Walk to Remember

Well, as I expected, this weekend sucked eternal suckitude.

It was all a bit too much, I think. I found Charlotte's six month anniversary hard. I was reduced to spontaneous tears that I haven't seen in a long time. Tears in the shower, tears while driving, tears during meals. Six months just seems like such a definitive amount of time. She's been gone now as long as I had her. Life is "back to normal", at least as viewed by the outside world.

Yet, I feel like crap.

The hospital's walk was nice, I guess. My parents, M's parents, attended with us. I would have rather have gone just the two of us, but people are trying to be supportive, and I'm trying to let them be, although in the end I just end up frustrated. No one can make this better. Having people try and fail makes it worse instead of better.

We drove to the park just the two of us, the four parents following behind in another car. We walked ahead of them to the lawn where the walk was supposed to start,

There were kids everywhere, running, climbing trees. Laughing. People standing around in clumps, chatting. No one seemed sad. Just me. I chocked back tears as I wrote our names on the list of families and Charlotte's name on the baby list. We pinned on our pink ribbons.

It started inside with a welcome and the obligatory poem reading. Some matter-of-factly read the list of baby names. It was noisy. A woman sat next to me with a carrier with a small baby girl, probably two or three months old.

Of course, I can't even come to a memory walk without having a baby right next to me.

I felt smothered in there. I glanced behind me to see another babylost mama with tears on her cheeks, and I felt a little less alone.

We stood to head outside for the walk. Someone tapped M on the shoulder. I heard a woman say I was working the night Charlotte was born.

When I looked at her it took a moment to register. It was D., Charlotte's nurse, who on that horrible day, said all the right things, did all the right things, made it all a little better.

She took such care of her. I can't say enough wonderful things about this woman. She treated Charlotte with such tenderness and gentleness. She prepared her keepsakes, helped us get organized for her funeral. She really was amazing. We sent her flowers as a thank-you a few weeks after I got out of the hospital.

I was so glad to see her.

She gave me a big hug and she cried with me, thanked us for sending her the flowers. My sister had a baby that died the week after Charlotte, she said. My first day back to work was the day I got your flowers and the note. That was really special.

It was her sister I had seen behind me, crying earlier.

I thanked her for taking such good care of Charlotte when she was born.

Oh, she was so beautiful, she said. I've thought about you both so many times.

And I, her.

I think the idea of a memory walk is great. The meeting room was stifling and claustrophobic, but the walk was lovely, through the crisp fall air, leaves turning colours and a cool breeze. I could breathe again outside. I could manage that. People spread out. There were babies in strollers everywhere, the younger and older siblings of the lost. We were given a sprig of baby's breath and we dropped it into the river from the bridge, and watched it float away.

In a few minutes we were back on the lawn, in the "Angel's Grove" where they plant a tree each year in memory of the babies. This year it was a short, chubby blue spruce with a perfect Christmas tree shape. 10 other trees share the grove, from the 10 previous memory walks.

A babylost mama spoke. Her son, Michael, was stillborn in 1997. Her family, along with others at the time, started this walk. She spoke of how a couple of months after Michael died, she found herself collapsed in front of her living room window, pleading that someone besides she and her husband remember their baby. The walk stemmed from that.

After the speech people dispersed around all the trees, looking at the tree from their baby's year. Kids were running, laughing. Adults a bit more somber. I was a wreck (what else is new).

We finished up back in that meeting room, listening to a CD recording of a song called "Rainy Days" by a local folk group, the Ennis Sisters. I've tried to find a link to post with no avail. I will if I come across it.

I've heard that song 1000 times but yesterday was the first time with babylost ears. It's a beautiful song, and now, so sad.

We stayed for some refreshments and shortly afterwards I wanted to go. We went home and I went to bed for a few hours.

I feel today like I did in the first few weeks after Charlotte's death. A little bit of nausea, no appetite, spontaneous tears, trouble breathing. In a way, I feel out-of-body, like all of this is happening to someone else and I'm just along for the ride. The difference is that now I'm trying to be productive while going through this. I have to teach in an hour. I have to dry the tears and focus and go on.

I so, so, wish I could just crawl back in bed with reruns of Sex and the City and just be, today.

We're back to our psychologist tomorrow. There's always something to talk about.