Nine Lives

Valentine's Day, 13 years ago, a tiny gray bundle of fur made her way into my life.  Lily.  She was my companion, even traveling with me to law school and staying for about a month, before her practice of clawing my roommate's couch earned her a ticket back home to my parents' house.  When, on Valentine's Day eight years ago I celebrated the holiday with the discovery of Sean's dead body and a brief police interview, Lily was my comfort as I tried to make the best of a grizzly day by celebrating her "birthday" with her.

"I didn't even know you had a cat," someone mentioned recently.  After she got the boot from my place in Costa Mesa, Lily never left my parents' house again.  Some might say she was no longer my cat; but she was always my cat.

It became evident a few months ago that Lily wouldn't be with me much longer. She'd suffered from stomatitis, an inflammation of the mucous lining in her mouth, for which she was treated with periodic steroid injections.  At what I thought was a routine visit for an injection just a couple of months ago, the vet warned me that the injections were becoming decreasingly effective.  The injections no longer held her over for months at a time, but one month, and each time she came in she weighed less.  She recommended I have Lily's teeth extracted, but at a visit last week for yet another injection, the vet informed my dad, who had kindly taken time off from his vacation to take Lily in, that it was time I start "considering Lily's quality of life."
Those were exactly the words I didn't want to hear, and exactly the kinds of considerations I wasn't ready to make.  The tears poured from my eyes.  She couldn't have many more injections - the next one could kill her, as she was requiring them closer and closer together.  She couldn't undergo surgery - that could kill her too.  Her nine lives were exhausted.  Lily was at my mercy and I was at a loss.

I'd joked for years that if anything happened to Lily, it would send me over the edge.  People would say, "She was always so strong. . . Until Lily."  This would be it.

For a week we observed Lily.  I knew the decision to put her to sleep was impending, but I also didn't want to deny her a few more good days.  On Wednesday night it was clear that Lily was ready for me to let her go.  I spent the night at my parents' house, slipping in and out of sleep and trying to check on Lily, to make the last hours of her life as comfortable as possible.  Wrapped in a towel and my arms, we rode over her vocal objections as my dad drove us to the vet's office.

"It's kinder this way.  You know that though, don't you?"  I sniffled and nodded at the doctor, my hands still stroking her bony, feeble body.  Lily, who had always had a kittenish look to her, suddenly looked old and weary.  She'd been my solace for so many years, but now it was time for me to comfort her.  I whispered into her ear simply, "I love you."  

The procedure was over very swiftly.  I cried until I ran out of tears; I cried the tears I didn't cry and hadn't cried for things maybe I should have cried for sooner.  I emptied myself of a great deal of grief over the soft, lifeless body of my Lily.

I noted a missed call on my phone.  "My Boyfriend Marcos."  I'd so labeled him in my phone because I was so excited by our developing relationship.  My faith that maybe, maybe life had more in store for me in the romance department had begun to waver when we met.

Sometimes I feel so stained by my past that it's hard to imagine there's a normal life left for me to have.  The innocence of an animal's soul is unquestionable to me, and so it is our duty to be kind to them and not break their pure spirits.  But throughout our human lives we have experiences that chip away at our innocence and bend our spirits.  There have been times and events after which I was not quite sure life would go on - Life certainly did NOT go on as it had before, it was changed, and I was marked by these events.  These painful events, like the assault; these beautiful events, like the day that Victoria was born; and the beautifully tragic life and death of my son.  Still, the human spirit is a resilient, amazing thing when we're willing to pick ourselves up and make the most of our nine lives.

Drowning, Slowly.

"Your Aunt Carol is going slowly.  I just want you to know that."  I could feel my dad's eyes linger on me for a moment, as though he were waiting for some sign of humanity.

"Okay."

I know I should care.  I know I should be sad, or maybe I should pray, or maybe I should shed a tear, or feel some pang of regret, or something. . . I should feel something.

But I don't.

My dad's sister is dying.

I've never been particularly close to that side of the family and in recent years the relationship has become more strained - And I've become colder and colder, and less and less capable of the kinds of feelings that evoke tears or whatever else one is supposed to feel in these instances.

On the one hand, I feel with this deep, frightening intensity.  And on the other, I feel little at all.

A secretary brought a letter in for me to sign today.  It's still odd to me that someone brings things in for me to sign and I blinked, as I do, to adjust to the notion.  My phone rattled in between us with a number I did not recognize.  I blinked again at Suzanne as I grabbed the phone and looked her in the eye while I answered.

It was some woman from the church, wanting to know if and when I would be willing to volunteer with the youth group.  Suzanne wandered respectfully out of the room.

"I'm at work.  I can't talk." And we hung up and I began pecking away again at the computer keyboard when Suzanne came back.

"I just sent. . ." Suzanne held my edited letter up for me to see. "Oh.  You got it.  I just sent the other to print, too."  She stepped out for a moment and returned with the second, edited copy.  "I didn't mean to be rude and answer the phone in front of you.  It's just that my aunt is dying, and I thought the call might be related.  Here."  I scratched my name across the signature space - in blue, just like my mother taught me.

Suzanne left my office and started to close the door behind her.

"It's fine.  I don;t need the door closed."

It's very lonely with the door closed.

I flipped absently through the file in front of me.

"Your Aunt Carol is dying.  You're going to have to decide what you're going to do."  I refused to meet my mother's admonishing eyes.

"Okay."

Would I go see her?  Why would I?  Would I kneel in the church on the night of her rosary, murmuring the words cemented into my brain, while I recalled my cousin Eric's words:  "You're not living together until you're married?"  I recall shaking my head.  I recall his eyes rolling in his head at my silliness.  Looking back, it does all seem rather silly.  It seems silly to have a wedding that I intended would bring our family together in joy, rather than in mourning, or at a surprise baby shower for a 15 year old cousin.  What the hell was any of it for?  

Today, my Aunt Carol is surrounded by her four children, and their children, and their children's children.  She's dying.  But her life is full.  Her kids, my cousins, they fucked up a lot - but they gave her grandchildren that have kept her hanging on, through the amputation of both of her legs, through widowhood, through divorce.  Her deathbed is surrounded.  And I know that her impending death pulls at my father's heart but it is still nothing like the void that was left when his grandchild, Gabriel, the baby I couldn't grow "right" left this world.  When it's his turn - when it's my turn - who will be there?

I'm not afraid of dying.  I'm just afraid of dying alone.

And tonight, while my Aunt Carol, who out of stubborn pride I haven't spoken to in well over a year, dies after a long and painful battle with her health, I can't help but wonder what it would be like to trade places with her.  What would it be like to walk away from the long and painful battles I have lived through?  What would it be like to be reunited with those I fought those battles for?

I know that I am strong, that I've willed myself through the kinds of things that shatter other people.  I know that I'm different, that I'm not like everyone else, and that I'm special.  Where others sink, I swim.

But tonight, as I contemplate my empty home, the empty rooms, my empty bed, the empty crib, the tightly packed hope chest, and my empty arms, I can't help but feel like I'm drowning, slowly.  I can't help but feel anything but strong.

A Shining Light

On a Monday morning in January 2011, one doctor shed a frightening light on my son's fate:  If he survived delivery, he would die soon after. 

And suddenly I was where I never want to be - In the dark. 

I had never heard of anencephaly.  I didn't know what a neural tube defect was.  I'd only skimmed my copy of "What to Expect When You're Expecting," thinking women had been having babies since long before I'd ever have one, and I'd probably figure this pregnancy thing out too.  Upon later review of the book's section on neural tube defects I found only a short blip about the freakishness of the occurrence of such defects, and my options to end the pregnancy if my child were determined to be non-viable. 

I didn't even know that my child was a boy.  He was a sweet, baby boy, and I quickly learned that there wasn't a single thing that a doctor, or 100 doctors, could tell me that could make me stop loving my son. 

So I desparately searched the internet for answers, finding haunting images, endearing stories, support groups where I found women who I clung to throughout the duration of my pregnancy, and ultimately, information about the Duke Center for Human Genetics Neural Tube Defect Research Study. 

Through my studies of the information found on the internet I discovered that my son's death as a result of his having anencephaly was inevitable but I was determined to show anyone who was observing us that his life had value, like all human lives have value, even if it would be short.  We volunteered to donate Gabriel's umbilical cord blood, and samples of his parents' blood, to Duke University's Center for Human Genetics. 

Somehow the answers provided by Duke had to be enough.  It had to be enough that through research we could be assured that we didn't do anything wrong; that sometimes anencephaly just happens; that the chances of a reccurrence were slight, but that there were things we could do to reduce even that slight risk (see January 31st's entry on folic acid).  It had to be enough to know that through the donation of our son's blood, someday we might have more answers.  Someday some parents might not have to hear the words "incompatible with life" because when we heard them two years ago we chose not to run from them, but to confront them.

It wasn't enough.  I couldn't stop there. 

For the last two months I have been selling t-shirts with a logo representing Gabriel and anencephaly awareness to raise funds for Duke Center for Human Genetics.  Thanks to the generosity of our friends and family, the first installment of the funds raised is being sent in today's mail.  You all, through your kindness and charity, have helped me to raise $360 dollars thus far to send to Duke in honor of a little boy who changed your world.

Rest assured that the journey I have taken has been difficult.  I promise you, I don't look at your children without thinking of my own.  I don't hear your stories of learning to tie shoes, losing teeth, academic honors, athletic victories, or graduation, and fail to think about what I won't experience with Gabriel.  Still, you have made my son's life even greater than I ever imagined.  You've taken the darkest time in my life, and turned my son Gabriel into this shining light of hope burning brightly in so many hearts. 

A Record of Events

"There is nothing special about me. . . My story is a story of very ordinary people during extraordinarily terrible times.  Times the like of which I hope with all my heart will never, never come again.  It is for all of us ordinary people all over the world to see to it that they do not."

-Miep Gies, Anne Frank Remembered:  The Story of the Woman Who Helped to Hide the Frank Family

"A memoir?  I thought memoirs were written by old people or celebreties."  That was how I was recently answered when I shared with someone that I would like to write a book.  I'd like to write a memoir. I don't believe that such books are only supposed to be written by someone famous, or someone old, or someone who did something huge and important.  According to Dictionary.com, a memoir is "A record of events written by a person having intimate knowledge of them and based on personal observation."  Memoirs are for someone with a story to tell.  And if I've learned one thing over the course of my life, it's that everyone has a story to tell. 

Maybe I'm a bit lofty, or even arrogant, for opening this entry with a quote from the woman whose family helped to hide the Frank family.  Anne Frank and Miep Gies are two people whose stories have had a tremendous impact on our sense of history.  Still, they were just two people, living in the circumstances that found them.  They were just living their lives, lives that happened to take place in a time of atrocity that is burned into our impressions of the 20th century. 

I'm not especially special, except in the sense that we're all special, and I'm no hero.  But I happened to be the one woman in 1,000 who was told her baby had a fatal neural tube defect.  I happen to live in a time when babies like mine can be "terminated" just because they happen to be unborn, and they happen to have a certain condition.  I happen to be among that ten percent or less of the one in 1,000 women who receive this terminal diagnosis for their child and still carry that child to term.  And from there, I happened to be that  anomolous mommy who got to keep her terminally ill baby for ten days and have the privilege of sharing in an experience that has touched countless lives.  I happened to be part of an experience that's caused people to think twice about what it means to be alive, what it means to be a mother, what it means to be a hero - I'm no hero, but my son is.  With all of my heart I firmly believe that the day will come when we view abortion with the same regret and disgust that we view the Holocaust, every human genocide, every instance of human slavery.  If my son's sweet, dimpled smile has an impact on that transition in our American and human spirit, then I've simply been blessed to have happened to be a part of it. 

I happen to like to write, and I happen to be fairly good at it.  I've got many stories to tell, not the least of which is Gabriel's.  Through the course of my life I've been fortunate to meet many people who have stories too, whose stories have touched me and changed the way I look at things.  Just about anyone has something to share that can touch your heart and change your life, if you let them. 

For two years this blog has served me in healing from the death of my son Gabriel.  Nearly two years ago, I attended his funeral after holding him while he took his last breath.  Nearly one year ago, I watched his father, my husband, fade from my sight as he drove down the street where our family lived for the last time, our recently signed divorce papers waiting on my kitchen table to be filed at the courthouse.  I've spent the last two years here, healing, letting an audience of knowns and unknowns witness my healing and through it all I've been told it's helped to heal them too. 

I've still got more healing to do.  I've still got more to say.  But I've decided it's time to take a break.  I'll be limiting my blog entries for a while, in exchange for working on a manuscript for my memoir.  I hope to have a rough draft by Gabriel's birthday next year.  I hope to have it published by the time I am 35, and with my 32nd birthday creeping up on me I'll have just over three years to accomplish the goal. 

I'll still need your help.  The appeal of maitaining the blog for me has largely been in the instant feedback.  So as I set about working on the book, I hope you'll share with me which entries you've found most interesting, which writing styles you've like the most, and which "characters" - who are all real people - you would like to know more about.  Thank you in advance for your responses, as they'll be invaluable in helping me craft this book.  And thank you for having taken this two-year long walk with me.  

Let Him Fly

Some days, I think it looks easier than it is. 

Living without Gabriel, that is. 

Every once in a while I have an opportunity to talk about pregnancy and motherhood as though my experience was just like everyone else's.  While at a hearing in Long Beach on Monday, I talked with another lawyer who also happens to be an expectant mother, and we compared experiences.  I had fun, until she asked the natural follow-up questions. 

"Did you have a boy or a girl?"

"A boy."

"Oh!  What's his name?"

"Gabriel."

"How old is Gabriel?"

"He would be two.  He passed away when he was ten days old."

"Oh. . . Do you mind if I ask what happened?" 

"He had anencephaly, a neural tube defect."

"What does that mean." 

I went through the routine explanation of Gabriel's condition.  She deduced that I made a choice to carry him to term in spite of his diagnosis and asked a few questions about that too. 

"How old are you?" 

Knowing what would follow, I responded, "Thirty-one." 

"You're still young; you can have more."  It's true.  God-willing, I can and will have more.  But I will never stop missing Gabriel.  And when people tell me, "Having another baby won't fill that hole in your heart" I know that they are right - no one knows that better than me - but I want them to know that the hole is so very big and deep that I can't just let it be.  If I'd made no attempts to begin to fill it in, I would have died.  What is left to do when your child has gone before you?  What is left to live for? 

I could feel this woman's eyes on me as I flipped through the file in front of me.  "I'm really impressed by you.  You must be so strong."  I looked at her, weakly, and I could see the sympathy in her eyes.  Don't crack.  Don't break.  Don't cry.  I pressed my lips into a smile.

"Do you know where the dismissal forms are kept?"  She pointed to a shelf behind her, and we went about talking law. 

Make no mistake:  Every day is a struggle.  If you've never experienced the strange blessing of witnessing someone's dying before your eyes, it's nearly impossible to explain the residual feelings.  One moment my son was alive, in my arms.  The next moment, his heart stopped beating, and mine did too, and I had to make it beat again.  I had to make myself keep breathing because I didn't want to.  I felt an overwhelming sense of relief that my son's soul was at peace, but I missed him immediately.  I know that there must be some reason that I'm still here; still, every day I have to look for that reason. 

In just a few hours, family, friends, and I will release balloons in celebration of Gabriel's "Angelversary."  The balloon release is of course symbolic of the flight of the soul upon death.  We will watch the balloons as they make their way towards Heaven, like we did with Gabriel's birthday cupcake last week, fading away until they disappear.  Having watched Gabriel die, though, I know now that his passing didn't really work like that.  He was here, struggling, dying - But instantly, he was gone.  You could have nothing but faith in Heaven in a moment like that, feel nothing but certainty that Heaven is real and that's where Gabriel's soul was swiftly taken, and you could do nothing but want to be there too.  Somehow, though, you have to find a way to stay here and a reason to go on. 

Lord knows I think about more babies too much.  I think about silly television shows.  I think about Jodi Arias.  I think about the dogs.  I drink too much.  I eat too much.  I function the best I can. 

But Gabriel is still at the heart of what drives me to carry on.  Spreading his message is, right now, the most important thing I do.  Being his mommy is the most important part of me.  So, when those balloons are released this evening, a little box will be tied to their strings.  Inside that box will be a link to this entry, and a request that anyone who finds the box please log on and tell us where it was found.  With luck, we'll get some participants, and we'll be able to see how far this message has gone, and how many more people have been touched today by the baby boy who, against all odds, lived ten days and changed the world. 

If you are logging on to share that you've found a balloon, please know that Gabriel Michael Gerard Cude was born on June 10, 2011.  He had anencephaly, and at 21 weeks gestation we learned that he would not live long after his birth.  Doctors told us we'd be fortunate, if he were even born alive, if he lived for one day.  Gabriel died on June 20, 2011.  He touched lives. He melted hearts. 

He is my first and only born child, and he is missed deeply.  And you logging in today - and you who have logged on for two years now - you give me hope that even though my son is gone, life isn't over. It has gone on, it will keep going on, and there is always a reason to live. 

Blueberries

I'm not quite sure how it happened, but somehow I got to be the luckiest girl in the world.

You, known and unknown readers who follow this open and honest telling of the events of my life, might wonder how I can believe the above sentiment.  Decidedly unlucky things have happened in my life.  But I couldn't be more sincere when I say that I am simply blessed.

I'm lucky and blessed because a week ago I found a birthday card in my mailbox for my son Gabriel, who passed away nearly two years ago.  That card had come from a woman in England who also lost her child to anencephaly.  Somehow through the tragic and traumatic experience of losing our children, God found a way to bring us together from across the ocean, united in our grief and in our commitment to honor our children's memories.

I'm lucky because ten months ago I walked into the Law Offices of Mullen & Filippi, in need of a job and not in a position to be selective, knowing nothing about Worker's Compensation law except that it seemed like a dull area of practice compared to criminal.  I was fortunate enough to not only get a job offer, but to quickly learn that I love my job.  I thank God routinely from my office chair for that good fortune.

I'm lucky because I decided to celebrate my dead son's birthday this year, after being told last year by my son's father that a celebration was weird and morbid.  I decided to do it up big, and I could not have asked for greater support or a better response than I've received.  Birthday wishes, photos of friends and family in the t-shirts sold to raise funds for anencephaly research in Gabriel's honor, all littered my Facebook page on Gabriel's birthday.  The day that can be so tough for many moms like me to get through hardly stood still long enough to let me grieve, because it was so filled with all of the reasons that I have to smile.  How did I ever get so blessed as to have these people in my life?  How is it that I've been so incredibly fortunate?

In the past year, I lost love.  I lost the man I thought I was going to spend the rest of my life with after he signed our divorce papers, packed up his belongings, and moved across the country.  And I felt like I'd lost my whole world.  Soon, though, my heart was beating again with that unmistakable feeling, falling harder and faster and still tentatively and nervously, but always with a fervent belief that I had found everything I wanted.  That love was met with the dull sting of nonreciprocity; still, it gave me hope - Hope that someday he'll change his mind, hope that if he doesn't I'll find that feeling again, hope that someday someone will love me like I love them and like I want to be loved in return.  I have an irrational, dangerous, abiding, relentless hope in even the most hopeless of things and it's a hard way to live - but the only way I know how.

I'm lucky because my life is full - of hope, of love, of family, of friends, with the clicking of eight paws with long claws, with the memory of my beautiful baby boy.  My life is fruitful.  It has purpose, though I frequently struggle to understand what that purpose is.

Two years ago, that blueberry bush that I had written off proved me wrong, and that baby boy that the world called "incompatible with life" flourished beyond anyone's expectations.  And I, I have walked a treacherous road through the heart of make-it-or break it moments - the assault over a decade ago, Sean's death, Gabriel's death, a divorce - and I made it. I am full and I am blessed because from the rain and storm sometimes we find rainbows.  And sometimes, we find blueberries.

June Gloom

Inevitably, as I turned the page of the calendar to June, I was struck by the hard-hitting realization that it's been nearly two years since I held my son in my arms.  It's been nearly two years since I was able to keep him safe inside of my belly, two years since I felt him move, two years since I heard his strained cries, two years since his hands wrapped around my fingers, two years since I kissed him, stroked his hair, touched his cheek, washed his clothes, made his bottles, soothed him, rocked him - done all of the things that so many people take for granted.

In Huntington Beach this time of year is marked by overcast mornings, leading residents to refer to the "June gloom."  Today there's little I wouldn't give to trade this blazing Bakersfield sun for a sticky, misty Orange County morning.  It doesn't feel right that the sun should shine, or the birds should sing, or the grass should grow.  It doesn't feel right to have life go on as if it wasn't turned upside down nearly two years ago when I buried the child that I once thought I would see crawl, and walk, and graduate high school, and whose hand I would hold when I left this world - not the other way around.

But the sun does shine, and the birds do sing, and life does go on, and the scars on my heart stretch to heal, but they are so fresh even still.  Once again, the words seem insufficient, but they are all I have:  "I miss my son."  I miss him with a longing that is deep, and pervasive, and insatiable, and barely tolerable.  I miss him.

http://youtu.be/UFdfpLAzSxg