july 20, 2009

Leo's birthdate.

i'm not sure how I'm going to feel tomorrow morning when I first open my eyes. i hope filled with joy and unbridled excitement of the pure love i have for him.

i recall the events of this night so vividly, the eve before his birth. my final hours with him inside. reluctantly wanting to meet my baby. because I knew that meeting my baby meant I would have precious few minutes left with him. i recall those events perfectly. i recall how it was about 5:30 PM when my water broke which instantly made the effects of the pitosin feel very real, and painful. i recall how i knew i should stand up and walk around and get into the many different Bradley positions i had spent 12 weeks learning about because this would progress my labor. and that is what i was supposed to want to happen. but i couldn't handle the pain as much as when i just lay there, quietly, not moving, sleeping between contractions. i recall how dave tried to encourage me up out of the bed, and i would do this, until I couldn't anymore. i didn't want the epidural. i just wanted to be able to do what i set out to do. have a baby. naturally. alive. i just wanted that so badly. and as i grew more and more tired physically, I lost my will. my desire to forge ahead just wasn't enough. the sweet sweet reward of all that hard work, i knew was not to be mine. and i just didn't want to do it this way anymore. i wanted to numb myself from the emotional pain. and the only way i could do that was to also numb myself from the physical pain.

i slept through the final 3 1/2 hrs of my labor. i woke around 4:30 am with pain in my right hip. i thought i'd been sleeping wrong, it didn't take long to realize the epidural had only really taken effect on my left side. my right hip pain quickly turned to intense pressure throughout my pelvis. i was given the go ahead to push. pat, my midwife, guided me through this last part of my labor gently and with a calmness that i absorbed. push gently. stop. wait. push again. gently. down the canal, then up and over. this was the path of the baby. visualizing this helped me tremendously. i felt myself push him. in this specific way. first down, then up, then over the pubic bone. with each push i could feel him move easily. no resistance. the pain stopped. completely. i felt the closest to him as I had ever. i could feel him move through me. skin on skin. he was real.

and now, one year later.
how much has changed in my life. how much I've changed.


Leo is my clarity. he is strength and beauty and pure fiery energy.

tomorrow
i plan
to celebrate him.

I am changed.

It is been 2 1/2 months since Leo died. A lifetime and a blink of an eye. So much has changed in my world. Externally and internally, I am in a different place now. I live in a town with a population of 4,000; just 10% of the one I left. I am now a tentant in a small cape cottage, no longer an owner of a downtown loft-style condo. I am about to start a new job. I have begun to make new acquaintances. I am surrounded by nature, so close that there is no separation between it and me. I no longer have to go somewhere to find the peace that nature so willingly gives us. It is in my home. It is inside me.

For quite some time I have been longing for and moving toward a more peaceful and simple way of living. Small changes here and there were always seemingly hidden in the chaos that I continued to feel on a daily basis. Resistance lingered. Then Leo died. And suddenly without asking, my life was changed forever. As the fog of the initial shock lifted in the weeks that followed, I realized that everything I was striving for and how to get it seemed to clarify in my mind, in an electric kind of way. It sounds weird to say out loud. I mean I'd give anything to be able to be in my present state of mind with Leo here, too. But I feel that if everything that's happened in my life this past year hadn't happened, then I wouldn't be. And that includes Leo.

It's incredibly sad that Leo died (and to even say that is a ridiculous understatement). But his life as short as it was, was truly a gift to me. From the moment I realized I was pregnant, I experienced pure joy. I enjoyed (nearly) every minute of being pregnant. Even being able to give birth to him was a gift. Giving birth was so incredibly empowering, particularly because he was no longer living. It was my final gift to him. A completion of his journey in his physical state.

I'll always have the vivid memories of our final three days together and I have his gift of helping me grow into this person that I now am. I still cry of course but I'm genuinely O.K. At times less O.K. than others, but O.K.

It's the little things.

Like when someone is trying to calculate the age of my sister's baby. I instantly calculate how old Teo is based on how long it has been since Leo was born. Or like when someone remarks that they can't believe my sister just had a baby 2 1/2 mo ago, based on how great she looks. I wanted to say "I did, too! 2 mo ago, I had a baby, too". My reaction was without thought - it just rose up inside me and wanted out. It took me a little by surprise. I thought about it. Why did I feel the desire to say that? Was it so I could also receive a comment about how I look? Some attention for my ego? Was it just to tell them about Leo? I realized that their lack of acknowledgment about my recent pregnancy was both a reminder to me that Leo is not here with us and that there are people that don't know. That new acquaintances in my life don't even know about Leo. And might never know about Leo. That is weird to me. Because Leo is such a big part of my life. It feels strange that not everyone knows about him. And if feels strange not to tell everyone about him.

I know that my reactions are normal. I mean, my God, it has only been two months. It's so recent. But the interesting thing...the thing that I have a difficult time explaining to others is that it feels like a lifetime ago. Like it happened to me but just not in this lifetime. I have no anger. No regret. Even no pain surrounding Leo anymore.

I have sadness. Sadness over missing him. Over not being able to know him. Over not being able to kiss his soft squishy face. Over not being able to look into his eyes and have him look into mine. But this sadness is different than pain. I am not just coming to terms with what happened. I am peaceful.

I have two children.

This is something I am getting used to saying. To myself. To others. This is something that would've come naturally without thinking if I had both of my children living, with me, every day.

I was in the bead store the other day fixing the chain that I was given that holds two beautifully simple silver pendants, one with Leo and the other with Max inscribed on them. Another woman was admiring them and asked of their significance. I said proudly, they are my sons. They smiled and then asked their age. I took a quick deep breath, looked at them and said 'one of them is 21 mo old and the other one died'. They said they were sorry and I reassured them that it was O.K., that they didn't know. I left the store, got into my car and softly started to cry. I wondered what they were sorry about. When I say, 'It's OK', am I saying it's OK they asked or it's OK that he died?

I knew I was inviting this question by wearing a necklace with their names on them. I know that the answer will bring discomfort to the person asking. I also know that their unease is not my problem. It feels good to acknowledge both of my sons, not just the living one. I want the world to know about Leo. I want to share him with those that already know about him and those that don't. I want everyone to see that Leo existed. That he is real. I want everyone to see how beautiful he was. I want to feel comfortable saying I have two sons. One of them is living and the other was stillborn and that is OK. That is my story and that is OK. They're both beautiful and they're both with me in their own way. I am a more complete person than I was before Leo.

I am who I am today because I have two sons.

Magical

I love photographs.
They are powerful beyond words.
They are giving of whatever it is you need. They are forever.


This is again, Thompson Lake. I love this photo because it captures what I did not see in person. I love it because it represents light and the magical sun bouncing off the water. I love it because it reminds me of Leo.

Strength

One week after giving birth to Leo, Dave and I went to Thompson Lake in Maine. We went to be surrounded and enveloped in serene beauty. We went to begin healing.



This was the place I took myself when I was laboring. I envisioned the peaceful calm of the water, the warmth of the sun on my shoulders and the towering strength of crowded trees with light shimmering through their branches.

I found out Leo had died the morning of July 17. After three long, slow days of being induced, my body kicked into active labor and I gave birth to Leo July 20, 6:55 am.

So far, the three saddest days of my life.

Leonardo Mathewson Ring

"It's nice to have mementos", she said. 'She' being a well meaning friend when asking if we have pictures of Leo.

We have 13 pictures of Leo, not all of which I'll even be able to keep. 13. That's all I get. Mementos. I have thousands of pictures of Max and he isn't yet 2 years old.

Every night when I read to Max before bed I ask Max to say "Leo, I love you.", "Leo, I miss you.", which he does in his sweet soft voice. The other night after Max said the above with my prompting, he followed up on his own and said "eeoo.. r you?".

My heart broke. Again.

This isn't going to stop anytime soon, is it?

I wish I could find comfort in this pain.


Leonardo Mathewson Ring
born and deceased, July 20, 2009
3 pounds 11 ounces, 19 inches