Cemetery Visit: Year Nine

I made it to the cemetery yesterday. I went without anything. I used to have items in the trunk of my car, so that if I went I was never empty-handed. I have a new car, and the stuff from the old one didn't make it into the trunk. So, I was relieved and comforted, that one of the butterflies was still there from a year ago. And that some human angel(s) left some items there. A comfort. 

I dusted off the grass as there was a recent mowing, and I laid some empty canvas bags on her grave and sat and read John O'Donahue's "Blessings." It was a sunny, yet comfortable day. 

I spent about an hour there. Then went off to a visitation for the former student I had that died tragically. Sat beside another bereaved mom, and we both had a weight only we could see. 

Though, it's been several months, for Caitlin's death date, her dad and I released balloons at her grave site. As I looked up and watched the balloons fade into the the brilliantly blue winter sky, DH snapped a family portrait. Parents at their only child's grave site. It is what it is. We must acknowledge the family we have.

"Dirt"

Dirt 
 
Its arrogance will break your heart. Two weeks ago
we had to coax it
into taking her body.
Today,
after a light rain,
I see it hasn’t bothered
to conceal its seams. 


~Jo McDougall
 

                                                                                                           

I remember the anger I had at the seams in the ground where Caitlin's coffin was buried. A small rectangle of sunken earth with scars where they cut the sod to lay her in. It took a couple of seasons for the growth of grass and work of bugs to mask those scars. But sometimes, when the weather is severe, they can still be discerned.

                                                                                                           

A Problem with Emissions

It began with noting that Caitlin's tree has no flower buds. The tree had a growth spurt and the trunk it thick and strong, but the flower buds should be there and opening this fall and I see no buds for those flowers. It's been disconcerting.

In reflection, I avoided the cemetery this past summer. Each time I thought I should go, I couldn't make myself. I knew it meant something, but wasn't willing to look inside to find out what. Sometimes coping means avoiding. When it was right, I knew I would go.

I went. Today. I wept as I remembered the day her father and I walked towards the hospital elevator after the "It's time to come" call. I thought that if I didn't get in the elevator at the hospital she wouldn't die. And today I hoped when stopped at the red light that if I didn't see her grave, she wouldn't be dead.

I worried that the angels and frog toys I left at her stone would be gone. Anxious that new dead babies would be there. I arrived and parked. All the baby graves seemed to be swallowed by grass--only the crosses, plastic flowers, and angle statues whispered that beloved children lay in rest there. It seemed a metaphor for my summer absence. I tried to exhale, but choked on my tears.

I sat staring at her stone and absent mindedly picked the grass away blade by blade. I listened to a few of Caitlin's songs on my phone and cleaned the stone from the dirt kicked up by my grass pulling.

Hugging my knees, I sat and rocked myself to the music and closed my eyes trying to recall holding her during her life.  The sun burned through my eyelids with a frightening red glow until I relented and opened them for relief. The breeze refused to cool my hot cheeks and burning tears. And walkers strolled by just feet away seeming oblivious to the grieving mother rocking above the earth, as they ranted their day's troubles. I longed to transform from body to the fine grain of sands the ants had successfully unearthed from the thick grasses. If I were sand, I wouldn't hear thoughtless chatter, and I could sprinkle myself about the sacred rectangle.

I went to the trunk, where I keep several toy frogs and other items to leave at her grave, so that I am prepared for any visit. I attached a new frog toy that makes sounds when you squeeze it--a similar toy she loved when she was alive. That helped. I stood for a while. At last I kissed her stone, and whispered my love.

Then I got in my car and turned the key. Nothing. Then every warning light went flashing, and the car tried to start. Seemed to start. I think it started. With lights flashing I put it into gear, thinking that I was just crazed from the emotionally charged visit. I traveled just a few feet. The emergency brake light was on. But the break wasn't pulled. Every square of the gas gauge was gone, but I'd left with three squares. The lights continued to flash, and I left my foot on the gas until the car refused to move. I shifted to park and sat at the exit of the cemetery, unable to leave.

I waited until the crazy thoughts subsided, and finally called DH. "I'm at the cemetery. The car died. And I can't leave." He arrived 40 minutes later with a couple of gallons of gas. We turned the key. A clean start. The tank was half-full. One indicator light glowed faintly--"So I didn't imagine it," I thought. The light signifying a problem with emissions remained on as I drove cautiously home.

Yes, there's a problem with emissions. I suppose I need to have some work done.

Mother's Day

Wishing it would get easier, but it doesn't. I get older and my daughter is still gone. Took roses to her grave today. I couldn't bring myself to go yesterday.

Someone had left flowers for Dorothy's grave and the purple flowers were in full bloom. Fitting for Mother's Day. It was of some comfort, like a hug from the earth.

Shhhhhh......creeping in.......

Or should I say "slinking" back in. Please accept my apologies for the dramatic exit. Now that the dust has settled, I've found that I need this place. I don't need it to help others "check in" with me to see about my mental health--which, frankly is pretty shaky these days. Or for others to read the posts like the latest in a FOX news Megyn Kelly's "take down" with eyes rolling and those leading questions meant to judge the worth of someone. UGH.

Once again, Grief invited itself in and said, "let's talk about you." I wave him away, with a "eh.....I'm healed now." "Hah," he scoffs, "You'll need this when your brain goes and you need something to help you remember. So, tell me what'd'ya do today."

And this is why I creep, rather slink, back in to my space so I can write about my visit to Caitlin's grave site. That way when Grief brings me into the fifth season, I can click on my label, "Cemetery Visits" and remember the significant visits. Because, what if Grief is right, and my basal ganglia starts deteriorating and I can't remember the late-night-police-escort-out visit or the Christmas-dig-through-the-snow visit.

There isn't anywhere to share these kinds of visits. No one else but grief asks, "what'd'ya do today? and truly hangs on your every word of how you took a third angel to leave at your daughter's grave. Only Grief is interested and heart-warmed that the driver of a truck that drove by with fresh dirt thought to wave and nod as I was standing at her stone. Grief thought, as I did, that that was a nice gesture and what a relief to be recognized rather than turned away from so as to leave me to my "private sorrow."

There's no where to share that each angel seems to be telling a story of our mother and daughter journey. Cemetery visits simply aren't stories you share. Only Grief will listen.

We Miss You

Summer Day Visit to the Cemetery

I went to the cemetery on this beautiful summer day to visit Caitlin's grave. The sky was that picture perfect blue with white clouds to let you know it's real. I watched the clouds then moved to my car to listen to Rutter's "Mass for the Children." It was a peaceful visit, with no walkers, runners, or baby strollers. I was able to focus on my daughter. Then I kissed her stone and went home. 

Before the Snow Covers

After leaving the only holiday party she had the courage to attend, and enduring the traditional tunes with "I'll be home for Christmas" and "I'll have a blue Christmas without you," she realizes that the impending Noreaster threatens more than a safe ride home. It threatens to cover her daughter's stone and may prevent the opportunity to visit before celebrations and travels commence. So before the snow covers it, she drives to the cemetery, well aware that this behavior falls squarely under the heading of "crazy bereaved mother." And owning this label, she drives into the dark cemetery, kneels and whispers, "I'm sorry sweet baby girl. I miss you. I love you." She kisses her daughter's stone and allows a feeling of relief to sweep over her, knowing she made it before the snow covers and hides where her daughter is buried with its white blanket.

"My daughter is buried here," she explains to the police officer who prevents her incident-free exit. "I know I'm not supposed to be here after dark, and I'm on my way out, but I just had to visit before the snow covers." "OK, then, have a good night," he replies and drives on. Her tears fell in equaled furry to the snow.

She Holds My Fragile Heart

During a visit to the cemetery, I take a walk through the stones of the loved ones of others. And I see this statue. I didn't interpret it the way others might perhaps, that the angels hold the souls of our loved ones who leave their bodies for what is unknown to the living. I saw instead my child holding my heart with care.

I am so very tired.

Balloon Release

All Saint's Day

I went to visit Caitlin's grave yesterday, and thought a lot about All Souls Day coming up, and celebration of All Saint's Day today. According to my religion, I need not pray for Caitlin's soul to be purified in purgatory, as she entered the kingdom of heaven with no sins to purge. I supposed I am to be comforted by that, but I wish that she were here and could be well on her way to racking up some "sins." She deserved to live here on earth with her mama and daddy. At the same time, it is comforting to think of her in paradise with the saints.

I played some of her songs on my ipod as I sat at her grave. All her angels and other items I've brought were still there, which always makes me relieved and grateful. The frog toy still makes noise, but the smiley face one has succumbed to elements and no longer makes the bird and squeaky noises it used to.

Today has more special meaning, as it's Caitlin's grandfather's birthday. So, I'm remembering him holding her and remembering the hope I felt in those days of her life. Perhaps she has already whispered a gentle "happy birthday, Papa J" with her angel voice on the wind. If not, I'll relay the message soon.

Birthday Visit to the Cemetery

Caitlin's Tree Blooms

Here in New England, we haven't had much summer. The thunderstorms have been severe and frequent. Local news reported that we've had more rainy days in June than Seattle. Now that just ain't right! Today was another rainy day. I looked out the window and notice something new . . . Caitlin's tree has begun to bloom!

This brought some comfort today, nicely balancing the painful cemetery visit on July 4th.

When I went out to take a few pics of the blossoms, I captured a lovely creature also out enjoying the blooms, a bee. Now, bereaved mothers will find this next part of my story quite easy to understand and likely will have similar encounters to share.

While at the cemetery, a hawk flew very low over the baby section of the cemetery. The wing-span was enourmous, and I watched it lift and circle until I could no longer find it. I thought of another bereaved mother who has written several times about the significance hawks have for her and her baby boy. I sent them a little hug from us. Another frequent visitor was a red dragon fly. I didn't know they came in red, but I watch this one dart around and hover above the small stones in our little lost baby land. We sent another "universe" hug to a baby boy and his mother who attaches great meaning to the dragon fly for her baby. I looked down at Caitlin's grave and noticed that the grass has nearly succeeded in hiding the wound of cutting the ground to lay her coffin in, and I saw a bee buzzing around this grass by my feet. "Who do you belong to?" I asked out loud. I wrote my poem there, and then sat in silence.

Today, I got my answer. The bee belongs to Caitlin and the flowers on her tree. I love that nature is an avenue of comfort for us on this journey by providing a way to make meaning and find connections to our children.

A Memory in Stone

Her stone was warm to my touch
Unexpected.
I drew my hand away
It should be cold
Her stone is always cold
But, the July sun has
lent it's heat
I spread my fingers and press with a full
heart, my hand over the middle of
her stone
Eyes open.
I thought, no, remembered
my daughter's warm body
When I lay my hand with those same spread
fingers over her bare and swollen chest
To feel and know and will her heart to continue
Beating.
Today her stone is warm

A Visit to the Cemetery--May

When I visit Caitlin's grave, I cry a little less. I stare more and even my mind is numb. I notice the changes in the items I've brought to her, brought to help me connect with my daughter. The angel still wears a content smile despite the now flawed paint. The squeeze toy that once delighter her in the NICU crib remains, though sometimes still soaked from the rain and with bits of grass from the recent cutting. It still sounds, but I have to squeeze it a couple times to get it going. The first butterfly is gone, the puppy is gone, and some of the silk flowers are gone. I brought her another squeeze toy, a frog this time. I'm getting ready for the day the other is gone or doesn't work anymore. 

I still talk to her, but my words come haltingly and sometimes I begin only to have the numbness take away the rest of my thoughts. The voices of the other mourners are silent now, as well. I once looked out at the expansive cemetery and could feel the pain poured into each stone with a name. I knew the agony. I try to conjure their longing, but now their pain is at rest. Odd. It was so real, as tangible as the earth beneath which my daughter lies. 

Spring Visit to the Cemetery

I spent last night staring at the ceiling with the yellow light we leave on outside barely letting me know she was there. I felt nothing, well not nothing exactly. More a feeling that this is what my life is, and I wondered that I was missing Caitlin and missing the hot tears and wails and poetry--the words that used to come to tell me how much I loved and missed her. I used to be able to taste the words with my tears. I don't know when I fell asleep, but I awoke with that feeling and question on my lips, "Where is the longing, the grief, the pain?" The missing was there, but with it was the cardboard of acceptance. Like I had packed it away with my winter clothes.

I needed a connection to my daughter today, and so I drove to her grave--a spring visit to the cemetery. I always wonder if her things will be there; it's common for flowers, angels, butterflies, and other symbols of love that I leave to disappear. Who know why or who or how; I just know that it happens, so I try not to get too upset. Today, I wonder about the puppy that I got from a happy meal and put on Cailtin's grave for one of my sisters so she could visit her niece from far away. The puppy gets moved around a lot in baby land. For a long time, Z's puppy stayed with Gabriel the baby next door to Caitlin and I left him there to keep Gabriel company. Since then, I've found puppy on one of the baby's graves of precious little ones buried recently. And today puppy was visiting a new baby's grave.

Well, I took a pic and then brought puppy home to stay with Caitlin. I secured it with the heart still there, though faded to a light pink, from Valentine's Day. Amazing, and not, that these things mean so much to us, the bereaved. Her squeeze toy still makes sounds, though it takes three squeezes each time to get a sound. The butterfly is still there, which was a relief and several other parents have since brought their babies butterflies too. I thought that was cool. The ground made me sad, though, it still bears a square dirt patch that marks when she was first buried. The grass doesn't seem ready to grow and bring life to that spot. I sat and listened to her songs and kissed her stone. And at last cried.

Joining Baby Loss Mamas "Under the Tree"

Carly's latest "Under the Tree" prompts have already brought about many baby loss mama's to share beautiful tributes, thoughts, and healing meaning making. And her questions this week, have brought me to join them.


Do you have a special place in your home for your baby/ies? What is it like? Do you have any rituals that you perform in memory of your baby/ies?


We have pictures of Caitlin in our living room, work, wallet, and everywhere anyone with living children would keep pictures. In our home, I purchased a stand alone white closet that holds all of Caitlin's clothing, her toys, books I read and sang to her, her hospital combs, lotions, pacifier, and cards of congratulations and later sympathy. This is where I add other items that come to be Caitlin's. It's meaning for me is that she belongs in fabric of our lives, and this is one way I parent her memory. The closet also includes DH's things and some of mine. So, we use it on a daily basis.

The other special place is Caitlin's grave site. Her stone with her name on it is important to me and I go and visit when I need to be where her body is. I do have a ritual of sorts. I bring my iPod and play the "Caitlin & Mom" playlist of songs I sang to her, songs of healing, songs sung/played at her funeral, and songs since her death that help me think of her. I usually squeeze the toy to make funny sounds, because that's something I used to do for her in the hospital and she loved those funny sounds and followed the toy with such intent.

The toy still works, and some day I know it won't because of the weather or because it will get lost or taken--it happens I know. But for over a year now, I visit and squeeze and Caitlin and I listen to giggles, whistles, and bird tweeting. It used to make me cry because I miss her so terrible, but it also makes me smile because I remember her life.

At some point in my visit, I visit each of the other graves of those in the baby section, just because I know how important it is to remember our children. Before I leave, I touch and kiss her name, and I talk to her. Sometimes out loud, because it helps me to hear me say her name and feel the vibrations of my voice going to where her spirit is.

[I don't have enough energy to answer all the "Under the Tree" questions, but I'm grateful for the prompts to further healing for all of us who gather under the tree.]

25 Things About Me (Bereavement Version)

So, I keep seeing these Facebook "25 things about me" posts on Facebook, and I've been tagged a couple times, but I don't think I can participate, because all I can come up with belongs to the "Bereavement Version."

1. I am the mother of Caitlin Anne, who lives in heaven.
2. I am still not a member of the mommy's club, because others can't see the baby I parent.
3. I continue to struggle with the hope for parenting a living child.
4. I don't like it when people say "I know how you feel," when they didn't wait for me to finish my sentence to begin with.
5. The day after my daughter died, an acquaintance noticed my appearance and asked what was wrong. I told her and she replied, "I know how you feel, I'm dealing with our dog dying right now." True story.
6. I am still unable to walk by myself, because of my overwhelming fear that I may break down and melt into a puddle of grief and be rendered lifeless. I am afraid of the thoughts that will most surely flow through the meditative act of "one foot in front of the other" activity.
7. My DH loves me. I know he does, because he hugs me everyday, tells me he loves me everyday, makes me coffee, and looks at me---really looks at me and smiles at what he sees.
8. 11 is an important number for me, because it's the number of weeks Caitlin was alive. I have 11 pink silk flowers in my house and we released 11 pink and white balloons on the anniversary of her death.
9. I love babies. I'm not afraid of them, rather I'm drawn to them.
10. I don't love it when I hear pregnant moms happily complain about their discomfort int he later weeks of their pregnancy. I genuinely don't care about their complaints, but it triggers my own thought process of wishing and believing that if Caitlin had stayed safely inside for 7 more weeks as she was supposed to, she would still be here today.
11. I don't care that it makes people uncomfortable when I say, "Yes, I have a child. She lives in heaven." They asked a family question and I gave the truthful family answer. I'm not going to be silent about my child's life to avoid the moments of awkwardness they might feel.
12. I grieve everyday. I understand forever.
13. I'm not angry with God. I don't think He had anything to do with it.
14. When mothers say they would do anything to save their children. I believe them.
15. I sometimes enter "magic land" and think, "you know if people would just stop praying for winning a game and getting a A on a paper, bereaved mommy's prayers of BRING MY CHILD BACK TO LIFE, might get through to God."
16. Caitlin was a tiny beautiful child and she loved her songs and I loved singing to her. It was very hard to sing after she died.
17. I laugh louder than I did before Caitlin died. Not because I'm happier, but when I'm happy now that emotion is relation to the degree of sadness I feel now.
18. I have a white stand alone closet where all of Caitlin's toys, cloths, books, sympathy cards, photos, and memory box are kept. I call it Caitlin's closet.
19. My mother has a memory garden in her house for Caitlin.

20. My sister made a memory necklace with stones for Caitlin's mom and pink stones for Caitlin.

21. I want to learn to play the cello. When I do practice, I sit in the room where Caitlin's closet is and we keep the cello music in one of the closet drawers. I think Caitlin would like me to learn to play the cello, too.
22. We knew prenatally that Caitlin had Down Syndrome. I don't like to talk about it, because this diagnosis felt like a death sentence for what we wanted for our child, and then, tragically, it turned out to be so. She died because she was born prematurely (common for babies with DS), had a heart defect (common for babies with DS), and died from a perforated bowel (babies with DS are more likely to have developmental problems with the digestive tract).
23. Despite all my classical music training, I listen to country music. I love Martina McBride's lyric "love's the only house big enough for all the pain the world."
24. Caitlin's grave is a 10 minute drive from my house, and when I go there I feel traumatized by her death and elated by her life at the same time.
25. I'm tired.

A Valentine at the Cemetery

The snow has at last melted away and so I delivered Caitlin's pink heart to her grave today. It was a very cold day and the ground looks pretty beat up, a lot like how I've felt these past days, mostly because the flu and cold season found me and held me hostage for two days.



I could already tell that her butterfly was gone from the last time I dug her stone out of the snow, so I had a new one in the car just for when this happened. I was surprised I didn't get more upset about it being gone, but there it was a new butterfly to help me think of her spirit soaring. I love this picture, because there is a perfect little butterfly shadow I hadn't noticed when I took the picture. I suppose shadows are creepy for some people, but I find them to be proof that something we can't touch is really there and I think of Caitlin that way sometimes--if I could see her shadow somehow I would know she was there, even though I can't hug her--she would still be there.



Finally, DH is very wise and bought me pink tulips for Valentine's Day even though we agreed we didn't really care much to celebrate the Hallmark Holiday--but he is oh so much smarter than to believe me when I say these things!