Kindergarten Stole My Zen

It’s been one of those weeks…the kind where you don’t know your center.  You can’t remember the details of anything in particular, but you remember that for sure there should be someway that is easier, calmer, better.

At work we have a term called Within Normal Limits. WNL. It may not be perfect or exactly what we want to see, but it’s still within normal limits. So that’s where I’m at right now. WNL.

The screeching from the witching hour sends shivers up my spine.

I can’t remember a day where the whole family was off together and enjoyed each other’s company.

The laundry is mocking me.

The kitchen floor is only clean for a fraction of a second during the day.

I can’t remember the last time I drank a cup of hot coffee. I like hot coffee. It appears to be too much to ask for these days. Including at work, when I poured my hot coffee into a disposable cup and slammed it down while standing in the OR corridor prior to attending a C-section. This is not relaxing or calming. Honestly.

And then, in the midst of it all…I am reminded of the LOVE that I have and that I am.

I am tired, frustrated, irritable, and weepy. I find it a struggle to put one foot in front of the other with a smile. 

But a bad day or a bad week doesn’t constitute a bad life.

I am filled with hope that we’ll all get back on track.

That I’ll find my center again.

That the full moon will pass.

That the tears will dry.

That I will fill up on the screeches and screams instead of cringe.

I know my lap won’t always be so full and bumpy.

I am deeply understanding that this is the beauty of life after loss.

My inability to see through the current fog doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate it’s mystery and question its presence.

I get it. It’s real life. It’s loud, fast, maddening, joyful, and sweet.

All within normal limits. And it’s easier to see it when I look in their eyes.

There was rain this week. With that I decided it was best to arm ourselves with raincoats and go puddle jumping. That was followed by a warm bath and snacks eaten in the tub, while the clothes were drying…

There was a happy toddler who is determined to pick his own clothes out, regardless of the season. He will cheerfully say “catch” while standing on the ottoman and then leap to you just for the thrill of landing in your arms.

There was a sinus headache that tried to make the mama miserable. Even with Sudafed and coffee it insisted on playing right along with us. Oooooh, ouch. But we made the best of it anyway.

And there was a happy kindergartener who received mail from a new friend in Taiwan with puzzles to do to celebrate Chinese New Year! (See sunshine in back?)

Although there was not enough rest, relaxation, calm, or retreat for this mama’s soul—the silliness, the jumping hugs, and the excited screeches remind me that life is good, life is here, and life is loud.

And who’s heart isn’t filled by a somersaulting toddler on your bed when you’re trying to make it?

Now that I can take a deep breath and reflect after the chaos that ensued the family this week, I will say that I am grateful for the little things that remind me we are okay.

On Thursday afternoon while at work I got a call from my nanny. The 6 year old threw up in the car on the way home from school. Luckily, she saw the look on his face, opened his backpack, tossed everything out and he tossed everything in! Cue, sad mama.

While racking my brain I figured I had ruined my child by letting him eat raw cookie dough the day before, but really…it was just the stomach flu. Nevertheless, the anxiety tried to creep in to tell me that he was going to end up in the hospital again, just like last time.

However, I have more skills now. I know that the anxiety never adds to the situation. I know that the worry gets us nowhere. We were armed with experience and the need to surrender. I gave it to God and the angels and asked for every healing thought and prayer to be heard. I imagined sending healing energy to my son. I pictured a shield surrounding the toddler, Hubs, and myself so we wouldn’t get sick either. I asked the angels to send their healing light to the Spirited Warrior child to keep this virus mild and within normal limits.

Armed with Zofran, a makeshift bed on his floor, a bowl, and my phone we began the long night ahead. Miraculously, it wasn’t that bad. There was fussing, but there wasn’t panic.  There were tears, but not sobbing. There was fever, but it was tolerable he said.

By morning, my Spirited Warrior was feeling a little better and able to keep fluids down. By afternoon, there were a few bites of banana. By evening, there were many loads of laundry done and hope that we were going to be okay.

Just as the children were going down to sleep, the cat comes into the house limping and bleeding. An epic battle he apparently lost. There was a cat bath, shaving of his fur to assess his wounds, and a phone call to the vet. The worry tried to sneak in again. Infection, abscess, injury, etc.  I refused to listen. I sent healing energy (my amateur attempt at Reiki) to our cat, and again pictured a shield of light and love around each of us and just let it be.  I couldn’t do anything about it at the moment anyway.

In the morning, the cat was still alive and limping. The toddler was feisty and bouncy. The Warrior child was fussing, but eating. There were shoes all over the floor, dishes in the sink, fingerpaints, legos, and crayons on the table. The train table track was pulled apart and tipped over. Pillows and blankets and towels were on the couch, while juice cups were half empty and littered the kitchen counters.  

The windows were opened. The cold sunshiny day sucked up the stale air and brought a reminder of how nice it is to live in California in January. I broke 4 cinnamon sticks and put them in some boiling water on the stove with a handful of cloves. The smell reminded me of comfort, of calm, of carrying on.

I chose to work out even though I wanted to hide under the covers, I caught up on Twitter, let the 6 year old play computer games while toddler napped, and Hubs went to lunch with extended family. The cat visited the vet, came home pumped full of antibiotics and rested on his blankey.

So I’ve learned a few things along the way…we count it all joy…when there is bleeding, there is life. Where there is pain, there is life. Where there is fussing, there is life. We don’t count throw-ups around here, we don’t count infections around here. We don’t give in to anxiety and what if’s around here. We will count the giggles, the snuggles, the nudie jumping around, playing with legos times, and have relief in knowing that the angels are all around us.

Although I can offer my condolences to a family who just lost their newborn baby, I cannot fix the reason I am offering my understanding and love in the first place. I have no answers most of the time. All I can do is share that they are not alone, that their baby matters to them, to us, and the world. 

I remind them that there is no right or wrong way to integrate this loss. Some insist from the very minute they learn of their baby’s demise that there will be a tattoo. Even if they aren’t tattoo kind of people. Others refuse photos initially, but give in after they hear our pleas. 

They are very tastefully done. 

They are in black and white.

They become absolute treasures.

They are all you will have left.

It’s all true. There aren’t crawling pictures, preschool photos, or graduation invites. The family walks out of the hospital one less family member than they walked in. There is no soothing balm for that.

The space this baby leaves is a chasm that I try to bridge as a caregiver. I always take two sets of footprints and handprints. Just in case if something should happen to the one set you have. I try to find a lovely lotion I can put on the blanket I wrap the baby in, sometimes in dire need to cover up a horrific smell, other times to help mom “bank” her memory of her baby. 

I remind you to hold your baby for hours and hours if that feels right. There is no need to rush to the morgue. And, if you change your mind and need more time with your baby, I will go get your baby from the morgue and wrap him or her in warm blankets to help the chill go away. I will encourage you to just BE with your baby. Examine every finger and toe. Kiss her cheeks. Nuzzle his neck. There will never be another time. 

And when the time comes to say goodbye, I will take your beautiful baby, and with grace and dignity I will wrap him up, remind him that Mommy and Daddy love him very much, thank him for his presence, his gifts, his spirit, and send blessings to the parents who’ve just joined the club of Empty Arms, Broken Heart.

I will then take a deep breath and wonder about the person who took the time to crochet the beautiful blanket that I just gave to the mother. The blanket that was wrapped around her baby’s body. The blanket which will become the catcher for all the many tears to come. The blanket which she might sleep with, just to be close to her baby who now lives on in her heart and spirit.  That person who spent all that time crocheting the blanket and donated it to our hospital, had no idea what a gift she gave. I for one, am grateful.

He’s wearing the dark blue “daddy jumpsuit”. He’s about to become a dad for the first time. Staring at the wall in front of him, he anxiously waits for us to call him in the operating room to join his wife giving birth. 

He looks up from his phone for a brief minute as I introduce myself.  I let him know I am here to help take care of his baby. I ask all the easy questions. Is this your first baby? Is this a boy or a girl? Do you have a name picked out yet? I see his eyes dart back to his phone.  Not great reception down here, I say. Don’t worry you won’t miss anything. We’re just getting everything set up for the baby.

I stand next to the surgeons as they scrub in. I wait to sneak in and grab a pair of splash goggles, a mask, and a fingernail pick.  All three of us scrubbing up to the elbows to become sterile in order to welcome this new baby into the world as aseptically as possible.  All three of us women, mothers. 

I follow the doctors into the OR, donning our sterile gowns, gloves, and I stand near the sterile drape that covers everything except a window onto mom’s abdomen. Her husband can come in now, says the surgeon as she makes the first cut.

He sits next to her. Holds her hand. She says she’s nauseous, she can’t breathe. Her nervousness is clear now to all present in the room. He is now becoming anxious as well. The doctors use easy, clear language to remind her that this is expected, normal in fact. Almost to baby…announces the doctor.

The head is delivered first, followed by bulb suctioning of the nose and mouth, a strong tug on the head and neck and the rest of the body follows. And we’re out, I say. Time is called out.  Then the cry. 

I take the baby from the surgeon’s hands and carry him to the radiant warmer to do my job. Apgars 8/9. Which is an easy way to say I didn’t have to do much.

I ask Daddy to trim the cord. I remind him to take pictures. I point out 10 fingers, 10 toes. I answer his questions. I encourage him to touch his son. To talk to him. I wrap him up and take him over to Mom. They hold their new son together. Tears flow freely from her eyes. She is overwhelmed with joy and responsibility. He is beaming with pride.

I explain to Mom that we are going to head over to the recovery room and wait for her there. Daddy come with me, I say. He kisses his wife’s forehead and comes with me. 

As we walk out of the operating room I ask him to place his new baby into the bassinet. I remove my gown, gloves, and mask. I let him know he can pull off his mask as we walk down the corridor.  I hear a deep sigh. The sigh to say, Oh thank God it’s over. Oh thank God he’s fine. Oh thank God she’s fine. Oh thank God because that was horrible waiting! Oh thank God we’ve made it! 

The deep sigh is what every Daddy does after they take off their mask. As if it’s the end to a marathon or something. And yet, it’s just the beginning of a marathon of questioning, wondering, loving, connecting, disappointing, encouraging, serving, and teaching.

After Mom is settled into the recovery room, I nestle her baby skin to skin on her breast. I cover them with warm blankets and remind Dad to take a few more deep breaths, because after all this is just the beginning.

This past Saturday, my un-done self was put back together.  If I could picture myself as a stuffed gingerbread man, all my insides were leaking out, my threads bare, pieces of me falling out and apart. And this wonderful soul put me back together. She bathed me in her Light and Guidance, put the pieces back inside, and sewed me up with love, peace, and calm that I needed so badly.

My husband arranged for a massage with Erin, a Spirit Guide of sorts. I’ve had massages from her in the past, and each one tapped into my broken places and put some glue in them, but not like this.

She greeted me with the warmest of hugs and she held me by the shoulders and said, we have important work to do today. I agreed, but wasn’t exactly sure what she meant. She shared that my husband had called her urgently saying that I needed to see her, that our baby’s angelversary had passed this week.

As Erin poured the water bath, her warm spirit reminded me it’s okay to be un-done. The bible verse, “Come to me, all you who are weary and I will give you rest” came to mind. My heart was crying for rest and rejuvenation.

She gently placed my feet into the warm water with her special rocks and as she began her amazing healing work, we spoke of our connection. She, now childless after a drunk driver killed her only daughter 4 years ago as she was only a teenager; I grieving the son born still, also 4 years ago. Remarkable that our lives changed so much in the same year, she said. 

The light in her eyes and warmth in her touch and peacefulness in her heart would never reveal to those who did not know her, that she endures the pain that can not be described: a childless mother.

After the foot bath she lead me to the massage room. I glanced at my phone,it was 45 minutes into my supposed 1 hour appointment. She gave me time to undress and lay face down. Listening to the calming music I felt my tired soul begin to rest. 

As she came back into the room, I felt my heart settling. It felt like it was okay to be un-done. I felt okay not having all the answers. I felt okay wanting help.  I felt okay needing direction. I felt safe to be me, in all my imperfections and sadnesses and lessons learned.

During the massage we shared what we imagined our children would want for us. What they would be saying. What makes us feel they are near. She shared her deep gratitude for being her daughter’s mother, and saying that her mantra throughout the past four years has been “NO REGRETS”. 

I harnessed into her strength. Filling me with hope, love, and peace I told her what an inspiration she is to me, to so many others who have lost children.  I filled up on her crystal clear intention to live her life in a way that her daughter would be proud. She mentions she senses laughter and thinks our children are near. I imagine they would be friends. 

Then she said, I’m going to work on your tummy, if that’s okay with you. I am going to dedicate this healing session to Bailey.

I turned over and with my eyes closed, she began massaging my abdomen. With her gentle swirling motions, she said, this is where he lived. Right here in your belly. It’s so neat to think this was his home. 

And the tears began to fall. Not the hot, stinging tears, but the cool, surrendered ones. The ones that are born of peace, joy, and gratitude. 

When she finished, she said, I think it’s time you started collecting some rocks. They are healing. Powerful. They can hold heat for a long time. Withstand a lot. She placed a hot, smooth, rock in my hand.  Hold it to your chest with your hands. Now, slowly take a deep breath and move the rock to your lower part of your tummy, hold it there. Now, go ahead and exhale and slowly move the rock back up to your heart.

We repeated this together several times. I felt like I was in the presence of a Spirit Guide, an angel, a best friend, an expert at Living and Loving. I felt like I had arrived at the healing gates if only for a moment…

As Erin finished our session, she tells me, keep this rock. Make it the start to your collection.

I held the still warm rock in my hand, felt it’s smooth surface over my thumb and I realize, this was the important work we had to do today. 

I left almost 3 hours after I had arrived for a 1 hour appointment. She gave selflessly of her time, her love, her peace, her calm, her experience and I was filled to the brim.

It’s the stuff that deep breaths are made of. 

I thought of you today as I was raking all the beautiful fall leaves in the backyard.

I thought of you today as I ran my hand through your brother’s hair and felt the warmth of his skin.

I thought of you today when I glimpsed your ornament hanging on the Christmas tree.

I thought of you today as I saw the hummingbird drink from the feeder by our kitchen window.

I thought of you today as your brothers were chasing each other around the house in their underwear and diaper.

I thought of you today as I rocked your brother to sleep, and as your Dadda read to the big brother before bedtime.

I thought of you today when I woke and saw the misty fog and felt the cold breeze.

I thought of you when the sun peeked out of the clouds and your brother said it was pretty.

It’s Wednesday and I thought of you…

It happens. Life. Death. I just happen to work where I see both at the exact same time. I’m trained to be the personnel who tends to your baby’s first breath. Rarely, my services are actually needed to sustain a life, but in the event it happens, I’m there. Along with a team.

This particular day I was needed. But not in the way I thought.

She was born many weeks too early to survive. Her little body pushed from her mother’s warm, loving interior, into the cold world. Her heart beating, trying it’s best to give it a shot, though her lungs were far too underdeveloped to oxygenate her vital organs. She lay still. Her nurse wrapped her in a warm blanket and handed her to her devastated parents to hold.

But after nearly an hour her parents were done. They asked the nurse to take her, do what you have to do, weights and measures. The nurse gently set her in the crib and started to walk toward the nursery.

I saw the look on the nurse’s face. Sad. Confused. Unsure. I asked if the baby was gone yet, she looked at me and said no. No? I asked confused. Why on earth did parents not want to hold their dying baby? I can’t imagine. Oh wait. I can.

I told the nurse I’d take her. I pulled the blanket that covered her tiny body. Still warm, I could feel there was some life in her. I carefully wrapped extra blankets around her so that the crib didn’t look empty as I walked in the hallway to take her to the nursery.

When I arrived I made my way to the back where there was privacy and a curtain. I took out my stethoscope and listened. Nothing. And then a very brief series of heartbeats. Irregularly fluttering in her little chest. She was still hanging on.

I walked quickly to the blanket warmer where I grabbed a nice warm blanket and I gently wrapped this precious baby girl in it. Her little head peering out from the swaddle I sat down in the rocker and began to rock.

But something told me she didn’t want to be rocked. She wanted to be held, but not rocked. So I stood up, walked around and held her close to my chest. I talked to her. I told her she was not alone. I told her I would hold her until the end.

After about a half an hour of walking with her in the crook of my arm, I assessed for signs of life. Again, the fluttering of a little heartbeat still present. I told her that I was going to weigh and measure her. I assured her that I was not going to do this because I was assuming she was gone, but that I do this for every baby. I took two sets of footprints, two sets of handprints. Then quickly I wrapped her back up in the warm blanket.

I looked around the nursery and miraculously it was empty now. The hustle and bustle of the day had settled and it was just this baby girl and me. I took a seat behind our desk with one of our swizzle chairs and gently back and forth we swayed. I began to sing one of the lullabies that I sing for my boys.

Soon and very soon, we are going to see the King… Soon and very soon, we are going to see the King… Soon and very soon, we are going to see the King… Allelujah Allelujah…we are going to see the King.

We swayed and sang for nearly 20 minutes. I had to stop myself from reaching down and kissing her tiny head that peeked out from the blankets. I listened with my heart, melting with gratitude that this precious girl needed me. To just hold her. To just be in my arms.

The time that we swayed seemed like hours. I imagined her body feeling comforted, warm, and loved. I reminded her that her mommy and daddy loved her very much. I told her they did the very best they could. I told her that she paved the way for her future siblings. I thanked her for being so beautiful. I told her that she mattered. I told her that she would not be forgotten. I told her that there will be peace that passed understanding.

I closed my eyes and rested with her in my arms. I hoped she could hear my heartbeat through the blankets. And when I opened them again. I knew she was gone. I could sense her energy had lessened, her delicate mouth began to open. It was time to assess her heart rate again. But instead I held her a little longer.

Indeed she had passed. A sadness came over me. But a peace filled my heart. I thanked her for letting me hold her. I thanked her for needing me. I sent my well wishes to her, her parents, and her future siblings. I asked her to say hello to my baby that was in Heaven and hoped he would usher her into her Creator’s loving embrace.

I was needed that day. Not in the way I’m used to being needed. And in the process, I realized that I needed her.

I was filled to the brim with gratitude, love, peace, and grace. The ache in my soul from losing my stillborn son almost four years before was soothed in her presence. She filled a gap. A wondering for me. She gave me the opportunity to BE in the moment of life and death.

An amazing baby with an amazing message, and for that I am so grateful.

We didn’t get a great family photo, nor was there lots of perfect pictures that captured the essence of that day. But what there was plenty of, was heart healing glue for all of us there who needed it. It was up for the taking! 

We celebrated my little Zen baby’s second birthday today. I’m pretty sure I’m always going to call him my baby, although now he’s quite the toddler. It was pure joy to see his smile when he saw the cute monster banner I had made for him, and his cake? Adorbs!

I tried to be fully present at the party which isn’t always easy. There were normal things to attend to besides entertaining.  Like poopy diapers, reminding the Spirited Warrior to wash his hands, desperately trying to feed them something healthy before the sugarfest, and normal day to day activities.  

I tried to take it all in stride and focus on the fun when the party began. I was excited that it was gorgeous and cool outside, and that we could keep the sliding glass doors wide open. 

I reminded Hubs to take video during the gift openings, during the piñata knockdown, and when we sang Happy Birthday and Baby Zen said, “Yay!”

What heart can’t be filled by a little boy screeching with JOY that his big cousin came over to play? What soul can’t be filled by a few bites of homemade cake and some frosting? What sorrow can’t be forgotten in the moment where a little boy opens a present and his face lights up? 

For me, I walked in my moment. I enjoyed our family. I enjoyed our friends. Our conversations. The giggles. The sighs of happiness from my children. Even if for a brief moment, I stopped worrying, guessing, and hoping for something more. It was grace and love, all rolled into one.