it had the audacity to suggest that with enough cleansing, enough eating of the right foods, enough staying away from "bad" things, enough taking charge and controlling what goes in and what goes out, I might actually have been able to prevent what happened to my daughter.

The arrogance. Let's just say I no longer revere the contents of this book in the way I used to. Let's say that I take it all with a huge grain of salt. I am much more skeptical now, recognizing there are no absolutes. The author might think he knows how to cure all, heal all, make all "bad" things go away, but he really has no idea. No idea. Arrogance and ego, that's what it is. He actually thinks we have control over any of it?

Yes, I was triggered. Majorly triggered. In the deepest place you could possibly imagine. Triggered in that place of body memory about every single physical challenge I have ever had...

Compulsive overeating leading to...
The most uncomfortable 5 years of my life weighing 50 pounds too much for my body.
Severe acne on my face for 3 years after I lost the weight, including 2 years on antibiotics.
Parasites a year later which were undiagnosed for 3 years until they caused...
Colitis, which I had for two years, during which I wavered between size 0 and size 2, and took so many drugs and supplements for my healing.
Learning to eat normally again and regain trust that my body would be okay if I regained a normal life.
A healthy pregnancy followed by several years of feeling too depleted to even think of having a second child
(So much time wasted when I could've been having more children).
A noise in my right ear that didn't stop for 6 months, during which I barely slept.
Sometime during the years between Dahlia and my second pregnancy, the colitis came back and lingered for 2 more years.
And I miscarried.
Then I took prednisone for 3 awful months to make the colitis go away again.
And a month after being off prednisone and free of colitis, I got pregnant with Tikva.
And I got the worst case of shingles, a sign of a weakened immune system.

And you know the rest.
And I have wondered ever since if my body was just not strong enough to make a healthy child...
See why that chapter in that book was so triggering?
See why I struggle every day to trust my body?

I've had a headache for three days. I seem to get headaches around my period these days. Tightness between my eyes, in my forehead, in my temples, and a little in my neck and shoulders. Not surprisingly, when I cry I feel some release of the tension. But I know the headaches come from something internal. (As if emotions aren't internal...) Something going on with my hormones or something because of my cycle. Probably also some grief that I'm even having my period. Oh, and I'm getting zits, too. They come around my period and sometimes they come around ovulation, and sometimes they just hang out all month long. Not nearly as bad as during college, when they were everywhere all the time and nothing could make them go away, not even two years of antibiotics. (Which, by the way, is about the worst thing you can ever do for your immune system.)

The whole thing just makes me want to scream.

I think this is baffling to my sweet husband, who just trusts his body in a way that is so unfamiliar to me. He too was a fat kid, and he overcame it through exercise and determination. Till he was fit and muscular and a starter on the football team and a guy girls noticed for the first time as more than a friend. And for the last 11 years he's been a personal trainer, helping people get into their bodies, trust themselves, make positive change. I feel like such contrast to him so much of the time. Exercise isn't naturally compelling to me. I'm actually kind of a sloth. Even yoga feels boring these days. Last week in class I cried a lot, got into child's pose a lot, got annoyed at the dharma babble coming out of the young instructor's mouth, and left 20 minutes early.

Dave trusts my body. He trusts his body. He trusts my ovaries and my fallopian tubes and my uterus and my eggs. He trusts his organs and his sperm. He believes we can get pregnant, stay pregnant, grow a healthy baby who will live and thrive. He trusts my body. He believes I am healthy. I do too, sometimes.

He trusts in our love. That, I too trust completely.

It's the rest of it that is harder for me. Especially when I look in the mirror and see another zit and wonder what on earth is going on inside that's causing that. Especially when my head is throbbing with this dull ache and I don't know why. I get scared that my body isn't clean. I wonder if there are toxins I should be cleaning out before getting pregnant again. I worry that my hormones are imbalanced even though they have checked out fine in my bloodwork... twice. I wonder if my body is trying to tell me something. I wonder if all the banter in my head is what is causing the headache and the acne, which happen to originate, literally, in my head.

Dave says: If you believe long enough that something is wrong in your body, then something will go wrong. He's right.

Yet I'm not sure how that integrates into my experience. Does that mean that I caused all the things my body has already been through up until now? The overweight, the acne, the parasites, the colitis? Does that mean I could have prevented them? And how am I supposed to trust my body after all that? It's been over 15 years since I've been overweight, and I have spent that time between a size 4 and a size 8 - yet I still have a hard time trusting that I won't get fat again one day. I am still grossly aware of the extra fat between my thighs and now on my belly. Nobody notices the zits on my face but me, yet I can still hear the words that came out of the mouth of the young gas station attendant during college when she asked me, What happened to your face? (Yes, bitch, you did say that out loud.)

So many times I have wanted to turn back the clock and tell my 16 year old self, Oh sweetie. Put that Ben & Jerry's down and take my hand and let me hold you while you cry instead of drowning your sorrow in food.

I would say to my 20 year old self, It's not good for your body to take antibiotics for such a long time. Let's look into alternative things you can do to clear your skin. Maybe you could eat better and drink less coffee.

I would say to my 22 year old self, Shellfish are bottom feeders. They're filled with bacteria. Don't eat those, they'll give you parasites.

I would say to my 23 year old self, Keep asking for answers to why your stomach is always hurting because it isn't nothing. It's probably something big, like parasites, and they need to be treated right away before they wreak havoc on your body and cause something worse.

I would say to my 26 year old self, You are not as alone as you feel in this illness. And you will not have colitis forever. You will heal.

I would say to my 32 year old self, Eat more food to keep yourself strong as a new nursing mother. Nourish your body, rather than seeking to cleanse it. Your body is not dirty. It isn't toxic. It is just tired, depleted. It needs replenishing, nurturing.

I would say to my 35 year old self, Take the prednisone now before the colitis gets worse. Don't waste time being sick. Don't be afraid of the drugs. Just take them now and get it healed and be done with it. Detach yourself from this illness.

I would say to my 36 year old self, Trust your body.
Or maybe I would say, Wait until you feel stronger before getting pregnant again.
Or maybe I would say what I did say: Don't wait any longer. It's time now. This child is ready and so are you.
Or maybe I would say, You have no control over any of it. You can just let go and let it unfold.
Or maybe I would say, I'm sorry you are lying on the couch in so much pain with shingles. I'm sorry all this just feels like too much for your body.

Or maybe I would say, Tikva's journey is her own. You are just accompanying her. You did not cause this.

Damn. I feel tired and beat down. Sometimes I feel trapped in this body that is so much less than perfect. I can't even imagine how Tikva must've felt in her fragile vessel. No wonder she decided to let it go and return to pure spirit.

I have moments of total surrender, when I don't care how blemished or how clear my skin is because I realize that in the end, it doesn't matter. In the end, I won't need my body and it won't matter how many scars or stretch marks or blemishes I have. In the end, I am not in charge. I have moments when I really recognize how healthy and strong and mighty and well I am, even without the perfect blood test results to remind me (which I got, by the way, two months in a row).

I know people who eat perfectly, exercise regularly, live a calm existence, and die while jogging or of a sudden heart attack or they get an unexplainable cancer. WE JUST AREN'T IN CHARGE. Any idea that we are is just ego. I know that. So why do I still try to control any of it?

My great aunt Lina believes it is all just destiny, and we are all just living out our destiny in living our lives. For her, that's comforting. Sometimes, for me it is too.

I have no idea why Tikva was born so sick. I have no idea why I had to spend 20 years of my life so challenged by my body. I don't know why I wasn't blessed with smooth, clear skin this time around. I don't know why my head aches, my skin breaks out, my body decided to get shingles, my weight has fluctuated so drastically over the years.

I'm not sure if I will ever trust my body in the deep way Dave trusts his. I want to. I really do. Sometimes I do. Sometimes I don't worry about all the possible things that could go wrong. Sometimes I trust.

Sometimes I feel ease rather than a wishing I could control the uncontrollable. Ease feels so much better, yet it is so much harder to grasp these days. I don't like how I feel during these periods of lack of control. At times like this, I feel like I am grasping at straws. Like there is just not enough I can do to ever feel above water. It makes me feel tired, overwhelmed. Definitely not at ease... Ease is still the goal, though. A letting go. Holding on less tightly. Trusting. Believing.

The Board of Directors

2009-05-01T23:13:00.001-04:00

(If you're wondering which one is me, I'm the black cat on the floor.)

I'd like you to meet the Board of Directors (BOD).
The BOD has been very busy lately, barely adjourning at all.
The board room is a lovely place with big windows at the top of a skyscraper.
The BOD seems to like it there, they seem to have no interest in leaving or taking a vacation.
As the Executive Director, I keep telling them they are working too hard, that they can take a break,
But they're busy deliberating and usually they can't be bothered to read my memos.

The board room is my head, and the BOD is my endlessly busy Gemini mind.
The board members are all aspects of my active brain,
Always thinking, always hypothesizing, always throwing questions back and forth...
Their favorite questions usually begin with, What if...
Sometimes they consist of, How can we solve this ever-compounding mess and create much needed order again?
Occasionally, after much arguing and processing, they come up with a brilliant answer,
Or at the very least something that will do well enough to maintain a steady status quo,
Some equilibrium for a while.

Each member of the BOD has a very distinct idea of how things should be, each has their own strong opinions.
Sometimes I am convinced the BOD is a group of women who can't agree and are really frustrated about it.
Sometimes it feels like they must be a group of men who all want to be right and can't settle on who will be chairman.
I've known the BOD for a long time and we know each other well.
I wish they would read my memos more often, and take them more seriously on a regular basis.
They can be an unruly bunch, strong willed, impossible to reign in.
Occasionally they can be incredibly cooperative.
During those periods, things run very smoothly in our organization.

Sound familiar?

Because I'm a Gemini, it's no surprise that I often feel there are more than one of me.
But when the BOD gets going, it seriously feels like there are 10 of us.
I'm not talking multiple personality disorder here.
I really am not insane.
Actually, I was thinking today as I was driving to therapy that, for all I have been through in the last two years, in the past almost 38 years, I am...
Remarkably resilient.
Highly functional.
Surprisingly together.
Amazingly capable of earning an income by doing good work.
Able to remember to pay all my bills.
Capable of tackling life's inane petty B.S. which seems to constantly throw itself one's way.

But it still feels like a board meeting inside my head quite often,
And sometimes I just want them to silence themselves and let me sit in my leather office chair in peace and stare out my 17th floor window at the view.

Sitting in the car before therapy, I was rereading my yearly horoscope in my We'Moon datebook, which begins:

Gemini navigates paradox and ambivalence more nimbly than any other sign, and this serves you particularly well this year. Even so, tension between and established situation and new options can have you in a tizzy. The most valuable perspective is found at some distance from it all. So, go climb the nearest mountain; let the chatter die down and listen to the voice of your own intuition.

Hm.
See why I want the BOD to quiet down?
See why I need a vacation?

I've been sleeping like a log lately, and dreaming intensely.
I process a lot in my dreams.
A few nights ago I dreamt that I was crying and I was at work, and my boss came to make sure I was okay.
I was really crying in my dream, and I had been crying for a long time when that part of the dream started.
I didn't wake up with tears in my eyes, but I was really working through some of my uncried tears in my sleep.
Busy dreams, lots going on... no wonder I never feel quite rested when I wake up.
Grief is exhausting.
It is a lot of work to rebuild after losing a child.
Especially when around me there continues to be unknowns, instability, struggle.

My therapist is someone who has also lost a child.
She helps me remember things I forget.
Like the fact that it is no accident that I am feeling so much grief as Tikva's birthday approaches in June,
As it is a year from the time when I was beginning to anticipate having to let Tikva go for the first time,
Letting her go from the safety of my womb.
Preparing for the greatest act of courage, of hope, she and I had to make together.
It's strange reliving those moments now that I know how the story unfolded.
No wonder I have an endless well of tears to cry.

It's like I cry for those times a year ago when something inside me knew Tikva might not be with me still in her body a year later.
How sad it always felt to carry that possibility while also holding hope of a different unfolding.
Maybe I am also crying for how heavy it felt to balance between these places in each moment.

THERE IS JUST SO MUCH PAIN AND SORROW EVERYWHERE WE LOOK, IT JUST DOESN'T SEEM TO END.

The BOD can't seem to agree on how to approach this:

Option 1: Dive into it deeply and immerse the organization in pure compassionate caring for others
(Which can be incredibly depleting of our emotional resources, at least in the way we are used to caring).

Option 2: Cover our eyes, ears and mouth and ignore all pain and suffering (and economic crisis) and hope we can dodge the pies of s**t flying at us from all sides and not be affected.

Option 3: Read the memo from the Executive Director advising the BOD to remember to be guided by its heart, and asking the BOD and staff to please
Continue listening to our collective intuitive voice,
Remain grounded,
And trust that all will be revealed amid the chaos.

As the Executive Director of my organization, I think it's a good time to call the meeting adjourned, fuel up the company jet and send the BOD on a tropical vacation.
Then send myself on a solo vacation to a different island entirely,
The one with the hammock between two palm trees.

A Gorgeous Day

2009-04-27T22:41:00.000-04:00

We were blessed by the most beautiful day on Saturday for the March for Babies.
We walked from Fort Mason all the way to Fort Point,
Which is just under the beginning of the Golden Gate Bridge.
We walked 6.25 miles - along the Marina Green and Crissie Field and back to Fort Point,
The sun on our faces and the wind at our backs and blue sky above us.
San Francisco really is so beautiful.
I saw a Red Tail Hawk flying over the eucalyptus trees of the Presidio in the near distance
And a flock of pelicans and many, many seagulls.

We were 22 people in Team Tikva - including one teenager, 5 kids and three double strollers - and Henry, the world's sweetest dog.

Dave, Dahlia and I wore our I'm with Tikva t-shirts.

My sweet and wonderful Dad walked the whole 6.25 miles
And so did my sister Sharon and Dave's brother Mark.

We ran into the team of nurses from the UCSF ICN and I hugged each one of them,
Thanked them for all they did for us and all they do for babies.
I told them I love them so much I want to be just like them one day...
And I will, in time.
It was sweet to see Jill, who had been Tikva's nurse for a few days when she'd been in the isolation room.
She and one of the other nurses were holding babies - a set of twins - and they seemed so at ease, of course.

Team Tikva raised over $6,000 for the March of Dimes... We surpassed our goal by almost $2,500!
Thank you - everyone - for supporting our team and this important cause that is very close to my heart.

It felt good to be surrounded by family and friends.
I felt both Tikva's absence and her presence while walking
And in the days since.
Thank you to everyone who joined us in body and in spirit for this beautiful day.

New Photos on Flickr

2009-04-27T22:02:00.001-04:00

I just put up a bunch of new photos on Flickr - taken both by Dahlia and by me.
This one was taken by Dahlia, of the Bagel Faces she made herself and then devoured.
Check out the ones of Red Tail Hawk from a few weeks ago.

Mini Me

2009-04-24T15:08:00.001-04:00

This is how I felt this morning -
And probably how I looked -
When I lost my patience with Dahlia
And let out a holler of frustration.
It felt good to scream AAAHHH!!! at the top of my lungs until I ran out of breath.
Why didn't anyone tell me sooner that I could do that?
Dahlia covered her ears and said, with a baffled look on her face, I can't hear you!
As soon as I'd finished screaming, I felt awful for having lost it with her right there.
I felt awful for having screamed instead of taking a deep breath and attempting to act calmer than my five year old.

I hate when I lose my patience with her.
I hate when I do exactly what she did just a few minutes before - yell at the top of her lungs out of frustration at me.
I know, I shouldn't feel bad for being human,
For being an emotional creature,
For having an emotional child who loves to test boundaries most
Every morning when it's time to go to school
And every evening before bed.
I know it's understandable that I lose my patience when we go through the same routine almost every day.
I know she's just being five,
And that she's a feisty one and I wouldn't want her to go through life being more passive.

I know that we are in so many ways exactly the same...

Emotional
Strong willed
Determined
Opinionated
Creative
Persistent
Argumentative
Kind
Caring
Loving
Aware of others
Smart
Clever
Fiery
Generous
Sympathetic
Compassionate
Forgiving

I know that we push each other's buttons because we are so much the same.
I know that there is so much love and respect and caring underneath it -
Otherwise we wouldn't care as much when things went funky.

I remember arguing a lot with my own mother.
Not all the time, but enough that I remember how it felt.
My dad remembers that my mom would perpetuate our arguments,
Rather than cut them short and tell me when enough was enough.
I would've made a good lawyer with all the practice I got.
I've definitely mastered the art of asking for and getting what I need and want in life.
I just don't want to have that kind of dynamic with my daughter.
I don't want a home where we yell at each other.
I don't like Yelling Gal... and I don't like being yelled at by my daughter.
And I really don't like the non-stop complaining she sometimes gets into where everything is wrong and nothing can be done to feel better.
(When I write that, I realize even more how like me she can be - especially me as a child.)

I told Dahlia this morning on the way to school that I was sorry for yelling.
I told her we should have more pillow fights to get the stress out.
She liked that idea.

Last night Dave told me he isn't going to worry about how things will turn out with his school and the uncertain economic climate.
Then he said, When have things not worked out for our family?
I replied, When our baby died.
I wasn't being sarcastic.

It's hard to trust life after losing Tikva... just hard.
I went to Haight-Ashbury today in search of engraved stones.
I am looking for one that says HOPE and one that says LOVE and one that says BELIEVE.
HOPE and LOVE are to place in the garden at UCSF where Tikva died.
BELIEVE is for me to hold, to place on my altar,
To help me remember that I can trust and have faith that things will - that they can - work out beautifully.

This is me with my parents at Dahlia's age...
(My dad's t-shirt says, Love: It makes the world go round.)

The March for Babies is this Saturday

2009-04-22T15:15:00.001-04:00

Dear Friends,

GO TEAM TIKVA!

The March of Dimes March for Babies is this Saturday, April 25, in San Francisco's Fort Mason. I am really excited to walk with our wonderful team on what promises to be a sunny and inspiring day. If you would still like to sponsor me in this walk, please go here to contribute. And if you would like to walk with us, please let me know. You can sign up at the same link.

Thank you to all who have supported Team Tikva for your generosity. I promise to write about the experience.

With love,

Gal

Craving Calm

2009-04-19T00:29:00.000-04:00

My thoughts are bouncing all over the place.
I can't settle on one and work through it completely without bouncing to the next thing.
Or I don't want to go there thoroughly with one thing because the thought makes me tired
So I move on to the next.
I ask myself if there is anything I really want to share with the world
Or if I am better off just keeping it all to myself.
But it's not feeling good all bottled up inside me
So maybe if I start writing it will all come out
And some of it will start to make sense.

Yesterday my grandmother died.
Since her anurism and fall almost 7 years ago I think I have been preparing for her passing,
Feeling the loss of her a little more with each year she continued to live,
Never quite the same person externally that I had known before.
Now that she's passed, it's as if she has already been gone a long time
Because already I lost a part of her - the part I knew so deeply - years ago.

Today another sweet baby with CDH came home just a month after he was born,
Needing only a feeding tube and no breathing support.
I am filled with joy for them
And so triggered still by
Why not Tikva?
Of course I am happy for him and his family.
Of course it hurts.

A few days ago I found out that our future is unclear... again.
Changes afoot at Dave's rabbinical school because of the financial crisis that is enveloping our country (and beyond)
And clarity isn't going to come for a few months,
And it may mean... who knows?
It's making planning challenging
Again.
Damn plans...
Every time I slip into a sense of believing I can plan just a little,
Every time I start to get organized around a new idea of movement in a new direction,
BAM! Not too fast, Gal. Don't think you're going to get away with stability that easily.
Damn plans.

Don't they know how much I need a few years off from complication?
Hasn't anyone heard my call for calm?
Have I not put out the desire for a peaceful life on a Hawaiian island clearly enough?
You know, living most of my days barefoot with my feet in the sand,
Like for the rest of my life?

Even though I've lived most of my 37+ years of life with instability,
Instability scares the crap out of me.
It makes me uneasy, unsettled.
It makes me feel tired, like, Oh no, not again. Please not again.

I'm just past the part of my life where I want excitement.
I did that.
I traveled Europe and Israel for 7 months by myself at age 23.
I went to Burning Man four years in a row.
I stayed up all night dancing at raves.
I left my stable job at age 28 unsure what I would do next and started a consulting business that I had for 9 years.
I traveled throughout Turkey for a month when I was pregnant with Dahlia.
I took my 6 month old daughter to the Rainbow Gathering in the middle of the wilderness.
I did all that. I'm done with excitement.
Now I just want some calm.

Calm and steady and sure and predictable and simple and easy.
Throw in a little boring while you're at it.
How much clearer need I be?

And yet I am still so much calmer through it all than I have been in the past.
I still approach it for the most part with grace.
I know that I am still strong and that I will get through it intact,
That none of it is bigger than the experience of losing Tikva.
That I can handle it all.
I know all that, but it still makes me tired.

In my next life, I am going to be a cat,
A very spoiled domesticated cat in a household with no children and no other pets.
I will be the princess, spoiled and pampered and adored.
And all I will do all day is lie in the sun and nap.
That's all.
I will need about 17 years of a really easy life after this lifetime's hard work.
Then I can take on another big growing lifetime.
After one lifetime off.

For now, I dream of quiet except the sound of lapping waves
And a warm breeze across my body
As I doze on a hammock
Between two palm trees...
That'll be my happy place tonight when I turn off the light.

A Most Magnificent Rose

2009-04-18T00:05:00.000-04:00

Let me tell you about my grandmother, Rosy.
Let me tell you about her face... like a movie star.
Let me tell you that when I was a child, to me she was the most beautiful woman in the world.
Let me tell you how she loved her son, my father.
Let me tell you about the times they spent at Roushdi beach in Alexandria.

Let me tell you about the company she kept.
Let me tell you about her lovely mother, Clementine,
Such a lady.
Let me tell you about her son's mother-in-law, Aloisia,
My other grandmother -
The way they so deeply respected and cherished each other -
And Aloisia's friend Estelle,
Together to celebrate my parents' wedding.
Let me tell you that this is one of my favorite photos in the world.

Let me tell you about the foods she would prepare
With the North African spices.
Let me tell you how she would come from Italy to see us
And stay for months at a time.
Let me tell you how she came to care for us for a long time after my parents split up,
How she showed up so completely for her son and for her granddaughters.

Let me tell you how much she loved her grandchildren,
Sharon and me and my uncle's son Marco.

Let me tell you how close I always felt to her
Even though she lived far away.
Let me tell you about the long phone conversations we would have
And her unabashed conviction of always telling people whatever was on her mind,
No concern with offending yet so refined at the same time.

Let me tell you how when I graduated from college
I could not imagine doing so without her there.
Let me tell you how she had also come when I began my senior year
And took me to the supermarket and bought me food and containers
And spent a week cooking and preparing meals I could keep in my freezer.
Let me tell you how she told me then,
Don't ever skimp on food. If you need money for food, let me know.

Let me tell you about her older sister, Lina
Who is almost 92 and has outlived her husband, her son and now her sister.
Let me tell you how Lina is like a third grandmother to me.

Let me tell you how today I sat with my father and we called Lina to tell her her sister had passed
This morning at 5am, one day after her 87th birthday.

Let me tell you that Rosy lived a full life.
Let me tell you how years ago with her second husband, she had sat at a dinner with Golda Meyer.
Let me tell you about her closets filled with dresses and shoes and handmade silk undergarments from Egypt of the forties and fifties.
Let me tell you how I had some light blue embroidery from one of her nightgowns stitched into the sash of my wedding dress.
Let me tell you about the solid gold earrings that she had unearthed from an archeological site in Egypt decades ago
Which were on display in her living room.

Let me tell you how many languages she spoke... French, Italian, Arabic, Greek, English.
Let me tell you how I always spoke to her in French.
Let me tell you how everyone in her neighborhood called her La Signora Favia.
Let me tell you how she lived for over 50 years at the outermost tip of the heel of the boot that is Italy.

Let me tell you how she made jam out of rose petals and cooked zucchini flowers
And rarely threw anything out in the kitchen because everything was edible if you just knew how to prepare it.

Let me tell you how she smoked cigarettes like they were going out of style,
At least a pack a day for at least 50 years,
And how eventually I stopped bugging her to give them up.
Let me tell you how she had a stroke while I was on my honeymoon
And lost the need to smoke.

Let me tell you how that stroke changed her
And how I missed the depth of our phone conversations after that.
Let me tell you that it has always made me sad to live so far away from her,
From almost all of my family.

Let me tell you how I last saw Rosy in 2001
When I went to spend Passover in Paris with her and Lina and Lina's son Eric who died a few years later.
Let me tell you that, even though times had changed all of us, I felt at home there,
In this apartment where I had spent so many Shabbat afternoons as a child.

Let me share with you how deeply I will miss her presence in this life.
Let me tell you how much I have loved and will love her always.
Let me tell you that I am sure she knew how much I cherished her in my life.
Let me tell you that today I bought two dozen bright yellow roses with pink-orange tips
To remember my Rosy with warmth in my heart and a smile on my lips.
I love you, Rosy...
Rest peacefully.

Body Talk

2009-04-16T11:30:00.000-04:00

I'm thinking about my body today on Glow in the Woods.

Good Stuff

2009-04-14T01:05:00.001-04:00

It felt really good to hold sweet Margaux last week.
Really good.
Natural.
Easy.
I even got dozy rocking her in the glider.
Yum.
Thanks for the sweet gift,
Little lady.
You are absolutely precious.

Spring Cleaning

2009-04-06T23:03:00.000-04:00

It's almost Passover.
Yesterday Dahlia went to the zoo with her Nonno (my Dad)
While Dave and I spent five hours cleaning our house.
Dave worked on the kitchen, cabinet by cabinet,
Getting crumbs of hametz out of every crack and corner,
And I worked on the rest of the house.
I vacuumed and dusted and put things in their place.
I scrubbed the toilet and bathtub and sinks.

I put the Red Tail Hawk feather I'd found back in the fall away in Tikva's box,
Separating it from the "now and future" focused things on the little altar atop our dresser.

And I did something I'd been holding off on doing since August:
I washed off the spots of breastmilk
From the rocking chair in the corner of our bedroom
And the floor around it where the pump had sat.
Splatters of my milk that had landed there
When I pumped for Tikva during the two months of her life
And which I hadn't had the heart to remove.

But it was time, and as I reflected on the labor of love that was pumping for my Baby Girl -
The act of pure and utter faith amid doubt that she would ever drink all that milk,
Even doubt that she would live long enough to ever nurse at my breast -
I scrubbed off each spot of dried up thick creamy milk,
Its natural fat requiring effort to remove.
With it, I wiped off a year's worth of dust...
The glider has sat in the corner of our bedroom since last March,
Since I carried Tikva inside me.

I thought about the babies who got Tikva's milk when I cleared out four freezers full of bottles.
I thought about the clogged ducts in my breasts from pumping instead of nursing.
I thought about the quiet time in the middle of the night as I pumped and thought of my Baby Girl at the hospital.
I thought about the month Tikva had to have formula because of the lymphatic fluid leaking into her system.
I thought of the joy I felt when she got to have my milk again.
I thought of how she got my milk until the very last moments of her life
Through the tube that went straight to her belly
Even outside in the courtyard where she died.
I thought about the fact that my child died
And how I held her as she breathed her last breaths on her own.
I thought of the longing I will always feel because I never got to nurse her
And the longing I feel to nurse a child again.

I thought about how good it will be to leave here for our new home in Ohio this summer,
To move forward to the next chapter
And leave the heartbreak of this past year behind.
I know I won't leave Tikva behind here
Because she isn't here.
This place isn't her, but it is the place where her story -
Our story - unfolded.
It is the place that is hard to still be in sometimes,
The place with the huge hospital to drive by every day,
The place that I am living in so obviously without my Baby Girl who brought me back here.

I think I will be ready to leave when it is time,
To leave behind some of the sorrow of losing my daughter,
Some of the strangeness of this in-between place and time.

I have been feeling some dark and messy emotions.
They'll be familiar to some: envy, jealousy, doubt, longing for the impossible, questioning everything.
And so much sorrow, so many tears...
I wake up every morning with bunched up Kleenex amid the covers when I make the bed.

I haven't felt like writing much,
Haven't felt like sharing with who knows how many people read here.
I have needed to distinguish my emotions and beliefs
From those of others whose blogs I have visited all these months.

Do I feel this fear because it's what I'm supposed to feel
After having birthed and lost a very sick baby?
Or do I feel it because it is real, because it comes from deep within me and has a message to share,
Something I need to listen to?

I bought a 750-page hardback first edition today of my favorite writer's new book.
I've been waiting more than 10 years for this book, seriously.
He spends years writing his books, and they're worth the patience.
I am in heaven at the thought of the delightful escape into another world that awaits me.
I haven't even read what the story is about, I just want to dive in without knowing.
It's time for a good book, and perhaps it's the perfect time for that since I feel like writing less than I have all these months.

Two Passovers ago, on April 1, I miscarried my second pregnancy at 10 weeks...
A blighted ovum, they called it.
Two Passovers ago, I was still miscarrying at our community seder.
Last Passover, we were unexpectedly back in San Francisco
Instead of finally being in Jerusalem for Passover,
Tikva growing comfortable and safe in my belly.
Now it is this Passover and I am here,
Belly empty again, my Baby Girl somewhere else.

Next year in Cincinnati...

I am ambivalent about Passover this year.
For me, it just is...
I need it to just be.
A time to reflect on what enslaves me and what sets me free?
Perhaps I'll think about that some.

It's nice to have such a clean house,
And the spring sunshine feels comforting
And my feet are happy in my purple sandals.

Today at work I sent an email to everyone letting them know I'm selling raffle tickets for the March of Dimes walk.
A very sweet colleague responded that he wanted to buy some tickets so I went to his office.
He told me that one of his now-college age twin daughters was diagnosed quite accidentally when she was 14 years old with spina bifida,
Something she'd had since birth but which has never affected her wellbeing.
I told him I was walking in memory of my daughter who had died a few months after birth.
He told me he was sorry.
Then he told me that his oldest daughter had died of cancer when she was 4 years old, many years ago.
I told him I was sorry.
We talked about this strange huge club you never dream of finding yourself in.
It was sweet, and I imagine I was not alone in realizing that I had no idea we shared this in common.
You just never know...

Dahlia has been working through the difficult emotions of being a big sister without a living sibling.
She is extremely sensitive at school when her friends talk about their siblings,
When they share the joys of having a brother or sister,
Or when they have something negative to say about their siblings.
She tells me a lot that she's mad that she doesn't have a sister who is alive to be with her.
And today, on seeing a pregnant woman in a cafe, she said to her:

My baby died.
She was zero when she died.
She didn't come home from the hospital.

The woman was incredibly sweet with her,
Then she looked at me.
I nodded and told her that our daughter had been born with a birth defect and died this summer.
She said she was so sorry, very sweetly, with no fear or apprehension in her eye.
In a beautiful way, she was able to hold our two realities
With no smugness and no pushing away.
Perhaps because it had come out of the pure lips and heart of a five year old.

I took Dahlia's hand and we walked out of the cafe
And I said to her,
You're sad that your sister died, huh?

Yeah, she replied.

Nature’s Elements

2009-04-04T20:53:00.000-04:00

If I were an ocean,
I would wash my tides
over and over your body
until you could feel
no more pain.

If I were a rainstorm,
I would pour down
every inch of your mind
covering your doubt
with hope.

If I were the sun,
I would radiate my heat
through your soul
and chase away
the cold black darkness.

If I were a mountain,
I would brace myself
infinitely
to shoulder your burdens
indefinitely.

But alas,
nature’s elements
I am not.
And I don’t really know
what to give you.
And I don’t really know
what you need.

But even the elements are not perfect.
The ocean is full of salt.
The rainstorm is unrelenting.
The sun hides at night.
The mountain is inflexible.

At least
I am here.
So I’ll just ask.

(Thank you, Christabel)

More Dahlia Photography

2009-04-01T01:19:00.000-04:00

Dahlia and I went to see the model train exhibit at the Conservatory of Flowers in Golden Gate Park today...

Prayers and Help for Ann

2009-03-27T23:27:00.000-04:00

From an email I received from Jason, the husband of Ann who has been waiting for new lungs because of cystic fibrosis. If you have any recommendations for them, please leave them here as comments and I will pass them on:

"It seems as if Ann has no chance to receive a lung transplant, due to her PRA (antibody) levels which are astronomically high, causing her to cross-react with basically 100% of the population/donors. Ann's only hope for transplant would be to bring her PRA down; however, several regimens of IVIG & Rituxan (the best known ombo-therapy) have failed.

Thus, if any of you know of a top immunologist with whom we might consult, just to explore whether there are any other potential solutions/remedies to lower her antibodies, we'd greatly appreciate it if you could put us in touch with him/her.

Otherwise, Ann has been home for 3 1/2 weeks now! She continues to slowly improve, thank God!"

Thank you for holding Ann and her family in your hearts.

Dahlia Discovers Photography

2009-03-25T00:12:00.000-04:00

At the Japanese Tea Garden yesterday, Sharon and I discovered that Dahlia is quite a natural born photographer. We gave her the camera and asked her to take a picture of us, and she wouldn't let it go for half an hour. She really loved it, and got quite abstract with great intention after a while. Here is her first photo shoot... one of many to come. Especially when we get her her own camera.

Possibility

2009-03-19T10:21:00.000-04:00

I've been trying possibility on for size lately... It feels good on.

2009-03-16T22:47:00.001-04:00

I found this piece from Guilt & Pleasure literary magazine deeply moving. It spoke to me. It's not about losing a baby. It is about life and death, losing and changing and searching and finding and the unexpected. The whole issue of this quarterly magazine is quite impressive - it's called The Death Issue. I love the way it talks about death with candor, with ease, acknowledging that it is part of each of us, always will be. There are photos, too, even photos of people after they've died, not gruesome, actually kind of sweet.

Here are some pieces from the essay, written by Minna Proctor, that really hit home for me. Beautifully written, too...

"I keep coming back to the idea that there’s something fundamentally revolutionary in compassion."

"We are ultimately utterly alone. It’s as much a curse as a gift. But we’re not prophets, and we don’t have to take to the desert. We build communities to take shelter in them..."

"Atonement is just hunger. Remembering the dead — there was nothing to remember; we were in it, sitting together in her dimmed bedroom, the dead all around us, our shadows, their echoes, my dying mother, my unborn son, this twilight space between life and death."

"His voice, a bold, weeping tenor, cracking under the weight of the mourner’s prayers, lifted to the sky. He blew the music up there and then carried her, too, up past the treetops, and he took her away. She was really gone."

"My son was never a choice. Stopping the pregnancy was never an option, and how I felt about the baby was already more than how I’d ever felt about anything. It was love or truth, an absolute belief in the invisible. It was religion. Now I understand."

"My son was born three weeks before my mother died. Time enough for her to see him alive; time for her to realize that seeing him wasn’t enough; time enough for her to forget him and forget the sadness of losing him to the future; and time for me to watch my mother and my son exchange places. For three weeks, these two helpless, overwhelmed creatures had the same desperate faraway look in their eyes. They spent three weeks watching each other — time enough for eternity."