Suchness in the Vastness

A Song Learned at Summer Camp

Odin

In the land of Odin,
there is a mountain,
one thousand miles in the air.
From edge to edge,
this mountain measures,
one thousand miles square.

A little bird comes a winging
once every million years or so.
Sharpens his beak on the mountain,
and then he quickly disappears.

And when this mountain,
has worn away
this to eternity shall seem,

but one single day.

 Return, 8.12.10

A Journal Entry, 07.08.10

And so the suchness, the being, the soul that is Halia came into being, was known and experienced and treasured by me, loved by her father, brother, grandparents, aunts, and many others...and then returned to the plenum. Always known, remembered, loved. A suchness as distinct as any other, not as formed or filled in as many others but somehow just as distinct. 

And in the broad sweep, like in the "Land of Odin," all these suchnesses rise and fall as part of the whole. Halia: 21 weeks; my cousin Paul: 16 years; my relationship with my first husband: ~10 years; Papa Nate: 82 years; Grandfather Webb: 81 years; Cousin Emily: 84 years; Nana Nuni: 86 years; Grandmother Webb: 90 years; Rosanna as a granddaughter: 39 years. Rise and fall. Come into being and return to the ether. All overlapping with me, before I too return.  

The amazing thing about knowing Halia is that her whole formation took place inside me. From the coming into being until the death, all within me. And I held that wholeness, that completeness. And there is something oddly satisfying about its totality. It feels entirely different from my experience with G where I had him within and since then have been forced bit by bit to let him go and grow on his own--knowing, hoping, wanting his life to extend far beyond my own. 

From my vantage point as Halia's mother, I feel like I can better see the entirety of each of our lives, of villages, of civilizations, of species, of ecosystems. Of the earth itself? Well, that is a bit much! 

And I hope that from this big vantage point that I won't feel so sad, that I won't grasp so much onto the particular. And yet I know that this vantage point does not in any way diminish the importance of each suchness or my attachment to the ones I know and love. Both are true: the particular and the vastness. And the particular isn't all grief and grasping; it's also wondrous beauty, the awesome power of creation.

 A Broad Sweep , 8.10.10

Day 26 of 31, 23 Cheshvan 5774 

Burial

We buried Halia wrapped in the blanket my sister had knit for her on Thursday, three days after her birth. At first, I thought I wanted her buried at my parents' farm. I pictured her rejoining the earth under a beautiful tree, as simple as could be, but we learned that it's very complicated to make a family burial ground. Instead we opted for our synagogue cemetery, where I had never been. The rabbi assured me that it was beautiful, and she and our synagogue administrator went there to find the most appropriate plot. They found one other baby buried in a corner of the cemetery: Baby Golden, 1971. Halia would join Baby Golden after all these years to form a baby section.

It was a hot day. I wore the dress I had bought in a hurry for Nana's funeral 7 years earlier and a pink stone necklace. We asked a small group of people to be there with us. My sister and her now-husband traveled to be with us too, and they took care of getting G to the service from the day camp he was attending. He didn't want to come but the advice I had received was that it would be best for him to be there. He and I shared a long hug graveside, but otherwise I was so grateful to let others care for him on that day.

I'll never forget arriving at the cemetery, seeing the cars parked along the line of trees, walking slowly out to the far corner where the little white coffin was waiting for us. The coffin was so small but it was so, so much bigger than our tiny girl. As I walked, I thought, this can't be real. I can't be walking to bury my child. I have long since feared this kind of moment, but even in my nightmares, I didn't imagine such a tiny coffin.

It was a beautiful service. Rabbi Elyse had found just the right words. We sang songs and James, my mother, and I all gave eulogies. Frankly, I don't remember it too well. Did my dad speak too? I was just so numb, so shocked, so filled with utter disbelief.

Here's what I said that day, in a clear strong voice:

In our family, we have a tradition of giving a fetal name. We suggested to G that he might like to choose the name, and he promptly selected Eagle or in Latin haliaeetus leucocephalus, Halia Leuco for short. 

As it turned out Eagle never made it beyond the fetal stage, and we learned she was a girl shortly after her stillbirth.  When it was first suggested to us that we might give her a name, Halia immediately came to mind, as we had always thought of that as the more feminine-sounding part of the Latin name. 

After returning from the hospital, I looked up Halia in a baby name book, and learned that it is a Hawaiian name meaning “In loving memory.” 

Halia was and is a hope, dearly held, unfilled perhaps but embodied fully by her definite presence within me for 21 weeks. 

I know from G that there were certain aspects of his temperament that were apparent to me when he was still a fetus.  Over these last few days, I’ve been reflecting on what I learned about who Halia was from the short time I had with her.  I think that she had a certain gentleness about her.  Several times I was surprised to find myself ready to express strong feelings through art or music or movement, only to have them come out in much gentler ways than I anticipated.

Over the last few weeks, I had also started to give Eagle a nickname of Thumper because she would thump inside me, many little kicks.  G tended to have more definite kicks, but Halia was a thumper, gently thumping away with a quiet rhythm.

Her Hebrew name, Nashira Tikvah, also means Eagle Hope.  The Hebrew word for Eagle is Naysher, and in its feminine version, Nashira, also means “Let us Sing.” 

Shortly after her birth, before the dawn of the summer solstice, I sat quietly for a half an hour just listening to the chorus of birds singing.  I felt enveloped by great wings of song, in that gentle growing light.  The blessing of Nashira Tikvah.

And here is what James said:

Halia

I stood a week ago

after sleepless night

seeking relief

at the welcoming gulf

first time at the ocean since receiving this blessing

an encircling ring

expanding its enclosure for your growing blessing

momentarily keeping me from the waters

deep anxiety, surfacing fears

for my loved ones, the difficult pregnancy, the unstable shifting sands, of the ring slipping, carried away

yet, my strong yearning brought me

to wade, swim, melt in the rolling warmth

gold spinning in turquoise delight

preparing me for a more solid return

to face, the further unexpected

beauty, loss, purpose that you have brought

in my commitment and love

to your mother and brother,

and you

my deepening role in our household, for G, as parent

as a loving husband

your hidden presence stirring us in many ways

toward awkward self-sufficiency growing in G

creating stronger family bonds for us all

the need for care of self

what remains too is the unfilled desire

to have seen you alive, in this world, safe and healthy

my joy and delight that I was imagining that would come from a little girl

to know you longer, in your gentleness

and so I have come here,

holding these loving thoughts, to thank you for these gifts

full in my curiosity to receive what you have to offer next

And then, the service was over, and it was time for us to bury her. Both James and I felt strongly about this part of the service. As painful as it was, we wanted to shovel the dirt. We each took our turn, as did everyone there, and then James finished the job. Every last shovel full. I watched him, grateful for his strength and his determination to take care of his child, heart swelling with love and grief.

 Ducks Together and Apart, 7.24.10

I was surprised to find that I made this collage on the day of the burial. I don't remember anything about what I was thinking as I made it, but I have come to think of it as a depiction of James and me together having to let our Halia go to a place out of sight, beyond our reach. What comforts me about this collage is that Halia looks big and strong and capable. She is ethereal yet fully formed. And I also find comfort that I am not alone but with her other parent, together in this difficult journey.

Day 25 of 31,  21 Cheshvan 5774

Halia Hope

 Gentle Spirit, 8.15.10

My parents arrived at our home early that summer solstice morning, bleary-eyed, shocked, and very sad. My lasting memory of their arrival was how eager I was to show them our baby there in the pot. I felt so much pride, and I wanted to show off. "Look, you can see a little ear!" I said, and there it was, a tiny ear visible through the semi-transparent amniotic sac. 

I find this memory almost unbelievable now, but I'm also grateful that I did not censor myself in that moment, that I allowed myself to feel all that pride. Before long, I was overcome with feelings of disappointment and guilt, an overwhelming sense of having failed Halia and my whole family, but for that moment I gloried in what James and I had created.

We quickly departed for the hospital, where we were first seen in the emergency room, back in the same room where I first came a month before. They took the pot from James, and the nurse gently told us what was going on with the body. When she learned that we did not know if it was a boy or a girl, she went to find out, and returned with the news, "It's a beautiful baby girl!" And with that news, I finally dissolved into tears.

Once they had her cleaned up, the nurse asked if we would like to see her, and I refused. The memory of holding her in my hands was still very fresh and pure, and I did not want some sanitized, hospital version clouding that memory. The nurse was very concerned by this response. She had clearly been trained that the best thing for the parents was to spend time with the body, and she did not want us to miss that opportunity. I was equally adamant that it was not the right thing for me right then. We agreed to wait and see.

Before long, we were admitted to the hospital and transferred, cruelly, to labor and delivery. They put us in a back room, where we would have the least chance of hearing any live births. It was quiet and peaceful in the room, a much calmer setting than the ER. All sorts of people came to talk to us, in and out, in and out, through a shift change, all urging us to be with the body. It was hard for me to find my own needs in all the hubbub, but eventually I had a quiet moment in the bathroom when I found that I was ready to see our baby girl. 

They brought her to us, wrapped in a wee hand-knit blanket, with a tiny hat on her head. Her skin was transparent, her eyes shut with lids that looked like they didn't yet open. She didn't really look like a baby. She was still a fetus, but she had ten tiny fingers and ten tiny toes, and two sweet arms, and two sweet legs, and tiny ears and a nose and a mouth. She was fully formed and beautiful. She weighed just 12 ounces and was so light in my arms, lighter than a doll. 

I held her, James held her, we cried, and we talked. We called our house and invited my parents and son to come see her too. We laid her in the bassinet when we had held her enough, and then we held her again.  

When I recall our time with her, I wish I had spent more time taking in her every detail, more time touching her. But it was hard. She seemed so fragile and almost unreal. A big part of me felt like I shouldn't be seeing her or touching her, not like this. I was used to having my hand on her, feeling her body through my flesh, but it just didn't seem right for me to hold her directly. Her unfolded body seemed all wrong to me. I kept thinking she should be curled up in the fetal position. And then, worst of all, she was cold, almost plastic-like. How could I take in what that meant? How could I allow myself to feel how terrible it was that these were the only glimpses I would ever get of her? So I did what I could.

And then, at some point, I knew that it was time for her to go. And the nurse took her away. We were given a beautiful memory box, as we reluctantly let her go into the realm of memory.

Meanwhile, we were informed that since the pregnancy had passed the 20 week mark, this was considered a stillbirth, not a miscarriage, and we were responsible for her body. We were told that we would have to find a funeral home to handle the arrangements. As soon as it was late enough in the morning, we called our rabbi, who had never handled a situation like this before. She told us she would do some research and get back to us. 

She called back a little while later and told us that she recommended that we give her a name and a burial. I hadn't realized it, but I had already been thinking about a name. I knew for certain that I did not want to give this baby the name that we had been planning for a girl. That name was for a living child, but since this child was to remain forever a fetus, I thought we could use her fetal name, Eagle, in some form.

When we were choosing the fetal name, "Halia" and "Leuco" had entered the conversation as derivitives of the latin haliaeetus leucocephalus  (bald eagle). Halia for a girl, leuco for a boy, we had thought. So now here we were with our Halia. I liked the sound of it.

Before she was born, through all the trouble, I had thought often about "Hope" as a name for her, but I wasn't sure about how Halia went with Hope. I said the two together out loud to the rabbi, "Halia Hope." She replied, "I think it sounds beautiful." James agreed, and so did I. Halia Hope.

When we arrived home from the hospital, we discovered that a baby name book had arrived in the mail that very morning. I quickly looked up "Halia" to find that it is a Hawaiian name meaning "in loving memory." What a marvel.

Rabbi Elyse came to our home that evening to talk about the arrangements, and we spent time giving Halia a Hebrew name. We told the rabbi the whole story about Eagle and Halia, and she told us that the Hebrew word for eagle is "Naysher." She suggested the feminine "Nashira," which also means "We shall sing." And again, I was stunned by a beautiful connection. Singing is such a powerful conduit for my spiritual life that I had long thought about giving a daughter the Hebrew name of "Shira" for song.  We completed her Hebrew name with a middle name of "Tikvah," the Hebrew word for hope.

Names in the sand by my friend Jane and her daughter Clare

As this long, hard day came to a close, I was struck again by the beauty and wholeness of our experience. I had only just begun to understand the depth of our loss, but I also felt so supported and loved, filled with amazement at how so many details worked out with a perfection beyond anything we could have orchestrated.

Day 24 of 31, 20 Cheshvan 5774 

Summer Solstice

When it was time to go to bed on the evening of June 20, 2010, I changed out of the old t-shirt I had been wearing all day and looked for another big t-shirt to wear but they were all in the laundry. I rummaged around in my closet and found a white cotton nightgown that had belonged to one of my grandmothers. I had never worn it before and I pulled it on quickly. It was loose and cool, perfect for a steamy night, and the cotton was so soft and crisp. Just feeling the nightgown on my skin transported me to my grandmothers homes, and they felt near.

I woke up a few hours later, around 3:00, very uncomfortable. I got up, went to the bathroom, tried to ignore all the blood in the toilet, got back into bed, tried to settle down, but I just couldn't get comfortable. It seemed like I was having more contractions than usual. I had been told not to worry about the contractions unless they lasted a full minute. Mine never did, they were much shorter, so I tried to ignore them, but this night something felt different. Something felt wrong. We decided to call the doctor.

The answering service said we would get a call back soon, but we waited and waited and still no call. Meanwhile, I got more and more uncomfortable and felt more and more uneasy. I wasn't sure if I was having a digestive problem or cramping or what. I didn't think they were contractions because they were so short and close together, almost continuous. James tried to sleep. G was sleeping in the bedroom across the hall.

We called the answering service again, wondering why we hadn't heard from the doctor. They usually were quite prompt in returning calls. We were reassured that we would hear from someone soon. 

After a while, I could no longer rest in bed so I moved around the room, shifting position to try to find something comfortable. I withdrew into myself, no longer aware of anything else going on in the room or about trying to reach the doctor. I just focused on managing the pain, on doing whatever I needed to do to get through each minute. 

James got up to go to the bathroom, and suddenly I found that I could no longer handle the pain. I cried out, "You have to come, now! I need help!" I squatted on the floor in agony, and suddenly I could feel something coming out. I yelled again, "There's something coming out!" At first, I had no idea what it was. I was completely shocked to feel something there.

But out it slid, and there I was, crouched on the floor with my baby in my hands. She came out with the amniotic sack intact and the placenta attached. The abruption was complete.

 Birth June 21, 2010, 5.16.11

Everything got very still for me, and I sat there feeling the weight of this bundle in my hands, holding, holding, holding. James came over, at first not understanding what had happened, and then when he did, weeping loudly, with his full body.

G, mercifully, continued to sleep. 

Finally, I was ready to let go. I put the sac down on the floor and stood up. Amazingly, the mess was quite contained. My pure white nightgown only had one small drop of blood on it, and our bedclothes, just inches away, were clean. The whole birth was in a small puddle on the wood floor.

Suddenly, our quiet moment was interrupted by the ringing phone. The doctor at last, now that it was all over. James spoke to him and told him that we would get to the hospital as soon as we could. 

James went to get a pot in the kitchen to put the sac in, and I went into the bathroom to clean up. I stepped into the shower, and stood there a long time, numb. All I remember is watching the blood run all the way down my leg and down the drain. 

 After birth, 8.13.10

I got dressed, and James tried to reach my parents to come to be with G. They didn't answer the phone, so we decided he would have to drive to their house (10 minutes away) to get them. I sat on my grandparents' loveseat in the growing dawn light with the pot on the floor beside me. For the next half hour, I sat and listened to the birds singing with the dawn, watched the light get brighter, and felt my body settle. It was the morning of the summer solstice, and even though a cataclysm had just occurred, I felt completely at peace.

 Sunrise, 8.12.10

Day 23 of 31, 19 Cheshvan 5774 

Together

 Red Dot, 11.25.10

The last week of the pregnancy was quiet. I was resting as much as possible, sitting quietly with the beautiful presence within, feeling her move with a gentle, regular thumping. Together we rested, together we lay in bed, together we got up to move around the house, together we ate, together we slept, together we went to work, together we went to the ER after a particularly bad night, together we returned home with a diagnosis of a partial abruption -- just the edge of the placenta, together we went to the theater to see Fiddler on the Roof, together we felt the contractions, together, together, always together.

 Swirl, July 2010, finding a little inner Bromstad

To pass the time, I took to watching HGTV on my computer. My favorite show was David Bromstad's Color Splash. No thinking necessary, just light-hearted watching. And my favorite part of each episode was watching him make a painting or two to go with the room he was "making over." I was inspired, occasionally by the makeovers, but mostly by the painting.  I didn't paint right away, that would come later, but I remain so grateful for the inspiration.

Circles, 7.9.10, a first attempt with acrylics (please pardon the creases and composite scan) 

 Day 22 of 31, 19 Cheshvan 5774