Searching for Safe Harbor

For Valentine season this month, I decided to decorate Kai's corner with a posse of love monkeys. They're quite a cheerful bunch. <3

Dear Kai,

It's been 20 months since you left us. It will be almost two years soon. Almost. I try not to think about your coming two-year angelversary. I'll just fall into the trap of what-could-have-beens and what-should-have-beens. They are just too painful like picking at a new scab of an un-healed wound.

How is it that I'm able to exist without you? I know the answer to this but sometimes I ask myself this question as if it would make a difference. You are gone and I am here. I wish the line between being and non-being is not so wide or at least, just once, I could see and hold you again. The intangible is tangible again. But unfortunately, this is not possible. My love for you is all that I have and I'm hoping against all hope it will transcend death and reach you.

Today, my new chiropractor asked me if TLB is my first. I said nothing. Not because I don't want to tell the truth about you but because if she couldn't be bothered to remember what was in my patient intake form, then I couldn't be bothered to share you with her. Yes, I've become selfish that way. I don't feel guilt for not being forthcoming to certain people about you and about what happened to you. I choose the time, the place and the people, especially the people, since I've been wary of non-reaction, non-sympathy and non-acknowledgment. From my experience, my grief for you does not always get any legitimacy from the public-at-large despite my honesty.

But there are times when I feel open and ready to share, without doubt and disillusionment sitting in my heart. I tell some people, who are worthy, about you with my eyes wide open. In fact, I look at them straight in the eye so they could see the kind of mother I have become, someone who fiercely loves you and affirms your life. A mother forever connected to the child she lost. I will tell them how I commemorate you and honor your gifts to me.

Yesterday, I sent the loom-knitted hats I made in your memory to Cure International. This organization provides hospital care to mothers and their sick babies in Afghanistan. I'm glad I was able to participate in this campaign to mark your 20th-month angelversary. It's one of the thoughtful ways I can honor your memory.

I hope these hats will serve as a reminder of love and hope to those mothers. Maybe they're not so pretty or cutesy like the ones I see on healthy babies but I pray that they can be a source of comfort and a way to let them know someone is thinking of them. It's never easy to have the welfare of one's child in the balance, to worry about what tomorrow will hold for them, so I'm grateful to have contributed in my own small way. And you know what, you made that possible, my son. Thank you for such a gift.

Six loom-knitted hats for the "Knit, Pray, Love" campaign of AIR1 and Cure International. Two preemie-sized and four baby-sized hats. Lovingly handmade in memory of our beloved Kai.

I hope that you are well and enjoying the freedom of un-tethered existence. Don't forget to watch over us - your mother, father and sibling - as you play in the waves of love and light. We live here on Earth, loving, remembering and missing you forever.

Your Mommy

Daddy, mommy and Kai. 1 May 2010. Pacifica, CA.

Last month, a friend of mine texted me that she was near the area where I live and wanted to meet up. I haven't been particularly sociable with friends for the last one year and 7 months or so. And I was surprised she invited me. I really do appreciate her for reaching out as I haven't had the energy to be open and social for a long time.

But the thing is, this friend had been pregnant at roughly the same time as I did with Kai. Her son was born only a few weeks after Kai. He's alive and doing well. So I was a bit apprehensive to see her since she was in the area with her husband and son. Eventhough I'm expecting Kai's sibling, TLB, right now, it is no surprise that I'm still uncomfortable at the thought of meeting a little boy who is the same age as Kai.

You see, there's more between us than just knowing each other and having our sons born on the same year. We supported each other during our pregnancies eventhough we live in different states. We exchanged long emails constantly, updating each other about our progress. We shared the joys and pains of our pregnancies so freely that it felt like we're a pair of long lost sisters.

We whined, complained about our changing bodies and gushed about the little ones in our wombs like truly blissful, first time mothers-to-be. We dreamt of having vacations in our respective states and having our sons play together. We were both happy and thankful that we were alone in our pregnancy journey. We had each other as support and sounding board for our hopes and expectations about our future families of three.

But things didn't work out as planned. Somewhere along our journey, my life took a different path. One that was totally different from hers. While she took home a healthy baby, I took home nothing but the memory of my son. While she celebrated her son's every milestone, I memorialized every month without my son. She is traveling the path of motherhood free from heartaches and despair, while I trudge on a parallel path filled with grief and loss.

My emails stopped coming. I didn't have the will to continue communicating with her in a time where I was angry and resentful at the universe and at those pregnant women who were 'oh-so-lucky' to take home their babies, including this friend. I'm not proud of that feeling. And I'm not proud of being such an a$$hole of a friend either.

Back then, I can't bring myself to be happy for her. It was easier for me to remain silent and turn away from the fact that she had a son who's alive and healthy. I mean the fact that her son escaped unscathed is truly a celebration in itself but I couldn't bring myself to be happy, to be genuinely and sincerely happy.

So when she sent me a message, the very same feelings got a hold of my heart once again. Involuntarily. I have expected that I would be more open, more okay-with-it. But it's been almost two years and I still feel embittered by what happened to my son. I know that it's not something Kai would be proud of, but I'm still processing, still trying.

At one point, I considered meeting up with her, thinking that I'm just being ridiculous. It's about time I get over myself and share in her happiness, that perhaps it's about time to take that brave step in meeting her son, who is the same age as my beloved Kai. I mean, they're both different persons, right?

But it's not that at all. Seeing my friend's son would undoubtedly bring so much emotions on the surface. Here's a little boy who epitomizes what Kai will never be. He has a full life ahead of him, the potential to be what he wants to be in this world. Kai will never have that opportunity. And as his mother, the very thought tear through my heart.

A discussion with my husband brought these feelings to the fore. He told me to find my comfort zone since I was obviously in a painful dilemma. I contemplated it some more and was unable to make a decision. So I did something that I thought I would never do ever again - I re-activated my Fac.e.book account and looked at some photos of my friend's son. I figured that if I decide to meet up with her, I wouldn't be affected by her son that much since I've looked at a bunch of his photos.

A bit stalker-ish, I know, but it was the only way I could gauge my feelings. And if I find myself crying and breaking down, I'll be in the safety of my own home. But I didn't feel too bad about them. I was just a bit taken aback by how different our 'walls' in the summer of 2010. While I have condolence messages on my wall, she had congratulatory messages on hers from our common friends - a testament of how our paths completely diverged.

I asked myself: What do I have in common with a mother with a living first-born son? How can I relate to her parenthood stories? Can she understand a childless mother like me? Will there be a common ground between us or perhaps a neutral subject that doesn't involve talking about our own children? *sigh*

People who haven't experienced a loss like mine would probably pull their hair out and say things like: "OMG! Why do you have to complicate things like this? Can't you just put on a brave face and be happy for her for once? Why don't you show her that you're doing fine after almost two years and that you've moved on? I don't see why this has to be difficult when you're expecting another child?"

Now there's the rub. Just because I'm expecting again doesn't mean I'm over the death of my firstborn son. The devastation I felt then may have eased a bit but it doesn't go away completely. And this is why I find myself in such a dilemma. I'm not as brave as other BLMs who were able to get pass this, I wish I am. But I'm a coward, I'd rather run away.

Making matters even more complex is the fact that this friend of mine had just given birth to her second son last December. And that made me even more conflicted. How lucky is she to be able to have two living children, one year apart. How lucky is she to be able to get pregnant right away and give birth without worrying whether her baby is going to live or die. (<--insert extreme jealousy here.)

Times like this I feel like one of the protagonists of the book I read last December, "The Memory Keeper's Daughter," by Kim Edwards. The wife named Norah gave birth to twins but one of the twins was stillborn. And she didn't get to see or hold that daughter (Phoebe) because her husband thought it best to not let her. So she has been living lost despite having the other twin, a son, survive his sister.

There's one scene in the book where she met another mother she knows in the playground. This mother has a daughter the same age as her son, and had just given birth to another daughter. And this passage from that scene may have very well been written for me: "For a moment she (Norah) felt another sharp, deep pang of envy. Kay lived in innocence, untouched by loss, believing that she would always be safe; Norah's world had changed when Phoebe died. All her joys were set into stark relief - by that loss and by the possibility of further loss she now glimpsed in every moment."

My friend's innocence, perhaps that is the source of my envy and apprehension. It makes me earnestly want to have the kind of motherhood she has - parenting living children and mothering without being haunted by grief and loss. Fearless and free to be blissful. Maybe if I could have a smidgen of that I wouldn't think twice meeting up with her and her children. Maybe.

Right now, I'm fearful about this subsequent pregnancy. I get by as best as I could but like Norah all my joys will always be punctuated by Kai's death and by the possibility of further loss. I have little confidence that this time around, that this pregnancy with TLB will have a better ending. There's no looking toward the future for me because I would just be paralyzed with fear. Only here and now matters. Every moment of everyday is all about remembering Kai and celebrating TLB at the same time.

So in the end, I decided to bow out of my friend's invitation. Just examining the complexities of the whole thing and thinking of such a dilemma had stressed me out. There will always be my guilt of not being a good friend and of passing up the opportunity to hurdle one of the difficulties brought on by this grief. But I feel it's not my time to do that. Not yet.

I wished my friend and her children well. Maybe one day I'll be able to meet them with a heart that's healed, hopeful and joyous. And who knows, with a living child of my own.

I've been meaning to post some of the things we did when I was pregnant with Kai. This should have been a January entry but Slide.com is going to shut down soon. The site has made slide show-making so easy - just upload pictures, choose effects and voila, you have a nice slide show. Too bad, it's going to close down in March. So I had to put one together using iMovie. Here's the result:

It was difficult to choose the photos but it was more difficult to revisit them. Tears can't stop falling as I looked at each one and thought of how happy we were back then. We were thinking of so many dreams for Kai, so many things we wanted to do with him and so many places we wanted to take him. At that time, we were already building memories with him, a special time when we would tell him stories about our Hawai'i adventure when he was still in my womb. We had planned to take him there when he gets older and show him where we went and what we did. It would have been a fun family vacation for the three of us.

But plans and dreams have a way of not happening. And so we are left with these photos of two years ago - our babymoon trip when I was about four months or so pregnant with Kai. It was a triple celebration - our birthdays and our last trip together as a couple. We really didn't mind that it was our last trip as a couple because the next time we go, we'll be three.

We went to the Hawai'i Volcanoes National Park. I read that sulphur fumes from the active volcanoes are not good for pregnant women, so I was a bit wary. But a quick visit to the Visitor Center gave us the reassurance that it was safe because the advisory said the winds were not so strong as to cause the fumes to scatter all over the park. "But make sure you keep your car windows closed when you're driving," said the park ranger.

Then the next place we visited was the St. Benedict Painted Church. It's a quaint Catholic church built in 1899 and painted by Father John Velghe as a way to teach Catholicism to native Hawaiians. We went there after we had gone kayaking at Kealakekua Bay. No boating tours would allow me, a pregnant woman, to ride on their boats because of insurance liability. Plus, they said the jittery boats would be too rough on a pregnant woman. So we decided to do things ourselves. Yes, we were that fearless.

We also attended a luau. It wasn't an authentic one, of course, since it was mostly for tourists and it was organized by the resort. But they made sure to infuse traditional Hawaiian fare like poi, kahlua pork and lau-lau on the menu. The show was entertaining, too. We had a formal photo taken of the two of us, the very same photo we included among the things we want cremated with Kai. It was our most cherished photo of the whole trip. It showed a different 'us', no longer a couple but parents-to-be expecting their firstborn son. We beamed with so much pride and joy back then.

There were a lot of things that we did on the trip that made it so special for us. It was when we felt truly connected with Kai and it was where we found his name. At that time, our world was almost complete and we were only waiting for the one puzzle to be put in place. Our lives will be forever changed, we thought, but we truly didn't mind at all. Not one bit.

Those feelings, though painful to revisit at times, are so very precious to me now and I hope that I will always remember them for the rest of my life.