Surrender

"Death sets a thing significant
The eye had hurried by..."

I recently found myself traveling a once familiar path. From one file folder to another and finally to one labeled: Seth. Images tucked away because of their power, even now almost seven years later. Unique features, red hair, a person. Not just a dead baby. My son. I wondered why I had no pictures of him up on my wall.

Because, I suppose, it is disturbing. He is a full term, 8-pound baby with everything right where it should be. Still, he is dead. And his coloring is off. Blood was beginning to pool in his face, his lips were bright red. Blood on my hospital gown, my eyes swollen almost shut.

Also, these are all we have. A handful of pictures, ones that Keith and I took ourselves with our pathetic point and shoot. Even the three terrible polaroids shot by our pushy nurse are a treasure to me. I wish I had more. I wish we'd had professional shots. It wasn't even an option at the time.

I don't want to walk by the one good shot we have and not notice it because I see it every day.

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I've long admired the work of Nikki McClure, an artist who creates images with an X-acto knife. Really love her art.

I was reminded of her while reading a blog a week or two ago and decided to treat myself to one of her prints. Just a 5x7 note card, really, but big enough to frame and display.

It arrived a few days ago, I opened it and hung it in my kitchen. As I stood back and looked, I realized why it had so appealed to me. Beyond the universal appeal of mother and baby, it somehow spoke to me of Seth.




















The baby hidden in red. The mystery.

I turned the card over to find any information I could. Written there was the name of the print, I hadn't noticed before: Surrender.

A celebration of life

The boys could not believe it when I told them Seth would be six years old today. This led to other calculations-how much older or younger he is than his brothers.















This year we enhanced our balloon tradition a little. The boys each drew some pictures of something for Seth and I cut some things out and we glued them to the balloon.






















Happy birthday, Seth!
















"Everything that has been broken you’ll mend,
throughout the morning of one day,
sleeves fluttering in the air, in the air,
and we’ll shout, shout for joy"

-Innocence Mission "Shout for Joy"

Happy birthday Seth

"He goes uphill,
I wish that I could follow after him.
He goes uphill.
Please let him be safe there, across the way.
I love that boy, I say.
I love him all the day."


The Innocence Mission- Love That Boy

For Seth on his birthday

August ninth rolls around again and I can admit to myself that sometimes I'm glad your birthday is only three days before your big brother's. Every year I have a good excuse to stay busy, distracted. A legitimate reason to focus my attention right here, right now.

But sometimes I resent it.

And just a couple weeks ago, anticipating your fourth birthday and thinking these thoughts, I remembered a conversation I had when pregnant with you. Standing in the classroom where I worked, laughing with the director of Special Ed about how close your birthday would be to Ethan's. She suggested it would make life easier, being able to combine both birthday parties into one, big celebration. With the idealism of a young mother, I secretly promised never to shortchange you this way.

And again this year I wrap myself in the ordinary. Busy myself with plans, ninja weapons, elaborate party favors made from tissue paper.

Someday I promise I'll write down your story. It's all I have of you and so I hold it close. But sometimes I want to tell it all.

All of the details I grip tightly for myself. The way your elbow rolled under my skin. The early ultrasound when the technician managed to capture your little fist forming a perfect thumbs-up. To reassure us, we half believed.

Our excitement, planning how you would be your brother's biggest birthday gift.

Your due date that came and went and all the days of waiting.

And the doctor with her news and her sad, brown eyes that I can never forget.

The anesthesiologist who knelt beside my bed with a story of his own. A story that reached through the fog I pulled around myself and summoned my first tears.

And you. The weight of you. Every perfect part of you. Easy to imagine you were only sleeping.

I read a book the other day which mentioned that elephants grieve for their lost. The book cited a story of a mother elephant observed carrying the dead body of her calf for miles before she could lay it down and let it go. I read this part over and over.

Someday I'll write about my instinct to turn inward and the many, many people who surprised me by carrying this pain with me and helping me heal.

And the way I still miss you.

August 9

I think of songs I might have sung to you,
the love I wanted you to hear.
Every time the blazing sun goes down,
another promise disappears.

I never knew the dusk could break my heart,
so much longing folding in,
I'd give years away to have you here,
to know I can't lose you again.

-from Fernando Ortega's, "Angel Fire"

Today Seth would be three years old. It's hard to imagine since we knew so little of him. At 8lbs, 2 oz, he was the biggest of our babies with red hair, Keith's nose and a face like his brothers.

Grief doesn't always honor anniversaries. Sometimes it's hard to feel anything at all because of the date on a calendar. More often a memory comes skipping up without warning on a sunny day as you sit waiting for the red light to change, leaving your eyes blinded.

But anniversaries have a purpose. Every year on this date, we release a red balloon with a note attached, which, as cliche as it may be, is somehow helpful in a tactile, present way. Today as Ethan wrote out his birthday message to his little brother he wondered out loud, "Maybe God can read it to him."

It’s a long day, a long way into your arms,
A long, long looking forward, through a straining eye.
And I think you will see me coming under the sky.
And I think you will see me coming, and open your arms.
I try to be there, be there, to be there.
And all the clouds are weary whales swimming by to find you.
And I’m sorry, sorry how, how slow my steps are, slow as hours.
To be there, be there. To be there where you are.
To be there where you are.


There--Innocence Mission

Happy birthday, little Seth.