Five Years Ago, Almost: Expanded Upon
Posted: December 12, 2008 at 6:42 pm | Tags: journal writing, WritingOnce again, I wrote something in my personal journal that is somehow well-written enough to share here. I think, after her birthday passes, I need to write about writing and the differences I have found in my process as of late. But as today is Birthday Eve, my mind cannot begin to form coherent thought on that topic. Instead:
Five years ago everyone that meant something in my life had plans. My parents were heading out for dinner and a Christmas concert to celebrate, a day in advance, their anniversary. My grandparents were headed out for a Christmas party. [My best friend] was heading out for dinner with her fiance. And [my now husband] was away with the Army that weekend. Even [Munchkin's intended parents] were unavailable, attending a Bon Jovi concert.
While I had had experienced several bouts of preterm labor that had to be stopped via various methods and doses of what we assume to be safe-for-baby drugs and a plethora of braxton hicks contractions, I knew when the contractions started that evening that it was different. The books you read, none of which had been given to prepare me for the impending birth of my firstborn, tell you that you’ll just know when it is time. I knew. And still, I said nothing. I was home alone with my fourteen year old brother.
I sat at mom’s laptop in the dining room, timing contractions as I played solitaire. As complicated as the pregnancy had been with the surgeries and ambulance trips and dramatic health issues, to say nothing of the emotionally taxing decisions that still hung in the air, I wasn’t quite ready for it to end. The night before, a Thursday evening, she had flipped and flopped and kicked so hard that I told my mother she was throwing a party within my womb. I did not know, however, that it was her going away party.
I went to bed before my parents returned home, resting on my side to see if the contractions would stop. They did not. When my parents arrived home, I called the hospital to ask whether or not they would send me home if I had not dilated any more seeing as how I was only 38 weeks. When I received what I already knew to be the answer, I just went ahead and attempted to sleep.
And Friday, December 12, 2003 drew to a close as I rested my head on that pillow. It was the last day that I was ever her only mother. It was the last day that she was truly mine. It wasn’t yet her birth day as my water wouldn’t break until 4:30 in the morning. But it was the last day she was mine and mine alone. Even in the hospital, it was a different story.
I think, perhaps, this year is hitting me so hard as the days of the week are the same as they were five years ago. If today was a Wednesday, I don’t know if I would be so stricken with emotion. I am also partly blaming the blasted full moon. I have just now burst into tears. it’s going to be a very long weekend. I am thankful for the distraction of my concert, but it doesn’t remove the hurt, the loss.
Nothing ever will, I suppose.
I have, if you’ve been reading our family blog, forced myself to remain positive this week. I will do so again tomorrow. But I will also allow myself this room to breathe and feel. I do not feel that being honest about these emotions is whining, or, really, I hope that they are not perceived as such. I think I’ve passed, long ago, the whining phase of this healing process of mine. I will, of course, admit to going through the phase: the “why me, this sucks, someone make it better” phase. I believe we must all pass through that, whatever our journey.
As I sit here, dressed nicely after a good, cathartic, full-on cry in the shower, I feel much better. I am back in my positive frame of mind even though my heart, as to be expected, aches. It helps, perhaps, that snowflakes are dancing outside of the window to my right. They’re not falling exactly; a light breeze is blowing and, as the snowflakes are the small, flitty kind and not the big, fat kind, they are litterally dancing their way to the ground. Like my oldest son, the Munchkin came into the world on a snowy day. It wasn’t yet snowing five years ago now, but on her birthday the world was coated in white.
I will make it through this birthday, like every year. I have no doubt that I will shed a few more tears, seeing as how I just got misty-eyed again. But, again most likely attributed to the amount of healing that I have done this year, I am feeling better able to handle it. Not un-sad. But better able to acknowledge that sadness, process it properly and still find room for the joy that is, literally, all around me.
I would, therefore, admit to some improvement in how I handle this birthday issue. In prior years, I never would have been able to acknowledge or celebrate any type of joy at this time. I would have let the weight of the grief and loss overwhelm me and suck any life out of what was going on in my life. I think that as I realize I have moved past that phase, well, I feel very proud of the work that I have done this year.
There is hope yet. Or, perhaps better stated, there is always hope. Always.
The Discussion
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Oh wow. I am so sorry for your loss. My dear friend has just had a similar loss and my heart breaks for you both.
(((HUGS))) to you.
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Jenna,
I’m not a real emotional person – but as I sit here at work today, I am crying my eyes out. You’ve got such an amazing way with words and you share them so beautifully.
Thank you for opening your heart to others. People need to see this real side of first parent emotion. The reality. Thanks for having (and being able to have) a voice. Especially for those of us who are unable to have one.
Brandy
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Jenna, thank you so much for sharing this.
You are in my prayers.
Thank you.
Rachel
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Sadness is OK, and in this situation . . . . I don’t know how you’d avoid it. Even though it sucks. Even though it’s not where you want to be. Even though . . . .
As I told Nate once when he was feeling sad about his birthmother, sometimes things are just sad and as much as we try, we just can’t make them happy. We have to let them be sad. But then you know that.
So many of us are here witnessing your journey with you, and while we can’t do it for you or take away the pain for you, we are witnessing it. It’s a gift that you’ve given us. I hope our witness is a small gift that we can give back.
With love,
Judy
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Ya know, I think you should allow yourself a bit of private whining too.
Powerful statement: “There is always hope. Always.”
Sending {{{HEALING HUGS}}}
Corrine
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That was so beautifully written.
I hope and pray that you will be comforted on this very difficult weekend.
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Jenna,
I think (hope) by now you know how I feel about you. I learn from you, I admire you, I have been happy for you, I have been sad for you. No matter the fact we’ve yet to meet in person, I’ve been reading for years and although I’d like to think I’d thought about everything (ha!) when we adopted Maeve, I know I had so much to learn. Not only do I continue to learn from you, I continue to laugh with you and continue to cry with you as well. Being a small part of your journey (voyeuristically, of course) while simultaneously traveling mine as an adoptive mom in an adoption I naively believed would be as open as open could be, I continue to struggle with my own tears of terrible, and sometimes soul-sucking, sadness for the loss my daughter has experienced and continues to experience because of broken contact despite seemingly every effort possible on our end.
Oh, gah. I don’t think I’m making any sense here so I’ll just try to find my point. Once again, you managed, from the privacy of your own personal writings later shared here, to reach into the depths of me and leave an impression so raw, so real, that I had to catch my breath from what I think is the shock of how some simple words with the simplest of meanings, could literally cause me to gasp and immediately weep. I could say it’s perhaps the state I must be in as the holidays are here and we’re nowhere closer to ensuring now for Maeve what I thought we had long ago secured when she was born. Perhaps that’s part of it. But it’s more than that. Your simplest words — “I did not know, however, that it was her going away party” and “It was the last day that I was ever her only mother. It was the last day that she was truly mine” have sent me into an emotional tizzy over here and frankly I’m hoping no one comes in here and catches me like this.
My heart hurts for you and your loss. Yet, despite your pain, I somehow revel in the blessing Munchkin has — the blessing you are to her, for having stuck it out, for being there, no matter how hard it might be sometimes.
Once again, I’m in awe. May the bitterness and the sweetness somehow mesh this weekend in a way that is not too difficult for you.
Again, Jenna, thank you.
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Ohmygoodness, I didn’t mean to hijack your space. I needed to just speak it to you directly from my heart, just as it came.
(Like someone else I know. Ahem.)
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[...] Jenna, may the bitterness and the sweetness this weekend somehow mesh for you in a way that is bearable. Happy birthday to your daughter! Relish in wishing the beautiful girl whose own eyes mirror yours all the very best. [...]
Hi, Thanks for sharing your story so wonderfully and openly. I just wanted to say, if your in fact writing this real time and Dec 13 is the munchkins b day then she shares her special day with Taylor Swift whom I simply adore. :o)
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