Torn

So, it is hard to decide who I want to wish to be. It is not as if I believe I will really be one or the other, but feel that I need to aspire to one or another. In other words, do I crave wealth, but worry then about my footprint. But, oh, oh, oh, after a lifetime of always trying to making ends meet, this does sound appealing. I am deeply ashamed to complain of all the things on my mental wish list, when I know that the only things that really matter at all, are the health and well being of my family and myself, so I often submerge those thought into the Unthinkable File. But, here are some -- my kitchen needs to be totally renovated, my clothes closet doesn't work, the coat closet needs to be retrofitted as well, I want to be able to go to NY a few times a year and splurge, the bugs in this house bug me all the time, the outside needs landscaping, my hair needs to be done in a way that might require me tending to it every six weeks, I would really rather live in a cool, small downtown house than in this hulking North Raleigh sub-division abode, sometimes when I see diamonds on someone they seem somewhat appealing to me-- like maybe their partner REALLY loves them (?!), opening a real shop/office for lactation--cool nursing bras-- consultations that are not in my home, etc. But then, I pause and realize I am really so grateful, so happy, so very blessed with abundance with just what I have and move on through the rest of the day, with gratitude. All is well.

A Mother's Vulnerability

With each child I had, I increased my level of vulnerability. If I had had no children at all, then my odds would be good. In other words, I could avoid the possibility of complete devasatation by having anything happen to my flesh and blood. When I had my first child, I was nervous and somewhat anxious, to get it all right. I educated myself, tried to learn from others, ate right, drove right, bought the right toys and breastfed for a couple of years. I joined a food coop and ate organic foods before it was the rage.

When I had my second child, I even had a home birth so as to safe guard the event from the moment he hit the earth. I was an even better mom now and got things right. I was amazed by this kid as well and followed his lead much of the time. I learned that. I did not feel so vulnerable then except for the warnings around about keeping your children safe from strangers and predators. But, I was never really a hovering parent and consoled myself with the ratiionale that those predators were probably estranged spouses.

With my third child, I was becoming a real earth mama. I wanted to be the La Leche League mom I would see at a conference who had lots of kids eating rice cakes, wore a baby sling and seemed cool and calm. I pushed my husband to have another baby, even though he was hesitant. This baby was also born at home and nursed even longer.

Baby number four was a surprise. I was 42 years old and we were in a terrible financial crisis in the late 80's. With a new house and three kids, I was frankly, embarrassed to be pregnant. But, after a long and difficult birth, I pushed out that 101/2 pound, fourth son and fell madly in love. I was beginning to feel vulnerable during this pregnancy and wanted to know if he was healthy due to my age. My anxiety was increasing throughout the nine months and I remember my LLL leader saying to me, "Look, it would be nice if we had a Velux window in our bellies so we could see how the baby is, but we don't so just relax." I still wanted the Velux window and even had an amniocentisis. All looked well, but I was nervous.

That precious baby, Gregory drowned in a swimming pool when he was two years old. Life, denial, safety, faith, joie de vivre, would never be the same again. I have felt vulnerable and terrified ever since. I live my life in fear but fight every day to avoid sharing that with anyone else. I don't want to ruin their lives.

I couldn't get pregnant after Gregory died and had to go through infertility treatment. Many fears, off the charts anxiety and vulnerability reared their ugly heads again. The twin pregnancy was over wrought with fear and terror day in and out. I had to make sure no devastating events took place. The hospital birth was nothing like my at home ones. I was too afraid to proceed with labor and early on, I requested a c-section. Me, who railed against such things, who encouraged hundreds of women to read and believe each word of "Silent Knife," had an elective c-section.

I struggled to get a full milk supply in for both babies. Feared that I would not. It took tremendous effort to do so, but in the end, I did. Now, I have two kids who I fear for and they are wild ones so it is hard as I look the other way most of the time, in order to survive.

My feeling is this... I am six times vulnerable and I cannot stand thinking that. It is not normal to feel this way. The more I have gained, the more I fear I have to lose and it is only my children and my husband that I fear losing. What was I thinking taking risk after risk after risk? It must have been during one of my high strong faith times where I still believed that all would be well. It is not.

What is it About Swim Meets?

It's Tuesday and it is June and that means swim meet night. I feel like such the odd bird, in that unlike other parents who don their gator green clothing (Go Gators!), I forget that it is even Tuesday, let alone remember to wear green. Truth is, that when I do realize that it is Swim Meet night, my heart sinks and I feel great dread. No one loves their kids more than I, and these are my fifth and sixth sons, but I hated it for all kids before and I still do.

Is it the "whiteness" of the crowd? The blondness of the moms? The youthfulness of the parents? Is it the cheering and yelling for the kids when they are swimming that I question, knowing there is no way the kiddo can hear their daft parent's screams? Do any African American kids do competitive swimming? Why do I never see them? Do any other ethnic groups between blond and white participate anywhere? Is it the pure and adultered junk that everyone eats and drinks when they are at the meet that makes me cringe? The bright blue and green drinks, the corn dogs, and nachos bathed in orange slime are enough to make Jamie Oliver crawl under a rock never to emerge again. Hideous food. Am I too much of a food snob with my juice spritzers for kids and meals I make them eat at home before they go to the meet?

There is a long and tedious wait until you get to watch your kid swim and after all these years, I still have no idea what anyone is talking about when they refer to "heats" or "fly", etc. Everyone else seems to understand just fine. Then too, I can only imagine how lame and unhelpful they all must find me, because I do nothing at these meets. Some moms are "pushers," some timekeepers, some ribbon givers, some "spacers." Not only do I not understand these "jobs" I never apply for them, and interestingly, my kids never win.

Then too, it is about 95 degrees or more at the meet and mosquitos and biting flies swarm during the entire three or more hours. There you are, standing at the foot of a pool, watching kids swim fast but you cannot so much as dip your toe in for relief from the North Carolina heat. Torture. If it rains, it is worse. They never call the meet. Instead, kids have to wait 30 minutes after it lightens before getting back in the water. Thus, if it lightens twice, that is 60 minutes. As if the meet isn't long enough, now it is longer still.

I don't feel good about my attitude at all, believe me. I am mortified that I feel this way, but I do. It all seems so silly and so pretentious in a way -- like cuteness or something. The little girls in their tight Speedos and headbands and the boys dying from their Speedos that they only reveal for the swim and then jump back into their regular swimsuits. The numbers drawn on their arms with Sharpee that I question as a carcinogen and the sayings that kids write on their backs as well, all still irritate me more.

Maybe it is because I am not a swimmer and never was one, that I just don't get this. I am not a complete grinch because I do enjoy the boys baseball games, basketball games, shows at school and more, but swim meets--not so much. I wonder if there is a punishment for moms who do not yell and cheer and wear green. If so, I am in deep trouble.

Labyrinth Walk on a Tearful Night

Went to walk a labyrinth last night. It was hot and buggy and muggy. One foot in on the path and I began to cry. Not sobbing, gasping for breath kind of crying, just hot tears running down my already hot face. As I walked the peaceful path, slightly aware of the bouncing basketball players in the parking lot, vaguely aware of the squeals from the apartment complex swimming pool and only faintly mindful of the lilies and verdant around me, I felt a moment of panic. What if, what if, what if, I never get to the center? What if I can never figure out what to do or what is causing my sons' illnesses? What if I can never find someone to help them? To help me? To make everyone better? It came to me once again, that I had still never figured out how and why Gregory died. I never did unscramble the reasons he may have gone into that pool or fell or followed the wandering cat to his distraction enough to suddenly be drowning. You see, those three possibilities still float around in my soul. The endless vision of his sweet, round self bobbing in the water face down in his drenched yellow sweatsuit and primary colored shoes. This nagging, unsolved mystery that in the last 15 years, I've had to come to grips with and sit with. I have come to live with its absolute unresolved reality and accept that I would never know what happened, only the clear truth, that it did. I might know on my dying day, but no sooner. So, after walking and walking round and round, in and out, through and through, I finally did reach the middle, the center, somewhat annoyed with the mere presence of all the other middle aged women around me. They were doing nothing wrong, it was just my absolute bare, exposed nerves that made me so intolerant. And there I stood in the middle, not feeling the usual peace I have in the past when I arrived at the labyrinth center. I felt nothing, only acceptance that I do not know the center and I do not know the way. God please lead me, support me, help me find the way to help those I love more than life itself. Bring me to the center, the middle, somewhere where I can sit and listen and wait for your guidance. I promise to follow if only you will lead me.

The Birds

Several weeks ago, my homebound son, Peter noticed that a bird nest had been constructed in the middle of the Christmas Cactus out on the front porch. In it, were six perfect blue robin's eggs on top of which sat a puffed up robin day after day. We knew not to touch and so reverent were we, that we never even got close enough to take photos. Once before, the twins had touched a nest to which the mama never returned. Those babies hatched and we tried to syringe feed them to keep them alive, but their imminent death was trauma for us, so we were not going down that path again!

It has been the most perfect Spring event to observe and track. Each day the mama bird sat, patient and proud and waited. She never went to childbirth classes, no trips to Babies R Us were required, nor did she register for any baby gifts in preparation for the births. She would fly away for periods of time and curiously the dad would perch nearby and squawk for her to return to her full time job. It seemed she just needed to spread her wings a bit and have a break from the nesting. She had made a most beautiful and perfect home, but even from the best of abodes, we all need a break sometimes.

Days passed and each morning we checked the progress until finally lo' and behold when we weren't looking, six skinny, hairless chicks had emerged. We had missed the drama of the shells cracking and all, but nonetheless, we were thrilled to see this next phase. Now, began the hectic work of keeping these babies fed. Oh my! This mama flew back and forth all day long, retrieving worms, chewing them up, spitting them into continuously opened mouths. There seemed to never be any satiety in these chicks who wanted more, more, more. Isn't this the case with human babies too? As a lactation consultant, I find this to be the single most difficult concept to deliver to new moms -- "Babies are hungry, most of the time and feed continously."

We wished we had done some filming with some time lapsed recording, because each day was something new. One day the babies eyes opened, one day they grew feathers, one day they got more crowded in the nest. But, always, when mom when to get some food, dad flew nearby and yelled for her during her absence. Poor thing was always on the mission of getting those babies fed. I wondered why these birds were not designed as mammals where mom has all she needs to feed the babies. This seemed so much harder.

Ironically, the Christmas cactus, that housed the full house nest, began to bloom, totally out of season. First one, then several beautiful pink flowers burst open. It was as if to celebrate the coming of life, the yin and the yang, the loveliness of it all, heralded with pink blossoms in May that typically only bloom in December!

Six perfect baby birds snuggled together with mouths almost always open begging for food and when they weren't, they slept in a heap, kept warm by each other and by their very capable and proud mama. I think the most amazing part to me was the complete lack of intervention. No one rushed anything. Not the birth, not the infancy. There was no induction because she was overdue or supplementation because there wasn't enough milk. No one pressured the mama (maybe the dad a little!), no one said these babes "just weren't getting enough" or "gaining weight fast enough" or "growing enough feathers." No, on the contrary, all was well, just the way it was. It was such a delight for my chronically ill son to observe each day as he thrilled to the process and progress through the front window.

And then, oddly one day all but two birds were gone! One cute little round robin, perched on the top step, trying to spread his wings, falling over, trying again, falling again, over and over until poof -- he was gone. But, ah, those last two -- they stayed and stayed. In fact, they stayed a whole other day, waiting for mom to bring food, and cuddling up with each other still to snooze. What is it that makes some of us slower to fly than others? What is it that gives some more bravado, more faith in it all working out, than the rest of us? I always wonder this and now bore witness to that very phenomenon. But then, we looked away and those last two as well, had flown the coop. Left behind was a whole lot of bird poop, some shedded feathers, and one absolutely perfect bird's nest. Indeed the saying runs true, "We give our children two things, roots and wings."

We Didn't Know Today Would be the Last Day

On Tuesday, May 3, 1995, Shep and I woke up in the lovely, Southampton home of a friend of ours, Stephanie. She had invited us to use her weekend house while she was away and we were visiting. Nicholas was 13 and wanted to spend the day at a friend's house. Peter was 11 and had been stung by a bee on his leg, the day before and was still pretty sick from the allergic reaction he had had. Oliver was seven and up for whatever we planned. Gregory was two and had slept without me and without nursing through the night, for the first time, totally randomly and without coaxing. He had made his way through this strange house in the night to the bed his dad was sleeping in a room with the other boys and snuggled up beside him to sleep. I had a glorious and peaceful night where I actually got to sleep through and when I woke up, was shocked to find that Gregory was not next to me as he usually was. I felt good in the morning, but edgy as now it seemed, I wanted even more alone time. I wanted to lay on the couch and read The Southampton Press from cover to cover, undisturbed. Having lived in the Hamptons for 12 years, I still knew many of the people mentioned in the paper. Reading a paper and being the mother of 4 young boys is simply not possible.

We decided to go into town and walk Jobs Lane and then Main Street checking out changes in Lillywhite's toy store, the boutiques, the restaurants, and to drool over what we had left behind by moving to plain vanilla land in Raleigh, North Carolina, two years prior. In walking, we ran into a few familiar old friends and stopped to chat about old Little League teams, schools our kids had gone to and the like. We ate some lunch in The Driver's Seat restaurant which was always so enjoyable and then moved on. Peter's leg still hurt and so he wound up sitting in Gregory's stroller, while Gregory attempted to push him. It was a hilarious site that entertained many strollers in town that day.

We came back to Stephanie's house and made some spaghetti for dinner. I was irritable when Gregory kept climbing on the deck bench and leaning over. I was still lusting after alone time, or at least mommy-off-duty time and resented the interruptions. I kept pulling him back each time he leaned over and in retrospect, I only wish I had let him fall. He would have broken bones and that sounds horrific, I know, but read on and you will understand more. Gregory was covered with spaghetti sauce on his blue and white outfit so I changed him into a cute yellow sweatsuit and his multi colored shoes that matched. For reasons I will never understand, we chose to visit a woman I knew from La Leche League who had just given birth to her third child. This was not a close friend of mine, but rather a co-dependent, weak yet radical earth mama who was married to one of the most despicable men I ever met. George was at the time, County Legislator for Suffolk County and when he wasn't busy cheating on his wife, neglecting his children, or being a total egocentric asshole, he was making derogatory racist or anti-gay comments for those very populations he bragged about defending. Sleazy and repulsive is the only word I can still use to describe this unattractive being.

The truth of the matter is that we could have visited several other people on our first evening back in Southampton to see friends. My best friend, Joan wanted us to come, as did so many others. Who can ever say why we made the choice we did. It will haunt me forever. When we visited, the two older boys played with mine and went in and out of the house shooting basketballs. Anne and I sat admiring her baby, and as was typical for her she referred to astrological charts of each newborn as they came into the world. She had left George more than once and showed up crying, with kids in tow at my home for refuge. I always wondered why she chose our home, since we were not particularly close friends. I tried to figure out now, if that was over or if George was still up to his same slimey tricks. Her newborn nursed on and off as she and I sat in the living room. Shep was in the kitchen talking to Anne's visiting mom and then, George arrived bragging about the TV show he had just been interviewed for. Gregory wandered in at one point, noticed the baby nursing and so climbed into my lap and nursed as well. It was sweet and more poignant then I could ever know.

For some reason, we all wandered into the kitchen which was where the back door was. George who continued to be unbearably full of himself, showed off his parrot on his shoulder. He told us that it was not easy to determine whether the bird was male or female. "Just my luck," he said, "that I would end up with a 'faggot' parrot!" I remember feeling so confused that this man was such a complete fraud, deriding the very population he claimed to publicly defend. It is hard for me to look at parrots, still.

Minutes later, Shep asked me, "Where is Gregory?" I responded that he was following the boys in and out to the basketball hoop. "No, he responded, I don't see him." In that second the entire world changed for six of us and it would never return to how it was one second before. Gregory was indeed floating face down in his yellow sweatsuit, multi colored shoes, in the swimming pool. Shep and George grabbed him and pulled him out. The open gate (The Hamptons had very strict laws about this, but of course, George was completely above the law) had gained him entrance and what happened next, I will never know. I do know that there was running and screaming and sirens and chaos and me jumping up and down in the air in a maniacal, frantic, desperate fashion. I would flip from kneeling and begging God for help to leaping in the air over and over. There were hours in emergency rooms, helicopter airlifting, racing to a larger medical facility and sustained hysteria by us all. There were my kids coming and going, being brought, being removed, being calmed, being lied to, being supposedly -- protected. There was no way to protect, no way to calm.

I have written of all the details many times, so I will not repeat. But, in ten hours time, we watched a medical team desperately try to infuse life back into the lifeless body of my darling, chubby child. It crossed my mind that if they would let me nurse him, he would be okay. Truth was that when we pulled him out of that pool, he was already dead even though medical efforts made his heart beat again. We let him go forever at 6:00 am and stepped into the cesspool of our new lives, that would take us years to learn to navigate. If only we had known that the day before would have been the last day. We could have done things differently, I suppose.

Today is that day again, only it is now 15 years later. We have survived without my darling son and we have been given the blessing of two more sons, twins in fact who really are solely responsible for pulling us out of the black hole we lived in following Gregory's death. As you know, I live each day in search of "the normal day" always consciously pleading and praying that it is not the last one.

The Other Side of Midnight

Last Saturday, my colleague/friend and I drove to Charlotte, NC to attend a statewide La Leche League conference. I have officially been a LLL leader for over 22 years but have been inactive for the last five or so.



My initial experience with LLL was in San Antonio, Texas in 1980. I was pregnant with my first child and have no earthly idea why I was even remotely curious about breastfeeding. I had never seen anyone breastfeed and God knows my mother was completely horrified by any and all body parts, so this was not an idea mentioned in my growing up years. But, something brought me to that Couples meeting that night and I became more and more interested. When I gave birth to my first son in 1981, I began attending meetings and the rest became my history. Suffice to say, my connections to LLL changed my whole paradigm of thinking, taught me loving and tender child rearing along in a nurturing style. In the end, it became my career choice, as I have been a board certifield lactation consultant for the last 14 years. The women in the LLL groups I belonged to in New York and in North Carolina have also become my life long friends with an attachment, like no other.



So, when I got to this Charlotte conference -- I had that familiar feeling of connection that I miss so desperately. Being a lactation consultant in private practice is a lonely field. These were my friends, my cohorts and many of these women had been to hell and back with me when my two year old son died tragically in 1995. It felt so good to be amongst these women. As well, there is a sense of "normal" at a LLL event. These are happy mothers and content babies, many of whom have made mothering a profession. They practice attachment parenting snuggling their babies in slings who were born in a most natural style, use alternative vaccination schedules, and they think before they accept most things handed down to them in the health field. It is a lovely arena.



On Saturday morning, I cheerfully attended my first session which was on increasing breast milk supply. This is a subject that has no end, as it has become the holy grail of breastfeeding. When the session was over, I came out only to be met by the horror stricken, tearful faces of two old time leaders who I have known for years. They grabbed me by the arm and said they needed to tell me something. My heart sank below my knees, I was terrified -- was it my husband? one of my sons? Which one? What? What? Jan said, "Karen's 21 year old son killed himself on Thursday. I just got word." I was horror stricken in every possible way and began crying uncontrollably. That was it. I wanted only to go home and see my own sons to be sure they were okay. I wanted to hold Karen, an old time LLL leader and lactation consultant, and rock her, knowing that her life would never be the same. I wanted to lay in the streets and sob for the agony of losing a child and the inability to ever comprehend the ache. The compounded horror of suicide is I feel, the worst of the worst. He had a gun, we came to find out, all the more horrible, I suppose. I cried on and off all day long and finally got home late that night, kissing and hugging those who were home and burying myself under many covers.



The funeral was a Catholic mass on Tuesday. This is the thing for me. Many said they could not attend because it would be "too hard" or "too upsetting" or too something. I feel this way. I do not have that choice. I am a fellow human being, a fellow traveler, if you wish. I am your friend. You are descending into hell and I have the responsibility to show up and to bear witness. Isn't that the VERY LEAST I can do? I must steel myself and wade through the fire and the grit, but I must be there. It is torture for me to go to that place in my heart that still has an eternal flame or torch. But, I go anyway.



The mass was nice, with touching music, moving eulogies by a brother and a friend. The brother said two eloquent things that I have thought of many times since. One was that he felt that Jesus had to go through hell and so had his brother Ted. The other really got me. Ted was bipolar and apparently, he suffered terribly, unresolved by medication and/or treatment. His brother said, "It was often very difficult to live with Ted. But, in fact, it was much more difficult to live AS Ted." It is so telling, that when one shoots themselves with the purpose of ending it all, one almost always chooses to blow their brains out. The pain of life seems much greater than this painful, instant death, at that moment.



And then, the receiving line, where this poor derailed family, stands receiving hugs and "I'm so sorries" while they barely have the strength to breathe in and out. There simply are NO words. I bring water to the mother. I bring a chair. It doesn't matter. The dad mentions that it will be odd not getting emails from his son. Oh honey, that will be the least! I hug the mother, my colleague, and she says, "Oh those babies. We love them so." Yes, indeed. I think to myself that they have no idea how long and rocky the road ahead is. On the phone she said to me, "He's with Jesus. He is fine. I have my faith." Yes, but hey, Jesus' heart broke over this tragedy as well. This will do your for awhile, but not for long. The gnawing will come at 3 am and no loving arms of Jesus will take away the agony of loss. The other side of midnight awaits all surving parents with hell on earth.