We lost the baby, again. Every day I pray your mom doesn't call me. Not because I don't want to hear from her, but the amount of anxiety built up in the few seconds from me recognizing her name on my phone and answering to hear her calm voice are so full of the same fear I had when I got the call from Nanny. I'd rather get her text or emails every day, all day, but when the phone rings and it's her, I recoil from answering.
I answered yesterday, forgetting she had a doctor's appointment, and the pause in her response followed by the tears had me thinking the absolute worst - I lost you and Connor. However, we lost the baby.
Twelve weeks, that's the amount of time they tell you to wait before letting anyone know. I've never waited, I can't contain my excitement and want to share it with the world. This time, I was more contained, and only shared with your uncles and a couple people at work. My thought has always been we make strong babies, what's to worry about. It's a fear that's hidden far back in your mind, one you never expect to realize, but allow yourself to ponder just on the off-chance acknowledging it somehow prevents it. It doesn't, we lost the baby.
I quickly turned to the Internet to figure out what to do. It's full of advice on what to do, but it doesn't tell you how it compounds past wounds. I did as the articles instructed, and avoided telling her "we can try again", and just held her, asked Gaga to come over, and we shared a beer (because that's what we do). Your mom loves you boys more than life itself, and having to watch her relive the loss of another one of you is beyond bearable, but that's what you do in this situation. You bear the inconceivable, you put on a happy face, and you create a safe place for your children, for your sanity, for your family. We've been through this before, losing a baby.
I don't know where we go from here today. I'm beyond scared of what can happen the next time around, and I don't want to put your mom through this again. I don't want to fear her phone calls. I don't want to worry about you boys. Without all this, I guess I wouldn't be parenting, and since this is its price, it's something I continue to bear, because the infinite possibilities of parenthood don't always end with losing the baby.
On Sunday night, I prayed to Blake. I've talked to him a few times this year, but not as often as I should. I prayed he watch over Harlie and keep her safe throughout her recovery, it's not her time. Her recovery is going better, and she's beginning to turn the corner. I don't know how I forgot to ask him to watch over your mom, and the baby. I've asked him to watch over several people who've joined him lately, and vice versa. I pray he watches over each of you, and keeps you safe when I'm not there to. We never know when things will change, and they turn on a dime, without reason. We look back to what we wish we'd done, what we could have done, and bargain for that moment back. I can't rewind to Sunday, and ask him to watch over mom, keep her safe. I forgot to ask him to watch over the baby, and now we've lost it.
Life isn't fair. It's lessons are unending, and incredibly taxing. You smile. You grieve. You hold on to those you love that are here. They may not be for long. Love you, buddy.
Wednesday, August 30, 2017
Sunday, April 9, 2017
Ambiguity Needs a Strategy
Men are fixers. We see a problem, and our first instinct is to fix it. You'll run into times in your life when you can't. In this moment of ambiguity you revert back to your most basic self, the one you've tried to repress and hide. I have this problem. I think my dad has this problem. I think his dad had this problem. The problem is alcohol. I've denied it to be an issue for me since I was in my early 20s. For the most part, it's not. I don't drink daily, I don't drink to wake up, I don't need a drink. But, when faced with being unable to fix something, I'm forced into an ambiguous situation and I become scared.
I loved marrying your mom. I still do. It was the best decision I made in my life. However, the greatest moments so far have been watching the birth of you, Blake, and Connor. It wasn't immediate, like some movie soliloquy. I watched each of you being born, and that was it. You came out, the doctor pronounced each of you boys, healthy and took you to a table to do the necessary identification and APGAR scores. I looked, and helped when asked to move you or keep you still. It happened so fast, and even by the time Connor was born, I was still unsure of what they really wanted me to do. Each of you were then given to mom with the smoothest of transitions and I stood by watching over each, with the formation of tears in my eyes. I wasn't overcome with those intense emotions described in those movies, but I did feel happy each of you were healthy. I cried a bit more during Connor, but I think that was to be expected since we lost Blake about 10 months prior.
When your mom finally handed each of you to me, and I held each of you, something indescribable happened. That love so often beautifully summarized by an actor (who likely doesn't/didn't have kids) occurred. The intense desire to protect, hold, and show you the boundless love inside me for each of you washed over. It made me different. It made me better. It made me less me.
Being less me is a good thing. I'm less wrapped up in my head. I'm less concerned for me. This is beneficial to everyone around me. Without each of you, I'm an asshole. I still am, but just less of one.
I think it was a September night, and I was supposed to go and ref a wiffleball game. Your mom told me she wasn't feeling well, and was spotting. This moment was less significant to me then. I'm a believer in omens, but didn't see this as one. I've managed to remain stoic in most situations of stress and pressure, and it's served me well throughout life. It's likely also to my detriment, because it looks like I don't understand the gravity of situations to the casual observer. She told me, and my instinct was, call the hospital, I'll have a beer.
I was walking into the hospital where I worked when your mom was roughly 39 weeks pregnant. My phone rang, and without looking I knew it was her telling me, her water broke. I answered, I was right. I walked into the hospital, told them you were in labor, and I was leaving. I drove home, happy, excited, scared. What could I do besides get her to the hospital? Why wasn't she doing this herself? I was an hour away? I got home, and your mom was just moving around, normally, making sure her bag was packed. Why wasn't this done already I thought? I went outside, I made a greyhound.
I've known CPR since I was 18. It changes every couple years, and I get to practice on mannequins and make the associated jokes, commonly used in these courses with the even dumber simulated responses - "does he have a pulse?". On Tuesday, October 14th I received the call from Nanny, Blake wasn't breathing. I maintained a sense of calm that angers me now, and angered me then. I arrived and took your brother's lifeless body from Nanny to begin CPR on the first, and only human, I've ever done this to. The EMS crew arrived and told me it was over. He was gone. I walked outside and shouted "Fuck", exclaimed it really, but I think I held back. I'm angry with myself for this. The gravity of it all wasn't making me feel what I've seen in movies. Life isn't a movie. This is me. We went through a line of questioning with the police, talked with family and friends before leaving for home. I don't remember how we got home. I remember your Uncle Kyle being there and hugging him before walking into the garage and opening a beer.
Since that day, I've met each ambiguous, unfixable situation with an increasing use of alcohol. It's always been my drug of choice. It's normalized in our society, so it doesn't seem evil. Like heroin. It's effects since Blake have been more and more frequent blackouts. I don't tell your mom, she worries. She scolds. I don't want to stop, because I enjoy alcohol, and I enjoy the company I share when I'm drinking. I also don't know how to slow down, or stop, until I pass out when I do drink. Except, there are times, calculated times, where I map out a strategy for drinking. I'm good on those nights, but I still want to get home and have another. It's scary. Each morning I wake up, like today, and I can't remember how I got to bed leaves me wondering how long I can keep this up before I hurt myself, or worse, any of you.
In the absence of knowing what to do, I'm faced with the ambiguity, or more the ignorance of a situation I hide from your mom. You. Your brothers. My friends. I drink. This is what makes me, me. Not the alcohol...It's my inability to act in favor of others over myself. I hope I provide you with the lessons to think, and more importantly act with the thought of your actions' effects on others more than yourself. This one thing will make you more successful as a person than I will ever be. I love you, buddy.
I loved marrying your mom. I still do. It was the best decision I made in my life. However, the greatest moments so far have been watching the birth of you, Blake, and Connor. It wasn't immediate, like some movie soliloquy. I watched each of you being born, and that was it. You came out, the doctor pronounced each of you boys, healthy and took you to a table to do the necessary identification and APGAR scores. I looked, and helped when asked to move you or keep you still. It happened so fast, and even by the time Connor was born, I was still unsure of what they really wanted me to do. Each of you were then given to mom with the smoothest of transitions and I stood by watching over each, with the formation of tears in my eyes. I wasn't overcome with those intense emotions described in those movies, but I did feel happy each of you were healthy. I cried a bit more during Connor, but I think that was to be expected since we lost Blake about 10 months prior.
When your mom finally handed each of you to me, and I held each of you, something indescribable happened. That love so often beautifully summarized by an actor (who likely doesn't/didn't have kids) occurred. The intense desire to protect, hold, and show you the boundless love inside me for each of you washed over. It made me different. It made me better. It made me less me.
Being less me is a good thing. I'm less wrapped up in my head. I'm less concerned for me. This is beneficial to everyone around me. Without each of you, I'm an asshole. I still am, but just less of one.
I think it was a September night, and I was supposed to go and ref a wiffleball game. Your mom told me she wasn't feeling well, and was spotting. This moment was less significant to me then. I'm a believer in omens, but didn't see this as one. I've managed to remain stoic in most situations of stress and pressure, and it's served me well throughout life. It's likely also to my detriment, because it looks like I don't understand the gravity of situations to the casual observer. She told me, and my instinct was, call the hospital, I'll have a beer.
I was walking into the hospital where I worked when your mom was roughly 39 weeks pregnant. My phone rang, and without looking I knew it was her telling me, her water broke. I answered, I was right. I walked into the hospital, told them you were in labor, and I was leaving. I drove home, happy, excited, scared. What could I do besides get her to the hospital? Why wasn't she doing this herself? I was an hour away? I got home, and your mom was just moving around, normally, making sure her bag was packed. Why wasn't this done already I thought? I went outside, I made a greyhound.
I've known CPR since I was 18. It changes every couple years, and I get to practice on mannequins and make the associated jokes, commonly used in these courses with the even dumber simulated responses - "does he have a pulse?". On Tuesday, October 14th I received the call from Nanny, Blake wasn't breathing. I maintained a sense of calm that angers me now, and angered me then. I arrived and took your brother's lifeless body from Nanny to begin CPR on the first, and only human, I've ever done this to. The EMS crew arrived and told me it was over. He was gone. I walked outside and shouted "Fuck", exclaimed it really, but I think I held back. I'm angry with myself for this. The gravity of it all wasn't making me feel what I've seen in movies. Life isn't a movie. This is me. We went through a line of questioning with the police, talked with family and friends before leaving for home. I don't remember how we got home. I remember your Uncle Kyle being there and hugging him before walking into the garage and opening a beer.
Since that day, I've met each ambiguous, unfixable situation with an increasing use of alcohol. It's always been my drug of choice. It's normalized in our society, so it doesn't seem evil. Like heroin. It's effects since Blake have been more and more frequent blackouts. I don't tell your mom, she worries. She scolds. I don't want to stop, because I enjoy alcohol, and I enjoy the company I share when I'm drinking. I also don't know how to slow down, or stop, until I pass out when I do drink. Except, there are times, calculated times, where I map out a strategy for drinking. I'm good on those nights, but I still want to get home and have another. It's scary. Each morning I wake up, like today, and I can't remember how I got to bed leaves me wondering how long I can keep this up before I hurt myself, or worse, any of you.
In the absence of knowing what to do, I'm faced with the ambiguity, or more the ignorance of a situation I hide from your mom. You. Your brothers. My friends. I drink. This is what makes me, me. Not the alcohol...It's my inability to act in favor of others over myself. I hope I provide you with the lessons to think, and more importantly act with the thought of your actions' effects on others more than yourself. This one thing will make you more successful as a person than I will ever be. I love you, buddy.
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