Fear of the Questions

A few weeks ago I went to dinner with a friend.  She told me that she was talking to her daughters about the new baby that is joining our Walton family when she decided to remind her daughters that Elise already has a big sister, Tessa, who is in heaven.  She was really proud of herself for bringing it up to her girls because it just isn't easy to bring up or talk about.  I was so appreciative that she told me this and that she's talking about Tessa to her girls, when it would be much easier to say nothing.  It got me thinking, though.

I've written a little bit before about talking to Elise about her big sister, Tessa, and I've always felt like I was doing a good job.  Elise and I used to sing a song every night to Tessa.  We would look at her picture in Elise's room (next to pictures of her cousins) and talk about it.  If I asked Elise who her sister is, she would say "Tessie" but I know she didn't really understand.

For many reasons, talking about Tessa to Elise has become harder for me.  First, Elise moved into a "big girl room" and the pictures of her cousins and Tessa are still in the baby room.  But that's really not the main reason it's gotten harder.  Now that Elise is extremely verbal and is questioning everything (yes, we are in the "why?" stage), I'm a bit fearful of talking to her about Tessa.  I'm worried about the questions she might ask.  I'm just not sure how to respond to any of them.  I'm worried that she WILL understand what happened or that it will somehow cause her fear.

If Elise were to ask, "Where is she?" . . .  I'd like to respond, "She's in heaven" . . . but it feels a little wrong to say that and not know if I fully believe it or not.   I'd love to think there's a heaven out there and that's where Tessa is, but I also didn't grow up with that kind of faith.

If Elise were to ask, "Why is she in heaven?" . . .  I don't even know how to start with that one.  Talking death with a toddler is not my idea of fun, and I don't know how to boil down the medical reasons Tessa died into toddler language.

I can think of so many other questions that might pop up, big and small, and they all scare me to different degrees.  I've never been good at "on-the-spot" thinking, so I know this is something I need to think more about and research.   I know of some good resources to turn to, but I wanted to write about it because it's been on my mind a lot lately.  For now, I've set a small goal for myself: to move the pictures of Tessa and the cousins into Elise's new room.  Baby steps . . .

Thank You #2

After Tessa died, we had many questions about what happens to her body.  It was not something we were prepared to deal with and I definitely was not in the right emotional state to start making arrangements.  We spoke with a social worker from Kaiser about different options (burial, cremation, memorial service, mass, etc.).  We knew there would probably be some people who expected us to have some sort of service, but it really didn't feel right to us at the time.  We ended up deciding to have Tessa cremated, but I had no idea how to go about that.

Fortunately my sister, Lexy, graciously volunteered to make all the phone calls and investigate how to get the cremation process started.  In her research, she found a man named John O'Connor, a local funeral director for 50 years.  Lexy told him about our situation and he said he would take care of the cremation free of charge.  Mike and I met with him that week and were overwhelmed by his kindness.

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Dear Mr. O'Connor,
Exactly four years ago, our sweet daughter Tessa passed away.  She had lived only three days and my husband and I were torn apart with grief.  My sister spoke with you about our wishes to cremate our daughter and you told her you would take care of it, free of charge.

I wanted to sincerely thank you for such an enormous gesture of kindness.  When my husband and I met with you to fill out paperwork, you told us, "No parent should ever have to go through losing a child."  You approached the difficult conversation about cremation with such care and sensitivity. Then, you took care of everything for us, like picking her body up from Oakland after the autopsy, taking her to be cremated, making sure we gave you a blanket for her to be wrapped in, and then bringing her remains back to us.  You made us feel comfortable with the whole process.

We are so lucky to have met you and I can't thank you enough for taking care of us and for taking such good care of Tessa.  Your generosity and kindness will never be forgotten.

Sincerely,
Georgia Walton

Thank You #1

At the writing retreat I attended in January, one of the assignments we had was to write a letter to someone.  It could be something we intended to send to the recipient or a letter that would remain totally private.  I didn't even have to think twice about who I would write to.  Since Tessa's death, I've thought a lot about the people we came in contact with over the three days of her life.  For some reason, I often find myself thinking of the man and woman who transported me via ambulance from Kaiser Redwood City to Kaiser Santa Clara so I could join Tessa (who had been transported earlier in the day) during her stay in the NICU.  I've wanted to thank them for so long (you'll see why in the letter), but I always put it off.

One day I mustered up some motivation to start investigating.  I couldn't remember the names of the ambulance folks, so I e-mailed my doctor and asked if there was any way she could find out their names by looking back at my medical records.  Now, I can't even begin to tell you how often my medical team goes above and beyond for me (like taking time out of their busy days to investigate a request like this), but I told her why I wanted to know and she got right on it!  The next day, she e-mailed me their last names and the name of the company they work for.  Incredible!  I haven't officially tracked them down (who knows, they may not still work for the ambulance company), but I fully intend to get this thank you letter to them.  

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dear DB and JH, 

You met me once, a couple of years ago, on August 20, 2011.  I had just given birth to my first baby the day before.  You had a simple job . . . to transfer me onto a gurney at Kaiser Redwood City, load me into the back of an ambulance, drive me to Kaiser Santa Clara, and leave me with the lovely folks in the Mothers and Babies unit.  You ended up doing so much more than just your job.

You made me laugh during one of the scariest days of my life.  You told me about how you two had just become partners and how you got along so well from the start.  You teased one another, which made me relax and giggle along with you.  When we arrived at the hospital in Santa Clara, you didn't have the faintest idea where to take me.  You rolled me around the quiet hospital wings.  It was deserted (I remember it was a Sunday), and we were clearly in the wrong place.  It turned into a funny game and our laughter echoed through the empty patient waiting room areas.  We tried one hallway, only to reach a dead end and have to turn around.  You must have been rolling me around on that silly gurney for a good 15 minutes before we found the Mothers and Babies Unit.  

I can't explain why I think of the two of you so often.  I think it's because it was the only time I laughed that day and in many days and weeks to come.  I've always wanted to say thank you to you.  You gave me two amazing gifts that day: you gave me laughter and you delivered me to be with my daughter, Tessa, before she died two days later.   These two simple gifts made such a big difference to me. 

I am forever grateful.

Sincerely,

Georgia Walton

A Thankful Heart

It's so hard for me to believe that Tessa would be four years old today.  Last night Mike and I were talking about imagining her as a four year old and how hard it is to think about all the things she would be doing.  It's painful to think about those things so we don't spend too much mental energy going there.  Instead, as her birthday approaches each year, I spend a lot of time thinking about our days with her, rereading cards and e-mails from our friends and family, looking at her picture, and letting out healthy doses of tears.

No doubt, 2011 was the most challenging year of my life.  The transition from joy to heartache and grief was so dramatic and sudden that it's hard for me to wrap my head around those three short days.  There were moments where everything seemed perfect (like right after she was born), moments that seemed like the worst thing in the world (like when we were told Tessa might have to be in the NICU for a few days), and moments that absolutely were the worst in the world (like when we decided to let her go and when we had to share this heartbreaking news with our families and friends).  There will never be a day that goes by where I don't think of sweet Tessa.  She has forever changed me as a person and as a mom.

A few days ago, I saw this sign at a farm/restaurant in Baja . . .

It's a slightly modified version of the original quote, "A thankful heart is not only the greatest virtue, but the parent of all other virtues."  ~Cicero

I stayed up late the night I saw this thinking about everything I have to be thankful for, but it also helped me to remember some of the incredible people who supported us during our stay in the hospital and beyond.  I've decided that I'd like to honor the three days Tessa lived by writing thank you notes.  Just three for now, one for each day until the 22nd of August (the anniversary of Tessa's death).  I'll share two of the three with you and with the people I am writing about (something I have intended to do for so long).  The third one is for Mike, because really there is no one that I am more thankful for.  That letter will be just for him because events like this touch and change a relationship so deeply that it just feels too personal to share.

My heart is wounded and imperfect, but also so much bigger and more thankful just by having the privilege of being Tessa's mom.   Happy birthday to our beautiful and strong daughter.

How to Support a Grieving Parent

Recently the circle of people I know who have experienced the loss of a child has grown wider.  It's never easy to know what to do or say to friends or family after the death of a child, but here are some things that were helpful to me***:

***Disclaimer: I am not a grief expert, I just know what I found to be comforting and helpful from my own personal experience.

-Reach out to the family right away.  Send that e-mail, write that letter, make the phone call (and leave a message if no one answers, because they probably won't).  There's a huge void when your child dies and when people don't say anything, that void feels even bigger.  I remember feeling so lonely in the weeks after Tessa died.  I didn't hear from so many people I expected to hear from and I wondered why.  Deep down I knew they didn't know what to say, but it hurt more that they said nothing.

-It's okay to not know what to say.  It can be awkward and uncomfortable to talk to someone who has lost a baby, but PLEASE work up some courage, even if it's just to say, "I'm so sorry for your loss and I'm thinking of you and your family."

-For me it was helpful to hear stories of hope (ex. "I got pregnant again within a year after our loss.").  Mike and I knew we wanted to be pregnant again soon, so I held on to these stories to keep myself positive about the future.  I know not everyone will feel ready to even think to the future right away, so this tip totally depends on the person and how well you know him/her.  Some people aren't ready to hear about your experiences with loss, but we were (if the outcome was eventually positive).

-Related to the last one, DO NOT tell your story of loss right away if it is does not have a positive outcome.  I remember someone telling me of their own (several) miscarriages and losses.  While I now see that this was an attempt to connect and relate, it not only scared me about the future, it also made me feel like I didn't have the right to grieve my one loss when someone had experienced "more."

-Say/write the baby's name.  If you don't know the baby's name, please ask.  I shouldn't even have to add this part, although it did happen: Don't comment negatively about the baby's name.  Seriously, a parent made fun of Tessa's middle name (Bunny) to my face.  So. Not. Cool.  

-Don't tell them it's better this way.  It's just not.

-Tell them when you think of the baby.  There are several people in my life who still send me little e-mails or texts when they think of Tessa and it means the world to me.  Yes, it's been several years now since she died.  Yes, it still means so much to me.  Why?  Because I'm still thinking about her too.  Every day.  Thank you for remembering her (and for letting me know so we can remember her together).

-Make a freezer-friendly meal and bring it by.  Bonus points for putting it in a disposable container so they don't have to remember to give it back to you.  Meal delivery gift certificates or organizing a calendar for meal deliveries are also nice gestures.

-Put the baby's birthday and date of death on your calendar.  Send a card or e-mail on those anniversaries.   These days will always be hard.  Yes, even years later.  Same thing applies for Mother's Day and Father's Day.  My first Mother's Day without Tessa was incredibly painful, but my friends and family were there with flowers, hugs, cards, and most importantly the acknowledgement that I was a mom.

-Don't ask what they need.  Just think of something helpful and do it!  Some people will tell you what they need, but I was never willing to ask for help, nor did I really know what help I needed.  Ideas: help with gardening, dishes, laundry, funeral/cremation arrangements.  A few of the most helpful things for me: My sister offered to call several places to ask about cremation costs and procedures and my mom volunteered to draft an obituary.  I was in no state of mind to handle these things on my own.

Every parent's grieves differently so please don't take these tips as universal.  I am so incredibly thankful for the support Mike and I received right away and still to this day.  

Spark Writing Retreat

This weekend, my friend and I went down to Ojai for the Spark Women's Writing Retreat hosted by Kelle Hampton, Claire Bidwell Smith, and Annie Flavin.  I chose to go for two main reasons:   One, I knew I had some writing about Tessa's birth and death that I needed to get out, but I don't ever devote time to it.  Two, I wanted to start writing more in order to remember more.  I always get teased for my terrible memory, but it's true . . . I can't remember really important things in my life, not just from my childhood, but from today.  I suppose I should get this checked out by my doctor, but for now, I am going to try to write more so I don't lose out on some incredible memories.

The retreat was incredible.  I walked into the house extremely nervous, but I could quickly tell that everyone who attended had something in common . . . we were all there to share and to write.  The women I met this weekend are remarkable.  There were lots of amazing stories — big stories and little stories, sad stories and happy stories, stories of fear and hope.  So many incredible stories.

Claire, Kelle, and Annie led us in some writing exercises during our workshop time.  This time was so valuable to me, as I'm not an experienced writer.  I was actually shocked at some of the writing that flowed from my pen onto the pages in my notebook:

• A present tense account of Tessa's birth, before I knew anything bad was coming, that made the experience so much more joyful than writing it in the past tense, which is all I had done before.  I forced myself to go back to the moments leading up to her birth and write as I remember things happening, the moments of sheer joy, anticipation, and nerves.   It's a HAPPY story in the present tense.

• A letter to Ambulance Driver and Ambulance Driver's Partner, who drove me from one hospital to the other when Tessa was transferred to the NICU.  I've thought of them often because I simply remember laughing my guts out in the back of that ambulance.  Laughter did not come back into my life for many weeks, maybe even months, but those two showed me a good time during my darkest days.  I intend to track them down and deliver my written thanks. 

• Writing about the ordinary . . . this is for my memory and this is what I hope to do more often.  I wrote a simple account about giving Elise a bath these days.  She does some pretty hilarious things in the bath that I want to remember in the future.  

• Writing short!  This is Annie Flavin's area of expertise and I found her workshops to be so very helpful.  The truth is, I really don't have a ton of time to write, but what I learned is that I don't have to write much.  Even one short paragraph or poem every so often is enough.  I wish I had time to write more, and I know there are things I spend time on that I could give up, but the reminder that writing doesn't have to be long was a good one!  (The only reason I have time to write this LONG post is because I'm home sick.)

Here's one of the short pieces of writing I did this weekend . . .

In the quiet of the evening
before your sister falls into a deep slumber,
we sit in the rocking chair and look up
at your brave, angelic face
and we say your name.
You watch over us.
To show you our love,
we sing to you . . .
silly songs, lullabies to wish you a good night.
May our voices, our smiles, our warm snuggles
our eskimo kisses, our love
reach across the dark, starry night
to connect with you.
Good night.

Tessa's birth ~ August 19, 2011

Friday, August 19, 2011
(All quotations are from Mike's written notes of the night's events)

Around 12:30 AM I woke up a a team of nurses rushing in.  Immediately, there was an oxygen mask on my face.  Apparently I had a "double contraction" (one contraction right after another with no break) and the "baby no like" (Mike's notes).  They kept the mask on me for while and monitored the baby until all was back to normal.

2:20 AM  "Water broke Woohoo!!!"

2:45 AM I was given Fentanyl.  Mike's notes: "Mini-Drunkness flowing through body"  At this point, the contractions were really painful.

Around 4:00 AM I started to become desperate and I asked for an epidural.  The anesthesiologist was not available at the moment, but they said he would come shortly.  Around 5:00 I was BEGGING for him to get there.  This was the only time I was really pissed off.  Don't make a lady wait for an epidural!

5:15 AM "Epidural Dan.  Much better Ahhhh"

At 5:35 AM the doctors examined me.  I was "7cm !!!!!!! 90% effaced.  Baby still high."

6:00 AM "Sleepy time!"

Mike also wrote here, "Your cervix is like butter."  Hmmm.  I don't remember this, but weird.

7:45 AM "Mucus plug out."

8:00 AM  "Check, 10 cm, head down"

At 8:57 AM I was given the go ahead to start pushing.  Honestly, my epidural was SO strong, I couldn't even feel anything.  I was in no pain and I had to ask to make sure I was actually pushing. 

About fifteen minutes later, at 9:13 AM, our sweet BABY GIRL arrived.