Loss and Gratitude

December 27, 2013

Today a blogger friend named Amy, who happened to do IVF (and had success) at the same clinic I go to, sent me one of the sweetest "gifts" I have received over the last few weeks.  Although we have never met, she has truly shown that she feels our ache.  She wrote me two poems.  One is called Loss and one is called Gratitude.  I wanted to share them as they touched me deeply.  Thank you so much Amy.

Loss

My heart stops for you today.
You who have lost your child,
your fourth beating heart.
I grieve him with you.
That perfect face,
that nose like yours
little lips and eyelashes,

tiny ears and chin.

 

You aren’t angry at God,

you say.

I am angry for you.

I am sure that four small lives

finished before they were begun

is not part of some grand plan.
It is bad luck
plain and simple,
dealt to you from that
green-visored casino dealer called
Life.

I am more sorry than I can say.
These are just words,
but truth.

For the first time today
I feel real guilt
at being one of those
women who "beat"
infertility,
who can hold her
child in her arms every night.

Where is the justice for you,
my friend?
I know you are out there
tonight
crying your eyes out
until the heavy sedative
kicks in
and you can slip into the
bliss of nothingness,
no feeling,
the void.

I stand beside you in silence.
I hold you in my heart.


* * * * *
　

Gratitude

It’s hard being the mom
of a small child.
There are days when you want
to tear out your hair and throw
in the towel on the whole
parenting gig.

It’s hard when you are on your
hands and knees
searching for
tiny shards of
a broken plate that
your baby pushed off the table
during breakfast.

It’s hard when you’re changing that fourth poopy diaper in two hours
and he gets poop on his hand and then on you.


It’s hard when he as a cold
and wipes his boogery nose all over the shoulder
of your last clean shirt,
or when you’ve been shopping
and he refuses to get in his carseat
and kicks and cries
and hits you in the face.

On those days when you’ve read that same book about a little blue truck
all morning and he keeps signing "more, more"
and then you get smacked over the bridge of your nose
with a half full sippy cup,
when you can’t open the fridge
or the oven
or the door to your pantry
without your one-year-old hot on your heels
reaching for anything he can grab
and you hear yourself saying, "This kid is driving me crazy!"
remember this:

Somewhere a mother sits
without a baby in her arms
though she has had
four pregnancies.
Two babies didn’t make it past the first trimester.
Her daughter was born at 18 weeks
and her son came this morning at 21 weeks.
She didn’t hold her daughter at all.
She held her son one time
(one time)
only
and kissed his perfect face and held the tiny hands
that will never leave fingerprints on anything in her house.

She has a small white memory box
for her son and her daughter
containing a blanket,
a hat
and cards stamped
with the impressions
of their teeny hands and feet.
She would trade places with you
in a moment.
Even on your hardest day.

The next time it’s been
"one of those days"
and your child
empties his snack cup
of granola into your purse
then runs away screaming with
the joy of his new game,
think of that mom

and all the ones like her.

Take a breath,

move your purse

and get your kid some

more granola.

That night

tiptoe into his room

while he sleeps.

Touch his fine baby hair,

damp with the sweat

of deep sleep.

Listen to his slow, even breathing

and try

to comprehend

how lucky you are.