The Meaning of Work

It isn’t work if you love what you do…

I’ve heard this over and over, throughout my life. Find your purpose and working will feel like playing.

I found my purpose. It doesn’t feel like work.

I love working on Share, reaching out to families, planning awareness events, pulling together fundraisers, writing press releases, networking and collaborating with other support groups, even sending condolance cards to newly bereaved families.

It feels that that thing I'm supposed to do. With one very obvious exception. Noone has knocked on my door yet smiling ear to ear saying, "What a lovely job you have done starting this outreach. My boss would like to be your benefactor and pay you a healthy wage to keep doing it!"

My guess is he's not coming.

Last Tuesday I went back to work. You know, the kind where you have to arrive on time and stay until your contract says you can go? I love that work too, truly I do - but this job is never far from my mind.

And, with it, the fact that I am getting more behind as each pre-school, water stays in the cup, no - you may not throw trains, um - we need clean up in the bathroom, again - minute passes.

My rigidly organized spreadsheets ensure that familes will not fall through the cracks, that newspapers will get the press release before the deadline, that all volunteers are on the same page, and each monthly meeting reminder goes out exactly 7 days prior to the gathering. No, it is my lack of time for blogging, and consequently reading other blogs, that has me in a mental tailspin.

I am having a Pam.p.ered C.hef show later this month. (Not really my thing but I promised hubby as soon as the kitchen was DONE I would. He finished it about a year ago...*sigh* promises must be kept) Anyway, as I was compliling my list of invitees I found myself writing all YOUR names and it was a long minute before I realized that you can't come. You don't live here. We can't just hop in the car and physically see each other. Moreover, you might be a little cranky with me for lack of 'hanging out' with you lately.

I am going away alone this weekend. The point of the trip is to attend The SIMON Project's Ride to Remember. I will be networking as they are a SIDS awareness and prevention group. I will also be alone with my computer during down time and I am very much looking forward to catching up on your blogs and your lives.

Know this as my days meld into weeks working out of the house! Even if I missed a big announcement, a healthy delivery, a slight scare, a rough day, an all around crappy week, I have been thinking of you, praying for you through it all.

My best friends in the world are ones I see but two or three times a year. The conversation flows like the break never existed. This is how I think of you. Although, rest assured I won't dissapear without letting you know!!

Be seeing you this weekend!

Nature Personified

I love Emma's burning bush. It represents everything tangible and quantifiable about my missing child.

We measure it September 8th - mark it's growth in her scrapbook as if we were celebrating another three inches on her dark little third grade head.

In the spring, we de-tree it by pulling out the rooting acorns embedded in her dirt.

It 'blooms' every fall, sometimes in the week of her birthday - just like she would have, another year older, another grade of school.

We tend to it as winter approaches - picking up fallen leaves and sticks that litter the inner circle of love J made for her.

I am protective of that space - stepping in front of it when a rouge softball misses its mark to the far left, willing to take a bruise to the shin so that my Emma, the bush - is safe. Any mother would, right?

And so, this evening - this glorious suto-summer like evening (and yes - if you read here consistently that means we went from suto-winter to suto-summer in a miraculous shift somehow bypassing spring at all. I'm told it's coming) anyway - on such a glorious evening when coming inside was a tragic thought after grilling out, eating out, playing afore mentioned softball, and tennis outside, I dragged myself into the kitchen to clean up the last of the dishes. My other three ran through the field, soaking in every last ounce of sunshine willing to grace our day.

Minutes later, I glanced out the window and my heart stopped. The Comedian was touching Emma's bush. It looked so vulnerable, completely bare of any covering: no leaves, no snow, no way to protect itself. She was running the ends of the branches through her fingers over and over and over. I felt this rush of fear, what if she breaks a branch? what if she hurts her sister? - much like I was watching them fight over a pair of well-used, but coveted pants.

I acually opened the door to say something - anything - to get my sweet, would-never-hurt-a-soul daughter to stop touching the naked branches. It was tearing me up. I knew it was irrational. I knew it was ridiculous. It is a bush! A plant. A living piece of nature meant to represent my long gone daughter, but not to embody her in any physical way.

Even so, I had nearly opened my mouth to speak unplanned words when Comedian looked up and met my eyes. She spoke first, "Oh, Hi Mama. I was just talking to Emma. I was just telling she that she's leaves are going to come back and we are going to take a picture of she's leaves."

The tears that hid behind my eyes came simultaneously with my smile.

"Yes we are" I said, "You bet we are." And we held hands as she got ready for bed.

And so, you see - all these years later the irrational thoughts and desperate need for connection, in some way - through any portal, still remains. The difference? I know she's not coming back. I no longer think I can bring her back. Instead, I embrace these things: a bush, a stone angel, a scrapbook, a door opening of it's own accord, a timely song played on the radio...as my daughter.

Irrational - maybe. Necessary - definately.

We - The NEARLY 1500!

Mel just reported nearly 1500 sites on the blogroll. "That is astounding!" I thought. 1500 brave women sharing their dreams, heartache, losses and success with one another. A plethera of opportunity for one hurting soul to find another who has suffered the same category of loss, even if (as it was for me - and so often is) a rare and freak incident that took your baby's life.

But then, my mind returned to researching statistics for my book. This, in itself is a daunting task for, finding accurate statistics in the world of baby loss is like trying to count the fish in the sea, especially when you consider MY definiation of baby loss (as mapped out in MY MISSION) SORRY I DON'T KNOW HOW TO MAKE THOSE PRETTY BLUE LINKS YET...HELP ANYONE???

Anyway, based on the latest updated research including stillbirth, infant death and SIDS, "on average" (and I abhor this term because every baby is a soul and I want to know exactly how many have been lost!!!) 99,000 babies died last year. This does not even include the sweet little souls lost to miscarriage, because that is represented by percentage. So take the 99,000 and add in the 20% of all pregnancies ending in miscarriage and our faboulous 1500 brave mothers are only a drop in overflowing grief bucket.

Where are the others? How are the others? How are the fathers coping out there? What about the living sisters and brothers, how are they doing? What about the grandparents who feel like they lost a child? I don't have answers, but I do know that what has begun here...in the world of the blog...is huge! It is just the beginning, but the world is ready for us. The nation is ready to hear of our babies, our boys, our girls, our faceless 9 week losses and our buried 40 week bodies. Elizabeth McCracken's book just released last week, is already getting good reviews indicating that the living are ready to at least...hear about and acknowledge the dead.

I am so excited to be part of this, to reach out and hold a new hand, listen to a new friend, and support others who have lost recently, or a long time ago. Each of us follows our own path but knowing that the path is paved is of some consolation.

This line of thinking led me to wonder, What would my blog have looked like if it had been an option when Emma died? In that period when I was feeling raped by life and like someone had their boot pressed firmly on my heart at all times, I needed this web of knowledge, statistics, love, support, and yes - a hopeful tone from someone who was past the first year of hell. I did search the internet for answers and for groups of women battling the same emotions, but I came up dry...so I turned to something more physical - scrapbooking.

I know it sounds odd to say I can chronicle a dead baby, but I did and I still do. Or maybe its more accurate and honest to say I chronicle my life as it has been forever affected by her. Obviously I only have a handful of pictures of Emma but I journal, put pictures of her burning bush, of her sisters as they arrive, of the red leaf and the rainbow, and rarely...of myself - but when I update my scrapbook every September it becomes my mirror. It evolves into a looking glass where I can see my reflection, differing from year to year. So, even though I don't have a blog of old to compare with the tone of my blog of new, I do have year one in her book and it reads and looks VERY different from year eight.

I can see my growth, I can feel my healing, and I am overwhelmed that we, the nearly 1500, can be that for all the other mothers, fathers, grandparents, sisters and brothers who have yet to face their grief and take the first step on their road to healing.

I love you Emma Grace, and every other heavenly soul.

Our Worldly Connections

When people ask me, "How are you writing this book so quickly?" my answer is, "I swear it is writing itself. It is like Emma is sitting next to me enouraging every word on every page". It really does feel like that. From a logical point of view, she is next to me as I always write with her scrapbook opened to the gorgeous 8 x 10 image of my baby girl. (If I ever get a scanner that works I'll share it with you!) But, aside from the obvious physical representations of her I still hold dear, odd things happen when I write.

I have always been forthright about the hard-to-swallow fact that there are chunks of time and specific days recounted for me, that I have completely blacked out. Bits and pieces come back to me when someone is very detailed in their description, but it is a forced memory and doesn't stay long.

In addition - before I lost Emma I didn't put much stock in this "world-to-world" connection stuff. I was a hard core you gotta see it and touch it to believe it. After she flew it took me a while to accept the feeling / sensing connection, but Emma is part of me (not to mention persistant and patient with me) and so I came to see what was real and true in my life, using all my senses.

I have to admit for the first year I was addicted to the John Edwards show. I would dream about going on the show and having him single me out on the first round..."Ohhhh" he would say sporting a seriously intense look on his face, "I feel a STRONG presance around you. Your daughter, right? An infant...Yes, she wants you to know that her death was always part of the plan and she is with you all the time." And just when I thought he was done and dissolved into tears, he would add, "E. I see the letter E. She insits that I tell you she is proud of the work you have done to deal with your grief." Indulgant? Of course, we all want to hear the words that we believe will settle our heart, but that is the beautiful part of fantasy...we get - exactly that!

Anyway, lately, when I arrive home from dropping the girls to their respective schools and open the computer, time disintegrates and my surroundings become hazy. It is like a portal exists in my dining room (for that is where I do the bulk of my writing as the office is too messy...I'm working on it!) and when the time portal opens I am back in 2000 re-living the pregnancy, discovery of her death, and delivery of our first daughter. Ok, maybe that's not so odd for writers, I mean, you do have to immerse yourself in the storyline regardless of it's basis in fact or fiction, but here is where the really odd stuff happens.

I'll be writing along occasionally amazed by the speed that a thought can fly through me and take form on the screen, and my fingers take off. They develop a mind of their own (or of a spirit in the chair next to me) and begin creating text that had not passed through the mental scanner I like to call "my brain". This all happens in the span of seconds and when I stop to look at what I have written I am shocked to see that names I could not recall have appeared on the page, hospital scenes I only vaguely remember are mapped out in intense detail, and insights between mother and child appear that are so novel to me, they bring tears.

I don't think publishers go for dual authorship when the second party is deceased so I'm not even going to approach it with them, but with you, the circle of other "dead baby mothers" (by the way I love that you call yourselves that with pride!) with you I will always share the credit for my words with Emma Grace. I know sceptics might challenge me and say that my perspective of the events are skewed by maternal love and grief, but they would be wrong! I know what I know and she is with me when I write. She is around us often (see previous posts - "The Burning Bush" and "The Eve") but when the room is filled with only the computer and classical music, our connection is stronger, fueled by a dual desire to reach out and spare other hurting mothers even one second of their pain.

Emma has a message she has shared with me and it is my job to share it with the world, or at least with the population of the world who is ready to hear it. To the skeptics, I say "Be skeptical, but it will only keep you from really living in this world for YOUR perspective is the only one that matters. Mine keeps my heart wide open at all times!"

I tell you tonight...believe.

Reading and Writing

On September 1st I started this blog. Today is September 13th and I struggle to imagine it has only been twelve days since I became this 'blogger'. Honestly, On August 25th I didn't even know what a 'blog' was and six days later, through a friends need, I read my first one. (Yes - that is why I have an annoucement in red for first time bloggers! I didn't know you read from the bottom up!)



But here I am, two weeks later, thinking, acting, and creating like a real-life-rootin-tootin ...blogger! And my deepest emotion is gratitude. I am so grateful to finally find the place I searched for eight years ago (and MAN DID I SEARCH!) packed with women who "get it" so deeply they ofter have answers that the so-called professionals seemed stumped by. I am insanely blessed to find a network of women who live and grieve, cry and revel in their children ( both dead and alive), and most of all - I LOVE that anything goes. I love that one day you can be internal and introspective and people are good with that, but then next you can rage about some injustice that the world has done you just because you have three kids, but one doesn't eat at your dinner table.



I intend to introduce myslef to at least two new blogs a week until my sidebar is "chaulk full" with inspiration blogs. I am not shy... acutally I am probably one of the most outgoing people you will ever meet...and, therefore I am eager to comment and be commented!



If you haven't read my story from the beginning I take this opportunity to give you brief...low down. I am 32 years old, Emma's birthday is September 8th - she is 8 years old, Bear is 5 1/2 and The Comedian is 3 1/2. My husband is a contracter by day and a sustainable living organic farmer by night (by that I mean in his heart and dreams). I am a myrid of things and I am starting to think there is not enought time in this life to accomplish all I would like to. But for the moment, I am a mother and a writer. I am currrently writing an intimate memoir about my expeience from conception to birth and thereafter. So, eventually I imagine, you will all know WAY MORE about me than you ever wanted to. But, there it is. My current mission is to touch every bleeding heart I can with a message of "it sucks, but there is hope" (obviously I write a bit more in an elloquent manner) - but, ah-ha...yet ANOTHER reason why I love blogging.



So..THANK YOU for allowing me into your bloggorific world! I look forward to getting to know each and every one of you, your stories, your strifes and your successes. The tangibility of these connections is almost incomprehensible, but - so is what has happed to us and that, more than anything, is why we need each other.