Today we went to the crematorium. Yes, crematorium. Isn't that weird? It was an out-of-body experience to be there picking out a tiny urn for Wyatt. I want to do a small ceremony for him when we go backpacking in August.
Anyway, we went to this place, which was impossible to find. I woke up feeling out of sorts and exhausted and looking back seemed to play the part of "quiet person who lost their baby" just because I didn't know what else to do and the whole thing was surreal. JP was great and he was all about business and honestly made the trip happen, because otherwise, I would have caved though it was something I'd really wanted.
So. We were there and the place looked stale and very dated. There was a (much) older woman who must have volunteered there for hundreds years. Everything smelled kind of stale. This lady was nice enough but not completely sympathetic (still trying to figure out how people act around this type of thing). She walked us through all of the paperwork and then said that we could spend some time alone picking out the type of urn we would like. We immediately walked over to the tiny pill box sized vessels and she said, "Oh no, you should look at the next size up." (The size of a small salt or pepper shaker).
"Oh," I said, "what are these tiny ones for then?" thinking is there a smaller being that would be cremated? She replied cheekily, "Those are just in case you want a piece of grandma!"
So, we tried to find something in the proper size that didn't--in Jared's words--resemble an Easter egg. We got a simple silver urn with a subtle pattern on it and called it good.
Then we paid and Jared detached himself from my side--I just realized how glued together I have felt to him the past few days--and headed to the rest room leaving me and the Crematorium lady to sit in silence together, she at her desk and me in a chair placed awkwardly far from her desk, making small talk challenging. Not that I wanted it, but still.
She looked up at me over her spectacles, and said gently:
"Do you know what the name Wyatt means?"
I shook my head no.
"Little Warrior" she replied, her eyes twinkling.
And with that, Jared came out of the bathroom and we headed out. The moment between me and the Crematorium lady was over, but now that I know this, his name seems an even better fit--if only as a reminder to be strong when I need it.
Thursday, July 23, 2009
Monday, July 20, 2009
The Way We Grieve
Last night, a friend picked me up for a little ice cream cheer. It goes without saying that it is extremely hot here in the desert (and stays light out ridiculously late), so we close up our house, drawing the blinds and battening down the hatches to ward off the sun.
When my friend came to the door, my immediate reaction was to explain that the house was dark because it was hot out. I felt overwhelmingly self-conscious and aware of what our grief might look like to others. I felt the need to show that we are ok and to protect others from any darkness that might be lurking. These days I feel so incredibly vulnerable--from exhaustion, from the physical act of losing the baby and of course, from crying so much.
Explaining away the darkness made me think of how rarely we let other people see our uglies. I was surprised at how afraid I was that people would run from a situation that is hard to talk about. I am scared to be isolated within it and crave the light, seek out the sun and insist on finding the strength in others and their love.
Thankfully we are taking time to really feel the depths of this. I know we need to welcome the dark days and bad feelings to get through it.
So, despite the tears, we laugh.
Despite the sinking waves of grief, we float.
Despite the fact that every other frappin person seems to be pregnant, we snuggle our friend's babies and share in their exciting news.
And mostly, despite the darkness we can still feel the light.
When my friend came to the door, my immediate reaction was to explain that the house was dark because it was hot out. I felt overwhelmingly self-conscious and aware of what our grief might look like to others. I felt the need to show that we are ok and to protect others from any darkness that might be lurking. These days I feel so incredibly vulnerable--from exhaustion, from the physical act of losing the baby and of course, from crying so much.
Explaining away the darkness made me think of how rarely we let other people see our uglies. I was surprised at how afraid I was that people would run from a situation that is hard to talk about. I am scared to be isolated within it and crave the light, seek out the sun and insist on finding the strength in others and their love.
Thankfully we are taking time to really feel the depths of this. I know we need to welcome the dark days and bad feelings to get through it.
So, despite the tears, we laugh.
Despite the sinking waves of grief, we float.
Despite the fact that every other frappin person seems to be pregnant, we snuggle our friend's babies and share in their exciting news.
And mostly, despite the darkness we can still feel the light.
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Prognosis
We had our last doctors appointment to review test results and are so happy and relieved to know that I am 100% healthy, our baby was 100% healthy, and there aren't any unusual risks or concerns for future pregnancies.
The prognosis was Chorioamnionitis, a rare infection that couldn't be prevented, detected, or treated. Dr. thinks that the subchorionic hemmorrhage weakened the placental membrane making me more susceptible to infection which makes sense.
The doctors constantly referred to our situation as a "fluke" throughout this experience, something that was really difficult to hear while we were looking for answers. Especially because every detail of pregnancy is scrutinized and over-explained (see getting rid of pregnancy books). There are so many tests and tests to verify tests. So, to say our experience was a "fluke" feels very casual and off-handed. Now that we're back to our regular routines it's hard to believe this happened at all.
The prognosis was Chorioamnionitis, a rare infection that couldn't be prevented, detected, or treated. Dr. thinks that the subchorionic hemmorrhage weakened the placental membrane making me more susceptible to infection which makes sense.
The doctors constantly referred to our situation as a "fluke" throughout this experience, something that was really difficult to hear while we were looking for answers. Especially because every detail of pregnancy is scrutinized and over-explained (see getting rid of pregnancy books). There are so many tests and tests to verify tests. So, to say our experience was a "fluke" feels very casual and off-handed. Now that we're back to our regular routines it's hard to believe this happened at all.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)