Today I got the following message from our dear friend and guide on this journey, Julie, who has been connecting and working energetically with Tikva and me since our pregnancy. When we were still in Israel and I first told her about Tikva and the CDH, she wrote three words I have held since then and continue to hold: Trust her journey.She continues to remind me to trust my own journey. Julie wrote today:
"This morning I saw a Red Tail Hawk floating high above the top of Bernal Hill where Ari (her dog) and I were walking. It made me think of Tikva and tune into her as I walked meditatively back down the hill.
We had a little conversation, she and I. She said she doesn't regret a day she had in her life. She expressed such deep gratitude for your being there for her, and how you were there for her. She knows you have to mourn because that's the process you're in, but she doesn't want you to ever feel bad for her. She wants you to not focus TOO much on her, to be present with yourself and live your life fully, even now in the rawness of your grief."
What Julie wrote doesn't surprise me. I know she must feel that way - how could she not now that she is no longer burdened by a fragile body that couldn't sustain itself or hold breath in her lungs? I've been talking to Tikva a lot, and I can hear her say, "It's okay Mommy."
Right now I am asking myself this: What is it about me that is so resistant to the idea that I can feel okay, now that Tikva is no longer alive? I still have so many tears - days like today, they linger just under the surface and sometimes I can keep from crying for almost the entire day. I still miss Tikva, and listening to Julie's reminder, I am noticing when it is Tikva I miss, and when it is the idea of her. I don't feel bad for Tikva. When I feel bad for anyone, I feel bad for me. But then I'm not sure if that's entirely it: How can I feel bad that I got to know and love my Baby Girl so deeply, so completely?
Today while I was doing errands in town, I spotted a woman who looked vaguely familiar, peacefully carrying her very new baby in a wrap against her body. A few seconds later, I remembered that she had been in my prenatal yoga class during the spring. Her due date was a month after mine. Lucky girl, to be carrying her little one against her as she took a walk to Starbucks. I dreamed of the day I would be able to carry Tikva in a wrap against my body. But would I trade places with this other mom if it meant that I wouldn't have my Tikva? I wouldn't. And that's the clincher... I only get Tikva in this way, and I have to love her - I do love her - as unconditionally now as I did since before she was born.
I love you no matter what. This is what I told her during those last few days in the ICN. And I know she knows that.
There has been a part of me these last 6 weeks that has a hard time wanting to feel better. There is something comforting in the tears. It feels strange to feel okay. Is the whole point of all this simply to come out stronger and wiser, but without my baby in physical form for the rest of my life? I haven't yet completely understood how this all fits into my greater soul journey - and perhaps it isn't something I will completely understand until it's time for me to join Tikva as a pure part of Source, of God, and nothing else. Hopefully a long long time from now when I'm ninety-something.
A week ago, I got my first period since I became pregnant, and it feels long and endless. It's probably not helping my mood, and it's making my skin zitty and the opposite of the glowy it was during my pregnancy and the two months I was pumping milk for Tikva. In spite of my period, I still don't have much appetite since she died. I am deeply grateful for the meals our community continues to leave at our door - I think without them I would resort to grazing a maximum of 1,000 calories a day of snacks from Trader Joe's. Right now I feel PMMessy even though I'm at the end of my period. I feel weepy, a bit irritable, and less patient than I want to be with Dahlia and Dave.
Maybe I'm being hard on myself... Dave keeps reminding me to be gentle with myself.
In the first few weeks after Tikva died, I had this feeling of having been spit out. Like I had been flung out the 15th floor of UCSF Hospital, where the ICN is, far from where I had originally started before all this, and now I found myself in strange terrain I didn't recognize, flat on my butt, which felt kind of sore. I still feel like that sometimes, but I am recognizing that I don't need to have it all figured out right now.
Trust life, Gal. Flow downstream and just trust something much, much bigger than you.
I have to find work again, and I am craving something that is not too complex right now, yet still interesting. Something I can do 1/2 to 3/4 time but which will provide benefits and medical insurance. I have a lot of incredible talents, and it's time to put them to use professionally again. Yet sometimes when I think about getting a job, rejoining society in regular life, I think, "After all I've been through, the hugeness of it all, this incredible, purposeful journey with Tikva, is this all there is right now? Isn't there something bigger going on?"
I'm scared not to focus on Tikva. Scared to let go of her. Scared to lose her, forget her. She gave me such clear purpose. She opened up a part of me I never knew before, and I don't want to lose that. (So why can't I be as open and unconditionally patient and loving in every moment with my living breathing healthy Dahlia?) How do I allow life to go on without returning to the same old not-always-so-satisfying same old?
I want to live my life fully, but right now the regularness of it feels strange and sometimes dull. I keep myself busy with yoga class, writing, time with friends one on one - which is sweet and feels good - time with Dahlia and Dave, keeping up with the laundry and dishes (and being lazy with the mopping and vacuuming), looking at job postings online. Sometimes the normalcy feels disconnected from all I have experienced in the past year.
I have been reflecting a lot today on love, on unconditional love, and on the idea that it took the hugest love I had to be able to let go of Tikva when it was her time to let go of her body. The words of some dear friends have resonated deeply for me in the past few days, and I would like to share them. Thank you, dear ones, for the reflections that you are for me.
"Reading your words… wondering if you loved her enough? Big sigh, you loved her enough to let her go. I do not know a more selfless, loving gift."
"I think you did the right thing. Every single step of the way. And I think you continue to do the right things. And while I cannot possibly imagine the kinds of doubts you are having, I do understand doubting significant decisions - going back over every tiny detail a million times, agonizing, feeling guilty, blaming yourself. And, while I hope for you that you will pass those feelings and see what the rest of us see - that you made exactly the right decisions, that you did EVERYTHING that you could, that NONE OF THIS is your fault - I hope that you'll be gentle with yourself... that knowing will come when that knowing is ready."
"You or your body, no matter what, did not cause Tikva’s CDH. What you did do was give her LOVE, pure unconditional love. What you did do was give her a chance to complete her journey, however short. What you did do was listen to her and to yourself as her mother to know when it was time to help her to return to God with love and dignity. What you continue to do is love her, hold her spirit, and be her earth mother as much as she is your angel baby."
"My heart has been... reminded that the balm for all of it is to just keep opening your heart to love wider, deeper, truer than ever. To thank life for all of it... every moment, every circumstance, every now as it unfolds. You have journeyed with light pouring out of you, with acceptance your constant wish and challenge, and with love the fuel for endurance and triumph."
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