The Tattoo on my Heart

Tattoos.  They are so incredibly permanent; perhaps the most permanent mark you can make on your body.  Earring holes can close up, most scars and even stretch marks will eventually fade and lighten to the point that sometimes the person baring them is the only one that can see them. But a tattoo?  Those are pretty much there for life.  When I was a kid my mom used to say, “Just think of what it will look like when you are old and saggy!” and then tell us about her days of working in the nursing home and seeing tattoos on the elderly patients.  I always wanted one, but I refused to get one when I was younger out of fear that I would choose anything that would lead to regret when I reached the age where real common sense inevitably set in. 

So I patiently waited, contemplated what I would get and where I would have it placed, and finally, at 23, settling on a small pink heart the size of a quarter on the inside of my wrist with my brothers and sister’s initials on it.  I loved it.  My parents weren’t thrilled but didn’t hate it either. That was it for me, I’d said, one and done.  And it was; for five years anyway.  Then I decided I wanted one for Kennedy, and any subsequent children we’d have really.  I’d had two years with her and knew very well that there was no love greater than in this life than a mother’s for her child.  Again, I thought long and hard about where I should get it (after all this body was not that of a 23 year old any more-it was a mom body in all its’ glory, even if I’d busted my ass getting it to what I viewed as good enough again) and I settled on my side, on my rib cage.  Again, I loved it and I believed in it and what it said with all of heart.

The day after I lost Jack, changing in the hospital bathroom after my shower, I couldn’t help but stare at my war-torn body in the mirror and I caught a glimpse of it; and I could barely stand to look at it.  Though I still believed in what it said, being that a huge piece of my heart went with him that day, and quite literally proved that nothing, not even death, could ever pull a mother from their child, it broke my heart that it no longer felt like my tattoo could represent Kennedy and Jack at the same time. 

As the days and weeks dragged on, tattoos were the last things on my mind.  However, as I trolled Pinterest, looking for anything that could bring me some comfort, I would occasionally find tattoos other women had gotten to pay tribute to their babies that had gone before them.  They were sweet, and sad, and I hope could bring comfort to the women that wore them, but none of them were for me.  None of them could clearly represent my boy and what I was experiencing.

In order for anyone to understand why I ultimately walked out of the coolest little tattoo parlor to ever exist, owned by the most wonderful tattoo artist for this job, with what I think is the most perfect expression of my love and experience of Jack Holden Doyle, I have to explain something first.

I found that on Pinterest during one of my sleepless nights in the very early days of our loss.  I had also read about this in a book a few months earlier, never dreaming that it could ever resonate with me so deeply.  There is debate as to whether animals grieve like humans do or not, however, with elephants there seems to be a more clear answer.  "When a mother elephant loses her baby, the other females elephants in the herd stand around her and allow her to grieve and mourn.  They don’t hurry her along, or push her to abandon the body.  They gently touch her with their trunks, a silent show of unwavering support.”  Elephants are known for their memories and they say that a mother elephant will return to the spot where her baby died for years and years, showing that though she is an animal, she could never forget her love and what she’s lost no matter how many years go by.  And so, my connection with this amazingingly human creature was formed.  I refer to Jack as my little elephant in the room, as he is present for me in a way I can’t possibly explain well enough.

And so, as a gift given to me on my due date for Jack months ago by two of my closest girlfriends, I went to have a mark made for my baby boy.  I was joined by two of my girls that have literally held my hand along this rocky road and the most perfect mommy-baby elephant duo was drawn on my arm.  The experience was emotional and painful (and not just because a needle was being dragged across my skin).

The truth is though that I didn’t really need a tattoo to pay tribute to Jack.  His short, beautiful little life was tattooed on my broken heart and soul the moment he left us and that love is more permanent than any ink.  

A very special thanks to Jessica at Ms. Dixie's Tattoo in Troy, NY

http://instagram.com/msdixiestattoo

Photo credit from this post go to: Jessalyn Brodie 

Finish Lines

Crossing a finish line is a powerful thing.  It doesn’t have to be an actual finish line either; a metaphorical one will do just fine.  I guess it is more the idea that you began at one starting place or another and made it to the end, or the goal.  More often than not it is less about the starting or finish line and more about all the places in between that carried you from one point to another.

For me the finish line was an actual one at the end of 13.1 long-ass miles.  Yesterday I ran the half marathon I have been training for the last three months.  It was as long as it sounds, at times as painful as you might have imagined, and a far more fulfilling experience than I could ever have hoped for.  More than that though, I met a goal I had set as a way to show myself that I could find a way to tangibly show I am attempting to keep moving forward with my life after losing my baby boy.

As soon as I woke up I found myself asking a question I am all too familiar with these last eight months: How am I ever going to make it through this?  Almost immediately I found myself responding to the doubt: One foot in front of the other, that’s how.  And it is the honest to God truth. (I’m gearin’ up for a good metaphor in case you didn’t see it coming) This whole experience of training for this half marathon has been incredibly similar to my experience as a new grieving mama. Some mornings I can barely force myself out of bed to go on a run and other morning I wake up full of energy ready to take on the pavement for a long one.  Some days I am running and I just can’t find a good rhythm or keep pace and I can’t figure out why, especially because just the day before I did great.  As time goes on and the more runs I have under my feet, I am sometimes shocked at how far I’ve traveled; I never thought I’d make it to where I found myself yesterday.   But even as I was running yesterday, I considered stopping a least a dozen times; I was just too tired, I had too much further to go, and everything hurts.  I guess it doesn’t really matter how hard you train, you are going to doubt yourself along the way.  (I hope you could catch my drift on that one)

It was really amazing though. I had two great friends running the same half marathon so it was so awesome to share the experience with two ladies I really care about.  Seeing all the different people running, from seemingly all walks of life, had me wondering what keeps them running?  I suppose everyone has something that drives him or her forward when their legs are begging them to stop.  I run for my kids; I run for Kennedy and I run for Jack.  My husband, whom after yesterday I adore more than ever, mapped out several spots he and Kennedy could watch me and cheer me on.  Seeing my baby girl cheer me on gave me the extra push at just the right moments.  As I approached the finish line, convinced I had no gas left in my tank, and saw the last hill I’d have to climb to make it to the finish I could feel myself start to cry.  I made it up the hill and saw my sweet girl, with her wild hair and big smile, jumping up and down, yelling, “Go! Mommy, go!” the first sob escaped my mouth.  I quickly reminded myself to save it for the end because I had no breath to spare but then I saw my best friend, Jen, who surprised me with some live race day support, and so another sob came out.

I pushed forward with everything I could muster and made it across the finish line.  I was given a medal, my 13.1 bumper sticker (which I will proudly plaster across the back of our new SUV despite Sean’s protests, thank you very much!) and I exhaustedly found myself in the arms of my friend, followed by my genuinely proud husband and Kennedy, who was bearing the brightest smile and bouquet of daisies I’ve ever seen.  I remembered to look up to the sky and silently thank my Jack for pushing his mama across the finish line when I didn’t feel like I could take even one more step.  It was a perfect moment; followed by some serious vomiting, showering, four-hour-napping, huge-dinner-eating, passing out for the night moments.

There were smiles and tears and “I can’t believe we made it’s”.  It was the kind of finish line morning you would hope for.  It may have been a finish line, but really, for me, it was really just a starting line for all of the step forwards I am going to have to take in order to move forward in my life.  I will be exhausted, frustrated, desperate to stay in bed and shut the world out some days, but I will always do my best to move forward.

Warning Labels

Kids should come with warning labels.  Seriously.  All of them.  Or maybe even like those cool allergy or medical alert bracelets.  A quick way for people to be able to understand all of the different aspects of kids without having to dig too deeply or unearth anything that would be too distressing for anyone involved.  As a school counselor I know it would make my like a whole hell of a lot easier.  It would probably save me from any missteps that result from not seeing the whole picture, rather than just what it looks like.  As a parent, I feel like we spend our kid’s lives preparing other people for what they may be walking into:  She didn’t sleep last night, so she’s wicked this morning; She is absolutely not going to let you do her hair today, so it’s ok if she looks like a hot mess; We feed her but last night I held my ground and wouldn’t give her anything else to eat until she ate dinner-she refused.  It’s almost like you are trying to be sure no one judges your baby (of her poor parents for that matter) too harshly for anything they encounter. 

Kennedy had preschool orientation Thursday morning.  She was excited and a little nervous too-probably an 85/15 split.  Me?  I was more like 40/60.  I have been anxious all summer about her starting school.  You see, I had a plan worked out in my head.  When we had signed her up for school the beginning of January we made all of our plans around Jack.  We picked days and times that would fit with what probably would have been a pretty busy rotation of various appointments for him.  I was so happy that I would be able to take Kennedy to school myself and pick her up too, since we had planned for me to be home with the kids at least for a few months.  The plans changed.  When Jack died, strangely, I found myself wondering if I would even bother sending her.  Forgive me for a moment while I sound like every other bragging parent:  Kennedy doesn’t really need preschool for anything other than socialization.  She knows her colors, can basically count to 30, and can identify a good amount of her letters.  However, I am a realist and so I know that a social education is just as important and here is where we struggle: sharing, minding our own business, bossing others around, and tattling.  I had worried that if we didn’t send her this year she would have another year around only adults and a special needs baby and continue to hone her old-lady character traits coupled with acting out because of a new sibling that required more attention than most new babies.  Without Jack, I wondered if I should just put it off; try and keep her a baby for just one year more. I knew I couldn't though and so yesterday morning approached and I could feel my nerves getting shook. 

We got ready, her wearing a dress she had chosen for herself over the summer.  I tried making it very clear that on school days we do our hair, but still battled with her to get it tamed.  I began to panic that I’d misread the letter the school had sent home weeks before and we were going to be leaving her there that day and what if she cried?   I called to verify that I could take my girl home with us.  She just quietly smiled and humored me.  We took lots of pictures or her and with her to the point where she and daddy were both complaining, with me telling them we’d be doing this again on the ACTUAL first day next week, and Kennedy telling me she had to take a picture of me too on my first day- lots of forced smiles all around.

On the drive in I found myself amazed that this much time had gone by in her life. Amazed that we were taking this next step with her; we’d reached the school portion of the program.  When we arrived she started to whine a bit, refused to bring her backpack inside.  I talked her into hugging the giant stuffed bear the school has outside the doors, telling her it was for luck and if she hugged him tight enough he could take the worry away.  I thought about hugging him myself, just incase my parental fib could have some truth to it.  She hid behind my legs as soon as we were greeted.  “Don’t worry,” I’d said, “she’ll be talking your ears off within 3 minutes,” hoping to warn them of my incessant chatterbox.  As we gathered in the room where Kennedy’s class of kids, the ladybugs, would meet and other kids arrived, I saw the confident little girl most people know, greet the kids coming in as if it were her house she was welcoming them to.  They played with Mr. Smee and Tick-tock Croc, talking about how they loved Jake and the Neverland Pirates, and I started to relax, everything was going got be just fine here; and then the babies started showing up.

Most of the families that enrolled their three-year olds in this program seemed to be around the same age as Sean and I.  As they were showing up with their little boys or girls and babies looking to be right around the age Jack would have been and I was suddenly overwhelmed by the feeling that I was missing something so important at that moment; I could feel myself starting to panic. I looked around the room and found Sean’s eyes looking right at me as if he were saying, “It’s ok Tri, we’re almost done, and you’re going to be fine.”  And it was almost done, as we were getting ready to go, with Kennedy assessing the quality of their free-play room, I must have had a distressed look on my face.  The owner, a kind late middle-aged made her way over asking, “Are you doing okay, Mom?” explaining she’d been seeing these looks of uncertainty for years.  She asked if we’d had any questions, and of course the question I’d asked was covered back in the meeting room- minus one brownie point for the mother that doesn’t listen (this should be on my warning label: doesn’t follow directions).  She tried to reassure me that I could always call and check in on Kennedy or call and let them know if there was anything they needed to know.

Again, I could feel the tears starting to form so I quickly took a deep breath and decided to share part of Kennedy’s warning label, “Kennedy had a baby brother back in January,” she shook her head as if she expected me to say that she acts out because of a new sibling, “but he passed away and she talks about him, a lot, and sometimes reminds people that he’s died, so if she mentions it to the other kids or anyone else here I just want you to be prepared.” (Also, if I’m being honest, I didn’t want her to think our son passed away one weekend and I sent Kennedy to school the following Tuesday).  She rubbed my back (which should also be on my warning label: Do not touch without an invitation to do so) and said nothing, which was just fine with me.  We said thank you and goodbye, I wrestled Kennedy into her car seat, her screaming she wanted to stay, me promising I would leave her here on Tuesday, and I headed to work.  I of course got my cry in the car once I was alone.  I couldn't help it, it just felt so unfair to me that most parents warn of things like allergies to tree nuts or lack of sleep and I am having to warn about Kennedy talking about babies dying, or being the only 3 year old that understands what death is, and not because the goldfish was flushed to sea.  I wiped my tears, salvaged my make-up and went into work  (warning: may have mascara under her eyes for many years to come).

The weekend was jam packed and filled with fun: a rehearsal dinner, some very good friends' wedding, a run with a hangover, apple picking with cousins, but it left us all a little tired and cranky so it’s early bed for this bunch.  A few more runs to get in before the big day, my first half marathon, next Sunday!

But anyway onto the next stressful event:  The Doyle’s are up first in the school class snack rotation; no pressure or anything.