A soft place to fall

I find myself a little stuck.  I started this blog with the intention of first using it to share the pieces I'd written about losing the boys, and then segueing into writing about motherhood in general.  But the pieces I first posted were written and edited over a period of years.  I'm having a hard time with the idea of simply writing and clicking "publish."  What if it's not *good?*

I've decided to say screw it.  Screw it!  I'm gonna write.  And I'm gonna publish.  And it will be what it will be.

And I'm sorry if it sucks.

Okay.  Deep breath.  Here goes.

Motherhood by the Numbers

I wrote this piece the last time Mother's Day fell on the anniversary of the boys' birth.  Happy 10th Birthday, sweet baby Ray and fiesty Alex.  I love you. 

Numbers are important to mothers.  Take any baby to a grocery store and you’ll be inundated with number questions.  “Is he your only?”  “How many children do you have?”  Mothers-to-be ask number questions, too.  How long was your labor?  How long did you push?  How many days in the hospital?  New mothers obsess over numbers:  minutes of nursing, hours of sleep, days till doctor’s appointment, weight, height, head circumference, number of wet diapers.  

A mother’s life is ruled by numbers.  Bed time is at 7, naptime at 12.  School gets out at 2:35; gymnastics is at 4:45.  Anna weighs 52 pounds and takes 2 teaspoons of Claritin each morning.  Vinnie weighs 23.7 and has an ear-check appointment on the 17^th at 11.  

I’m an English teacher by profession, a reader by choice, and someone who spends most of her days devoted to the pursuit, enjoyment, and study of words and language.  Numbers do not come easily to me.  I bungled my way through high school math classes, relieved to make it to college where a class called Critical Thinking fulfilled my math requirement.  And yet, I find my mind often drifts to numbers.  Loading the dishwasher or sweeping the living room, numbers present themselves to me.  I roll them around my mouth, wear them down until they are smooth as sea glass and as familiar and battered as the bracelet I’ve worn since my daughter’s birth.  They go in pairs or trios.  26 and 70.  4 and 9.  10, 14, and 19.  4, 3, and 2. 

Spring is the season of numbers for me.  It used to be that every month brought with it a new challenge of numbers.  Every month has a 10^th, a 14^th, a 19^th – days that I mark as beginning and ends.  But now I’ve gotten to the point when it’s only those days in May that really make me pause.  

My twin boys, Ray and Alex, were born on May 10^th, 2005.  Ray died on May 14^th.  Alex died on May 19^th.   If they were alive, we’d celebrate their 4^th birthday on Mother’s Day.  

In a catalog I found a necklace that I’d like to receive for Mother’s Day.  It’s a silhouette of a bird on a branch with a baby bird facing her.  Customers can specify the number of baby birds to add to the branch.  I wonder for how many baby birds I should ask?  Two would make the most sense to most people, but four feels like the honest answer.  A necklace with five birds on it reminds me of the name-plate necklaces my friends wore in college; me wearing a necklace with five birds is the equivalent of wearing “Samantha” when everyone knows you as “Sam,” “Elizabeth” when you’re really “Liz.”  A necklace with five birds seems ostentatious and showy.  A necklace with five birds would invite questions.  A necklace with three birds would not result in awkward silences and me feeling the irrepressible urge to apologize.  A necklace with three birds is easier on everyone.  

But I’ve had four children.  

I cry a lot, but I don’t like to cry in front of people, even people I love.  I rely on the numbers to get me through painful conversations.  Numbers, as I appreciate now so much more than I did in Trigonometry, are safe.  I practice in front of a mirror, saying the phrases and keeping my eyes dry.   The numbers tell the story for me and help explain.  They were born at 26 weeks.  They had a 70% chance of survival.  

I avoid saying, or even thinking, words like “just” or “should”.   Numbers have no connotation.  No drama.  Numbers are factual, simple, and honest.  Numbers are finite.  Ray lived for four days, Alex for nine.  If I focus on the numbers I can keep bitterness at bay; I can fend off retrospection and doubt and fear.  If I think about the numbers, I think about what is, not what might have been.   

They would be four.   They could be playing tee-ball and wearing big-boy underwear and playing with their big sister.  They could have been starting preschool and learning letters and shapes and colors.  They could be tearing apart my house and giving me wrinkles and grey hair. 

Sometimes, I don’t feel big enough to hold all these numbers.

26 weeks.  70%   3 days.  9 days.  

May 10^th, 14^th, 19^th.

Four babies, three pregnancies, two children.

I lost my boys four years ago.  They were born at 26 weeks due to complications from Twin to Twin Transfusion Syndrome.  Ray lived for four days.  Alex lived for nine.  My daughter Anna is 7 years old.  My son Vinnie will be 2 on June 14^th.  

Four babies, three pregnancies, two children.  And me.

Bitter Water

Tomorrow I will be celebrating a bitter sweet Mother's Day.  The day marks the 10th anniversary of the birth of my baby boys, Raymond Lawrence and Alexander Varney.  They were born 14 weeks early and only survived for a handful of days.  For several years I was unable to speak about what happened to my boys, for several more I was unwilling, and now I find myself unsure.  


Now that ten years are gone, I have gained a lot:   a son, a loving and fulfilling relationship, perspective.  I still feel the pain of losing my boys, sometimes keenly, but I believe now that I can tell their brief story -and the impact they have had on me - in a way that will be both honest and meaningful.  

The first five pieces in this blog are pieces that I wrote for myself at various points over the past ten years.  I'm not sure if they're worth sharing, but the time feels right.

When I was a child, I wanted my name to be Priscilla.  It was the prettiest, frilliest, most princessy name I could think of.  I longed to be beautiful, graceful, lithe and charming.  I dreamt, as so many girls do, of finding a long lost family that just happened to be the royalty of some obscure European country.  It was a name befitting a ballerina, dressed head to toe in white, sparkling, and breathtakingly beautiful.   Priscilla, I thought, embodied all that I wanted to be.  

Luck

Two days from now, on Sunday, May 10th, I will be celebrating a bitter sweet Mother's Day.  The day marks the 10th anniversary of the birth of my baby boys, Raymond Lawrence and Alexander Varney.  They were born 14 weeks early and only survived for a handful of days.  For several years I was unable to speak about what happened to my boys, for several more I was unwilling, and now I find myself unsure.  



The first five pieces in this blog are pieces that I wrote for myself at various points over the past ten years.  I share them now because I want to be honest about the impact their brief lives have had on me, and because the time feels right. 

I grew up thinking the bad luck in my life belonged to my dad. Nothing ever went right when he was around. The puppy he brought home set off asthma in his toddler daughters.  The snowmobiles that he borrowed from a buddy to take us on a fun little ride wouldn't start. The three week trip to the Canadian Rockies would be marred by two and a half weeks of rain.  And snow.  In August. The truck would break down, the car would get a flat tire, the trail wouldn't be marked, the cabin full of bees, the weather forecast was ALWAYS wrong. Things went South all. the. time. But I just assumed it was my Dad.

Then I graduated college and started making plans of my own. I visited my parents in SouthWest Arizona - a stone’s throw from Mexico - in May - a time when the average temperature is well into the nineties - and they had the record setting cold temperatures. I would plan day trips into Boston and the T would experience a bomb scare. Suddenly it was MY car breaking down...hornets in MY walls...MY plans falling apart. And it occurred to me, the bad luck was MINE. 

Prayer

Three days from now, on Sunday, May 10th, I will be celebrating a bitter sweet Mother's Day.  The day marks the 10th anniversary of the birth of my baby boys, Raymond Lawrence and Alexander Varney.  They were born 14 weeks early and only survived for a handful of days.  For several years I was unable to speak about what happened to my boys, for several more I was unwilling, and now I find myself unsure.  

The first five pieces in this blog are pieces that I wrote for myself at various points over the past ten years.  I'm sharing them now not only to tell their story, and the impact that their brief lives had on me, but because the time feels right.

I don’t pray any more.   

Praying is something that was second nature.  I’d find myself talking to God, asking for favors, the same way my mother narrates the day’s events to herself under her breath as she does her daily chores, a constant stream of whispered thoughts interrupted by phone calls and kitchen timers and resumed with the folding of towels and frosting of cupcakes.  I didn’t make unreasonable requests – I asked to be kept safe on flights, for my father to recover from cancer, for my boyfriend to propose.  I did not die in a fiery plane crash, my father is alive and well, my boyfriend became my husband.  I never really thought of the prayers as working…more that life was intended to work out that way.  

When my twin pregnancy was diagnosed, I didn’t pray for the little babies inside me.  I registered for double strollers and celebrated.  When the pregnancy was classified high risk and we were identified as having twin to twin transfusion syndrome, I don’t remember praying.  I knew it was risky, but I kept hearing about the miracles that doctors could work.  Wasn’t I in one of the best hospitals in the United States?   It wasn’t until the boys were born and I saw, literally saw, how dire things were, that I began to pray.  And for nine days, I don’t think I stopped.  My family rallied around me, so I was spared from dishes and phone calls and laundry.  I had nothing to interrupt my daily monologue to God.  I prayed for the bleeds on their brains to be mild.  I prayed for the holes in their hearts to heal.  I prayed for the heart monitor warning bells to stop sounding.  I prayed for the oscillating ventilator to not be needed.  Eventually, I prayed for Ray to be at peace and for Alex to be okay without his brother.  And then I prayed for Alex to live.  I didn’t care about his ability to walk, or talk, or swallow.  I just prayed for him to live.  

Do you have a minute? I have a life-defining story to tell you.

A few days from now, on Sunday, May 10th, I will be celebrating a bitter sweet Mother's Day.  The day marks the 10th anniversary of the birth of my baby boys, Raymond Lawrence and Alexander Varney.  They were born 14 weeks early and only survived for a handful of days.  For several years I was unable to speak about what happened to my boys, for several more I was unwilling, and now I find myself unsure.  

 Somewhere I heard or read that Elie Wiesel wouldn't speak about his experiences in the Holocaust until ten years had passed.  Not that I can compare losing babies, something that happens to women every day all over the world, to what Mr. Wiesel endured, but the thought of allowing time to pass helped me.  It allowed me to feel comfortable in my silence.  

Now that ten years are gone, I have gained a lot:   a son, a loving and fulfilling relationship, perspective.  I still feel the pain of losing my boys, sometimes keenly, but I believe now that I can tell their brief story -and the impact they have had on me - in a way that will be both honest and meaningful.  

The first five pieces in this blog are pieces that I wrote for myself at various points over the past ten years.  I'm not sure if they're worth sharing, but the time feels right.