Silence Explained

I will be the first person to admit that when someone likes to write as much as I do, not knowing how or if to even write about what is going on in my life and desperately wanting to write is a real dilemma. It's why I haven't written for a while. I'm ready to open up a bit now, even though right now that is no easier than keeping silent.

Daniel and I have had a whirlwind of changes in the last six weeks or so... much of it has been exciting and miraculous, and some of it has been exceptionally hard. Currently, we're in one of those exceptionally hard patches.

We found out at the end of December that we were expecting a baby. That was very welcome news, but it has been a very bittersweet journey, both because the pregnancy itself was very hard on me physically, and because it has come to an end much sooner than we had hoped.

An ultrasound yesterday morning, at what would have been 8 weeks 6 days, confirmed that the baby had stopped developing at 7 weeks 4 days. It's rather hard to describe how painful it was to see the all-too silent and still ultrasound before walking through two long hallways of very pregnant women and their beautiful babies and then waiting in line, face red and puffy, to check out. I really don't begrudge them their happiness -- in fact, I need to know it doesn't always end like this -- I just wanted to disappear.

The process isn't over yet. We've chosen to let nature take its course and check back with the doctor next week, at which point we'll decide how to proceed if my body hasn't managed to complete the process naturally. I understand the science, I know the statistics. I'd hoped to be fortunate enough not to face this outcome, but now that it is here, I'm quite resigned to doing whatever needs to be done and moving on as best I know how.

People who know me well enough to have known about this sooner have called me or messaged me online, most of them asking how I am doing, and I think I can honestly say that while I am heartbroken, I actually feel a great deal of peace about the situation. It's still rather emotionally exhausting to talk about, so if I decline to take a call or delay answering an email, I hope you'll understand that it is not at all personal and that it doesn't mean I am cutting myself off from you or from others. I really only have so much desire to talk. I communicated with no fewer than 30 very kind and supportive people yesterday in various ways, including 2 priests and a couple of women who have been through similar circumstances, so I am genuinely not feeling isolated or unsupported.

About 2 weeks ago I posted a rather philosophical post on a pregnancy message board about my deep conviction that even painful things like miscarriages, as senseless and difficult as they must feel (no matter how easily and handily science dismisses them), happen in the greater context of God's perfect plans. Around that time my prayers changed, too... from pleading that God would work things out my way, to accepting that my way may not be His way and asking instead for grace to handle whatever He may have in store for us: difficult pregnancy, easy pregnancy, a healthy child, a child with special needs, a miscarriage or some other outcome I couldn't imagine. I still feel that way. We're all in His hands.

I lay in bed last night thinking about some of the other deep disappointments in my life: the long-term boyfriend who didn't want to marry me, the exciting move that didn't happen, the transfer to college that fizzled... each of them were devastating to me at the time. However, from this distance in time, I can see very clearly how each of them fit in the bigger picture, and, in every case, something wonderful was brought into my life later on. Dare I say something better? In many cases, that is absolutely true. I don't know why this baby wasn't meant to thrive. I'm not sure it matters to me, really. I'm content to know that this baby wasn't meant for a longer stay and that the choice was never mine to begin with.

I expect I'll have my moments as time goes on. I expect to grieve -- with all that that entails. But I also know that we'll be okay, and we'll open ourselves up to the possibility that next time may be different. Those of you present at our wedding probably recall the dozens (hundreds, perhaps) of reminders that children absolutely must, somehow, be a part of our marriage. We're confident that they will be...

Finally, I know this is one of those uncomfortable topics that prompts one to say, "I don't know what to say." Please... you don't need to feel that you need to say anything, or that you need to come up with the "right" reply. The "right" reply may simply be letting us know you are there and praying. That's comfort and support enough.

Still here

We're still here, and we're okay. I'm just a bit, well, still on the sharing front. I intend to update the blog in a more satisfying way in a few days, so I appreciate your patience with this presently reluctant blogger. I've heard from a few people that an update would be appreciated, so know I take that seriously... I just may prolong the wait a few more days!

Prayer for baby Justin

I happen to know a lot of the people who check in on us here are in the habit of praying, so I'd ask you to remember Justin and his family in your prayers at this time.

Justin, Born August 8, 2007, has a congenital heart condition. He was admitted to the hospital for what was to be a fairly routine (outpatient, essentially) procedure earlier this week. Since then, he has really struggled, and his heartbeat and breathing have stopped twice in the last few days that I know of, once for almost 30 seconds. He's being given a temporary pacemaker so that he can be transferred in preparation for a surgery on Monday. He's a beautiful little child and deeply loved, and I covet your prayers for his healing and recovery, and for the strength and wisdom of those caring for him at this critical time.

Read more about Justin here at his family's blog.

Four Days in Bed

There have been plenty of times in my life when I have wished that I could just stay in bed -- I actually wished that either I felt badly enough to justify it or hadn't moral scruples enough to care. Seldom, though, does my health warrant a good lie-in. While I am not the healthiest or most energetic of people, I usually have strength enough to go about the business of my life, whether or not I choose to actually do so.

Beginning Sunday morning at 3 am, when I woke up feeling as though I had taken a nap in a radiator, I finally had my wish. I was so drained, feverish and otherwise unwell for 4 days that I wasn't able to get out of bed to do anything other than feed myself simple foods, use the restroom, and get myself from one reclining position to another elsewhere. My nose was so raw it bled profusely and repeatedly. I haven't been able to answer simple questions without irritation and frustration. I have had no voice... but that hardly mattered since I didn't want to talk to a soul. Trying to compose a sentence or an email was too much. I could read some, if I didn't mind going back to reread (several times), and I was occasionally up to some mindless chatter with a far-off friend online when I felt up to opening the laptop and stringing a few letters together in a sensical fashion.

I called a nurse twice and eventually went to a medical office to get checked out. The practitioner greeted me with the words, "Oh, you are miserable, I can see that all over your face," when she walked in to listen to my lungs and poke around in my ears. Oh, but I was! Thankfully, I didn't need to explain, much. I felt utterly helpless and was starting to taste a hint hopelessness. This after 4 days of illness that was sure to be passing.

It all came to a head last night when I decided I would get up and do some laundry. The house is a mess and we have house guests coming for the weekend. I normally love company. This time all I could think was something like "mess. tired. company. mess. tired. mess. tired. mess." There were one too many messes in that chain of thought. I started to grab clothes from the hallway floor where they get sorted before a good washing, and I dumped them into the washer. Even that simple act took herculean effort. Mid-load I just began to cry. Water streamed into the machine and a lesser quantity out of my eyes. It was a hoarse, pathetic cry that sent Daniel flying to my side with a hug. He petted my head and asked what was wrong. What was wrong? I was just soooo tired of being so tired. So tired of feeling so useless. I wanted to be up and out and able to do basic little things around my house. I wanted to be reasonable and cheerful and personable... but all of those things felt far out of my reach.

Mercifully, I didn't have too long to wait. I woke up this morning feeling human again. I'm still sick. I am still tired. But I am also capable of completing a sentence, sitting in front of a computer, cooking food that requires multiple preparation steps, fetching the mail from the street-side mailbox and breathing without aid of medicine. At this rate, I may be able to answer a phone tomorrow without sounding like death warmed over.

It's so easy to want to check out of responsibility and into bed when life is going as it normally does and I feel put upon by responsibilities. Having been to bed recently out of necessity, I can't say I recommend it... or do I?

My four days in bed drove some uncomfortable truths home. I, it would seem, can't stand being reminded that sometimes I have to rely on other people. Sometimes I can't do for myself. Sometimes I need to just trust. Sometimes I need to just sleep. Sometimes I need to just be. Sometimes I'm not in control. Sometimes... it's okay to be weak and tired and broken.

We begin life in desperate need of help. Many of us will end it the same way. When we're given a chance to visit that place of vulnerability for a day or two during the stronger years when the beginning and end seem impossibly far off, perhaps it is a gift--a reminder that some things are always true, no matter what we feel. We need. No matter how strong or affluent or healthy or independent or proud or intelligent or capable we are. We all need.

The a Tale of Two Krigsbarns

In the lake country just north of Kristianstad, in Skåne, that old land that proudly remembers its old independent culture formed neither by the Danes nor the Swedes, there lives a man. I will call him Magnus, though his name is unknown to me. He’s somewhere between 65 and 75. Most of the time, he smells of cheap spirits and acrid, unwashed flesh. You might be tempted to think he was homeless if you met him on the road, because his tattered clothes and unkempt body don’t speak of home and care. Homeless he is not, however, because his small house, about 150 km from the lake, keeps the rain off and the chilly winds at bay. Still, one wonders if he doesn’t still feel quite displaced, even now, 60-some years after he came to Skåne as a “krigsbarn” – a war child – from Finland.

Neighbors whisper that he is rather strange. He is, they wager, an alcoholic. In any event, he’s a throwback to an earlier age in more ways than one. Shunning indoor plumbing (because of cost or custom, nobody knows), he runs to his outhouse come sun or snow, and his life is, by all accounts, simple and quiet, even if he has neither assimilated to the old Scanian culture or the new Swedish aesthetic.

There, in a land that still clings to its own identity as, at its roots, neither Danish nor Swedish, there is a man without roots, save those that dig into the frozen earth from the scant plum, cherry, pear and apple trees that fill his rotting mouth with their abundance when summer thaws the northern climes, and those that run deep, yet withered, to his Finnish birthplace.

Magnus is not much for words, but the words he shares on the rare occasion that a neighbor finds him out of doors and feeling sociable are un-Swedishly raw. He remembers war-torn Helsinki. He remembers bodies “delade på mitten” – rent in half at the waist. He remembers the strangeness of a new place and a new family after witnessing the far greater strangeness of human cruelty and war.

Neighbors think he must have stayed in Skåne rather than return to his native land when the war was over. Perhaps he had no family to return to, no home. Instead, he took up his dwelling there, in the quiet lake-land. He lives peacefully, alone, trying to forget the bitter fruit life fed him by cultivating fruit of a sweeter, life-sustaining sort and drinking the fermented spoils of the fruit of vine and field.

How did I learn of this now-grown Finnish krigsbarn? I watched a gem of a Finnish film “Äideistä parhain” or “Mother of Mine” and then I spoke of it to a Swedish friend, who just happens to be one of this man’s neighbors. This strange old Finn is one of the 70,000 very real Finnish children who found themselves transported to neutral Sweden during the war. He is one of the 70,000 people who are represented by Eero, a young Finnish lad -- a fictional composite -- who is sent to live with a Swedish family near Ystad, on the southernmost coast of Skåne -- about 60 miles south of the lake home of the Finnish man whose own experiences might have inspired the film had they been known in their own peculiarity.

“Mother of Mine” is visually stunning, and rich color and passionate music paint an emotional picture that is at once achingly simple and richly complex. Eero’s story, though steeped in time and place, speaks of the universal themes of life -- love, regret, sorrow, loneliness, despair, joy, hope, redemption, forgiveness -- that resonate here and now. The story of his two mothers -- one of the flesh, one born of war -- is a story of lives intertwining and permanently changing in ways that none of them could have predicted.

Certainly, life changed for Magnus, fresh from the horrors of Russian-invaded Helsinki. Nor will it ever be the same for the thousands like him and those Swedish families who made room at their tables for such as him. This film seems fitting tribute to their perseverance. It's no wonder that this film has won 11 international film awards; it is truly lovely... and it just might just bring a tear to your eye for the Eeros and Magnuses of the world, and for what they and their many mothers share in common with you and me.

Images are from http://terve.rossi.se/

There was a barber and his wife...

Dan heard an interview on the way to work yesterday with Tim Burton. Burton said that he had seen a stage production of Sweeney Todd years ago, before his movie career was a career, and that his work had been profoundly influenced by the musical ever since. He said that he knew if he ever filmed a musical, it would have to be Sweeney Todd. For my part, on my way to the theater, I remarked to Daniel that if anyone should film Sweeney Todd, it needed to be Tim Burton. Thankfully, the Hollywood and Broadway stars aligned to make this pairing possible, because this combination is as devilishly delicious as Mrs. Lovett's famous meat pies.

Sweeney Todd in any incarnation is not for the faint of heart. It's a brutal look at the ways evil and revenge consume humanity, based on a gruesome legend that has been told in many bloody incarnations before.

I know Sondheim's stage version better than most, because I lived it for a few months when I was cast as part of the "company" about 8 years ago. I was one of the revelers at the masked ball, one of the people taken in by Pirelli's miracle elixir, one of the greedy commoners devouring Mrs. Lovett's pies and one of the inmates in the asylum. My costumes changed throughout the night, from the heavy bustled gown of a depraved socialite (a Hollywood rental -- the dress of a "lady of the night" used in the filming of Jekyll and Hyde), to the scratchy wool skirts of a London low-life. With the costume changes came a change in demeanor, as the story changed London from its grim sooty gray to a blood-drenched midnight black.

I remember a very heavy feeling after each performance over the course of a few weekends. The cast members quickly developed the habit of eating or drinking together after the show, not just out of the usual cast camaraderie, but as a way to sort of gently usher ourselves back into the someone less gruesome details of our everyday lives that went on between bloody shows. I don't think we could do that musical without being changed by it ourselves. Even though I knew full well that the patrons of our Mr. Todd's chair walked up and away to their families and the smoke from the oven was simply the result of a strawberry-smelling smoke machine (I had to know -- I operated it by remote while running about the stage singing in full voice), the thought of the Mr. Todds and Mrs. Lovetts of the world was sobering... even for (or perhaps especially for) those cast members who tried to push back the sobriety with substances licit and illicit.

Sondheim's music is very intricate, challenging and, in many respects, opera-derived. I managed to do two Sondheim musicals during my theater phase, and I have done little music since that has rivaled his score for complexity and challenge. Sondheim develops the characters through music and weaves their stories together in a tapestry of sound as brutal and heartbreaking as the story itself. Of course, the medium of film is much different from that of stagecraft, and I have to confess that while most of the musical bits that were cut from the film were those that had been mine to sing on stage, I think it was adapted beautifully. Among other things, I think this adaptation managed to help the viewer suspend the disbelief that springs from watching all of London spontaneously sing in one voice, by giving the lyrics to just a few characters. I don't think I really missed the company parts, because they were there in the music, unvoiced, but conveyed by the faces of the throngs.

Other bits were added, some dialog was smoothed out, other omissions were made, but the story and music retained their integrity. Would you believe that the thing that bothered me the most was the removal of one word from one of Judge Turpin's lines? "Ablutions." In the stage play he says, "Perhaps I have been too hasty with my morning ablutions." Of course, I loved that word. It's a good word... underutilized enough that our Judge Turpin couldn't say it correctly to save his life. Every night I would pronounce it correctly under my breath, and I looked forward to the way it would roll off of Alan Rickman's tongue. But, alas, that word received the axe as surely as Sweeney's patrons met his razor.

The fact that this little change bothers me most should say something to those of you who know me well. Yes... it really was that good. I wasn't sure about the voices of some of the leads, but what they lacked in vocal prowess they made up in presence. In the context of Burton's trademark visual artistry, the musical I loved took on a new, somewhat different life.

I cannot recommend it without reservation, but that is simply because I don't think the story of Sweeney Todd is for everyone. As one theater-goer behind me said at the end of the film, "That is messed up. That is seriously messed up." It is messed up. It is messed up as humanity is messed up. We devour each other as surely as did the starving Londoners of Sondheim and Burton's fantastical vision. We spread parasitic destruction by our hate and lust and greed in ways as hidden, if apparently less sinister, as those of Sweeney and his Mrs. Lovett.

In short, if you can stand to stare the evil in your own heart dead in its murderous face, and if you can laugh at the absurdity of what we do to one another, then this film may be for you. If not, perhaps you should stick with Alvin and the Chipmunks and the softer side of whimsy.

I've made my choice, as did Burton, and I cannot say I am sorry I did.

"There was a barber and his wife, and he was beautiful. A proper artist with a knife, but they transported him for life... and he was beautiful."

The Full Armor of Mom

You've seen them. Maybe you have been them. Perhaps you are even raising them... you know, bubble kids. Those children who would probably be kept, impervious from harm, in a large bubble, if that were possible without constituting abuse. Given the limitations on parental "rights", these kids are simply not allowed to step foot outside without protective gear of every description, and their lives indoors are sanitized and safe.

It's for their own good. I'm not one to criticize that sort of parenting. Firstly, I haven't managed to cross over into the great international fraternity of parents. Secondly, I think I understand the impulse perfectly. I mean, I can be rather mother-bearish about the safety and wellbeing of my indoor cats, and they have nine lives that they would much rather expend more quickly in the great outdoors (not to mention that they don't have nearly as much humanity as I assign them).

Anyway, when bubble kids are on bikes or skates or skateboards or razors or scooters or those bizarre two-wheel skateboard things that I am not young enough know the name of, they are wearing helmets, knee pads, elbow pads, gloves... anything that will soften the blow when their bodies eventually hit the pavement. They look a little bit ridiculous, it's true, but I think looks are absolutely the least important thing when it comes to remaining in one piece.

Besides the ubiquitous "water wings", I don't remember such safety measures being thrust on my generation. When I wanted to forget how to slow my butterfly-bedecked banana seat bike sufficiently before hurtling myself head-long over the handlebars right into Mr. Perry's old truck, I had nothing but my own skin and play clothes to keep me from harm. When I wanted to fall on the playground and have a concussion, I just did it... without the benefit of a brain bucket.

Anyway, I have been inspired to become a bit more of a bubble kid myself. How? No... I have no intention of cleaning the house more often. I just intend to "dress up" when I go out skating.

What inspired this change? Well, call it one of the most basic human impulses: self-preservation.

This Saturday dawned chilly and brisk for a change. Perfect weather for a lap or two around the local ice rink, we thought. So, grabbing our skates and gloves and socks, we headed over to the ice rink. Now, I just happened to be in possession of a pair of only somewhat-too-small-for-me kneepads that dated from Daniel's roller blading days. I decided to make good use of them. I am quite sure I looked ridiculous, and I would have realize that even had Daniel not remarked between guffaws that I looked, in profile, like an overgrown faun. Of course, the effect was lessened by covering my brown leggings with baggy black pants... but no matter. I was better prepared to tumble... at long as I managed to tumble forward. I've had knee surgery once. I don't want to have it again, and if I must look like an arthritic faun when I skate, so be it.

The Zamboni was in operation when we arrived, so we stepped out onto fresh, slick ice. I was on the newly-sharpened blades of brand new skates on unmarred ice. That was an interesting combination which led me to an instant feeling of panic. When we had done this two weeks ago, the ice had been skated into a very large pile of shavings that more closely resembled snow than ice, and, I assure you, the feeling is entirely different.

For the most part, the skating went very well. I lasted much longer this time, even though I did have to remove my feet from the skates twice to let them recover from the compression pain. During those breaks I had the chance to watch how the kids on the ice (most of them wearing bike helmets, at least) responded to the challenges of skating when you just don't know how to do it. Several of them regularly belly-flopped, others fell sideways. Others fell over backwards. All of them popped back up to try again. And again. And again.

I don't want to fall. It's scary. I want the security of a hand or a wall or something more solid than I. I want to be spared the indignity of whatever heap I manage to land in, too. However, this trip, I didn't always have the luxury of a hand or a wall. I wanted Dan to have fun, and sometimes that fun meant taking a lap or two unencumbered by me. The wall was removed by a line of cones that made part of the rink off-limits. I was not pleased. However, once I mustered the courage to take that stretch of ice on my own, I also managed to skate around the entire rink once or twice without stopping.

Daniel, the wise, practical one, mindful that he'd be the one scraping me off the ice when I splattered, kept encouraging me all the while: "Don't go any faster than you can manage." Good advice, that. Wish I had listened. However, I apparently can't handle motion faster than a standstill.

My moment would come.

It did... about halfway into our stay, and it was spectacular. My feet decided to move ever further apart left to right as I skated along the length of the ice, such that I was doing side-to-side splits increasingly closer to the ice, until something strained in parts of me I didn't know I had, causing my torso to pitch forward. In the end, I got up close and personal with the chilly whiteness. I imagine it looked as though I were trying to make a face-down snow angel.

When I peeled myself up off of the ground, I discovered that I had a rather lingering pain in my right leg. As a result, my exit from the ice looked more than a little gimpy. I was later informed by a friend that I now am the only person of his acquaintance to manage a groin injury "without the benefit of a Y-chromosome." Obviously he doesn't know Michelle Kwan.

Anyway, while my bouncing back was not energetic, I did get back out on the ice again, mildly strained groin and all. I was determined not to let that fear get me, even if the ice would.

Thankfully the pain has subsided quite a lot over the last few days. I haven't needed pain medicine and I can walk normally again. And you know what? My knees, which took the brunt of my actual impact on the ice, are fine. God bless knobby faun legs!

Determined to learn my lesson from this, I have now ordered padded shorts (protecting the hips and tail bone), elbow and knee pads that fit, wrist guards and a helmet. Daniel threatens to get me in full hockey gear someday. That, I am to understand, is what it is to feel safe on the ice. In the meantime, I will enjoy some measure of increased security in the form of my unnatural padding, because I realize it is not a question of if I will fall again. It's a question of when and how and whether I will be able to get back up again afterwards.

I, now comfortably in my 30s, have become an ice-skating bubble kid. I'm not sure, but I think my mom may be proud of me. It is, after all, for my own good. Add to that all a little measure of good sense and a bit of humor when I tumble, and I will have put on the full armor of mom. After all, life's full of tumbles. It's just a matter of being ready--in one piece--to pop back up and try again.