Poem for Amalia

Today would be Amalia's sixth birthday. It's been hard for me to write or talk about her short life and death, but I finally finished the poem I started for her five years ago. As one of the lines says, "Grief mutes/but I (still) speak to her."






Each thought of her
an invitation
to cross
the bridge over the river,
an arch over an abyss,
a concrete thread over
the ashes of my daughter: ivory
and turquoise, glistening in the stream,
swaying against
heart-shaped rocks,
inching their way slowly
towards the Columbia, the Pacific.


My girl in the river.
Her dust swallowed up among the fish,
the moss, the grasses, and sticks,
the water insects, when close up, bigger
than the valley hem made of jagged mountain peaks.


My girl in the river and the sky.
The river's name, the Seeker.
Her name, Hard Work.
Hard work to stay alive.


We sang to lure her back,
--mama a teta, two sister-mermaids--
songs to bring her home,
summoning the onion sellers, the shepherds,
the dove, the cat, the dog
to help whisk her
away from machines that beeped,
strangers in scrubs, tubes penetrating wrists.
Home to a wash of chamomile,
warm cotton,
skin on skin.


Grief mutes,
but I speak to her
greeting her there on that bridge
as fast as one breath in and out
over the water-filled wound in the earth,
warm vapor rising.


Amalia: deep down in the water,
burnt bones. Such beautiful burnt bones.

flowers for Amalia

Tomorrow marks the third anniversary of Amalia's birth. As time goes on, the pain of her death, only eight days after she was born, lessens. But the memories don't fade. And, to be honest, the aversion I have to many of those memories lingers.

Why aversion? And what a horrible thing to admit! I am only telling the truth. Amalia's short time with us was spent in intensive care. When not by her bedside in the hospital, I was home with my son, my mind flooded with worry and fear. At night, I could barely sleep and the nightmares that overwhelmed me were epic.

I am still in the process of teasing out the good from the horrific. The moments of tenderness are what must be raised above the rest:


Amalia's tiny, soft hand against mine; her warm head nestled against my chest when I held her (albeit only once); my lips against her hair and forehead; the songs my sister and I sang to Amalia incessantly while she was alive; the flowers and wishes family and friends had sent; the care of the nurses and doctors--institutional, but golden; my milk that flowed via tubes through her veins; the hospital window with a view, high up on a hill, gray clouds rushing by, pine trees swaying in the hostile February air; the rain drops pounding the windshield as I pushed ahead, driving to see her each day; ginger tea in the dark because I could hardly eat; bitter herbs because I could hardly sleep; her little face so much like her brother's; her reddish brown curls, dimpled knuckles, round belly, purple heels; the relief when she was breathing; and, finally, the sorrowful parting: ashes set free in a fast-flowing river full of heart-shaped stones.

Thank you for these flowers today, Jenni and Andy, Amalia's aunt and uncle, two of the very few people who got to meet her.

I once had a girl...

I still have the battle scars as proof you existed. And three photos. The size of your palm imprinted in mine, the feel of your ashes in my hand—ivory and turquoise—falling in to the gurgling river rushing on.

It's been two years and it is still hard to find the words, even the opportunities to speak about it all. I try to shape my sorrow and my memories of her into poems or photographs, but succumb easily to silence.

With the impending anniversaries of Amalia's birth and death--which fall within eight days of each other--I've been growing increasingly anxious, fearful and distracted. It's almost midnight and we are now on the precipice of our little girl's birthday, February 1.

What am I dreading so much? Is it the fear of fear itself? Is it the flood of emotion that hasn't had a chance to fully express itself, though I have given my grief a voice plenty of times? Is it that I'm afraid of further loss because I don't trust that the people I hold dear will want to hear me out and stick with me because I'll strike them as too needy, too unstable, too much of a "downer"?

As soon as she was born, the paramedics whisked my daughter off to intensive care. And the nightmares started. I didn't think I would survive those first days, those first weeks. I thought I would never be able to sleep again or to carry on living. I was conscious of my breathing, always hearing her raspy gasps like grasps at oxygen in my own breathing, internalizing her struggle to stay alive.

Jonah was my sole motivation to stay committed to this life, although I was very mindful of never placing my burden on him. I wanted to be truthful with him about what is happening in my world, but to shield him from my own misery, which required me to remove myself emotionally from the situation while simultaneously living inside the heart wrenching reality that it was--an impossible task. Granted, he was only two-and-a-half, but perceptive and curious nonetheless. We did our best.

Over the last two years I've worked so much on creating inner peace, and that is why I'm stunned at how much is resurfacing for me two years later.

The only time when thinking about Amalia stands apart from the trauma and hurt I so closely associate with her short life, is when I talk with Jonah about her. When he asks about her, I speak of her with neutrality that helps smooth over the turbulence and, to be completely honest, at times even the dread that thoughts of her trigger like a Pavlovian response.

When I tell Jonah about his sister, I am able--if just for a brief moment--to remain upbeat and tender and glad to remember. That is because I want Jonah to have his own stories, his own associations with his sister, free of my own painful memories. Sometimes, too, when Tim and I speak about her, the good begins to outweigh the bad.

She was and still is such a mysterious presence in our lives. It will take us years to unravel all there is to feel, learn and understand about what Amalia's presence meant and still means.

I once had a girl...
And when I awoke, I was alone, this bird had flown
- The Beatles

the year in review

2010 busted in the door, but, though I'm mapping out some goals for the new year, my mind is still stuck in 2009. What a year jam-packed with adventure it was for us! The second international move within a span of twelve months and all the adjustments that go along with that--new job, new place to live, new school for Jonah... Also travel, lots of travel. Six countries, five U.S. states, and at least 16 cities and numerous other historical sights that we visited in 2009. How lucky for us! Here are some in pictures I took on our trips:

The hip and historic city of Berlin, which I visited with my 80-year-old grandmother:





London where we met up with Jonah's paternal grandparents and a good old friend from college:



The ancient and still pulsing city of Athens which my little family spent four days exploring:



The breathtakingly rustic and romantic, cousin-of-Venice Corfu Town on the island of Corfu, or Kerkyra as the Greeks call it. Here we spent a week with Jonah's Czech grandparents:



Of course my birth city of Prague where we lived for a year:



And other places of interest, with our favorites being the very mysterious medieval castles and ruins around the Czech Republic. The one pictured is a 14th century castle called Bone (Kost in Czech):



And towards the end of 2009, New York, where we visited my sister and husband for Thanksgiving:



Workwise, I must admit that my job in Prague was the most boring and underpaid one I've ever had--teaching executives, secretaries and accountants English. Now the Czechs are known to be slow to warm up to strangers, but I had no idea how much that would impact my lessons! Imagine sitting in the same room with a poker-faced, taciturn man (or woman) for 90 minutes, hoping to get a conversation going. Yes, you're right. Sounds like a bad date--several, in fact--every day of the week!

The best part of the job was taking an undercover survey of current attitudes on politics and society under the guise of teaching conversation (when people finally did speak). Fascinating. But I'm glad the new school year is in full swing, because now I get to do work that I'm passionate about--teaching high school English to immigrant youth. I'm definitely in my element at this small public charter school. Yay!

Thinking back at last year, most of all, I value the relationships that sustained me over the last year(s) when things were going well and when things were difficult, especially after the death of our daughter. These are some of the special people who have always made us feel loved and supported:

My lovely grandmother:



My daddy and wife, who both helped us so much to make a new life in Prague:



Tim's parents who visited us in Prague:



And of course the uncles & aunts:





And many sweet friends... You know who you are.

To all those contemplating a move abroad, I highly recommend it. With enough emotional and practical support, it can be done, even with a small child. However, for anyone able to do it, I suggest a time frame of at least two years. A year is barely enough to begin to adjust, let alone get comfortable and create lasting bonds. Though the Czech Republic is my first home, I had never lived there as an adult, forging my own way with my own job, my own place to live, etc. Of course my family who still lives there helped, but I wanted to make new connections and get plugged in to some meaningful political/social work. However, with such a limited time, it felt like parachuting in, so I gave up trying because it just felt irresponsible to only be able to commit to a short time without the ability to form deep relationships. That is my biggest regret. But, many things were good: my son learned Czech, I got to spend with family and old friends, and to reconnect to my roots.

Our year in Prague made me realize that I am still Czech to the core and that, though I doubted myself before, I do have a deep understanding of the culture and society. Also, I proved to myself that something as challenging as starting a life in another part of the world with my whole family could be done. I am also glad Tim was able to form a bond with the place that makes me who I am.

In 2010, among my personal, creative and professional goals, I'm hoping to explore the Pacific Northwest more and to make it to a couple of national parks we've never visited. We will see if those dreams come true.

On a more recent note, the Czechs say that how you spend the first day of the new year is how you will live the rest of your year. The day started with an intense wrestling match with the self-proclaimed Wrestle Lord who tried out some of his deadly new moves, such as the fly toss, on me. Good thing we wrestle free style and I was able to solicit the help of a bunch of pillows in the process. Next we played some more and ate a feast of leftovers from the night before and some homemade cookies delivered to our door by a good friend. Not a bad start to a year, is it, friends?

remembering Amalia

A candle for Amalia on her would-be first birthday at my grandmother's on February 2:



And the flowers my grandmother Anna gave me on that day:



And a video I made as I set out to pay homage to my deceased grandmother and daughter at the New Jewish Cemetery on the first anniversary of Amalia's death. It was at that cemetery that I first encountered death after my grandmother Bedřiška died when I was ten. The video somehow illustrates a bit about Amalia's journey to me: the journey through the unknown towards a light, mom's (my) hand opening the door, being out in the world for just a moment, and, as the film ends, even -- unintentionally yet fittingly -- the funeral service office across the street called Tranquility...

he remembers

The other day, Jonah looked at the chandelier in our apartment. About the only consoling thing about this hideous brass ceiling fixture is that sometimes its shapes ignite Jonah's imagination.

Looking at the light, Jonah mentioned that it reminded him of people riding horses. He said: "There is a horse for mommy there, one for daddy, one for Jonah and one for mommy's baby."

I was touched that he included Amalia in the world he was imagining.

Yesterday on our way home from pre-school, we were talking about kids growing bigger. Jonah was excited about the idea of becoming a man some day. He asked me if "the baby" was going to grow bigger too, so we talked about Amalia again. My simple, yet truthful answer seemed to satisfy his curiosity.

What a sensitive little boy.

remembering

Out of the blue today Jonah looked at me and said: "I'm dead." He seemed to want a reaction. I asked him what he means. He said that he is sick (which is not the case). Remembering my therapist's advice, which I have already taken to heart and used some months ago, I responded: "You know, Jonah, when someone gets sick, that person usually gets better. Most sick people don't die."

Surely enough, he was thinking of Amalia. I had thought about her earlier the same afternoon, but alone, in a different room. I didn't think there was a trace of sadness on my face anymore. Perhaps coincidentally, Jonah remembered her too. It's been eight months since her death.

Jonah asked me about "the baby." I said that she died. He asked why she died and I told him that she had trouble breathing, which he asked me to explain. To make the situation comprehensible to a three-year-old, I told him she was born that way. Jonah asked me what her name was. I said: "Amalia."

We talked a lot about Amalia after her birth and death, but after a while the conversations stopped. The processing became more quiet and private.

"What was she Malia for?"

"Daddy and I liked the name."

Our conversation continued like this: "You remember all about our baby still," I said.

"Yes." (Pause) "Is she still there?"

"No, she is not at the hospital anymore. She died."

Jonah seemed satisfied with how discussion went and we hugged. My sweet boy, still carrying this tragedy, incomprehensible to a toddler, inside, without trauma attached to it, I can only hope.

today

Today Amalia would be six-months-old. This flower is from a camellia tree Andy and Jenni gave us in memory of their niece Amalia. It bloomed in May.

Name Day

By the way, today is Amalia's Name Day in the Czech Republic.

Before we decided to name our daughter Amalia, I consulted a Hebrew language scholar and this is what he said: Amalia is a 'hebraized' name of either Italian (Latin) or German origin. In German, Amelia means "hardworking" and in Hebrew Amalia means 'work of God' or 'God has worked/perhaps 'wrought'. Our little girl both worked hard in her short life... just to breathe alone... and she was indeed a work of God.

Now back to the tradition of 'name days.' I will surely remind you when mine is coming up (in October), so you can send me flowers, cupcakes or any such small gift. Thanks in advance.

Jonah's is September 27th and Tim doesn't have one since his name doesn't have a Czech equivalent. Aw... poor Tim. I guess we'll have to assign him an arbitrary date -- maybe on Labor Day or some such nameless holiday -- so he doesn't get left behind.

the demons that come out at night

During the days I've been doing pretty well, though I do occasionally get sad when I think of Amalia or imagine what our family life would be like now. I also sometimes feel angry about what wasn't done leading to the birth that could have prevented her death. But at night is when the demons seem to appear. Laying down to go to sleep especially has been an experience filled with a relentless onslaught of images of Amalia's birth, hospital stay and death.

Stress dreams, too, have found their way into my sleep. Last night, for instance, I dreamed that I had ingested glass. My mouth was filled with sharp little shards of glass. I had to take every care to remove the pieces one by one, before any get swallowed. And one did. Another ended up in my eye, piercing it, like the blade of a miniature knife, though I could still see, but not for long, I worried. I then searched around frantically for someone -- anyone -- who would reassure me that glass has the potential of decomposing quickly, practically melting in the throat, doing no damage.

Other stress dreams have mostly focused on natural disasters - usually pertaining to tsunamis or some other type of a flood. I have often had natural disaster dreams over the years. Sometimes my dreams have matched a real natural disaster that ended up occurring simultaneously or a day later somewhere in the world. The only redeeming quality of all this, as I see it, is that if I establish myself as a natural disaster forecaster, a natural hazard psychic of sorts, Tim and I could perhaps capitalize on this some day somehow. Heck, we might even be able to position ourselves strategically in the lucrative field of "shock doctrine economy."

play, rewind, fast forward

Though I don't write about her much, I still think of Amalia quite a bit. Her memories fill me largely with anxiety, sadness or sometimes with no feeling at all. Just images of what I remember, running through my head like a movie reel. Sometimes random things remind me of her. Yesterday a tree in our neighborhood pruned and sculpted to stand flat against a wall brought back an image of Amalia pressed against her hospital bed, with her motionless arms and legs bent and spread and tubes coming from a hundred different places.

My memories of her are so fused with the anxiety I felt about whether she would be ok that I am not able to divorce thinking of her from feeling stressed. Most of the time, though, I focus on what is directly in front of me - Jonah, work, friends, summer plans, preparing for our move and that helps me feel upbeat. I can go a couple of hours now without replaying Amalia's life and death. I don't even notice anniversaries until much after they have passed by. It has been more than three months since Amalia's birth and death.

But when I feel too upbeat and forget to remember Amalia and my grief, I wonder if I'm just pushing back dealing with the trauma. Is being happy and upbeat ok and healthy or am I refusing to acknowledge what really happened? I feel good physically and that to me is a huge indicator that I seem to be dealing with Amalia's death alright.

I did have some heart palpitations and shortness of breath a while back -something I self-diagnosed as a delayed stress reaction- but that has gone away. So, maybe I am on the right track when it comes to healing.

river of heart stones

Just returned from a weekend in the Tatoosh Mountain range where Tim and I got married almost five years ago. This time we went there for a different reason: to spread Amalia's ashes in the river just feet from where our wedding ceremony took place under tall evergreens with a backdrop of a river valley and picturesque mountains.

The ceremony was really just a quiet meditation on Amalia's life. Just Tim and I, the flowing water, the surrounding valley and snow-capped peaks.

Everywhere I looked I seemed to find stones in the shape of a heart. I found one immediately after Tim and I got married as well.

I am so glad we picked a place filled with only good memories since Amalia's short life was filled with anxiety and fear, feelings that are hard to shake and separate from my memory of her.

I feared that the spreading of her ashes would hurt so unbearably that I dreaded the whole event. But it turned out to be sad, yet peaceful.

I thought of Tim's grandfather who died not too long ago. He was at our wedding. His children spread his ashes in a river as well and I thought that was such a beautiful way to honor a man who loved nature.

The thought of touching and holding Amalia's ashes in the palm of my hand hadn't occurred to me until Tim asked me. I was going to just pour the ashes straight out of the bag into the rushing stream. Of course it made sense to hold them before letting them go. Her ashes were coarse, white and beautiful, almost like a treasure from an ancient time like special fossils or precious remnants of a mysterious, yet important bygone civilization.


In the eight days that she was alive we didn't really get to know her. She was an infant, straddling two worlds: the one we know and the other world beyond. We never heard her voice as her vocal chords never made a sound. But she did open her eyes and gazed at us. Something I wrestle with is how much of who she was is ascribed to her by me because there was so little to go on from her side. Her presence and message, if there ever was one, was a true mystery and I am trying to tease out who she was separately from my own fears and demons that her death made me have to confront. Honestly, I am not sure if that is at all possible. But one thing I know is that now I have a nice memory associated with her: the moving river, still mountains, and silent heart-shaped stones.

the works

Yesterday was my first day back at work after more than two months away. I had been looking forward to getting back in the swing of things and to feeling appreciated outside the home. But I had been dreading the awkwardness that I would surely encounter with co-workers regarding Amalia's death.

Most people at work already knew that Amalia died shortly after birth. That made my return easier. No one asked me to discuss the details (so far, at least). Only one person asked how the baby is doing and I couldn't really dodge the question. I had to answer that the baby died.

Several people came up to me and told me they were sorry, some hugged me, and though our conversations generally ended briefly with them actually verbalizing they didn't know what else to say, their expressing their sorrow and solidarity meant so much. I never realized until this time on the receiving end that just having someone come up to you, look you in the eyes and say they were sorry could be so meaningful.

On the other hand, I am disappointed that my direct neighbors at work, including a woman who was one of the inspirations behind me deciding to have another biological child and getting pregnant with Amaila, only said as much as: "Welcome back," though we sat next to each other at our adjoining desks for several hours.

I remembered my friend Cari's words from the time she and I talked about what it would be like to go back to work after all that had happened in my life. She said: "People will say stupid things (and I should add: or not say anything). Death makes people uncomfortable." It's true.

My students, whose class was predominantly taught by a sub, were genuinely happy to see me back, which was the best feeling ever. I will spend a month recruiting and signing the next batch of students up for the upcoming course, which I will start teaching in mid-April. I do like my job. It gives me lots of autonomy and makes me feel useful in the world.

the dreaded question

• At the supermarket, a surprise encounter with an acquaintance: "How is the baby?"

• In line at the post office, Jonah asks loudly: "Mommy, where is your baby?"

• The midwife checks in: "How are you feeling emotionally?"

How do I answer? What do I say?

Monday I go back to work after weeks of being gone. Will a lot of people ask?

bye bye, bunny

Jonah has frequently been asking about what happened to the baby. Today, for change, he asked me where my big belly is. I explained, but he wasn't satisfied, so I decided to do a reenactment of Amalia's short life using two of Jonah's stuffed animals. Gray dog was mom and bunny was baby.







When I got to the part when I said goodbye to Amalia, I didn't know where to put her, so I just ended the skit with the baby lying down and mom saying goodbye.

Jonah then took the baby bunny, a.k.a. Amalia, and performed his own version of the event. He laid the bunny down and waved at it, saying in a resolute yet jovial tone: "You're sick. Bye, bye." Then he threw the bunny across the room into a corner with a mighty force. We then moved on to a different activity.

body talk

This the nucleus--after the child is born of woman, man is born of woman,
This the bath of birth, this the merge of small and large, and the
outlet again.

Be not ashamed women, your privilege encloses the rest, and is the
exit of the rest,
You are the gates of the body, and you are the gates of the soul.

- from Walt Whitman's Sing the Body Electric


Time has been going by so quickly. I cannot believe it's already been nearly a month since Amalia was born. The physical reminders of the pregnancy and birth, the ones that have to do with my physical connection to her, are slowly disappearing. The bleeding is done, the jiggly organ feeling during any kind of movement as well as the hemorrhoids (try spelling that one) pretty close to gone, my weight is nearly back to pre-pregnancy (though my stomach still bulges out), and I have stopped expressing milk.

The last two or three days of Amalia's life was when my milk really came in because I got to hold her and bond with her. She was born without the gag reflex, so she got fed my milk, which I pumped, through a tube going down into her stomach. In about two weeks I have gone from having to express milk every two hours, an amount that totaled something between sixty and seventy ounces of milk a day (!), to weaning completely. All that time I worried about mastitis, but luckily I was able to avoid it. What will stay are the stretch marks. Amalia was, after all, a big girl. She weighed nearly nine pounds! That's a lot compared to Jonah who weighed less than seven.

Right after Amalia was born, she was whisked to intensive care. Tim went along in the ambulance, but I stayed behind, resting. The midwives said Amalia needed me and tried to hurry me to the hospital, but I couldn't physically jump out and get on the road even if someone drove me. If I tried to get up to just use the bathroom, my heart started beating like crazy, I was short of breath and felt lightheaded. Finally, after about four hours I made it out to the car and to the hospital, still feeling weak and panty. That crazy palpitation feeling when I got up to walk lasted for two or three days, but at last went away. Birth is such a huge process and transition for both the mother and baby.

Tim and I visited the hospital a couple of times together, but most days we took turns, so one of us could always be with Jonah. Between the two of us, we were at the hospital at least ten hours a day.

I hated all the tubes, machines beeping, the cold Amalia had to endure. They had her uncovered, naked save for a diaper, and cooled for the first few days to try to save her brain. She was so cold that her feet were purple. It was so hard to see that and to not be able to hold her. Everything contrary to what a mother (and baby) feels is right.

After the first three days when the brain injury is supposed to peak, she was allowed to be covered and dressed. We could even hold her a few times at that point. She did open her eyes and look at us some of the time. It's hard to tell how much she was aware of with the brain injury she suffered. But we acted as if she was all there, listening to our words and songs, feeling our skin against hers, feeling our love. The body and soul are, after all, two different entities, sometimes in sync and sometimes not.

A part of me wants to forget the hard things about her short life, but that, of course, is impossible, because her whole short life outside my womb was defined by trauma.

When I get up each morning and open the curtains in the living room, I look right at the hill on the other side of town and see the hospital where Amalia spent her short life and died. The hospital is what we see, dominating our view from the main part of the house, from the front door and the porch. I now have that sterile, machine-filled establishment intertwined with who she was and what I remember of our brief relationship. A hospital, of all places, an environment I most detest. One that, other than what it must be like in the middle of a war zone, for me is closest to hell on earth.

Regardless, today I had a good day. The sun was shining and the air was warm and almost summer-like; Jonah and I had great fun together out and about town; I thought about lots of stuff, not just Amalia; and only cried once and for about two minutes listening to traditional Vietnamese music, which reminded me of her for some reason. That, my friends, is a good day. Replenishing, to say the least.

the consequence of sick

This morning Jonah wanted a drink from my water glass. I told him I didn't want him to drink from it because I was sick with a cold.

After a little while he asked me: "Mommy, where is your baby?"

I answered: "The baby is not here. She was too sick."

Jonah replied, concerned: "You're not sick, mommy."

I qualified my statement: "Just a little bit." He seemed satisfied with that and went on to play.

His reasoning was clear as day: if the baby was sick and because of it will not live with us, what about mom? His two-year-old brain never ceases to amaze me.

while Jonah plays...

I am usually a person who needs to get out and go places instead of staying at home when I have Jonah all day. These days I sometimes stay in and around the house all day and don't even notice because my mind is all over the place, traveling so faraway every day.

Today I took Jonah to "Indoor Park," a place set up by the city for kids at a community center. Three days a week the gym at the center is open to families and kids and filled with toys, foot-powered cars, slides, etc. And all that for only one dollar. It's a great place to go when it's too cold or rainy to go outside.

Jonah's favorite item at Indoor Park is a foot-powered monster jeep. He can get in it and drive it for hours on end, occasionally stopping by the bench where I am parked and asking me to check the engine or gas up his vehicle. Today for the first time I noticed the jeep's wheels are bigger than Jonah's little head. What is it about monster jeeps and trucks that appeals to little boys so much?

I was at Indoor Park today for the first time since giving birth, reading my book on grief -albeit with the cover page masked so no one could tell- noticing mothers who were pregnant when I was and now had newborns strapped to their chests and toddlers running around the gym. I, of course, got emotional a few times, thinking about how that would have been me today if Amalia hadn't died.

I think of her constantly. I replay all that I remember in my mind over and over: the birth, my visits to the hospital, her last day with us...

After all the relatives left, the reality of Amalia being gone really set in. The predominant feeling now is a profound sadness, which consumes me occasionally, several times a day. Otherwise there are many times I think about her without feeling a lot, maybe just tiredness. And then, most of the time, I just go about my day in a mundane sort of way: fixing food, eating, picking up toys, playing with Jonah, thinking about the most random things like spring and all the places I want to travel.

I dread having to return to work three weeks from now. I know I will enjoy work - I like what I do and look forward to the time to myself there and the distraction of being able to think about other stuff. It's just that I don't have the energy to deal with having to talk about Amalia's death on a daily basis. I am also worried that others at work will stigmatize me for having gone through this; that they will whisper and look at me strange... I just need to remember my friend Derrick's words: "Like water off your back." He is right. And also not everything is about me. Grief is quite narcissistic, I now realize. And I didn't get that from a book.

sad

Today I feel sad. I think of Amalia's little hand in mine and of the way kissing her warm little chest felt and I miss her terribly.

I'm reading a book about grief just so I can say I'm trying to deal with it - not just to others but to myself. It's interesting to notice that some of the things I have been thinking and feeling are very much parallel to those others who have lost a loved one have felt. I didn't know.

My guiding words have been my friend Karin's: "There is no wrong way (to grieve)."

Today we received Amalia's ashes. I didn't realize how big of a deal that little vile would be. I haven't even begun to process that transformation yet. I haven't even looked inside that little box.

back to number one son

The first days after Amalia's birth were such a stressful time. Somehow, Tim and I sleepwalked through them with my sister being here for a part of it. I hardly had the energy to acknowledge her presence, but it meant so much to have her nearby. Those days were hard for Jonah too. When he needed our reassurance most, we were often gone at the hospital, sitting at Amalia's bedside.

Jonah never met Amalia. We decided it was better that way. The situation was confusing enough as it was. Jonah was at uncle's and aunt's house during the birth and we never took him to the hospital to meet Amalia because we weren't sure she would make it from the beginning.

Jonah asks about the baby once every so often. First it was: "Who's home?" Then: "Where is baby?" or pointing at my stomach: "Who's in there?" or "What's your belly doing there?"

We explained in a simple way what happened: "The baby will not live in our house. She was too sick." or "The baby is not here. She was sick and died."

I don't know how much he can understand, but now that we are getting back to our old routine, he has finally begun to act out less and has been in a more even keel and pleasant mood (as pleasant and even keel as a two-year-old can be). He has missed routine.

As a prime example of a toddler in what Freud termed to be the anal stage of development, Jonah has had a strong need to control his environment, especially when things feel out of control. For nearly two weeks, he refused to leave the house. Going just to the store or the backyard took an unprecedented amount of coaxing. We honored some of his need to be in a familiar environment and to feel in control during that time and slowly tried to ease him out of that phase by going to see his favorite relatives: uncle and aunt and his grandparents who came for a visit the last week.

It seems that Jonah is more or less comfortable with doing stuff and going places again. He still has control issues (e.g. "Not those pants; I need blue pants!!!" or his main complaint: "No, mommy! I need daddy do it!"), but those have more to do with being a toddler than being under stress.

I will be home with him during the next four weeks before I return to work mid-March. Then Tim and I will take turns working and watching him again, picking up where we left off before I went on maternity leave.

Jonah has been so sweet when he has seen me get emotional. He hugs me and tries to console me. But I have been reluctant to get emotional around him too often, because I know it confuses him and makes him feel like things are out of control. I do believe, however, that it's not healthy to shield children from real emotions either, so at this stage, it's all about a healthy balance.

When he doesn't freak about about things not being just the way he wants them (remember the Terrible Two's or Freud's anal stage), he is a real sweetheart. Very affectionate and fun to be around.