His heavy load

Last week, Mo and I were sitting at our kitchen table after Ted had brought the babies upstairs to start getting ready for bed. We were doing his homework together (yes, he has homework!) when he put down his pencil and said that he'd had a sad dream the night before. Before I could ask him what it was about, he followed up by asking, "Mommy, sometimes do you feel so sad that you feel like you could start crying and never stop?". "Yes," I said, "I have felt that way before. If you feel like you need to cry, you should, and I promise that you will be able to stop. You won't cry forever." Then, with that, he started bawling. I mean, really, really crying. Tears rolling down his little cheeks, shoulders shaking, little face turning red.

"I can't believe Max died", he said. "I just can't believe it. He was here and now he isn't. He was only a baby. Why did he have to die?". Such sorrow. So deeply felt.

I hugged him tight and he cried and cried. And then, "I miss Layla". Layla - our dog, who we had to say goodbye to a few weeks ago. After Layla died, we struggled with how we would tell the kids. But then they didn't seem to notice. They didn't ask about her or look for her and so we were lazy. We said nothing. On our way to the airport for Christmas break in LA, Mo asked who would be taking care of Layla while we were gone. Ted and I looked at each other. "When was the last time you saw Layla?", I asked. He burst into tears. "She's dead, isn't she?", he asked. He knew. He just didn't want to face it and if we didn't talk about it, he could pretend like everything was fine. Myla added her two cents, "Layla is at the doctors", she said.

Mo often asks me who Max is in heaven with and I tell him - he is there with mommy and daddy's grandparents and all of our pets. I don't really get into too many other people, because I think it is hard enough for him to absorb that grandparents die and that he has a big brother, who is a baby, in heaven. I'm conflicted about whether the concept of heaven is even the one that I should be teaching him - because I struggle myself with believing in and understanding what happens, if anything, after we die. I do think it is about all his tender little heart can handle at this point.

I shared this story with a bereaved parents group that I am part of. Many others in the group had similar stories - of children, who never met their siblings, but grieve nonetheless. We wondered together whether our children are grieving because they know that we are grieving, or because they think that they should be, or because they truly feel a sense of loss around having a sibling that they've never met: a sibling that they could be sharing fun and secrets and love with right now. Probably a combination of all of those things. All I know is that it breaks my heart. My sweet, caring, sensitive, empathetic boy. It's too much for a child to know. How it makes me truly envy those who don't have to think about any of this stuff. It's too heavy for me - imagine the gigantic load that he carries.

Besheret

My gut was telling me from the very beginning of the failed adoption story that there would be no adoption.  Ted's too.  We had many conversations before my leaving for Georgia about the possibility that this family wasn't actually going to place this child for adoption.  But, having had no experience in this whatsoever, we just trusted the guidance we were given.  Regrettable.

I can't blame it all on bad advice however, there was something else that was telling us that everything would all work out.  Not just someTHING else but a whole slew of someTHINGS.  Like the universe had aligned to send us message after message that this baby would be ours.

About a year ago, I had a reading with Moriah (the medium).  She made some predictions that sounded fairly far-fetched at the time.  She told me that my grandfather predicted that I would be visiting Israel at some point during the year - this seemed highly unlikely to me last May, but my work did end up sending me to Israel in February.  She talked about my being among trees and getting some kind of healing from that experience - and as you know, I visited Maxie's Forest and it was peaceful (as much as it was also awful and painful).  She also predicted that we would adopt a baby about a year later.  We'd never really discussed our adoption plans with anyone other than very close friends and we had signed papers with an agency the day before.  She also then predicted some basic facts about the baby and about the lawyer we would use (someone who we didn't even meet until much later).  If it was a guess - it was a VERY good one. 

If you know us, or you've been reading for a while, you know that 27 is our lucky number (well, it's really Ted's lucky number but I've adopted it.  Mine is 7 - so it isn't a complete stretch.).  Ted's birthday is the 27th of December and Maxie was born on 10-7-10 (adding up to 27).  There were so many crazy 27s on this trip.  I wish I had photographed them all.  My mom and I changed hotels nearly every night and for two nights in a row, stayed in 27 rooms - 427 and 227!  We also waited the whole time we were there to eat at the town's "fanciest" restaurant, which also had a 27 in the address.  Small stuff - but signs nonetheless.

When a baby is born that is going to be placed for adoption, the birthmother can choose the name that goes on the birth certificate.  This name can be changed by the adoptive parents (and usually is) later in the process.  Imagine our surprise when we found out that the name given to the baby is also the name of one of our dogs....you may recall that naming babies after pets and pets after people is a favorite activity in our family (even if it isn't ever intentional).  Our dog has a pretty unusual name.  Call me crazy that upon learning that baby was given the same name, I believed it to be a sign.

Though the town we were in in Georgia was fairly diverse, I felt pretty confident that there was no real Jewish community to speak of there.  And diversity certainly does not mean integrated.  One of the nurses in the hospital was telling us that one of the nearby towns had just held it's first integrated prom!  WHAT?  I can't even imagine how a segregated prom has been legal anywhere in the US at all up until this point.  Sometimes I realize that living in Los Angeles is a different kind of sheltered.  There was one nurse who was incredibly helpful through the whole experience.  We really bonded with her (but - ALL of the nurses were wonderful - some of the nicest people I've ever met).  We were talking a little bit about the backwardness of the town we were in and so I asked where she was from.  "Tel Aviv", she answered.  I think my eyes nearly bugged out of my skull.  "Tel Aviv?", I asked.  "Do you speak Hebrew?", I asked - in Hebrew.  Her Hebrew sounded a little rusty (like I should talk) but indeed this woman was Israeli.  She was almost as surprised to meet us as we were to meet her.  It felt like another sign. 

As all of these signs were showing up, I was sending them to Ted.  He was getting excited: "Done deal!", he'd write back.  And it really felt like it was - like, despite all of the drama and nonsense and all of the cues we were given by the family to the contrary - that we'd end up with this little girl.  Our nurse friend seemed to think so too - she kept encouraging us to give this baby all of our love - which we did.  As her shift ended, she gave my mom and I big hugs and said, "Hang in there - this is Besheret (destiny)!"

Camille

I kind of can't believe that I am sitting here writing another eulogy for one of my mom's beloved dogs.  When Camille came home to my mother, something wasn't quite right.  She was skittish and cold (though regal and lovely).  She was especially afraid of men and never came when called.  I can remember many many nights of house sitting when I just could not get her in the house.  The more I called for her, the further she'd back up.  I'd have to leave the sliding glass door ajar, watch tv or read a book, and pretend not to notice her.  That is the only way she'd come back in the house and I couldn't leave her outside because I worried about the coyotes. There are A LOT in my mom's neighborhood and they howl in packs all night long.

As the years went by, she got sweeter and more friendly.  The change happened so gradually, you wouldn't have noticed day to day or month to month - but year to year, she became an entirely different dog.  She totally lost her fear of men - which we all attribute to her having the NICEST men in her life: my brother, Ted, and Ken.  I know that she and Ken had a special bond.  She had become the sweetest, most cuddly and loving dog.  She became this way because she was SO loved.

On Monday night, Camille passed away in Ken's arms.  He held her for the last hour of her life.  My mom was out of town at a conference.  She is grateful that Camille wasn't alone.

I don't think the death of a dog is the same as the death of a human - and certainly not a baby.  I'm not writing about Camille in this space to equate the two.  But, our dogs are important parts of our family and in the space that Maxie left, they helped fill our empty hearts.  In the time since Maxie died, my mom has lost three of her dogs.  It's all just too much.

Our Camille was a sweet and funny girl and she will be missed. 

My mom is always happiest with her dogs. Camille always liked to be right next to her Momma.  She is on the left of my mom.  Ben is on the left of Camille, and Stella (who died shortly after Max) is on the right.  They are all gone now and sorely missed.