So, the first three nights of Elijah in his own room have gone pretty well, but something happened last night that really unnerved me.
I have his baby monitor on my nightstand so that I can hear him cry when he wakes up to eat. He woke up at 1:00, and I woke up when I heard him cry on the monitor. I went into his room and fed him, then went back to bed and right back to sleep.
At 3:30, I heard him crying in the other room, only more loudly and urgently than before. I looked at the monitor and it wasn't showing that he was crying, so I wondered as I rushed to his room if maybe I had switched the channels by accident and maybe it wasn't picking up his signal. After I burst into his room, I stopped short because he had suddenly stopped crying as soon as I opened his door. I tip-toed to his bed to see that he was completely sound asleep.
I had imagined the whole thing. He was never crying, which was why the monitor 'wasn't working.' When he woke up to eat at 4:30, it was on the monitor just like usual.
Now I'm wondering if I have lost my mind.
Wednesday, November 28, 2012
Monday, November 26, 2012
Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes
I moved Elijah to his own room last night. I missed him pretty badly for the first ten minutes, but then I fell asleep.
Thus we begin adventures in sleep-training. We're off to a good start. I think last night was the best night's sleep I've had since he came home from the hospital. He only woke up twice, which is a huge improvement over 5 times the night before.
I have decided the 'cry it out' method is simply not for me. There are ways that don't traumatize me. I don't know what effect such a method has on the baby, maybe nothing long term, but I know that crying alone cannot be pleasant, even if it doesn't have some kind of long-term psychological impression. I have been told to read this book, so I'm going to give it a try. It looks like exactly what I want.
All that to say, I am venturing into a new phase of parenting, and I'm kind of excited (mostly at the prospect of actually getting some sleep).
We had the most incredible vacation with Adam's family. Adam sorely needed a break, and I got to hone my Halo skills, so it was a great deal all around :-) Now I have SO MUCH work to get done this week, so I'm gonna get off Blogspot and go do some of it.
Thus we begin adventures in sleep-training. We're off to a good start. I think last night was the best night's sleep I've had since he came home from the hospital. He only woke up twice, which is a huge improvement over 5 times the night before.
I have decided the 'cry it out' method is simply not for me. There are ways that don't traumatize me. I don't know what effect such a method has on the baby, maybe nothing long term, but I know that crying alone cannot be pleasant, even if it doesn't have some kind of long-term psychological impression. I have been told to read this book, so I'm going to give it a try. It looks like exactly what I want.
All that to say, I am venturing into a new phase of parenting, and I'm kind of excited (mostly at the prospect of actually getting some sleep).
We had the most incredible vacation with Adam's family. Adam sorely needed a break, and I got to hone my Halo skills, so it was a great deal all around :-) Now I have SO MUCH work to get done this week, so I'm gonna get off Blogspot and go do some of it.
Tuesday, November 13, 2012
105 - A Song of Thanksgiving
From March 27 to July 10 was 105 days that Elijah spent in the hospital before coming home healthy.
This year, I have a lot of things to be thankful for, but 105 stand out.
I am thankful for:
The car that drove me to the hospital 105 times.
The nurses who gave me 105 progress reports.
The hospital that gave me 105 meal trays.
The body that pumped milk for 105 days.
The baby who won 105 battles.
The husband who held me for 105 meltdowns.
The God who answered 105 prayers.
Yes, I have a lot of things to be thankful for, but 105 stand out.
This year, I have a lot of things to be thankful for, but 105 stand out.
I am thankful for:
The car that drove me to the hospital 105 times.
The nurses who gave me 105 progress reports.
The hospital that gave me 105 meal trays.
The body that pumped milk for 105 days.
The baby who won 105 battles.
The husband who held me for 105 meltdowns.
The God who answered 105 prayers.
Yes, I have a lot of things to be thankful for, but 105 stand out.
Monday, October 29, 2012
Been a While
I spend a lot of time with Elijah. So much time, in fact, that I eagerly look forward to taking a shower because not only can I wash off the spit-up, but I enjoy just a few minutes of having my body to myself.
I can't believe how much I love this little person. It's a love I have never experienced before now. It's as if a new door has been opened in me, and I'm discovering this whole new corridor of myself that wasn't there last year. Being a mom has been stretching me and challenging me. I think it's making me a better person. When I remember myself a few years ago, especially myself in college, I am amazed at what a self-centered person I was (I still am self-centered, but bear with me.). Now, my time is not my own. My sleep is not my own. My body is not my own. This little person is completely reliant on my desire to give up large parts of myself for him.
Motherhood also gives me a whole new appreciation for my own mother. She fed me and clothed me and washed me and kept me warm and cool and dry and alive. It's a wonder to think that we all start out like that: balls of squalling, soft flesh with hungry, toothless mouths who can only survive because of the sacrifice of people whom we never did anything for.
Elijah can sit up with a little support and rolls over like a pro now. Still no signs of crawling, but you can tell he wants to move. He just hasn't figured it out yet. He likes oatmeal. He liked sweet potatoes, but sweet potatoes didn't like him. We're letting him get used to oatmeal on his tummy before adding any new foods.
In other news, my dad is coming back from Afghanistan this week. I'm so excited to show off Elijah to him. He was still in the hospital when Dad left the country, so Elijah will look like a giant to him now.
I am sad not to do anything for Halloween again this year. My original plan fell through, so alas, no festivities this year. I will be carving a pumpkin, dressing up the baby, and taking pictures, though.
My wedding ring broke. I have to take it to get repaired sometime soon. I was bummed. I am borrowing a band from my mother in the meanwhile.
I started a Bible study with the women in my church. I have never really been a Bible study person, and certainly not a 'women's' Bible study, but it's been pretty nice. We are reading the Gospel of John, and I'm learning a lot. It's giving me a place to go every week and a chance to visit with other moms.
I am also trying to get involved in a group for mothers of preemies in my area. They offer a lot of support for parents with babies in the hospital. I would like something good to come out of my experience, so I am hoping to get involved and stay involved. It's such a relief to have mothers to talk to who have been where I've been. It's a terrible place to be alone. I wish I knew about them when Elijah was in the NICU, but better late than never.
AND... I can't think of anything else to say. I am a mom. I cook. I clean. I (try to) sleep. I snuggle with Adam at night and watch TV shows before bed. I am falling into a delightful normalcy. I have plenty of happiness to help me recover from my pregnancy, my delivery, my hospital journey, and my loss of Phil.
Incidentally, Elijah is starting to look at pages when I try to read to him, so I feel the beginning of a whole new phase of our relationship.
I can't believe how much I love this little person. It's a love I have never experienced before now. It's as if a new door has been opened in me, and I'm discovering this whole new corridor of myself that wasn't there last year. Being a mom has been stretching me and challenging me. I think it's making me a better person. When I remember myself a few years ago, especially myself in college, I am amazed at what a self-centered person I was (I still am self-centered, but bear with me.). Now, my time is not my own. My sleep is not my own. My body is not my own. This little person is completely reliant on my desire to give up large parts of myself for him.
Motherhood also gives me a whole new appreciation for my own mother. She fed me and clothed me and washed me and kept me warm and cool and dry and alive. It's a wonder to think that we all start out like that: balls of squalling, soft flesh with hungry, toothless mouths who can only survive because of the sacrifice of people whom we never did anything for.
Elijah can sit up with a little support and rolls over like a pro now. Still no signs of crawling, but you can tell he wants to move. He just hasn't figured it out yet. He likes oatmeal. He liked sweet potatoes, but sweet potatoes didn't like him. We're letting him get used to oatmeal on his tummy before adding any new foods.
In other news, my dad is coming back from Afghanistan this week. I'm so excited to show off Elijah to him. He was still in the hospital when Dad left the country, so Elijah will look like a giant to him now.
I am sad not to do anything for Halloween again this year. My original plan fell through, so alas, no festivities this year. I will be carving a pumpkin, dressing up the baby, and taking pictures, though.
My wedding ring broke. I have to take it to get repaired sometime soon. I was bummed. I am borrowing a band from my mother in the meanwhile.
I started a Bible study with the women in my church. I have never really been a Bible study person, and certainly not a 'women's' Bible study, but it's been pretty nice. We are reading the Gospel of John, and I'm learning a lot. It's giving me a place to go every week and a chance to visit with other moms.
I am also trying to get involved in a group for mothers of preemies in my area. They offer a lot of support for parents with babies in the hospital. I would like something good to come out of my experience, so I am hoping to get involved and stay involved. It's such a relief to have mothers to talk to who have been where I've been. It's a terrible place to be alone. I wish I knew about them when Elijah was in the NICU, but better late than never.
AND... I can't think of anything else to say. I am a mom. I cook. I clean. I (try to) sleep. I snuggle with Adam at night and watch TV shows before bed. I am falling into a delightful normalcy. I have plenty of happiness to help me recover from my pregnancy, my delivery, my hospital journey, and my loss of Phil.
Incidentally, Elijah is starting to look at pages when I try to read to him, so I feel the beginning of a whole new phase of our relationship.
Saturday, August 25, 2012
Social Medium: Communicating With the Dead on Facebook
Since Phil's death earlier this year, I have been learning about loss and grief. I have not truly sifted through all of the emotions that I am sure are somewhere inside of me; it's a work-in-progress. I go back and forth between denial and acceptance without much attention to the stages in between. I fear for the day when I really roll up my sleeves and deal with it. For now, I don't talk about it. I just write about it. One thing that I have experienced with all too much feeling is the intense desire to communicate with Phil. I miss the experiences, I miss being with him, seeing his face, etc., but most of all I miss telling him about things and hearing his feedback. I miss hearing his ideas and desires and telling him mine.
I dream of him often. It's not the sort of dream where I don't know or think he's dead. He is always dead in my dreams, but in my dreams he has always come back somehow. Once he faked his death. Once he was a miracle of science and came back to life 2 days after he drowned. Once (less pleasantly) he was a malignant spirit who was haunting me. Each of these led to a most unpleasant wake-up
The most dramatic dream was one where we were standing in the middle of a nondescript construction site. In the dream, it was right after Elijah was born (although I had this dream a couple of weeks ago) and two weeks before Phil died.
"I'm sorry your baby was born too early," Phil said.
"I'm sorry you're going to die in two weeks," I said.
We hugged.
He melted in my arms as I woke up, tears burning my eyes.
For all the agony that dream caused me, I could not help but feel that I had actually talked to Phil. I really felt like my spirit had created and sent information and his spirit had received it. Which brings me to the topic of this blog.
**Disclaimer**
For the record, I do not believe in the ghosts of the dead returning or that Phil in any sense was actually in my dream or actually talking to me. I'm sure some of those who read this might believe in such things, and I hope they enjoy the comfort that it gives them, but please don't lose the point of my post by mistaking my meaning. My purpose is only to reflect on a social phenomenon that I have noticed.
**End Disclaimer**
Sometimes people have Facebook accounts or other online presences. Sometimes those people die, and they leave those presences behind. A lot went into Phil's Facebook. Many of his likes, activities, pictures, and other bits of himself were put into a page that became a ready-made memorial site at his death. Suddenly that page was a place where mourners can remember and gawkers can gaze from the privacy of their computers. Acquaintances suddenly know him better than they did in life and the crowds gather to associate with this tragic slice of human drama.
After a while, the crowd subsided and people visited less and we were left with a core of Phil-junkies. We visit his site out of habit, injecting photos and jokes like a drug into our minds, committing new photos to memory and hoping some new part of him is exposed to feed the hearts of those that miss him desperately.
I think some of this comes from the fact that there is now a big, fat period on the end of his life. It's over; he will never do a new thing. Everything he has already done is all we will ever have of him, and Facebook contains a fairly comprehensive overview of the most recent years of his life.
His photo stands beside words he said, responses he gave, messages he sent. In a way, that little avatar feels like him. Statements he made are sealed with the stamp of that little thumbnail, as if it were a political ad: "This message approved by..." We comment and talk about him as if he is still there, on the other side of the computer screen, waiting to respond. So we talk, and comment, and message, hoping that the little messages we send out into cyber space will be heard, much like a scientist sending messages blindly into outer space, hoping to make contact.
There are downsides to this pageantry. One is that there's not a day my heart doesn't stop because I've seen "Phil likes XYZ." Any activity with that little stamp of approval feels like he's still living in the internet, liking things and watching, reading, talking. Additionally, there are those who are offended by his Facebook still being active and people still "talking to him." They complain about this form of mourning; it looks to them like an unnecessary or unhealthy spectacle of people parading their sorrow.
My husband is under instruction to delete my Facebook after an appropriate interval if I die before him. I have no desire for my image to haunt those who loved me. Because that's what it feels like: it feels like the dead are haunting us in the internet. Faces of those we loved with interactions we shared float before our eyes in illuminated images, and photos of them take on a spectral quality.
I have realized that communication is the richest way we have of building relationships. No wonder they suffer so badly when communication is weak. With Phil gone, communication with him is the biggest void that I have felt. I will visit and revisit his Facebook and send him messages until it dies or the internet ends or the Apocalypse happens, hoping with the tiniest sliver of hope that he'll say something.
I dream of him often. It's not the sort of dream where I don't know or think he's dead. He is always dead in my dreams, but in my dreams he has always come back somehow. Once he faked his death. Once he was a miracle of science and came back to life 2 days after he drowned. Once (less pleasantly) he was a malignant spirit who was haunting me. Each of these led to a most unpleasant wake-up
The most dramatic dream was one where we were standing in the middle of a nondescript construction site. In the dream, it was right after Elijah was born (although I had this dream a couple of weeks ago) and two weeks before Phil died.
"I'm sorry your baby was born too early," Phil said.
"I'm sorry you're going to die in two weeks," I said.
We hugged.
He melted in my arms as I woke up, tears burning my eyes.
For all the agony that dream caused me, I could not help but feel that I had actually talked to Phil. I really felt like my spirit had created and sent information and his spirit had received it. Which brings me to the topic of this blog.
**Disclaimer**
For the record, I do not believe in the ghosts of the dead returning or that Phil in any sense was actually in my dream or actually talking to me. I'm sure some of those who read this might believe in such things, and I hope they enjoy the comfort that it gives them, but please don't lose the point of my post by mistaking my meaning. My purpose is only to reflect on a social phenomenon that I have noticed.
**End Disclaimer**
Sometimes people have Facebook accounts or other online presences. Sometimes those people die, and they leave those presences behind. A lot went into Phil's Facebook. Many of his likes, activities, pictures, and other bits of himself were put into a page that became a ready-made memorial site at his death. Suddenly that page was a place where mourners can remember and gawkers can gaze from the privacy of their computers. Acquaintances suddenly know him better than they did in life and the crowds gather to associate with this tragic slice of human drama.
After a while, the crowd subsided and people visited less and we were left with a core of Phil-junkies. We visit his site out of habit, injecting photos and jokes like a drug into our minds, committing new photos to memory and hoping some new part of him is exposed to feed the hearts of those that miss him desperately.
I think some of this comes from the fact that there is now a big, fat period on the end of his life. It's over; he will never do a new thing. Everything he has already done is all we will ever have of him, and Facebook contains a fairly comprehensive overview of the most recent years of his life.
His photo stands beside words he said, responses he gave, messages he sent. In a way, that little avatar feels like him. Statements he made are sealed with the stamp of that little thumbnail, as if it were a political ad: "This message approved by..." We comment and talk about him as if he is still there, on the other side of the computer screen, waiting to respond. So we talk, and comment, and message, hoping that the little messages we send out into cyber space will be heard, much like a scientist sending messages blindly into outer space, hoping to make contact.
There are downsides to this pageantry. One is that there's not a day my heart doesn't stop because I've seen "Phil likes XYZ." Any activity with that little stamp of approval feels like he's still living in the internet, liking things and watching, reading, talking. Additionally, there are those who are offended by his Facebook still being active and people still "talking to him." They complain about this form of mourning; it looks to them like an unnecessary or unhealthy spectacle of people parading their sorrow.
My husband is under instruction to delete my Facebook after an appropriate interval if I die before him. I have no desire for my image to haunt those who loved me. Because that's what it feels like: it feels like the dead are haunting us in the internet. Faces of those we loved with interactions we shared float before our eyes in illuminated images, and photos of them take on a spectral quality.
I have realized that communication is the richest way we have of building relationships. No wonder they suffer so badly when communication is weak. With Phil gone, communication with him is the biggest void that I have felt. I will visit and revisit his Facebook and send him messages until it dies or the internet ends or the Apocalypse happens, hoping with the tiniest sliver of hope that he'll say something.
Thursday, August 2, 2012
Full of Hope
There is a particular sort of tragedy to unused baby things - especially when they are long unused. They have a sense of longing to them. They were made to hold little bodies, to delight little hands and eyes, to snuggle close to little faces. When a crib stands empty in a corner for months, it could just as well be a black hole or an endless abyss for all the warmth it adds to a room. When toys and towels and blankets sit in a pile in a closet, unopened, unpacked, they lose their color, their softness. The emptiness is heavier because of all the potential missed, all the day-dreams during pregnancy evaporated, all the expectations suspended.
The three and a half months I spent sitting in a hospital room with Elijah feel like some distant, terrible nightmare - only three weeks into being home. We have fallen into a routine that is so comfortable, so natural, so right that I can scarcely remember all the weight that used to sit on my heart. Sometimes when I see him curled up in his bed, I feel a lump in my throat at how much I had longed for that sight. After months of the crib standing vacant and cold, it's a dream come true to see him safe and home. He adds such a warmth and presence to every room that I can't help but be filled with delight. I'm finally getting to be his mommy and not just his visitor.
The three and a half months I spent sitting in a hospital room with Elijah feel like some distant, terrible nightmare - only three weeks into being home. We have fallen into a routine that is so comfortable, so natural, so right that I can scarcely remember all the weight that used to sit on my heart. Sometimes when I see him curled up in his bed, I feel a lump in my throat at how much I had longed for that sight. After months of the crib standing vacant and cold, it's a dream come true to see him safe and home. He adds such a warmth and presence to every room that I can't help but be filled with delight. I'm finally getting to be his mommy and not just his visitor.
Wednesday, August 1, 2012
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