My Rainbow Connection

I have heard a lot recently about rainbow babies. Babies born after the loss of another through various means. It's an interesting term and not one that I heard being used twenty or even ten years ago.

Although in some ways is seems a beautiful concept, it is also kind of disturbing. Disturbing that the subsequent child is saddled with the responsibility to fill a hole in the lives of their parents. Also that parents seem to be romanticizing the lives of their new babies.

Admittedly, if I had heard the term many years ago, I too may have clung to it, considered that perspective a gift. I was, however, given a different gift and a different perspective which I would like to share.

At 26, I was nine years into a relationship which included two years of marriage. Together we felt ready to reproduce. Two months into the decision when the home pregnancy test I took came back negative, I somehow still believed that I was pregnant. It would be three weeks later that I had the pregnancy confirmed by a Dr., which, ironically would be the same day that I found out that I was losing my first chance at motherhood.

Nine weeks is what they told me I was. Like a lot of miscarriages, mine involved a lot of poking and prodding and appointments crammed into a short period of time and a lot of guilt over what I could have done differently. For me, it also involved a lot of raging at the universe for choosing to bless so many parents who I felt were more reckless and less dedicated to the craft of family creation than I was. It didn't help that the miscarriage took place a few days before my birthday or that I chose not to share it with most of my friends but rather suffered through it virtually alone.

Fast forward 18 months and, low and behold, lucky me! I am19 weeks into what most believe is my first pregnancy. It is April 18^th... the day of my first ultrasound and I have arranged to arrive at my public service job late to accommodate the early appointment.

In the ultrasound, however, I was told that there was “something wrong” and that I should “speak to my Doctor.” Luckily, the Dr.'s office is kitty-corner to the hospital where I had the ultrasound so I booked it across the street and waited for her to arrive and provide clarification. Though she was surprised to see me sans appointment, she left me to call diagnostic imaging and get my diagnosis.

An hour later I left her office armed with a genetic counseling appointment and the news that my baby was “not viable.”

In the week between the diagnoses and Matthew's stillbirth, Anencephaly was a term I became uncomfortably familiar with as were the “you'll try agains” and the “it doesn't always work the first times.” To make matters worse, I was making arrangements with the funeral home for his cremation when I felt I should have been making shower arrangements, the platitudes all evaporated in the heat of anger and injustice.

Fast forward thirteen months I was holding my first healthy child in my arms. Zoe, I named her, LIFE – what we had each given to the other.

Fast forward another 22 months and I was holding a baby boy. I would go on to have two additional healthy children.

What's my point?

When my second child was three-and-a-half, I did something I had heard about others before me doing, I asked him what it was like to be born.

As we sat talking, my son told me an incredible story of how Zoe had been in my tummy and, wanting to be born first, he pushed her out. He went on to say that he then got in me and she then pushed him out. That was when he decided to let her be born first.

Although there was no way of knowing the gender of my miscarried child, my stillborn had been a boy.

At that age, my son had no earthly way of knowing that I had been pregnant twice before I birthed his older sister.

I now talk about it openly with the kids and they sometimes mention their “missing” brother. I hear today's prolific use of the term Rainbow Baby and ask myself if I believe Zoe is the rainbow after my stormy beginning to motherhood or if things are as Antonios told me, my kids inadvertently causing me pain and grief as they played their juvenile game.

Either way, as I type this, I think of the photo below which I took the morning after we buried Matthew's ashes under an olive tree in Greece and the unexpected rainbow which appeared when it was developed. 

Handful of Ashes

Love burns.

Day by day as it's fire grows

love burns away life's 

disappointments, bitterness, failures,

pain, shame.

Burns away

the

torturous thoughts

of 

"should have", "could have"

and "if only's."

Like a fire which needs only

oxygen

to continue,

love devours stains

of self-doubt, smears of self-hatred,

memories of self-denial

leaving the canvas of my soul

prepped with

hope,

leaden with the buds

of all the dreams my life is

capable

of fulfilling.

In the 

glory

of Love's fire

I watch my self burn,

fully give my self over to

the powerful

cleansing.

As the refuse is spent,

flames die down and

I 

emerge

clutching my bulging hands

over my unburdened heart,

grateful

for everything that has been

removed.

I walk to the highest hill

then stretch my arms high and 

wide

before dispersing my

handful of ashes

to the wind.

- Vera

Holes

Inside my head

I repeat the nasty

things I heard you say.

Allow them to echo

through the corridors of

who I am.

Though

I know it's the same thing

as repeatedly stabbing myself with

your sword, I somehow

cannot stop myself

even as it tears holes 

in the central core

of my being.

With every reverberation

I convince me

that I am getting stronger.

I rearrange the words

searching for the one which

holds the key to their power

then dismantle

until it is a pile of useless

letters strewn across

my heart.

Breathless, I pick through

the tender landscape of myself.

I match each letter I encounter

with something loving, something kind, something

ME,

then use the new word

to plug a hole.

When I am done I sit back

and see that I am

unmistakably me yet also

stronger and free.

- Vera

Blink - Poem

Fragile things can fall and break

in the simple time it takes

to breathe.

They can slip from 

the careless hands 

of a woman, child or man 

and break. 

Some breaks 

can be rectified 

Some no matter how 

you try 

they're broken... 

from the falling or the 

dropping or the 

careless words spoken. 

In the blinking of an eye 

they slip, they crash, they drop 

they die. 

Then you're left to moan and cry 

their passing. 

Be careful with the 

things you love 

never place them high above 

where they can fall and drop and break 

in the simple time it takes 

to breathe. 

Put them in the 

safest space, 

handle with care 

and watch your pace! 

Curl your fingers 

round it's shape 

for fragile things will 

fall and break 

in the simple time it takes 

to blink. 

- Vera

Fourty-Five

 WOW 45... I Remember when, at 15 I moved to NJ to live with my Aunt and Uncle to ostensibly get to know my American relatives better but in reality to break free from the limiting role my siblings had put me in and recast my role as, not the youngest sister, but as me.

Auntie June and Uncle Kevin seemed ancient back then yet now looking back I they were even younger than I am now.

I never would have guessed that breaking free of other people's image of me to stand in the light of the truth of who I am would become a lifelong journey.

At 45 life is an interesting mix of predictability and beautiful surprises. I am grateful for the people I am surrounded by; for every moment I have spent mothering, friending, cooking, cleaning, driving, teaching, learning and loving.

I used to think that I gave too much of my time and attention to causes and people who didn't deserve it, now I realize that few of us (me included) deserve the mercy and grace others extend.

I used to believe the choices my kids make should reflect the values I instilled, now (thanks Zoe, Antonios, Miles and Athena) I insist that their choices reflect who they are and who they want to be in this world.

I used to suppress the part of me that wanted to connect with God, now I actively seek out and pay attention to the Divine.

At 45 I am old enough to know that freedom is more about the ability to be who you are than the ability to go where you want.

Until I sit down to capture a moment, create a poem, or offer encouragement and support, my 15-year-old self would hardly recognize this me. A me who willingly admits to not having the answers; who makes the bed even before leaving the bedroom; who has learned to celebrate as vigorously as she grieves; who doesn't need to hide her tears; who voices her opinions and who actively explores her spirituality. A me who has learned that no matter what the problem is, love is usually the answer; who belongs wherever I choose to find common ground (there is always common ground). A me who believes you can never be grateful enough for the gift of life - regardless of its condition; as long as you are alive  you have something to offer.

If I have 45 more years or a day I want to spend my time accepting and loving and perhaps putting a few more words on paper because there are always more words.

Rising - Poem

I lay down my head to go to sleep

and all the secrets my heart keeps

floated up in to my head

causing me to think instead.

First came joys that I have felt

then pain with which I haven't dealt

I faced the wrongs that I made right

then the ones I hide from sight.

the ones that cause the greatest pain

the ones I hide from guilt and shame.

The sheets grew wet with falling tears

for all the scars that my soul bears

then in the deepest darkest hour

gratitude, with all her power

showed me all the lessons learned

showed me all the badges earned.

By the time the day had come

I accepted those few some

regrets that I will carry 'round

as burdens that I can't lay down.

I blinked against the ended night

my heart and mind had both grown light

like the dark, my work was done

my heart re-packed before the sun

had finished lighting up the sky.

At least today if I should die

I'd do it with a whole-ish heart

for falling down is only part

of

Rising.

- Vera

Reaction

One seed

burst forth from

one ground

producing one plant

yet

clinging to one stalk

nourished from

one soil

fed by one stream

warmed by

one sun

are

two different

leaves
reacting in two different
ways

yet
you expect

me

Who was born from

a different seed

in a different womb

with different

parents

and different

circumstances

to need the same things

make the same choices
and

be the same

as

you.