It is just a little before seven AM as I write this, on Thursday, July 03, 2003. In a less traumatizing world, I might be in a hospital right now, screeching in agony. Or perhaps I'd be looking into my daughter's face for the first time; not just the ultrasound photos, but her face. Her due date was July 03. My mom said: "she'll be a little firecracker."
Thursday's child, it is said, has far to go.
My daughter -- Josh's and my daughter -- died in January. I will probably always remember that day as the worst day of my life. For whatever reason, we were robbed of our opportunity to be her parents right now. I don't know why. I'll never know why. Forever, I'll feel angry and disappointed. Forever, a little piece of my heart will be missing.
But I don't want to talk about me. I don't even want to talk about Jake. All you really need to know about us is that we loved her. We loved her. We'll always love her.
Today, I want to tell you about her.
I will not let you forget her. I will not let this world pretend that she didn't exist. I will not let the only record of her existence be medical record. She had a very short life, by comparison, but she had a life, and it was beautiful. Do not forget that. Do not call her a "miscarriage." She was a person. Now, I don't know what she is, exactly -- she's whatever people become when they die.
I will tell you about her...
Her name is Jane. I wanted to call her Jane Rhea. Jane means "God is gracious," and Rhea means "Rivers." Rhea was also the wife of Cronos, and the mother of Zeus, in Greek mythology. Jake and I never officially agreed on any middle name.
She was conceived, we're pretty sure, on the Jewish holiday of Sukkot. Jake's brother fed the two of us a number of little sweet things that tasted like honey, and told us it would be lucky to engage in some certain celebratory activities. He said that Sukkot was a good time for fertility. It was too cold that night to sleep in the tent we'd set up in the yard, so we slept in the trailer. But we didn't really sleep; we spent most of the night trying to stay warm. Probability states that Jane began her life, as so many people have, because her parents were cold. Probably also because the night was somehow blessed, or sacred, or something.
Jake noticed her presence first. He said I smelled different. He said his fingers tingled when he touched my belly. When I first felt her presence, it was nearly a week after I'd taken the pregnancy test. She announced to me that she wanted an Arby's roast beef sandwich. Scratch that, she said; she wanted five of them for $5.95. Beef-and-cheddars, no onions. I only gave her two of them. And then I politely, but somewhat forcefully told her that she could not expect to be eating like that all the time. As long as she lived under the roof of MY belly, she was going to eat what I told her to eat, not the other way around.
(It should be noted that, on that rule, i quickly became a very lenient parent...)
I became aware, as I informed Jane of this, that she was listening. She could hear me.
That say that, at that stage of development, the baby is not able to hear. All the books and research and so forth will tell you that babies don't "hear," like we hear, practically until they're born. I am here to tell you otherwise. Jane may not have had anything like a fully-developed ear on that day at Arby's, but she heard me. She knew what I was saying. And, for the first time, I realized that I could hear her.
She was not a neurotic person, but she had her fears. Her biggest worry was for her daddy. She wanted her daddy. She had no sympathy for those people whom she suspected of having taken her daddy away from her. When I passed police officers, rent-a-cops, or even official-looking people with badges, I felt a strong, visceral revulsion. Flashing lights, sirens, guns, and handcuffs provoked similar reactions. Jane did not allow me to watch "Cops," on television, despite the fact that we only got one channel in the apartment. During the "Cops," time-slot, we would shower, or read, or stare out the window.
You know the pesky child-voice that asks, "where's daddy?" every two minutes? The insatiable pleading that you just cannot answer? That was Jane. Jane wanted her daddy. And so I promised her I would get him for her. And I did. Two months after conception, Jane was her daddy's girl. She thought of him as a cross between God, a jungle gym, and some sort of large, funny beast creature. I know this is the way she thought of him, because that's what I saw when I looked at Jake. This is not a feeling I ever remember having for any other human being, except perhaps my own father when I was Jane's age.
She was a very curious little person. She wanted to know about certain things. She wanted me to touch certain things. She was very selective about the stimuli she wanted us to experience.
Her favorite place in the world was the Fifth Avenue Bridge. Each night, I invariably got some craving for some food item I didn't have in the house. I'd go to the grocery store to purchase it, but once we were on the Fifth Avenue Bridge, Jane was satisfied, and I wasn't necessarily hungry anymore. She loved the animals that swam around under that bridge. There was the Great Blue Heron. There were several seals, or otters (I'm not sure which, but I told her they were seals), which were her absolute favorite. I would have this feeling of joy, this enormous, foreign sense of delight, whenever there was a seal under that bridge. Jane also like the fish. I think she may have even had a soft spot in her heart for algae. I didn't understand -- and I still don't understand -- what she loved so much about water-creatures, but I do believe that most of the best times of her short life were spent on that stupid bridge, watching waterfowl and fish, anxiously hoping for a seal-spotting.
(When my mom asked me if I needed anything for the two of us, I told her to send me a copy of the children's book, "Old Mother West Wind." As I remember it, most of the book is stories about waterfowl, fish, and otters. I told her that she should probably start looking for a stuffed seal. Or an otter. Jane and I didn't exactly know the difference. Actually, I take that back. I did not know the difference. Jane very well may have.)
When one of us was scared, I would sing to her. Most times, it was something cheesy. Jane made me realize that, for some reason, most of the song lyrics I've retained over the years have been ones to incredibly cheesy songs. But Jane liked them. I sang "Lights," by Journey sometimes. She liked that one. I also sang "Come Sail Away," by Styx, and "Ramblin' Man," by the Allman Brothers. Sometimes, when I was really stuck on lyrics, I'd sing "Find the Cost of Freedom," by Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young. That song only has, like, four lines. Once, we went to see Low in concert. She loved the music, but not the cigarette smoke in the venue.
Jane regarded our rare sightings of Mount Rainier much in the same way she regarded her father: as something otherworldly in its astonishing beauty.
She had her moments of joy and silliness, but I think, on the whole, she was quite a serious person. She wanted to know things. She liked to ponder. She thought about strange things I never exactly grasped. Sometimes I wondered if maybe she didn't get switched at conception or something; her musings sometimes seemed so far away from me... Perhaps she was in my womb working on particle physics in her tiny little head. We were as physically close as two humans can be, but she often seemed a million miles away. I didn't hear her "voice," often. Often, she was too busy in her own head to "talk" to me. I only "heard" her when her emotions seemed to overflow: her joy about the animals under the bridge, her fear of police cars, her love for her daddy... Jane was a subtle creature: quietly fascinated by everything, sometimes deeply introverted, and only very occasionally deliriously excited about things. Mostly, she spent her time studying: so this, I imagine her saying, is how things are...
When they took the ultrasound pictures of her the first time, she had hiccups. (Books will also tell you that eight weeks is too young to have hiccups, but I saw my daughter having hiccups.) But the second time, she was busy touching her head. She was fixated with her head. She appeared to be judging its shape, its size. Every twenty seconds or so, she'd reach up and give herself a little pat, or a rub. Maybe she was testing the texture. Whatever she was doing, you couldn't help but notice the solemn intrigue she had. I don't think she had any idea that she was being watched. I'm not entirely sure Jane knew, at that minute, that she had a mother. I think she was already someplace off in space. She seemed so very innocent -- but studious, and trusting.
Jake read to her from a book about King Arthur. I'm not entirely convinced she liked it, but it was difficult to tell. I read to her from the Bible and from my homework. I'm not sure if she liked those, either.
I promised her some things. I promised that I'd let her watch the salmon running after she was born. I promised I'd take her to Priest Point Park, to have a picnic. I promised I'd let her run all over that huge hill covered wih daisies. I promised her the entire world, really. I never got a chance to deliver. All I could ever really give her was a little bit of food and some awful renditions of a few awful songs. Oh... and her daddy. I got her daddy back for her. As promised. But really, it was Jane who gave her daddy to me.
I never got enough of a chance... Not nearly enough...
When Jane died, I had a vision. It wasn't like a hallucination, just a fleeting daydream-like image in my head. She was sleeping, in total peace, in a large pair of very-white hands. The hands were sort of shrouded by white sleeves, sort of translucent curtainy material. Jane was so small, so absolutely tiny and fragile. The hands cradled her. I hated God for being her mother. Why couldn't I be her mother? Does anyone else know about the otters? Does anybody else know how much she liked flowers, and rocks, and worms, and other little strange things? In Heaven, or the White Lodge, or wherever she is, will there be someone to dip her fingers in the water under the Fifth Avenue Bridge when the salmon are running?
HOW CAN ANYONE EXPECT ME TO SERIOUSLY SAY, "THY WILL BE DONE," WHEN I DON'T KNOW IF GOD WILL LET JANE WATCH THE SALMON?
But this entry isn't about me. This entry is about Jane.
On a whim, I picked up a Bible last night. I keep it by the bed almost all the time, in case I have trouble getting to sleep. I poked through the Psalms for a little while. And I said, "hey God... I hate to ask you for anything... but if it's possible, could you please just let me know that Jane's okay? You don't come through a lot when I ask you for things, but this is really important..."
I woke up this morning, with, oddly, that song "Send Me An Angel," in my head. Jake was sort of aggressively cuddling me: the sort of cuddling that means, "I'm wide awake, and you're sleeping; will you please wake up so that I can kiss you?" So I woke up, and we went outside to have a cigarette. Plus, Jake wanted to show me something...
In the passenger's side mirror of his parents' van, there was a pure white feather.
It stuck straight up, so that when you walked out the door, you couldn't miss it. And by "feather," I mean a nine-inch-long wing feather, not a piddly piece of fluff.
I can't think of many birds that have feathers like this. Of the ones who do, there are none that frequent this neighborhood. And even if one did decide to stop by for a visit, there's nothing even remotely similar to a perch above the van. Plus, the feather was wedged so deeply into the mirror that it was difficult to remove.
I thought of the white hands, with the white curtainy sleeves.
I don't know where my daughter is, but I know she's okay.
Mama loves you, Little One. Daddy loves you too.
Thank you for choosing us to be your parents. Maybe someday we can try it again. You take care of yourself. You be good, and don't let anyone ever tell you that you're anything less than perfect. We love you. We love you more than anything.
It's a beautiful day already.
If you see my daughter, tell her I'll watch the salmon for her in a few months. Ask her if maybe she could be there too.
I wish you could have known how amazing she was. I mean, really known. If you could have met her, you would have been in love with her too.
I love you forever, Little One.
~Mama*
"and it was one of the
most wonderful times
of my
life."
--Charles Bukowski
Title of this entry respectfully borrowed from a poem, of the same title, by Charles Bukowski; the quote at the end is from his poem "Bumming With Jane"...