Doing on My Due Date

Today is my due date.

Nine years later, it still feels a bit strange to type those words since our precious Kiddo arrived a little more than three months early.  But there it is -- a piece of our history that is indelibly inked in my mind, body and heart, and in his physical presence.

Despite the severity of the illnesses my body was fighting to overcome, and the medical interventions necessary to save the both of us at the time of his birth, I remember most of the details of that fateful day with incredible clarity.  I'm grateful that time has helped soften some of the sharper edges of the emotions I experienced that day -- especially the fear and uncertainty with our lives hanging in the balance -- but it's not something I'm likely to forget.  And I don't want to.

Similarly, every time the calendar nears December 10th, I remember that's the date Kiddo was supposed to come into the world.  I doubt I'll ever forget this date, either.  Again, I don't want to.

If you're thinking something along the lines of, "Why are you still thinking of your due date?  That was so long ago.  And we all know babies come when they're ready," I forgive you -- but please keep those comments to yourself.  I'm aware that a due date isn't a promise of a child's delivery.  I'm also aware, despite his incredibly early arrival, that we still have a precious Kiddo to love and parent and teach and celebrate; but that doesn't take away from the grief and loss I've experienced with being unable to see my pregnancy come to full-term status.

And it doesn't even touch the surface of the hundreds of losses we've had along the way with our premature birth experience -- from coming home without my baby, fighting back the tears as I watched a new family leave in joy -- to our current challenges, now four-plus-years long, in trying to find the right placement for Kiddo in the public schools in our area.

I've hesitated to publish much I've written about this because I've had a number of friends and family members who have miscarried.  I know they've watched their due dates pass by, wondering if they would have been delivering that day, imagining how it would feel to hold their babies in their arms, grieving the loss of something so precious.  And even though our outcomes are vastly different, I feel a resonance with the grief of losing something that I thought I'd get to experience, but didn't.

Grief is such an interesting emotional process to navigate -- and so incredibly personal!  I've had more than a few conversations about it, especially over the past year as we've had to navigate yet more challenges and losses that come with the territory of being a special-needs family.

Through all of these conversations with peers, mentors and friends (many of whom are also special-needs families), the one thing that keeps coming up is how, as a society, we seem to think people need to "get over" whatever loss they have experienced -- as if it's just magically going to go away or not hurt so damn much, even years later.  I'm not sure why some hold onto that belief; I can assure you that I don't espouse this shallow viewpoint.

What has become more apparent to me as we've experienced multiple anniversaries of our losses is that grief is not linear, nor cyclical; rather, it's spiral in nature.  While today's anniversary is a static date, I am not a static person.  I am constantly changing, engaged in my personal process, handling multiple responsibilities, and experiencing all of the emotions that come with being a human, living on this planet.

So, even if I have a sense of déjà vu on today's anniversary, I'm not in the same place as I was last year.  Or the year before.  And why should I be?  I may feel like I've evolved more and am higher up the spiral, or I might feel like I've regressed and am lower.  Neither perspective is more right or wrong than the other, and I don't seek to define my status.

I do, however, strive to work though the grief as I experience it, allowing the fullness of it to be present, but without getting mired in it.  I think Phyllis Diller said it best: 

"My recipe for dealing with anger and frustration:  set the kitchen timer for twenty minutes, cry, rant, and rave, and at the sound of the bell, simmer down and go about business as usual."

I think her advice is brilliant, and I find it sometimes helps in my grief process, too.

So... what's a gal to do on her due date that wasn't?

I don't remember exactly where I got the idea to celebrate my due date.  It could have been a suggestion from one of the NICU nurses, or maybe I read it on one of the many preemie websites or forums I followed.  In any case, I remember a comment about how cathartic it could be for preemie moms to set aside time on their original due date to do something for themselves.  I figured Kiddo gets a big celebration every year even though I was there every step of the way for his birth, so why not celebrate his original due date for myself?

Over the years I've varied my choices of commemorating today.  Some have been fun, including lunch with friends or a new hair color and cut.  Other times have been quieter -- more introspective -- maybe including a relaxing massage, or quiet time with a pot of tea and my journal.

For whatever reason, this year's anniversaries involving Kiddo have been tougher to navigate.  I'm aware that we've experienced a lot of loss in our family over the years, specifically during the month of December, so that piece of information is usually present; but it's not just that.  Things feel more difficult this year.  My emotions have been closer to the surface and much more raw.  I feel far more vulnerable.  And today was a doozy where Kiddo was concerned.

I'm pretty sure he's clearing something from his system based on his behavior the past few days.  Even though I have this piece of information, the meltdowns can get pretty bad and it's often tough to navigate them in the moment.  Today definitely qualified in the "Calgon, take me away!" department and, while I had planned to spend some time by myself, the minutes kept ticking by and my time kept slipping away.  I'm a decent negotiator and am learning my way around as an advocate, but I still haven't managed to figure out how to slow time.

By evening, I told Hubby I needed some time to myself.  He readily agreed (apparently, it was that obvious!) and helped Kiddo navigate the schedule for the rest of the evening so I could find some breathing room and relax.

I'm grateful for the space to refocus and regroup.  I knew today didn't feel like a shopping- or lunch-with-friends day, but I also knew I needed to find something positive to commemorate this date that's inextricably linked to Kiddo's intended birthday.  So... what did I do?

I have been considering a business decision for about two months now, and solidified it today by officially joining Jamberry Nails as an independent consultant!  It's a completely different direction from my "usual" commemoration, and it feels like the right one.  I'm excited about the product and opportunities, and like the fit of how I can work this business with Kiddo still on an extremely reduced school schedule.

I also appreciate the potential this business has, since we have considered Kiddo's needs for continued private tutoring and/or school in a non-traditional setting, and the continued financial commitment that would entail.  This business has the potential to provide us more options to support him, and allow me to pursue my interests, too.

Finally, I get to "work" with one of my dearest childhood friends, who happens to live in Texas.  I haven't seen her since early last year, so it was a bonus to chat with her on the phone tonight and share my news.  I look forward to many more conversations with her as I navigate my way around the start-up process in the coming weeks.

Today has been full of doing; now it's time to be.  I'm calling it good... for now.

(Editor's Note:  This post was written yesterday, but I needed to sleep on it before publishing.)

 

  

It's MY Body!

I love how Kiddo helps me hone my skills as a bodyworker.

At the risk of over-sharing, let’s just say that Kiddo has been plugged up a bit and I needed to help him get things "moving" again.  After a cold and then bronchitis, complete with antibiotics and a steroid breathing treatment, his system is out of whack and more than a little sluggish.  I really wanted to give him some abdominal massage with castor oil tonight, in the hopes things will start heading in the right direction:  out.  So I broached the subject with him.

He was initially reticent to embrace the idea and said he “didn’t like” massage... which puzzled me.  He has been on my table since he was a baby, and I’ve seen him enjoy a number of sessions in his eight years on the planet with other therapists, too.  Sensing something else was beneath his declaration, I asked a few questions in the hopes of clarifying his perspective.  He got rather frustrated with me and shouted, “I don’t want you rubbing my tummy because it’s MY body!”  I think my non-flustered, matter-of-fact reply, “You’re right.  It IS your body,” completely puzzled him.  Inside, I was secretly cheering for him.  That’s damn straight, Kiddo – you, and ONLY you, are the master of your body.  Hot damn and way to go in taking charge like that!

I went on to affirm that Kiddo has total control of his body, and can decide who touches him and always has the right to say “No!” if something doesn’t feel right.  I have to admit – I didn’t expect to have such a conversation today, but he clearly was ready for it.  (And we’ve already talked about this topic a number of ways/times in the past, but no previous conversation was quite as direct as today’s.)  As he quieted, I reminded him that I could teach him how to do the massage for himself – so he could get the benefit of the castor oil and remain in charge of how it felt.  He said he wanted to do that, so I planned to show him after his bath.

When he was finished with his bath, I reminded him we needed to do the massage and asked if he was ready to learn.  He surprised me by asking if I would do it for him, instead.  Of course I said yes.  I don’t think I’ve ever turned down a chance to provide Kiddo with some type of positive touch – a hug, high-five, or loving pat on the head.  And when it comes to giving him massage, it just feels like an integral part of our connection as mother and son.  Some probably would say it’s because of my training as a massage therapist but I think it has more to do with my own primary “love language” – physical touch – coupled with the fact that I couldn’t get my hands on him as a newborn for some time.  Being able to look at my son but not hold him for days (19 of them, to be exact!) made me realize very quickly how important it is to accept any and every opportunity I get to connect with him.

So when he asked me tonight if I would rub his tummy, I immediately accepted.  Just like any session, I explained how I’d work with him, what he could expect in terms of details (he is much more relaxed when he gets some info ahead of time in just about any situation), and reminded him that I needed him to tell me if anything hurt or tickled, or if he wanted me to stop.  After getting him situated comfortably – he’s a “nester” just like I am – we began.

I’m not sure if I’ve ever mentioned it before, so let me tell you:  Kiddo is extremely ticklish.  Wickedly so.  And he has been, right from the start of his extra-early arrival into this world.  I’ve known for years that the pressure he likes – and can tolerate – is quite firm and very, very slow.  Slower-than-molasses slow.  Grandma-on-the-highway slow.  Waiting-for-the-last-drop-of-honey-from-the-dipper slow.  That’s just what he needs, and it's all his body will accept.  And since it’s his body, I’m perfectly fine with that.  He is the one who lives inside his skin, and only he knows what feels comfortable and what doesn’t.  And he does a great job of reminding me when I need to slow down or use more pressure.

Tonight, it took a good five minutes just to establish the contact of my hand on his abdomen without him flinching.  And that came with words of introduction (“I’m going to let my hand sit on your belly now.”) and lots of waiting.  Then, when I started moving my hand even the tiniest bit (again, with words to let him know it was coming next), I had to stop a number of times.  His hands grabbed at his sides, his knees came up and his feet clenched into little balls.  I asked him if he wanted me to stop moving.  He did, but didn’t want me to stop contact.  So I waited.  I reminded him to take a deep breath.  He did.  Little by little, his body relaxed.  And when he seemed to have calmed down, I asked if he wanted me to try again.  He did.

His response was less pronounced the next time I moved my hand – again, just a fraction of an inch – but I could tell he was still uncomfortable.  I paused again and checked in…

“Do you want me to stop?”

“No,” came the reply.

“Should I slow down?” I prompted.

“Yes, please.”  And he relaxed some more.  I remembered to keep the pressure firm and move very, very slowly.

Soon, I needed to change the direction of my hand and prompted him with that information but still, the flinch happened.  Mind you, it was slight – but it was still there.  And none of this flusters me.  Most clients I’ve worked with haven’t had much abdominal massage and it’s not uncommon for me to notice them holding their breath or feel their muscles tense even the tiniest bit in anticipation of touch in an extremely vulnerable area.  But Kiddo’s responses are heightened to a different level even than that.

“Hmmm…” I mused aloud.  “I wonder if there is a way I can keep my hand here and do a little massage for you but without tickling.”

“Yeah,” he giggled.  “That would be good.”  

“Well, I notice your hands are gripping your sides a lot, right?” (I think I have an idea...)

"Yes."

"What if I had you put your hands on top of my hand... and then you can direct it around your belly?"  (Oh my goodness -- could this work?!)

"Okay."

So that's what he did.  His little hands plopped on top of mine, and he took control of the speed and direction of the session.  I simply let my hand rest firmly on his abdomen and waited for his lead.  Eventually, I noticed his breathing relax even more, and caught him pausing at a place where I felt heat.  We shared some words about what we both felt and then moved on.  Once, he even went a little too quickly, giggled as he flinched, and then stopped himself.  We both had a laugh that he could tickle himself.

The time with him was so precious.  Our hands were connected as one, moving as a unit.  I was fully engaged, and yet I didn't feel like I was "doing" anything.  Have I mentioned how much I love that feeling of presence?  It's a truly wonderful experience... being so in the moment of what is that everything else fades away for that time.  And to have it with my beloved Kiddo made it all the more special.

Soon, he'd had enough of the massage and announced that fact.  We took a moment to "say good-bye" to his tummy and then cleaned up our hands, finishing his preparations before bed.  As we said our night-nights and prayers, he took my hand and placed it over his belly one last time, as if to affirm our connection there before letting it go.  That's right Kiddo -- it's your body.  I'm grateful you allowed me to be present with you tonight.