a bit of a hiatus

I'm proud of myself for sticking to my goal of posting every day. I've worked through a lot of the things that have been on my mind this month, and it's felt good to get my thoughts written down. It's helped. I'm still a long way from "feeling better," but it has helped me come to accept what has happened. Most importantly, I've been able to share Lauren and her story with so many people, and that's wonderful. It's the best thing that I could do - for myself and for her.

November is almost here, and soon, I'll be working on that 50,000 word goal. To make things a little easier for myself, I'm going to cut back on my blog posting. I'm aiming for 2-3 posts a week. I don't know if what I write for Nanowrimo will ever end up on this blog. For one thing, I'm taking a creative non-fiction approach and thus it will be more story-like than loosely-organized-journal-entry-like. I won't be editing it until after November (and considering how busy I'll be in December, I probably won't get around to editing before the new year), and I certainly don't want to publicly display any of it until I've edited it. So, the blog is going to have to take a backseat to the 1667 words I need to get out each day in November. I don't know when (or if) I'll start posting daily again. As I said, I'll be busy in December, and there might be some periods of time when internet access isn't even a concern for me. But I'll still be writing about Lauren, and I'll still be trying to post some of it.

Also, a brief hiatus will be starting as of the end of this post. Today, we're flying back to Florida, and I'm going to take a few days to recover from jetlag and see some of my family for the first time in almost two years. Also, I'm going to be meeting my in-laws, which I'm very excited about. I want to spend a couple days just grounding myself within my very loving family and sharing Lauren personally with them. I intend to be posting regularly again by next Friday. I don't want to leave this blog in the dark for too long.

So, have a good weekend, all! I'll be back again in no time.

thank you

I just want to take a few moments here before Nanowrimo starts - and I devote even more of my time to writing! - to say "thank you" to all of you who have been reading my blog this month. I know it probably hasn't been easy going along with me on this journey, but it has been comforting to have companions. I appreciate that you have stuck with me and continue to offer support, even if it's just by coming here and keeping track of what's happening with me. It makes me feel a little less alone.

Also, thank you for the comments. I've received some very wonderful and touching comments and emails from you all, and they really do make my day. They help me remember that there is a whole group of people out there who care about and remember Lauren, that Geordie and I are not alone in mourning her absence. That means so much to me.

Thank you, for everything.

my new reality

So, I had a really good day with my husband on Wednesday. We went out to a nearby town (Mishima) that we’ve always meant to visit but never had the chance to do so while I was pregnant. We've been through Mishima dozens of times before – it’s the largest train station in our area. We changed trains there to get to our hospital, and it’s also a shinkansen (bullet train) station, so we always came through here on our way to Tokyo. We’ve always wanted to be able to linger but never could. Today, we did. We visited Rakujyuen, a big and extremely beautiful park that had imperial connections during and after the Meiji Restoration. In addition to the extensive gardens, they have a small collection of animals and a petting zoo, which Geordie enjoyed. He’s a very hands-on type of guy.

Then, we walked to Mishima Taisha (Mishima Big Shrine), which we knew was large but was much larger than expected. It was getting dark by that time, so there weren’t many people around, but it was obvious that the shrine was preparing for an upcoming celebration – Shichi-Go-San. This means “Seven-Five-Three,” and it’s a traditional festival day that celebrates the growth and maturation of children; specifically, boys aged three or five and girls aged three or seven (hence the name of the festival). The children are dressed up in colorful kimono and taken to their local shrines to be blessed and for families to pray for their continued health and growth. Shichi-Go-San is held on November 15th, but sometimes children visit earlier than that, for various reasons. By the time we got there, it was really too late for anyone to be there for any celebrations, which was good. It’s hard for both of us to be around young children now. It hurt a little bit thinking about how I would’ve liked to bring Lauren to a shrine in a few years for her Shichi-Go-San visit. I used to like to think of how pretty she would look in a kimono, how proud we would be of her.

And I’m so angry now! It was hard to be angry in such a peaceful, beautiful place like Mishima Taisha, but I feel it now. Why did this happen to her - to us? Why is it that we have to let go of our dreams for the future? Why are we the ones who have to mourn our daughter, while others can continue to dream and smile and laugh and LIVE?

In these quiet moments, I find myself taking all these hopes and dreams I had for Lauren and turning them over, and I can almost feel them happening. She's so real to me that I can see her doing all these things that I wanted her to do, I can hear her laughter – I may never have heard her voice, but I can hear it and know that it's her. I can see her in my mind, standing there before the shrine, dressed like a flower, and she looks back at us because she's run ahead – she's just like her father, curious and impatient and needing just to GO and run – and she's so lovely in the sunlight, a free and wild creature, unruly dark curls bouncing around her face, and she smiles like a supernova. And her father hands me the camera, and she squeals as he chases her and catches her up in his arms and swings her around, and I am filled with so much love for them because they're mine and I belong to them. THIS is how things are supposed to be, THIS is what should be the reality, and the cold, gray darkness I'm living now is just a nightmare that will pass into the night.

Except this nightmare never will pass; it is my world now. It is my every waking moment, the pain of which is so great that I often think it shall destroy me. Shatter me into pieces. Again. And again. Every day, I try to put myself together again. Some days I’m more successful than others. Some days, I fool myself into thinking I’m alright again. But the illusion never holds up. I look into the mirror of myself, and I see there the happy, laughing mother and her bright-eyed daughter, and I know it should be me and Lauren.

But it's not. And the anger at how unfair it all is flows out of me, and all it leaves is emptiness. The anger doesn't help; nothing can help. I will always have an empty place inside me, an empty place in my life where Lauren should be but isn't.

Japan: a photo gallery (II)

Another ten of my favorite photos from life here in Japan. This group starts at the beginning of 2010, the year Geordie and I started dating. I was less active in 2010 than I had been in 2009, but I still got to see a lot of wonderful things in Japan, and I had the added bonus of having Geordie for company.



Geordie and sheep at Hitsujiyama Park in Chichibu, March 2010.



Weeping sakura at the Daruma temple in Takasaki, April 2010.



Daibutsu at Kamakura, April 2010.



Kenroku-en in Kanazawa, May 2010.

Waterfall in Nikko, November 2010.

Geordie makes friends with a black lemur at the Nagasaki Bio-Park, Jaunary 2011.

Geordie (and Rabbit) and the deer at Nara Park, March 2011.

Windmill at Kasumigaura, May 2011.

Dancers at the summer Susono Awa-Odori Festival, August 2011.

Jizou memorial statuettes for deceased children
at Hasedera Jizou-do, October 2011.

Japan: a picture gallery (I)

I had another busy day today and didn't get much writing done. So, what I'm going to give you in this post are some of my favorite pictures from my life here in Japan. This week has been hard as Geordie and I say goodbye to this beautiful country we've come to love so much.

These are just the first ten of twenty pictures I want to post. I encourage you to click on the pictures to see larger versions - some of them are much better when they're bigger! Look for more in the next posting.


Let's start this off right: Mt. Fuji from Gotemba, March 2009.



A lion guardian at a shrine in Takayama, January 2009.



Weeping willow tree in Takayama, January 2009.



Sakura over a shrine in Utsunomiya, April 2009.

A huge statue of Kannon-sama in Takasaki, April 2009.

Wisteria at Matsumoto Castle, May 2009.

With Benni-sensei in Maebashi, during an autumn festival, October 2009.

Behind us is an omikoshi - a portable shrine - which is carried around
the town, presumably to show the god its domain (or to show the people
their local god). Benni-sensei and I were among the group of
shrine-carriers, and we were also honored by being asked to carry
for a short time the lanterns that led the way in front of the omikoshi.

Easily one of my best expriences in Japan.

Maple trees at Mt. Tsukuba, November 2009.

Tsurgua Castle in Aizu-Wakamatsu, New Year's Day 2010.

Meoto Iwa, the wedded rocks, in Ise, January 2010.

waiting for a rainbow

In the vernacular of the pregnancy and baby loss community, a baby born after a loss is called a rainbow baby. The idea is that this child is the rainbow after the storm that was previously endured, the culmination of a hard-fought battle against despair and grief. Some women go on to have two, three, or even more rainbow babies; others struggle to have one. For those still trying, they are living, breathing gifts of hope, a promise that not everything is lost.

Even so, it's a long, difficult road for those hoping for or carrying a rainbow baby. I'm terrifed at the prospect of getting pregnant again, even though it's something that I want very much now. From the first day we went into the hospital, Geordie and I knew that we wanted to try again. Lauren was an unplanned pregnancy, but she brought so much love into our lives, so much hope. As frightened as we were of becoming parents, we also knew that we wanted her. We wanted the family that she made us into. We wanted to love her and each other, and we wanted to raise her together. Nothing felt more natural. And as soon as we knew she was gone, we knew we wanted that for ourselves and for Lauren's memory.

It's not that a rainbow baby is a replacement. Lauren - or any other lost child - cannot simply be replaced. There will never be another baby like Lauren. What there will be is Lauren's younger brother or sister, someone just as unique as Lauren was and just as special. Another baby won't be Lauren, and that's as it should be. People don't have more than child because the first one is faulty, after all. No child is a replacement for another.

I hope it will happen for us. Someday. Not yet. We're not ready for it yet, in so many ways. Some people try again as soon as they get the all-clear from their doctors; we won't be doing that. Our first few months back in the States are not certain ones - we don't know where we'll end up or what we'll be doing or what our living situation will be like. We want to be settled before trying again; we want to avoid the stress of uncertainty and moving that we went through this year. Being pregnant again will be stressful enough; we want to make it as easy on us as possible.

Also, emotionally, we aren't ready, and it will probably be a while. I've read a lot of stories of women who try again two or three months afterwards and have their babies around the due date of their lost child. I don't think that's something I could do. It's not just the closeness to Lauren's due date, even though there are so many reasons why that would make me uncomfortable (I can't bear the thought of sharing Lauren's day with a rainbow baby, who should have a day of his/her own). I don't know that I could be pregnant again as I was pregnant this year, experiencing all the same things as I experienced them with Lauren. My rainbow baby will be a new baby, and I want new experiences. I don't want to relive everything. And three months is not enough time for me. I don't have the strength to try again so soon. I want to, more than anything, but I know it won't be right for me.

And, one more thing - probably the most important thing. I'm scared. Not of being pregnant again; I've found that I can survive that. Likewise, I'm not afraid of labor and delivery, as I know I can also survive that. I'm afraid of what all baby-loss mothers are afraid of: losing another child. The odds of that happening are small. But it can still happen. I won't be fooled by the innocent naivete of the pregnant woman who has never felt a loss. I see life now through the eyes of experience, and I wonder that it might not be possible for me to simply enjoy being pregnant now. I want to enjoy it next time, appreciate it for everything it is. But how can I? From the moment I feel my baby moving, how will I be able to think of anything else? How many minutes - hours - will I spend lying on my side, waiting to feel that life is still nestled within me? I don't want to be scared my entire pregnancy, but I doubt I can trust myself not to be.

It's really for this reason that I will need time before trying for our rainbow. I need to know that I can trust myself and my body to have a healthy pregnancy; I need to have confidence that I can give birth to a live, breathing baby. But I do know this - I'm waiting for the day when I can hold my rainbow baby and look into his or her eyes and know that things are alright. A rainbow baby won't bring Lauren back to me, but it will still bring something wonderful into my life, and I want that. I want to bring another child into our little family, a child I never thought I would want to have, a child I never would have thought to expect. I want more than anything to meet Lauren's younger brother or sister.

just a quote (II)

Today was a long day. It was mostly a good day, but it was a long one.

We went up to Gotemba to the Premium Outlet mall to see if we could find a new suitcase and met with mild success. Not sure if it'll work for our needs, but it might. It wasn't the easiest of tasks because of the "family-friendly" atmosphere, but we managed to get through the day. And then we rewarded ourselves with a delicious French dinner at a hotel in the area. A good start to our last week in Japan. It's hard to believe that we'll be flying away on Sunday.

Because it's been such a busy day, I haven't had time to work on a blog post. Also, a lot of my extra time lately has gone to preparing for Nanowrimo - plotting and gathering notes and such. Even writing a memoir takes preparation, and I have a lot of ideas to get down, so organization is important. My posting schedule will probably change some for November. For now, I'll leave you with another quote, this one by C. S. Lewis, who has long been a favorite author of mine, not just for the Chronicles of Narnia (some of which are still some of my favorite stories) but also for his other works. Here is a quote about love and loss and the importance of leaving ourselves open to love - and therefore open also to the possibility of losing what we love. Enjoy.

"To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything, and your heart will certainly be wrung and possibly be broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact, you must give your heart to no one, not even to an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements; lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket - safe, dark, motionless, airless - it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable. The alternative to tragedy, or at least to the risk of tragedy, is damnation. The only place outside of Heaven where you can be perfectly safe from all the dangers and perturbations of love is Hell."
     - C. S. Lewis, "The Four Loves"

what I see when I close my eyes

I’ve been reading a lot of pregnancy and baby loss blogs lately, and it’s both heartbreaking and inspiring to read the stories of families who have lost their precious little ones. Hardest of all, though, is seeing the images of their children. Over and over again, at nearly every blog I visit, there are the pictures of infants loved and lost, dressed in clothes that were supposed to be their going-home outfits and cuddled by their mourning families.

I used to think this was on the morbid side of things, but that was before I knew better. That was before I had a reason to think about why those pictures would be so important to a family and why one might come to regret not having them done.

Because my wish right now – besides actually having my daughter with me, which will always be my greatest wish that will never come true - is to have a picture of her. Immediately after the delivery, I did not have the presence of mind to think about asking for pictures. I’m not even sure if that’s something Japanese hospitals do or even allow. It wasn’t until later that night, when I closed my eyes to go to sleep and all I could see was Lauren, that I realized that was the only way I was ever going to see her. I would not be able to see her again, not as she was when she was born, not as she was when she was new and whole and belonging to us, to Geordie and me.

Worse still, I will never have anything tangible to hold and cherish, nothing to remind me of her face. I will never have anything to show to her grandparents; they will never know how beautiful and peaceful she looked. They will never see the slight curl of dark and still damp hair over her little ear, the soft patch of eyebrows over her closed eyes, or the gentle roundness of her cheeks. I will have nothing to show people when I tell them about Lauren; I will have only my memory, and that’s not something I can just hand over to people to help them see that she was real and beautiful.

Greatest of all is the fear that I will forget what she looked like, the curve of her chin and her little button nose. It was so brief, that moment with her – how can I make those few minutes stretch into a lifetime? As much as it hurts to see her sweet, sleeping face in my mind, it would be worse still to forget her. Right now, I can close my eyes and see her, but how long will that last? How long will it be before the image starts to fade and all I can do is guess at what I once saw every time I closed my eyes? I don’t want an idealized image of Lauren – I want her. I want to remember the small patches of red on her forehead and chin where she had lost skin during the delivery. I want to remember her tiny ears flattened down, her nearly lipless mouth opened in a perpetual yawn. She was beautiful to me as she was; she would have been beautiful to me no matter what she looked like.

But physical representation of Lauren has been lost to me now, and all I can do is cling to the memory I have of her. I cannot go back and tell myself that pictures are necessary, a comfort rather than a cruel reminder; I wasn’t ready to know that then. I wasn’t ready to think about it then. And now it's too late.

Too late to help her, too late to save her, too late to take pictures of her, too late to hold her, too late to kiss her goodbye. It will always be too late.

him and me and her

I lived alone for several years, and I lived far from my family for a number of those years. While in Florida, I had my cat Sarge to keep me company, but most of my time in Japan was as a solitaire. After my last roommate and I parted ways, I decided that the only way I would ever live with anybody again was to be married to them.

Marriage was never something I completely ruled out of my life. I didn't want to not get married. I didn't want marry just any man; I wanted to marry the right man. I also would have been okay with cohabitation, but I had the feeling that marriage would make things easier from a legal standpoint, not to mention just for the sake of convenience. But that was really a distraction from the main point, which was that I wanted to be in love with someone before I considered living with them.

Geordie moved in with me at the beginning of February, 2011. Though, really, "moved in" is just a convenient way to put it. It was possible that it was going to be a temporary thing, a place for him to live while he looked for a permanent job and while I looked for a new one. He was temporarily assigned a position in Hitachi, which was far enough away from Moriya for him to be unable to make a daily commute. So, really, he lived with me on the weekends. The rest of the week, I was still alone. We'd seen more of each other when we weren't living together.

Two weeks after he moved in, we found out I was pregnant. We saw no way for him to be able to leave the job he had, so for a month, he was home only on the weekends. I was pregnant alone, and it was tough going. It felt to me that I was becoming more adjusted to the pregnancy than he was, and to be fair, that was probably true. I lived with the pregnancy constantly; for him, it was a weekend thing. He didn't go through the many bodily changes that reminded me of what was happening or the mood swings that shook me into sudden bouts of crying. Or the tiredness - that sheer exhaustion that knocked me out cold. These were oddities to him, things I had to explain again every weekend. That ended with the Tohoku earthquake, the story of which is far too long to tell here and shall be written about at length in November.

Things changed after the earthquake. Geordie came back from Hitachi, and his company sent him to work in Tokyo, which was an unpleasant commute but one that allowed him to come home every day. From then on, I had him every day and every night. We became a daily occurence for each other, and it was during this time, I think, that the pregnancy became a very real thing for him. It was at that point that we became not a unit of two but a unit of three.

It happened faster than I had expected. One month, I was living alone happily enough; the next, I was living with a family - my family. I had thought that would take longer to adjust to, but by the time we moved to Susono, it was done. I was a wife and a mother, carrying a child that would make our little family complete. I was carrying our child, and nothing could have been more right. Everything was as it should be, and I would not have gone back to living alone for anything. I still wouldn't.

Geordie and Lauren and me. We're a family. We always will be. Lauren is a part of us, still loved and cared for. It doesn't matter that she's not physically here with us; she's here in other ways, and we'll carry her with us for the rest of our lives.

bye-bye, Juntendo

When most people think about hospitals, what usually comes to mind is not pleasant: injury, illness, death. Going to the hospital is a bad thing; it means something is wrong with you. It also means money is going to probably come out of your pocket, which would be another reason people don't like hospitals so much.

Aside from my personal experience, my observation of hospital activity has been punctuated by the creation of new life. I spent more than half of the last year in birth clinics or ob/gyn wards, surrounded by women nurturing babies, their growing bellies testament to the life brewing inside them. Or else there were women coming in for their post-partum check-ups, carrying their newborns with them, cradled close to their hearts, and looking tired but happy. From February to September, I watched them and felt a kinship with them. We were mothers in the making, carrying new life within us. We had nothing to be afraid of.

But I know better now. I knew then too; I was just too afraid to let those terrible whispers take hold of me and force me to face the stark truth of existence, that life is often tenuous, and it can go as quickly as it comes. Those tendrils of fear come creeping in all through pregnancy, and we push them away in our certainty that everything will be alright. And for the most part, that's true. The majority of pregnancies go without a hitch, and life comes screaming to meet the world.

And for the rest of us, we have lost that innocence. We know that life can be silenced in a moment, even before it's had a chance to draw its first breath.

Geordie and I went in for my post-partum check-up today. We knew it would not be easy; it's been hard enough seeing families just while we're out and about. Now, we would have to sit in the ob/gyn waiting area, just as we had four weeks earlier when our daughter still had a heartbeat. Only, this time, we would be alone, just the two of us, surrounded by lives still growing and lives newly born.

I would not wish the loss of a child upon any woman, but it's so hard to watch a mother with her baby and think, Why me and not her? Why my baby and not that one? Why couldn't I keep my daughter alive? What's wrong with me? It's not malevolence that makes me think such things, it's just the sheer unfairness of it all. For 38 weeks, our daughter was healthy. I had a relatively easy pregnancy with no complications. How can all these women have strong, healthy babies while mine is lost to me forever? How could something like this happen?

The sad thing is that there are no answers to that question. We spoke to the doctor about what test results they had, and it's all the same. Lauren was healthy, her cord and placenta were healthy, I was healthy. There is no explanation. Unfortunately, that's the way life goes sometimes. I will always wonder if there was something I could have done to save, just as I will wonder if there wasn't, if it was out of my hands from the beginning. Life is funny that way.

As for the check-up itself, that went well. My body has made a full recovery from pregnancy and delivery. While this is good news, I can't help but feel a little betrayed by my body. My heart is broken, and my mind is hardly at peace - how is it that my body can feel so normal? I feel so thoroughly shattered that it's hard to believe my body is still in one piece. How could it go back to normal so quickly? I'm glad I'm healthy and everything is alright, but immediately after leaving the hospital, I felt that it was like I had never been pregnant at all. That all traces of Lauren had been erased from me and I had nothing to show that I had carried her.

But upon further reflection, I know that's not true. It may not be obvious from looking at me, but the wear shows on me in places that cannot be seen. In my heart, for example, where there will always be a place for Lauren. In my thoughts, daily. And should I need a more physical example, the memory of pregnancy in imprinted upon my bones. For as long as my pelvic bone exists, it will carry the marks of pregnancy upon it and be physical proof that I am a mother. For some reason, I find comfort in this, proof that my body will not forget what has come to be one of the most defining moments of my life.

In the end, it's a relief to be finished with Juntendo University Hospital. It was not my initial choice for Lauren's birth, but I don't regret going there. The staff treated us well, and they did all that they could for us. It's not a place I ever want to return to, but I will keep it in my memory for a long time to come, as long as I have a memory to hold on to. It is, after all, the place my daughter was born. They couldn't save her, and they can't piece me back together again, but it's where I saw Lauren for the first and only time, and that is an image I will carry in my heart for the rest of my days.

a place for lost children

The first overnight trip I made in Japan was to Kamakura. I met up with two of the teachers who had done GEOS training with me in Vancouver, and we spent a night in Kamakura and a night in Tokyo. Kamakura had been my idea. I was three months in Japan, and I hadn't yet had a chance to do any sight-seeing, though I had wanted to do some for a while. I discovered Kamakura through some online research and decided it wouldn't be too far for the three of us to get to, spread out across the main island as we were.


the view of the bay from Hasedera



I wrote about that first trip in a blog post or two about three years ago. At the time, I did not know the significance of the Jizou-do, which is a small area set one level up from the main garden. Hasedera was built upon a hillside, with stone steps leading from one level to another. The level above the Jizou-do could probably be considered the main level, as it has two temple buildings (one to house a gilt statue of buddha, the other for a large eleven-headed statue of Kannon, the goddess of mercy and compassion). There's also a lovely view of the bay from that level. A pathway continues up the hill, twisting around and providing some wonderful overlooks of the area. It's an old temple, founded in 736. I generally prefer shrines over temples, but I've always loved Hasedera. It can be a very relaxing place at times.

On October 10th, the day Lauren was due, we made a trip to Kamakura specifically to go to Hasedera. During my second trip to the temple, I had learned that the Jizou-do was a special place for remembering "mizuko" - literally, "water children." The word typically refers to babies lost to miscarriage, but it can also be expanded to include stillbirths and abortions. When I was still in the hospital, Geordie and I had talked about the possibility of visiting a few places before leaving Japan. A while ago, I had promised to take him to Kamakura, and he mentioned that he'd still like to go. I remembered then the Jizou-do, the small area that before had meant so little to me but now meant everything. We agreed to go and pay our respects there and perhaps find some comfort.

Jizou is a Buddhist patron of children, a bodhisattava, a term which often translates to English as "an enlightened being." It's usually applied to persons who become enlightened and, motivated by compassion, continue to seek enlightenment for everyone. Bodhisattvas are therefore considered to be among the most merciful and loving of beings, as they have chosen not to enter a state of nirvana but to remain as they are to help others. Jizou's special realm is children, particularly those unborn or who died very young. He is a protector and a guide, and he is one of the most famous Buddhist figures in Japan. His statue can be seen along roadsides and innumerable small shrines; he is also considered a patron of travelers.



Hasedera in Aprl



Hasedera is most beautiful in the spring, when the flowers of the garden are in bloom. In early spring, azaleas brighten the area with their vibrant colors, and April brings the pillowy softness of the sakura with it. But Hasedera is most famous for its hydrangeas, which I have sadly not been able to see. Winter can be a haunting experience at Hasedera, the trees bare but still beautiful, an atmosphere of patience and serenity coming over the place as it waits for the return of spring. It's a temple that is very much grounded in the natural aspects of Kamakura, and it's for that reason that I've always been fond of it.



Jizou statue surrounded by
the memorial statues



The Jizou-do can be one of the most peaceful areas of the temple. The small structure housing the statue of the Happy Jizou is surrounded by hundreds of smaller Jizou statues, each one of them representing a baby lost too early. Several statues of Jizou are placed about the area as though to show the completeness of his role as warden over these souls. Geordie and I had come to this place to leave a piece of Lauren and her memory to be watched over by Jizou.



We went up to the main hall - where stands the benevolent Kannon carved from a single piece of camphor wood - and arranged to have a Jizou statue blessed and placed for Lauren. We could not place the statue ourselves, nor would we be able to search for it amongst the many others at the Jizou-do. This suited us. Lauren's statue will remain at the Jizou-do for two years, at which point it will be given in offering to Jizou and Kannon. Also, the sutras will continue to be said in memory of her, which is something that does give me some peace of mind. Lauren's little statue was also a comfort, though a far more difficult one to deal with. I burst into tears as soon as I touched the statue; it was another goodbye, another parting with my baby. But it was something I needed. I had not been able to touch Lauren, but the statue was a stand-in for her, and as I brushed my fingers along it, I was reaching for her too. As much as it hurt, it felt good to feel something solid and to imagine it was her. I needed that contact - that connection - more than I'd realized.



Geordie placing the flowers before Jizou

Afterwards, we went and prayed before Kannon and saw some of the rest of the temple grounds. Then we went back to the Jizou-do and paid our respects. We lit incense and cleansed ourselves, and we bought flowers to place before the large outdoor statue of Jizou. I had seen pictures of the smaller Jizou statues dressed in infant's clothing, but we found only one and did not feel comfortable adorning one with Lauren's things. Geordie took Rabbit-sensei's bow and put it over a statue's head, and that was sweet. We had brought with us a bib we had bought for Lauren, a cap Geordie's mother had sent for her, and a pacifier; we left these with the statue of the Happy Jizou amid the other offerings that had been left.
 

Geordie putting Rabbit's bow
on a memorial statue

Then we went on our way, leaving behind a bit of our grief along with Lauren's memory. There is nothing we can do that will completely relieve of us our grief, but each step we take, each action we take, eases it little by little. I know that I will never forget Lauren, just as I know I will always feel the loss of her in my heart and in my life. Perhaps in the future, the sharp sting of her absence will dull into something softer and gentler, and comfort will be easier to find. For now, we must only do what we can.

just a quote (I)

We're going off to Tokyo today, so I haven't much time to dedicate to a long post, though I have plenty circulating in my brain. But to make sure that I stick to my goal of posting every day, I present to you one of my favorite quotes. It's from a short story by Ray Bradbury, from probably my favorite short story by him. I've liked Bradbury's novels, but for me, his short stories are often like little masterpieces. So, here you go.

"I'll make a voice that is like an empty bed beside you all night long and like an empty house when you open the door, and like trees in autumn with no leaves. A sound like the birds flying south, crying, and a sound like November wind and the sea on the hard, cold shore. I'll make a sound that's so alone that no one can miss it, that whoever hears it will weep in their souls, and hearths will seem warmer, and being inside will seem better to all who hear it in the distant towns. I'll make me a sound and an apparatus and they'll call it a Fog Horn and whoever hears it will know the sadness of eternity and the briefness of life."

≫ Ray Bradbury, "The Fog Horn"

losing a piece of Lauren

Between the two of us, Geordie and I have a lot of stuff. We're not entirely sure how this happened. I'm not just talking about the furniture (which is mine, for the most part, if individual ownership is something that needs to be accounted for) - there are the books and the clothes and all the little odds and ends that have accumulated over time without us noticing. We've been doing a lot of purging, trying to decide what should go with us and what should just be left for good.

The hardest part has been deciding what to do with Lauren's things. After everything that went into planning for her, it's hard to just get rid of what we've come to think of as hers. But it's nearly impossible to keep everything, not just because of the logistics of getting it back to the States but because it hurts so much to see her things and know that she will never have the chance to use them. Every time I looked into her room and saw that empty crib, I felt myself falling into pieces again. And were we to use them sometime in the future, those would be the thoughts in my mind: These belonged to Lauren. She was supposed to use them. It wouldn't be right to use her things with another child; nor would it be fair to that child, who deserves to have things of his/her own, not leftovers from Lauren.

We're keeping Lauren's clothes and bedding to make into a memorial quilt. It's unfathomable to consider saving the clothing for a future child, but at the same time, I couldn't bear to give them away or - heaven forbid - to throw them away. Losing those items would be like losing a piece of Lauren herself; picking them out was the same as accepting her into our lives and acknowledging our transformation into parents. With each piece we chose, we were shaping her in our minds, feeling her out, and coming to understand how she would change us and every day after she arrived. Making a memorial quilt just feels right, as nothing else would have.

More difficult was figuring out what to do with the furniture and the various items used to complete the nursery - the baby gym, the diaper pail, the accessories for the dresser. These things were all brand-new, but even so, we wondered how easy it would be to donate them somewhere or even just simply give them away. In the States, it's fairly easy to donate items to charity or a thrift store; in Japan, you might have an easy time of it in a large city, but recycle shops are hard to find in small, country towns. Also, because we don't have a car, we're not able to offer to drop stuff off, making it just that much harder to find someone to take things. A friend of Geordie's suggested he contact the Susono city hall and find out if they were willing to take large-item donations. Fortunately, they were, but only the new things, so we're still left with the IKEA furniture I bought back when I moved to Moriya. But that's a few less items to worry about.

Watching them take away Lauren's things was harder than I expected. I still thought of them as her things, and I'll probably continue to do so for a long time to come. These are things Geordie and I bought for her together, a bonding experience not just between ourselves but with Lauren. In picking out these items, we made a place for her, mentally as well as physically. While it's a comfort to know that a family will have use for them, I still want them for Lauren. Letting go of them was like letting go of her again, a terrible reminder that she's gone. Seeing the room empty of her things breaks my heart; she came and went and left nothing behind her in the room that should have been hers. All that's left is an emptiness. As much as it hurt to see her belongings go unused, it hurts just as much to lose what was hers, to let them pass through our lives and into someone else's as though Lauren had never existed at all. While they were in her room, it proved she had been real and not just a dream that we've lost to the ether.

What matters is that we will have Lauren. We moved her out of the room too. Before, her urn had been sitting on the wide IKEA bookcase in the room, under the baby gym and between two stuffed animals we'd had for her. Geordie often put Rabbit with her to keep her company. Now it's too lonely in there, too bereft of Lauren's memory. Now she sits on a bookcase in our bedroom, still accompanied by Rabbit. It's a little lonelier without her things surrounding her, but she's not alone, which is good. It won't be long before we're back in the States and we can make a temporary place for her at my parents' house. And next year, after we've settled ourselves a bit, perhaps we can make a more permanent place for her, a place of her own and with her own things. Although it's enough to have Lauren with us, I feel better knowing she's got her things with her and a place just for her. It's the way things would have been if she had lived, and it's the way I want things for her now.

nine years of Nanowrimo

I remember well the first year I participated in National Novel Writing Month. I even remember the fellow English major who introduced me to it. I signed up on October 24th, 2003; that gave me one week to prepare for the start of Nanowrimo. The goal for that November (and every November following) was to write 50,000 words on one story. Theoretically, all you have to do is write 1667 words per day. It sounds easy enough when you think about it, but putting it into practice is where the challenge comes in.

That first Nano, I wrote about 15,000 words. Nowhere near the goal amount, but it was an accomplishment for me. I'd never written that many words on one original story (I'd written that many for a Star Wars fanfic, but I didn't count that then, and if you ask me about it now, I'll deny its entire existence). It was a terrible story but I've always liked the idea of it - a sci-fi piece about a matriarchal/matrilineal society that was slowly falling apart. The next year, I worked on an urban fantasy and made it to 26,000 words. Since then I've written a historical novel, a couple straight-up fantasy stories, a light comedic fantasy, and a historical steampunk mystery. And there are two years that I really don't remember what I wrote at all. Success did not come quickly; it was 2007 when I finally reached that 50,000 word goal before the end of November. I had a three-year winning streak that ended last year because I ended up hating everything about the story I was writing. It happens.

This year, I am a Nano Rebel. The whole point of Nanowrimo is to write a novel - it's right there in the name. This year, though, I'm taking the creative nonfiction route and writing a memoir of my experience of carrying, losing, and mourning Lauren. It would be impossible for me to write about anything else right now. Lauren is my focus; she eventually nudges out all other thoughts in my head, just as she did all during the pregnancy. Since February, nothing else has been foremost on my mind. I can't simply forget her or let her pass away into nothingness. Neither can I sit and dwell on what we've lost, reliving memories and going over "should haves" and mourning "should bes." I must be productive, and since I have always been better with written words, I shall write.

I meant to be writing all this year. It was a simple task that I gave to myself, and I failed miserably at it. On one hand, I wish I devoted more time and attention to the pregnancy, appreciated it for all the special moments it gave me. On the other, I'm glad I didn't, because perhaps the pain would be even greater for having appreciated every moment. And had I written everything down, one manner of catharsis might have been lost to me. So, now I'll write down everything that should have been written down before, and it will be all the more cherished for what it is now: a memorial to Lauren, her story and our story entertwined, just as she herself enveloped us and took over every aspect of our lives.

And perhaps, as I write, others will be comforted, whether they knew Lauren or not. I know I shall find some comfort, just as I know that the experience will be a painful one. I've already shed tears while writing on this blog; I can only imagine the flood that will come as I write Lauren's birth story and the memories of my pregnancy. But it's something I must do.

So, this year, Nanowrimo is more than just a writing exercise, more than just a kick-start to get me going. In years past, I participated in Nanowrimo because I wanted to - this year, I must. It's not just myself I'm writing for, it's for Lauren and Geordie and family and friends who wanted to share in the story of our lives. I cannot share my daughter in a physical sense, but I can do it in spirit.

This year, Nanowrimo is for Lauren.

3rd Japanniversary

Oddly enough, last week - besides being the week I expected to have my daughter home with me and in my arms - also marks the end of my third year in Japan.

I am not the same person I was when I came to Japan three years ago. Even if things had gone as planned this year, I would still be a much different person. I embraced my role as a teacher and truly enjoyed my job for the first time. I furthered my horizons as a wide-eyed observer, taking in everything Japan had to offer and seeking more, always more. I had no expectations; I wanted only to experience and to enjoy. And I did, more so than I could ever have imagined.

I did not expect to fall in love. I did not expect to fall pregnant or get married. I did not expect to become a mother. These were not things that could be planned, and they were certainly not things I would have made plans for anyway. But if I were to go back and start anew, I would not give them up. I would not change them, even knowing how these three years in Japan would end. I would give anything to have Lauren alive and with me, but I would not want to give her up at all. Better to have her memory and the profound impact she has had on my life than to not have her at all. It is she who has changed me most, who made me a mother and, at the same time, deepened my love for Geordie as we walked the path toward parenthood together.

Though Geordie and I both continue to love Japan, neither of us feel that we can stay on after what has happened. We can't stay in Susono, and Geordie can't remain at his job here. It has been hard enough just being in this apartment and sensing how unchanged it is, how normal. We can't continue where we left off, waiting for Lauren to make her arrival and dreaming our hopes for the future. We need to be grounded and start again, rebuilding our lives and recovering from Lauren's sudden absence.

It's not the way I want to leave Japan. I had never given much thought to how I would leave Japan, but this isn't the way I want it to go. With Lauren, I thought we would be going when she was a couple years old, returning to the States to be closer to family, so that friends and relatives could be active in her life. I thought we would be going as a family, not with empty arms.

I still love Japan - I will always love Japan. One day, I think Geordie and I will end up back here; it is our hope that will happen. But for now, Japan is not for us. For myself, it is a time to look inward, to process all that has happened to me in the past three years and to ready myself for what is to come in the future. Japan gave me so many wonderful things, not the least of which being my husband and daughter. It also gave me confidence in myself and my abilities, it brought me job fulfillment and satisfaction, it showed me wonders and beauty that I could only have imagined, it introduced me to people who affected me deeply. It taught me much about myself and prepared me to welcome Geordie and Lauren into my life. Three years ago, Japan was exactly what I needed, and I will remember it as a place of magic and love. It is my treasure, and for a while, it was my home.

I hope that it might someday be my home again.

blog changes

Every three years or so, I change blogs. I've used Livejournal, MySpace, and now Blogger. I might be changing again soon.

All I've done so far is give this blog a facelift. I'll probably keep tweaking it over the next couple of days/weeks before deciding how I like it or if I'm going to move it or if I'll just start fresh elsewhere. No worries, because I'll keep this space updated with whateve decisions I end up making. Everything should be settled by the beginning of November, because I want to be ready to go for National Novel Writing Month. This blog (or whatever blog) will play a big part of my writing experience next month, so I want it to be all shiny and ready for that 50,000 word goal.

a day for remembering

Today is International Pregnancy and Infant Loss day. One in four pregnancies will end in loss by way of miscarriage, stillbirth, or infant death. Today is the day to remember those lost before they had a chance to live. Though their lives were brief, they stamped themselves into the hearts and minds of those who loved them and dreamed of them and anticipated them. Attached to them were hopes and dreams and infinite potential. They are loved still and missed always.

I remember Lauren. I remember her when she was still just called Lucky, when we knew of her but did not yet know her. I remember that journey through awareness, of coming to know who Lauren was and who she could be.

I remember how sure I was that I was pregnant and how terrified I was when I knew that it was true.

I remember the first ultrasound and loving her instantly.

I remember naming her and how easy it was, how the name "Lauren Joy" just fit so perfectly.

I remember feeling the first flutters of her movement, confirmation that she was there with me.

I remember the relief that washed over me whenever I felt her and knew that she was still there. Every time we saw her on the ultrasound, I felt that same relief, that calming of fears.

I remember how perfect she was at 20 weeks: the form of her spine, the beating of her heart, the bones of her limbs, the strength of her body. Healthy, Dr. Shoji told us. Perfectly healthy.

I remember the decisions we made about parenting, all the reading and research I did, all the excitement and anxiety about becoming a parent.

I remember the aches and pains, the heat and the strain, the hormones and the anxiety, and I wish I had enjoyed what pregnancy was and meant.

I remember the smiles and congratulations from the people in Moriya, from friends and students and co-workers. I remember how excited family and long-time friends were to welcome her to the world, how they loved her before they even knew her.

I remember how terrified I was about labor and delivery, and how I cried with the fear, and how Geordie held me and comforted me and told me that it would be wonderful in the end, that I would have a beautiful baby girl to love when it was over.

I remember making birthing plans and knowing what I wanted and didn't want. I wanted Geordie there, and that was all that really mattered.

I remember the kicks and the rolls and the hiccups and how filled with life they made me feel.

I remember Geordie singing to her and the way she reacted to his voice. I loved to hear him sing to her. I loved the way he talked to her. I loved to hear him say her name.

I remember how he could always quiet her down if he placed his hand on my stomach at night while she was active.

I remember the waiting rooms of hospitals and clinics: how reassuring and familiar the Shoji clinic became, how cold and unwelcoming the other places seemed in comparison, how different the doctors could be in the apprach to patients. I remember understanding why some women chose home births.

I remember Geordie's excitement and happiness when we finally learned Lucky's gender. He smiled all the rest of the day, that big and goofy smile of unrelenting anticipation.

I remember how much Geordie took care of her and me, physically and emotionally.

I remember the plans made for the holidays, the joy that bubbled up in me when I thought of sharing Lucky with family and friends. I looked forward to showing her off, to seeing first time grandparents and great-grandparents and great-aunts. I couldn't wait to put her in Ryan's arms and assure him that he really was an uncle, that he wasn't imagining it. I wanted to watch them all and see how happy Lucky made them.

I remember wanting to share Japan with her. We walked under cherry blossoms in April, and I thought, "she'll be six months old this time next year." We went to summer festivals in August, and I thought, "she'll be nine months and adorable in a little yukata." We went to shrines and temples, and I thought, "she'll grow up with all this and learn to appreciate the wonders of life and the spirit." We watched the changing of the seasons, and I thought, "I'll have an autumn baby, a wonderful gift from my favorite time of the year."

I remember the hopes and dreams we had for her, the things we wanted to share with her and teach her. I daydreamed often, imagining what she would be like as a toddler, dark-haired and light-eyed, stubborn and curious - a mix of myself and Geordie. In my thoughts, we held her and sang to her and read to her, and as she got older, we would do those things with her. We nurtured her and adored her in my thoughts, and I sent them to her to let her know how much we wanted her.

I remember cooking and baking, thoughts of old family recipes I wanted to save for her to make someday. There was so much of our families I wanted to share with her - our histories, our traditions, our togetherness.

I remember shopping for her with Geordie, picking and choosing what was right, lamenting the excess of garishly pink clothing, wondering just what size we needed and how much we would need.

I remember seeing other women with infants and thinking, "that will be me soon. She'll be here soon, and everything will be lovely." I knew it would be hard, that adjustments would have to be made, but I accepted that. It would be Geordie and Lucky and me, and everything would be alright.

I remember worrying about her room and its lack of temperature control - would she be too cold? too hot? I wanted everything perfect for her.

I remember the days and weeks and months before September 22nd, when I felt her strongly and my thoughts wended towards the future's joyful moments and the challenges I knew I would have to face. The fears and worries were merely superficial, the typical anxieties of new parents who were content in the knowledge that everything would turn out right.

I remember wanting her and loving her, feelings that have not changed.

I remember her after her delivery: perfect and beautiful and silent as though asleep. There was no doubt that she was ours and no doubt that we would feel the void of her loss in her hearts for a long time to come.

I remember Lauren Joy, and I also remember the stories shared with me, of pregnancies lost and infants mourned. Today, I think of the stories told and untold, of the empty spaces in so many lives that will never be filled. I think of the pain of the loss of hopes and dreams, sometimes sharp and sometimes dull but always there. And I wish that no one else would have to feel this pain.

Today, I remember Lauren and her brief life and the lasting impact she has made on myself and Geordie and so many other people. I will remember her always. Every morning, I wake up and remember her, and I remember that she is not here where she should be.

making it real

It's one thing to know that she's gone; it's another to see it written down in black and white and shared with a community.

An obituary was not on my mind in the days following Lauren's delivery, but about a week ago, my mother-in-law wrote to Geordie and asked if we would be okay with her putting an obituary in the local paper. Neither Geordie nor I had any problem with that, so she very kindly wrote one up. And it was perfect.

Lauren's obituary in the Gloucester Times

Then my mother asked if we should do one for their local paper. I said that would be nice. So, we took Laurie's lovely write-up and sent it in.

Lauren's obituary in the Citrus County Chronicle

I cried a little about this - we should be writing birth announcements for Lauren, not obituaries. We should be celebrating her life, not mourning it. But at the same time, it's a comfort to know that she won't pass unforgotten, that people will know her name and know that she was loved. Is still loved and will continue to be loved. I hold her always in my heart, but I long now - as I longed all during pregnancy - to share her with others, to show them how wonderful she was and how wonderful she would be. I want her to be known and to be remembered, and this is one small way to do that.

Many, many thanks to Laurie and Ramona for making these happen. They are both much appreciated.

Week 40: Broken

Lauren was due this week. Instead of holding her and loving her, I am mourning her. I am the mother of a baby born sleeping.

My last pre-natal appointment was Thursday, September 22nd. Lucky was still alive then. The doctor told us that her heartbeat was strong and it was functioning well; his only concern was about the size. He didn't think it was going to be a major problem, it was just a slight concern. He took several measurements of the heart and told us that he would have a cardio specialist look at it. We would be able to meet with him at our next appointment the following Friday. Lucky was active during the appointment - not as active as she had been in the past, but I still felt her moving, and we could see her on the screen. We left the hospital and went back to Mishima station, where we ate dinner at a little hole-in-the-wall place. I felt her move after I'd finished eating, and I was happy. I was so very happy to have her.

When I got into bed that night, I didn't feel her kick or push against me. Usually, she did that, becoming active just when I was ready to sleep, but not always. I was tired and fell asleep quickly and didn't think much of it.

The next day - Friday, the first day of autumn - is a hard day to think about, because I wonder if it was the last day that Lucky was alive. Could we have saved her if we'd gone back to the hospital that day? We usually went to the pre-natal appointments on Friday, but the hospital was closed (except for emergencies) because it was a national holiday. And I was still tired from the trip to the hospital and back on Thursday; all I wanted to do was rest. I told myself that was all I needed.

But Friday was a quiet day, and the worrying crept up on me. It had happened before, all during the pregnancy, ever since I first felt her moving in the 18th week. Whenever there was a quiet day, panic would settle over me, and I'd be certain we'd lost her. It usually came before an appointment, when we knew we'd see her, and I'd be terrified of what me might see. Then we'd go, and everything would be fine, and I'd relax again. It had never happened immediately after an appointment though. Only before.

"She was fine yesterday," Geordie told me. "The doctor said she'd lowered; there's just no room for her to move now."

"I know," I replied and kept worrying anyway. We laid on the bed, and he held me, and after a while, I felt Lucky hiccuping, and I was so relieved. It didn't last long, but it was a sign of life, and I welcomed it. When we went to bed, Lucky was quiet again, but I remembered those hiccups and treasured them because I thought it meant she was okay. I think now that it was the last time I really felt her.

By morning, the hiccups had been forgotten. I slept late and could not focus on anything. Geordie emailed me - he always emailed me in the late morning or early afternoon - to check up on me, and I replied honestly that I wasn't okay. I was worried and stressed and confused. I didn't tell him what I had suddenly felt sure of - that something was very wrong with Lucky. I tried to make peanut butter cookies to distract myself, but after I'd made the batter, I didn't feel like baking anything. I laid down on the bed and waited for Lucky to let me know she was okay. Nothing. I cried myself to sleep and only woke up when Geordie came home.

Sunday was worse. I was sure that I hadn't felt anything from Lucky all weekend, and I was just as sure that it was too late to help her. When Geordie emailed from work, I responded that he should call the hospital Monday morning. I could not wait until Friday to know what was happening inside me; I had a deep, sinking fear that I already knew what was happening. He said he would, if that was what I wanted, and told me not to worry. He was worried too. I saw that plainly when he came home from work and laid down next to me in the bed. I had spent most of the day in bed, crying and sleeping and reading. I couldn't concentrate on anything else. I wanted to be relaxed so I could feel Lucky if she moved. Geordie held me and whispered reassuring things to me that I wanted to believe but couldn't. And I couldn't tell him how bad I thought things were because I didn't want to believe that either. Besides, I couldn't say those things to him - I couldn't stand to see him break the way I was breaking. He was trying to hold together for me, and I loved him for that. But I knew. I knew.

He woke a bit earlier than usual, and before he called the hospital, he woke me up to ask me if I had changed my mind. I hadn't. He went into the living and closed the doors to the bedroom and made the phone call there. I did not go back to sleep; I knew we would be going in to the hospital that day no matter what the ob/gyn staff said. I couldn't stay home any longer, I couldn't ignore what my body was telling me any longer. As he finished the call, I got up and opened one of the sliding doors to the living area. Geordie was sitting on the floor, and he looked up and said, "I couldn't speak to a doctor because it's too early, but the nurse said that if you're concerned, we can go in. Do you want to go now or wait and see?"

"Now," I said. "I want to go now."

He called his manager while I ate breakfast and got dressed. All the while as we were making the 90-minute trip to the hospital, on the three different trains and the bus, I thought, It will be alright. We're doing something about this, and that means it'll be alright. Lucky is fine. We don't have to worry any more.

And then we were there at the hospital, and the ob/gyn staff did not make us wait. They weighed me and took my blood pressure and kept us in the examining area. A nurse pulled aside a curtain and had me lay down, and she drew the curtain back around me as she started up the doppler. Silence was all that she found, and in that moment, everything changed. Everything shattered.

Two days later, Lauren was born, though she never drew breath. Her story of delivery - and the two terrible days I spent trying to let go of her - will have to wait. That is something I'm still not quite ready to write down yet. I have thought often of those two days, but I have not yet turned them over and examined them and tried to understand them. They are blurs and images, tears and pain, still sharp in their freshness.

Two weeks later, I am still picking up the pieces and trying to put myself back together. Just one piece at a time.