Memento Mori
In addition to the box of ashes in my family room, and the unkempt dusty pile of cards tied with ribbon, a padded manila envelope containing a pink blanket, and other hospital detritus and paraphernalia, I have:
-- a lilac bush (gift)
-- a tree in a park (gift)
-- a bracelet
-- hopefully this year, a bench in a local, green setting
Of course I need none of this to remember that my daughter died, but sometimes I like the feeling of tending to something, or having something physical to look at. Sometimes I just appreciate the bolt of remembrance at an odd time, like standing in line at the grocery store and finding myself studying my bracelet. Other times I'm rather stunned that I've been watering the lilac for a week and not really thought about the back story, or driven by the park without a glance at the tree, or completely forgotten about the deeper purpose of the jewelery on my wrist and worn it like one would an old watch.
When I first began wearing my bracelet, I thought it was so big, so shiny that it would be impossible not to notice it every waking minute. I can now go days without realizing I'm wearing it. It's become a part of me, like the watch or the wedding band, that's just there. The lilac is now a small bush, but I found myself this week paying far more attention to what kind of pansies I'm going to plant on the corner in front of it this fall. I don't think it's forgetting, nor do I think it's accepting. I think it's a matter of my life encircling these objects, and my grief becoming an everyday, commonplace downward glance.
I tried to think of a simile for how I'm growing used to the strangeness of my grief and the momentoes that litter my life -- a missing limb? An extra digit? and the first thing that sprung to my mind was the calmness with which I moved through the baby flotsam of Bella's life, until I was nonplussed to discover a sippy in my purse, or an ABC magnet on my laundry machine. I guess it's just like this. What are now everyday objects occasionally pierce my consciousness to remind me of a daughter, and how the routines and symbols of my life have changed around them both.
Whadya you got?
22 Comments
View Printer Friendly Version
Email Article to Friend
Reader Comments (22)
Where do I even begin? I have become quite the hoarder of keepsakes and memorials devoted to our Doodles.
I have a bracelet - what started as a fertility bracelet, but my original one broke, and in a fit of prescience I thought it was a bad omen for my pregnancy - and when I ordered a replacement the sweet friend who made it added two pearls to represent the Doodles, and now I must wear it every day. I also have a band with two stones, representing them, which I wear with my wedding band and engagement ring, always.
We have two trees planted in a park for them with the generosity of many online friends. Another tree in a national park out west planted by my best friend and her husband.
I have a quilt, made by more online friends, each having picked out a square in honor of our Doodles. I have a box, full of paraphernalia: a scrapbook I made with photos, ultrasounds, cards, and the like, a t-shirt from my friends walking in the March for Babies in honor of our Doodles, every card sent for us after we lost them, photos of them in the hospital, their memory boxes with the hats and hospital bracelets they wore.
If I could I would fill my whole house with reminders of them, but this is the best I can do - to hoard. At one time I worried that each item would lessen in significance if I had too many symbols of them, but that hasn't happened yet.
I like the missing limb analogy, though mine is more invisible, like a deep searing scar.
all I've got -- aside from my journals, ultrasounds photos and some cards -- is lemon boy. we planted a lemon tree as part of our mourning ritual. unfortunately he has never fruited to ripeness. but that's pretty typical of my situation too, isn't it?
still, I like to tend to him and watch him grow, and this is now part of my daily routine. I craved lemons while pregnant. plus, when life gives you lemons...
I was just talking to my husband about this yesterday - funny... I have a few things: some pictures taken while she was still alive, a blanket given to me by some friends, a necklace with her birthstone from my best friend, charms for my bracelet from my book club and mother-in-law, the enormous pile of cards. But I still regret the things we didn't get. I wish I'd asked for the hat she was wearing. She only lived for fifteen minutes, and after her death, the hospital staff offered to take her foot and handprints, but my husband didn't want them to mess with her body. I respect that, but I still wish I had those prints, because I feel like I have so little of her to cling to. I do have one very precious thing - a plain silver ring with her name and birthdate engraved on the inside. My husband gave it to me after everyone else had left the funeral, and we knelt in the fresh dirt of her grave and sobbed. I wear it always, and in fact, now that it is summer, and in this new pregnancy my wedding band and engagement ring won't fit, I wear my daughter's ring on my left hand. It seems fitting somehow.
Nothing. Nothing at all.
I have a few things, but they are seldom looked at, nor are they ever in plain sight. My constant reminder is my broken heart.
I have everything from the 90 days of his life. Clothes, cards, a locket with his picture, blankets, even the medical equipment that didn't have to be returned, but my biggest reminder is his twin brother. He is my walking, talking reminder of my sweet baby. He is my living vision of what might have been. I occasionally look at the material things, but mostly they are just packed away for my surviving twin.
I know for some, this seems to be better than having nothing. In reality, it is a double edged sword. I am blessed to have my living twin, but the reminders creep in at the most unexpected times while watching him play. I suppose it will be that way for the remainder of his life as I watch him grow. I will always try to never burden him with this grief. I often feel guilty that while I should be celebrating his accomplishments, they are always tinged with grief. Each milestone is bittersweet.
.
I actually have almost the same as you. A shelf in my living room with the dusty cards and ribbon, Also up there: a remembrance candle that we light on his birthday each year, and incomplete baby book, A couple of angle figurines, a loss journal, a box filled with stuff from the hospital and hanging over that is framed artwork that was sent to us by friends. Outside is a lilac bush my parents bought us. Won't bloom properly, I think it needs more water.
I also got a bracelet, just after it happened. I wore it day and night but one of the links broke so I took it off (didn't want to lose it). I wish I could wear it again. I loved that bracelet.
All I have is the list I made of names I had picked out...
I don't even have an ultrasound pic...
I did finally pick two of those names...one boy, one girl.
When I had my twins later I talked to them while they were in their isolettes about the older brother/sister they would have had...
I will tell them later on when they are old enough to understand...I'll always have that memory to carry on.
a crystal cross with an inscription including a verse. a cherry tree that blooms light pink in the spring. ultrasound pictures. cards that friends sent. a journal.
So poignant. It is so strange that you brought back a very strong memory of my own. When we returned from the hospital (I had been there 5wks prior to delivering), not long at all after sitting down, my husband came in with a scissors and cut my four bracelets from my arm. One of my own, and one for each of my babies. Over the years, they have been gone for 8, for some reason this has stood out in my memory. The way he did it, the finality of it, the symbolism of it. It has held meaning for me. And then I read this, and love what you did in your daughter's memory.
From the hospital, I have the crib card (even though she was never in a crib), bracelets, Certificate of Life with hand & footprints, beautiful white crocheted outfit (she wearing the hat & wrapped in the blanket when they brought her to me), & six lousy Polaroids. A niche to visit at the cemetery. One photo from the five ultrasounds I had. All my "congratulations, you're pregnant" & sympathy cards. Candles from the memorial candlelighting services that we've attended over the years. A huge collection of teddy bear angels that hang on & sit under our Christmas tree. Assorted Classic Pooh stuff that I've collected, including a ceramic music box & a collection of PJs that I love to wear to bed (makes me feel closer to her). A couple of angel figurines that we've received as gifts. I don't keep a photo of her at my office, but I do have a little Precious Moments angel figurine for the month of August sitting on my desk. An angel charm & a butterfly charm on my Italian charm bracelet. A collection of books on grief & pregnancy loss.A tree in the backyard that we now think of as "Katie's tree." A wooden chest in the spare bedroom at my mother's house that's filled with gifts from her friends & things that she bought for the baby, which I've peeked into but never yet had the guts to go through (perhaps when I'm home to visit this summer). There's probably more, but those are the main ones... and the collection continues to grow...!
Oh, what do I have? I have a little wooden cradle that sits next to my bed, with a tiny little red and white striped outfit that sat, untouched, in my bag because it never occurred to me to dress her. I have a blanket that looks like the one she was wrapped in, stolen from the birth of my third child, and it lies neatly folded, and under that is the tiny urn that contains her ashes. I have crib cards, hospital bracelets, I have a little ziploc bag which contains a lock of her hair. I have the tape measure they measured her with. The poem I wrote to her while she was laying in my arms. I have 13 photographs, all black and white. I have a cloth diaper that is stained with her amniotic fluid, and streaked with blood. Even this, I cannot throw out. The evidence of when I thought I was going to bring home a baby.
I have two huge boxes of sympathy cards, copies of the newspaper articles and hospital Philanthropy reports that featured our family and our loss, I have some beautiful things that people made for her, art and otherwise. I have a shadowbox for her that matches the two living kids, and a ceramic plate painted with her name.
I have a beautiful ring (read about it at http://happy-sadmama.blogspot.com/2008/04/ring.html) and I also wear a locket that I had custom made to hold a photo of her. It is a largish (1 inch across) dull silver pendant with a smaller disc on top which has some enameling on it (red and pink with a heart) and it opens like a doorknocker to reveal my little beauty. I love this so much.
How much is this worth to me? Oh, so much. So, so much. I am so grateful for every, single piece of this.
But I wish I had my baby instead.
I have his whole life in an under the bed crate and a necklace that means the world to me.
Layne (2003) calls these items "emotional artifacts" and I believe them to be crucial after loss. These tangible, material connections to our children help facilitate mourning, connection, understanding for many. It gives our children a "place" in our lives. Even symbols we wear, for some, represent our children or our connection to them, unbeknownst often to others. I call this brief ritualization, and in my research I'm finding that so many bereaved engage in these behaviors that facilitate ongoing bonds. And for so many, it helps them remain close to the insufferable loss of having a dead child.
in our bedroom, on one of the bureaus, his urn and a framed picture of his little feet, with my finger stroking them. in a drawer in the den, the memory box the hospital gave us, once precious, now...biding its time until perhaps his brother or sister want to discover it. a small album of u/s shots and photos that i made for him about a year later. and in the yard, three trees...the smallest one dying. which i am going to write about, because much as the transference makes no rational sense, it's breaking my heart.
I have the usual bundle of cards, dried flowers from the arrangemente that were sent, all the hospital gear -the I'm a Girl! card, her hat, blankets she was wrapped in, umbilical cord clamp, her outfits that they put her in when she was born and also the one they transported her in to the funeral home, a special note from her NICU nurse, and a Memory book the hospital did with handprints, footprints etc. 32 color pictures and a dozen ultrasound pictures. One picture is framed and is on our mantle. everything else is on the dresser in our bedroom. I even asked friends to forward me emails that were sent around when I was in the hospital; I kept everything I could get related to my pregnancy. We're actually thinking of buying a safe to keep it in. My husband is even more careful than I am, but for both of us, this collection is our most important possession.
I never know what to do when my son starts asking to "see baby feet, kiss baby feet." Or when we were having lunch at the hospital (my mother works there) and he asked if we could "Go up up [translation: take the elevator] and see baby." He is so limited in vocabulary still, we were getting him ready to be a big brother, and I have no idea how to explain that the urn, the box of cards and papers with prints and two baby blankets, and the plaster cast of her feet, are it, but that's not what a baby is, that this is a photograph of your baby sister. Today is my son's birthday, we were so worried about his sister overshadowing his special day, we had planned a coming home party for his sister when she came and then a big pirate party for him. And then in my head she's still overshadowing his day, because the should have beens are so strong. We're still going to have the party for him, next week though, and that should be easier I hope. It's just like I've been trying to push Aeryn to the back of my mind, to keep going as if I'd never been pregnant, as if I could just lock the memory away and only allow her out at certain times, and I can't do it.
The memory box, with the footprint and a small baggie of hair and the hat he was wearing that the nurse was nice enough to get for me (and put a new one on him when I hesitated), and the fake bracelet he never wore, and two pictures they took. Pictures we took, some now edited by me, but most still as is. A pile of cards. A house plant I keep meaning to write about because it won't die. A toy puppy I picked up at the store one day early on. Pebbles from our trips since he died. A lot of Monkey-made art-- cards, letters, drawings. One of them framed on the wall upstairs. It's not by any means her best, it's finished in marker, and she does a lot better with colored pencils or paint, and she got much better over the last year plus too. But this is the one she started when A was still alive, and when I asked her for it, as it sat there unfinished the week after he died, she said no-- I will finish it and we will hang it up for all of us. So we did.
I have quite a few things. Being 'lucky' to have had her for 11 months I have quite a lot of photos and am in the process of creating 2 scrapbooks with them and all the smaller mementos. I have a little treasure chest which my dad made for me with one of the very first teeny tiny diapers she used to wear (not a used one!) and some toys and my favourite summer outfit.
I have more toys and clothes in a big plastic chest and some other bits and pieces I could not bring myself to give away. I gave away quite a lot of her stuff though, as we have decided not to have another one. I have a pendant which I made myself in the shape of a K at art clay silver class. I wear it almost every day. I also have angel figurines which I keep next to my bed. I buy a new one every Christmas and birthday. I am running out of space for them....
I actually have quite a lot of 'things' but there is still a big void in my heart that no amount of mementos will ever fill.
I wear a necklace from Julian and Co, that I bought for myself with his name and 'birth' date on it.
I am also going to get a tattoo of his star sign to add to the families down my back.
We have his ashes in a cube, photos, his blanket and plaster casts of his feet.
A little life...in a box
We have a box full of things, their hats, the foot and handprints, everything from the hospital, tucked safely in the closet where we keep the things that need to be protected in case of a tornado. I have a cedar chest full of all the things given at the shower that I can't bear to give away. They were chosen for Zoe and Lennox by family members who loved them from minute one. I can't give those away. I have a closet filled with the pregnancy pillow, my maternity clothes, the breast pump, the car seats.
For weeks after Zoe died, we continued to wear the NICU bracelets. Only when they started to show water damage did we take them off. I'd had a necklace with two hearts that people I thought were friends had given me. I don't wear that anymore, but that's because learning just how not-friends they were tainted it for me. This past friday, I ordered a necklace with their names on it. I keep one of their birth announcements on my desk.
I am have become superstitious about the things related to them. I couldn't even throw out the labels for the bottles of milk because they had Zoe's name on them. I still have stickers for the hospital parking garage.
These bits and pieces are all I have left.
I have a tattoo on my shoulder, of two hearts and a bow.
I have two rosebushes and two trees in my yard.
I have the memory garden that I have started for them.
I have a necklace with a mother and child symbol, and two stones, pink and blue.
I have their footprints and many, many pictures.
I have the extra baby fat on my tummy that won't go away.
I have two handmade candles that I light for them on Sunday nights.
I have a recording I made of their heartbeats.
I have their grave.