Last night, son Geo and I went to see Juno, a wonderful movie about a pregnant girl who gives her baby up for adoption. But it's really about the quirky and un-movie-blockbuster-like love people have for each other.
As I went just a hair above the speed limit down Bluemound to get there on time, Geo said gently, "Mom, do you want me to drive?"
I was puzzled for a second. Usually he says I drive too slowly. Then I realized that he was mistaking my mad pothole dodging skills for erratic driving.
I do the Bluemound Baja every day, and I've learned to miss all but one or two of the major crevasses between 121st and Mayfair Road without actually crossing over lanes. Much, anyway. I explained what I was doing, and he relaxed. How wonderful it was that he hadn't snapped and yelled at me. Kids do grow up nicely, and I wonder at my good fortune of having this kind son, daughter Liz who says impossibly wise and funny things, and Annie who sends me Valentine's Day cards that show she knows my heart's longings.
Even though I'm lucky and not particularly sentimental, I found myself crying uncontrollably while reading Portraits of Love in the Sunday Journal Sentinel. A very special group of photographers donate portraits of families with their stillborn babies at the hospital, honoring the loss of a child and the love that goes on even when life is gone. In our get-on-with-it, trade-up world, such momentous events are passed over too quickly, mourning cut off at the knees.
Twenty years ago about this time of year, I went into labor at work. It was the day after a prenatal visit that showed everything was going fine in the fourth month of my second pregnancy. My assistant drove me to the hospital emergency room, where a quick check showed that losing the baby was inevitable.
For nearly an hour, I labored alone in the room where I'd been left. Not wanting to make a mess, I asked the nurse for a bedpan, which he delivered with some annoyance. First there were blood clots the size, it seemed, of shoe boxes. Then there was the fetus, my son, perfectly formed. I rang for the nurse again, and he covered the pan and took it away. I don't know how they disposed of the contents. This early, they call it a miscarriage, not a stillbirth.
The doctor finally arrived, performed a dilation and curettage to make sure no tissue was retained, and counseled me to get pregnant again soon.
I cried for a couple hours and felt empty. My husband felt helpless to console me and didn't talk about his own loss, which was as great as mine. I went to work the next day and was praised for having a strong work ethic. There was a toddler at home to chase. Life went on. No one talked about "it" much after that. Eventually, I got pregnant again, and the twins were born.
But for the longest time, when I looked at the tousled light brown hair of my children sitting around the dinner table, I saw four heads, not three.
The people we love never go away, really. I think it's right to remember in all the ways we can.
