Oct. 15th: Remembering Our Babies

In loving memory of my beautiful goddaughter Natalee...

and of my cousin Cole...

and the others who have touched my heart and my life in some way but were taken too soon (it's a sobering, long list...)

and those who lost babies they never got to know...

and especially in honor of their courageous and forever heartbroken parents.

Please light a candle on Wednesday, Oct. 15th in Remembrance and in recognition of this national day of reflection.

My best friend and hero Tammy sent this to me earlier and I wanted to pass it along:

Bereaved Parents Wish List:

1. I wish my child hadn't died. I wish I had him back.

2. I wish you wouldn't be afraid to speak my child's name. My child lived and was very important to me. I need to hear that he was important to you also.

3. If I cry and get emotional when you talk about my child I wish you knew that it isn't because you have hurt me. My child's death is the cause of my tears. You have talked about my child, and you have allowed me to share my grief. I thank you for both.

4. I wish you wouldn't "kill" my child again by removing his pictures, artwork, or other remembrances from your home.

5. Being a bereaved parent is not contagious, so I wish you wouldn't shy away from me. I need you now more than ever.

6. I need diversions, so I do want to hear about you, but I also want you to hear about me. I might be sad and I might cry, but I wish you would let me talk about my child, my favorite topic of the day.

7. I know that you think of and pray for me often. I also know that my child's death pains you too. I wish you would let me know those things through a phone call, a card or note, or a real big hug.

8. I wish you wouldn't expect my grief to be over in six months. These first months are traumatic for me, but I wish you could understand that my grief will never be over. I will suffer the death of my child until the day I die.

9. I am working very hard in my recovery, but I wish you could understand that I will never fully recover. I will always miss my child, and I will always grieve that he is dead.

10. I wish you wouldn't expect me "not to think about it" or to "be happy." Neither will happen for a very long time, so don't frustrate yourself.

11. I don't want to have a "pity party," but I do wish you would let me grieve. I must hurt before I can heal.

12. I wish you understood how my life has shattered. I know it's miserable for you to be around me when I'm feeling miserable. Please be as patient with me as I am with you.

13. When I say "I'm doing okay," I wish you could understand that I don't "feel" okay and that I struggle daily.

14. I wish you knew that all of the grief reactions I'm having are very normal. Depression, anger, hopelessness and overwhelming sadness are all to be expected. So please excuse me when I'm quiet and withdrawn or irritable and cranky.

15. Your advice to "take one day at a time" is excellent advice. However, a day is too much and too fast for me right now. I wish you could understand that I'm doing good to handle an hour at a time.

16. Please excuse me if I seem rude, certainly not my intent. Sometimes the world around me goes too fast and I need to get off. When I walk away, I wish you would let me find a quiet place to spend some time alone.

17. I wish you understood that grief changes people. When my child died, a big part of me died with him. I am not the same person I was before my child died, and I will never be that person again.

18. I wish very much that you could understand: understand my loss and my grief, my silence and my tears, my void and my pain. 

BUT I pray daily that you will never understand.

Just an Update...

Just a quick note that I had to have Kelsey put to sleep two weeks ago today, on Sept. 30th. 

It was one of the hardest things I have ever done, but it was done out of love and when the time was right. I am grateful for every moment I had with her.

Sophie, a kitten from my aunt's farm, has joined our family. Now that she's figuring out the litterbox, I think we'll let her stay. :)

My Life with Kelsey

On the Friday before my college graduation, I moved into my first apartment. On the Monday after, I started my first job at the Daily Times and after that first day of work, I made a trip to one of our local animal shelters "just to see" if they had any kittens.

They did, and after playing with several of them, I picked a beautiful little black one and decided to adopt her. I took her straight to my dad's house, where my little sister helped me settle on the name "Kelsey." That same night she decided to try jumping off of my dad's top deck and I got my first glimpse of what motherhood would be about as I flew downstairs to get her, heart racing and not knowing what I would find. She was only about 8 weeks old but she made that leap unscathed, and we embarked on our long journey together.

When I met the man I would eventually marry, he was allergic to cats. Just coming into my apartment was enough to get his eyes and nose running like faucets. But I knew he really liked me because he kept coming over and occasionally I would even catch him petting Kelsey. When we made the decision for me to move to California to live with him, I was torn about what to do with Kelsey. He said to me, "You are moving across the country and leaving all of your friends and family behind. Please, bring your cat." Not that I had ever doubted it, but I knew for sure then that he really loved me.

We drove across the country together with Kelsey in the backseat (she even got to see the Grand Canyon!) and settled into life in Monterey. Kelsey liked to sneak out the kitchen window and made fast friends with the next-door neighbor, Mr. Q. When we moved to our second apartment she and the landlord had a hate-hate relationship because she liked to leave little footprints on his precious car. He was a hateful man, I'm glad she did it.

While in Monterey we added Taylor to our kitty family, and Kelsey suddenly became the older, calmer cat. Kelsey learned to share my attention, although I don't think she's ever liked it.

Eventually of course, we would move back to Pekin and see other cats come and go into our family. And our people family expanded as well - Kelsey curiously checked out all three of the babies we brought home to her. Once those babies got a little older and gentler in their touch, she even warmed up to them.

So many memories, so many years - and yet in the end, so little time.

A few weeks ago I noticed Kelsey had lost a significant amount of weight and suddenly seemed to withdraw from the family. I took her to the vet, who decided to keep her for some emergency treatment. Five days later we brought her home and while her personality had rebounded, her body just hasn't followed suit. She still rubs against my hand and purrs when I pet her, but she can no longer jump up on the couch to get to me and has trouble walking without wobbly legs. While she continues to eat and drink, she has lost half of her body weight since May. 

All of this happened the same week our third cat and most recent family addition disappeared from our home. He came to us as a stray kitten in May and added so much life and vitality to the house - every bit the playful, ornery kitten who was always getting into something and making a mess somewhere.

That's why all of this feels like a double loss - we lost the youth and vitality Oreo had brought into the house and have now a cat we are trying to provide love and comfort to in her last days.

I don't know how much longer Kelsey will be with me. I can't imagine my life without her. She has been a part of my entire adult life and suddenly it doesn't seem I've done enough for her.

I always knew, of course, that this day would come. And I always expected that taking her to the vet to have her put to sleep (I hate that term btw, but can't think of a better one right now anyway...) would be difficult. But it's not the "how" that is so hard, it's the "when." I don't want to miss out on any time with her, but I don't want to wait so long that she is in pain. And by now, I realize that we are not prolonging life so much as we are prolonging death.

In the midst of my own grief, I'm also trying to help my children through this. While we do have one other cat, she is not friendly to *anyone* so my kids have essentially lost both of their cats - both of their pets - this month. We're getting a good lesson in growing old and in dying, but I'm struggling a bit to explain it all and to know how to help them best. Better to let them say good-bye or not? I'm leaning toward yes of course, but it depends on the timing. Better to get a new kitten sooner or later? I've already explained euthanasia to my oldest, but what do I say to the two youngest? Mostly I'm just sticking with the honesty policy, and we've talked very openly about how our time with Kelsey is so limited and what is going to happen soon. The only thing that hurts worse than my own heartbreak is watching my daughter's. 

So, my heart is so heavy today and my burden feels so consuming. I'm watching her closely and praying for guidance so that I can do what's best for her.

It is, in every sense of the phrase, the very least I can do.

I'm really going to miss her.

Thanks, Salty Sam

Recently there's been some media attention here over a story that tugs at the heartstrings of many central Illinois residents who grew up in the 1960's and 1970's.

It has to do with the Captain Jinks and Salty Sam Show. It has come to light that one of the stars, George Baseleon, is buried in Peoria in an unmarked grave. His family was unable to buy one, and now a fund-raiser is being planned to help funnel the outpouring of public support that has rallied since the story "broke."

I do remember watching the show as a child, but as I've read the memories and history over the past few weeks, I've realized that I really struggle to remember anything *about* the show. I was very young when it was on the air, so for me the memories are really mostly about feelings. But it does go a little further than that too.

For my fourth birthday, my parents took me and a group of my friends to see the Captain Jinks and Salty Sam show at the TV station. This was a very big deal to me, because I hadn't realized that something so glamorous as a TV station was actually within driving distance of our house. (As it turns out, it was only about 10 minutes down the road but I wouldn't figure that out until much later!) It felt so incredibly special to me to be in TV studio. A strange mix of power, performance, and excitement. We were on the air. I didn't know the difference between live and taped TV, and while it was most likely still live even then (would have been 1978) I wouldn't have known the difference, really. I remember sitting in a group of chairs on risers to the side of the "stage." I don't remember any other details, except for the feeling of electricity in the air around me. It was a TV station. WOW.

This was my first TV appearance and my first experience with the world of broadcasting. Years later, I would find I still had that wow feeling when I walked into a TV station. In fact, I still have it today - that sense of walking into a sacred place where special things happen. I worked in television news for just a little short of 5 years, with about half of it on the air. Sure, I was a bit disillusioned by some aspects of the job - but who isn't with any job? Despite that, I never lost that thrill when I saw the red "on air" light turn on. The rush of adrenaline and the anticipation of knowing I was looking at one camera, but communicating with hundreds of thousands of people. And that it was a privilege to be doing so.

For me, that is the legacy of the Captain Jinks and Salty Sam Show. None of us realized it that day we traveled to the station to watch it, but a seed was being planted. In the summer of 1995 I had an internship at the station in the news department. Every morning I would walk to the back of the building, down a long hall, to get to an answering machine that we used for an audience feedback segment. From 1999-2001 I was a full-time reporter there and often walked down that same hallway for other various reasons.

In that hallway was a picture of Captain Jinks and Salty Sam. Every time I saw it, I smiled - and said a little "thank you."

The Birds

Last week we had to go back to the pediatrician's office, and I happened to have my camera. 

I'm pretty proud of this shot... these are the baby robins, safe in their nest with their mother.

My wise, experienced 7-year old

Lately my kids have been making me laugh a lot.

In many ways, this summer has flown by - but in others it's gone nice and slowly. I'd like to think it's at least due in part to my conscious decision to just say no to activities this summer. Except for swim lessons, we've taken a well-deserved break from the runaround and it's been great.

Of course, it's about to come to a crashing end... as I was reminded just a few days ago while getting some stuff at Wal-Mart. The school supplies are out and I couldn't get over how crowded that aisle was- already. We picked up a few things I know the kids will need but I didn't pull out the list. I'm just not ready to fully commit - yet.

My daughter will be going to Kindergarten this fall and she saw a lunchbox she really liked, so we got it too. It makes me smile because it's very old school, metal with the latch. It reminds me of the first lunchboxes I had, until plastic became the new material of choice. I'm not sure, but I *think* I had a metal Muppets lunchbox. Elisabeth's is "High School Musical" and every day she looks at it longingly and talks about the day she'll finally get to take it to school.

Of course, she pointed out... she won't be taking it the first few days of school. And Ethan (the experienced soon-to-be second grader) corroborated this.

"First they'll teach you how to go through the lunchroom," he said. "They'll show her how to get her card and then go down in line and then hold it up..."

I'm a little fuzzy on all the details, but this is sounding like a fairly complicated system! In any case, I won't worry because after all, as Ethan said next -

"Don't worry Elisabeth... you'll get used to it. I've been doing it for TWO YEARS already."

Maybe it was the tone of his voice, but it really made me chuckle. And somewhere inside, I also breathed a little easier knowing that this time as I send a kindergartener off to school, I've got someone on the inside looking out for her.

A New Little Miracle

I am apparently getting older than I like to think.

Two nights ago I stayed up all night - for a total of 39 hours awake - to be a doula at a birth, along with a friend of mine.

This particular couple had researched, studied, and learned a lot and were prepared to give everything they had to a natural, unmedicated birth experience. It was 17 hours of active labor, but they did it - and they have a beautiful baby boy. In the end, it was lucky they had two doulas, because I think we were better able to keep up the energy for hip squeezes, back rubs, creative thinking, etc! 17 hours is an extraordinary amount of time to labor and I am awed by what this couple did. And I say couple because the father was absolutely unwavering in his support, and unlike many fathers he was present both physically and mentally. It was beautiful to watch.

I am still recovering from the lack of sleep (hence the feeling old) but I just feel so blessed to have had the privilege to be present at this birth. It's one of the most beautiful, awe-inspiring events in a person's life and I was there. 

Even more notable - this was the first birth I have been at as a doula since Natalee died.

For reasons both emotional and practical, the opportunity just hasn't presented itself. I was with Tammy when Emmalee was born last August but I wasn't necessarily there to "doula" at that birth like I had her first two. Not in the same way, anyway. The truth is that with small children and no childcare, it's just hard to commit to someone for their entire labor. And I'm sure that emotionally and subconsciously, I just didn't want to do it.

And then this couple came along. And the request was very appealing. A mother due in the summer (when I have easy access to baby-sitting) and I was just to be the back-up for the one week my friend would be on vacation. Easy enough. Still, I went to meet the couple with my friend very begrudgingly, for reasons I'm still not really sure of. Instantly upon meeting them, those feelings disappeared. I felt a connection immediately and really enjoyed getting to know them. By the end of the evening, I was asking if I could come to their birth even if my friend was available. I just felt like I wanted to be there so badly.

As it turned out, my friend returned from her trip Saturday afternoon and this woman went into labor Saturday night. I can't explain the excitement and adrenaline I felt as I got ready to go to her house.

I just knew this was going to be a beautiful, amazing birth. I just knew this woman was going to be amazed by her own strength. I knew she and her husband would be even more bonded than before. And I just knew the labor was going to go fast.

I was right about all except the last. LOL!

In my bag, I packed a guardian angel pin and my bracelet that says "Natalee" with her birthstones. I just felt like I needed them with me to get through the experience. Several times during the labor, things happened that reminded me of Natalee. Some of them had to do with the actual labor itself, others were just little reminders. The couple had an iPod with a birthing music playlist, and at one point I noticed the Lord's Prayer was playing. The same prayer I had repeated so desperately as they worked to save Natalee. And yet, I felt no fear - ever - that this baby would be lost to us. There was one time when I stood above the mother and father as they sat together in the labor tub. I looked down and noticed the light coming in from the window next to them was projecting a small rainbow on the floor of the tub, right next to their legs. Beautiful, and I was reminded of God's love - felt so tenderly in the room.

The mother is a pastor and her faith shines through in all she does. For reasons I am still trying to process, is just seems so right to me that she was the one in my path at this time. 

A couple of months ago, our new kitten crawled into a tree and pulled a baby robin out of its nest, newly-hatched. I watched it happen and stood by, horrified, as this kitten I loved did something so brutal - snatching this helpless little being away from its safe haven and its mother. I tried everything I could to distract the kitten, to convince him not to do it - but he did it anyway, and ran off away from me with the robin. 

A few moments later, my kids told me the kitten had deposited the robin on the ground by their playset. I walked over, and saw that it was hurt, but still alive. Every few seconds its little beak moved, looking around for food. I felt it was looking for help, and I couldn't bear to watch this little baby die.

I made some frantic phone calls but the day was almost over and I couldn't reach anyone for help. I turned to the internet and based on what I read, placed the baby robin into a shoebox with a blanket and tried to feed it some mushy cat food. It continued to hold on, and I continued to think that maybe - just maybe - I could save it. I kept it in the car as we ran errands, and I finally got the phone number of a wildlife rehabilitator in our area who said she would help. I took my daughter inside to her dance lesson and when I came back out, the baby bird had died.

We buried the bird beneath the tree that had provided its shelter, and said a little prayer to God. I thanked him for letting us know this little bird, and helping us try to save it. And I thanked God for reminding us that no life -  no matter how small or how short - goes unnoticed. That all life is important. And I cried as I said the words, not for the bird - but for Natalee. At the time, I thought that was the end of my real life parable. 

But now I realize there is more.

Our kitten didn't meant to hurt the robin, and he didn't mean to hurt us when he took it from the nest. And I still love the kitten, even if I can't fully understand the instinct or reasons why he did it. I want to believe that baby robin was meant to be with its mother, but that just wasn't its destiny. And if it had been safe in the nest, I wouldn't have had the chance to know it and try to save it. And I can't explain how many times my children and I have talked about that robin and the cycle of life.

Today, I had to take my children to the pediatrician for their annual physicals. As we were pulling out of the parking lot, I looked up and noticed a nest on top of a bush, just a few feet from the car. In the nest was a robin, and then I saw a baby robin stick its scrawny little head and beak up out of the nest. It looked newly-hatched too, exactly like the robin we tried to save.

It was comforting to me to see this mother robin and her nest, undisturbed and living life exactly as they expected to. I couldn't save the robin in our backyard, but I still feel such peace and hope when I see another baby robin in this world, being taken care of by its mother. I'll never look at robins eggs and newly-hatched birds the same way.

Such a beautiful lesson in life.