what loss can look like

We had almost exactly twenty four hours from when we found out that Oliver had died until I delivered him. 

And do you know what happened in those twenty four hours? 

We laughed. Yeah of fucking course we cried and grieved and wept. But there was also laughter. 

Because that kind of loss is unimaginable and impossible to handle. Your body and mind do extraordinary things to protect you from reality. So during the twenty four hours I was being induced, as my family and friends drove and flew to be by my side, we made fun of Daniel for being so cold in the hospital room. We made jokes as nurse after nurse kept bringing him blankets and he sat bundled by the window. We literally laughed when my mom admonished me for swearing. Can you imagine, being alarmed at your kid for dropping the f bomb as she prepared to deliver a baby that wouldn’t come home? Habits are strong though, so we laughed at the absurdity when she couldn’t help herself and scolded, “oh Rachel!” And then yes we all came up with a combination of her least favorite words and repeated them to remind ourselves joy was possible, that we could delight in saying “booger booger fuck” over and over to watch her squirm, and distract ourselves from the matter at hand. 

Your body and mind disconnect in these moments in ways you can’t comprehend. I (hater of hugs and human contact) let people hug me, and kiss my head, and hold my hands, and lay with me, and rub my feet. Because nothing mattered. 

And yes, we took pictures. Of course. These were the last and only moments we were going to have with our son. I wish I believed in hell, because then I could be sure that people who judge this act would have solidified their place in its fiery pit. 

Pictures matter. They’re more important than you know. Baby loss is such an unreal thing, it’s truly hard for people to comprehend and it’s easier to forget if you don’t see the reality of the loss. I’ve had the honor of friends who want to see his picture. Friends who know how important is it to acknowledge and confirm his personhood and existence. 

These pictures allow Oliver’s siblings to see the brother they will never get to meet. 

This memory file of his pictures sits on my dresser, and it’s certainly the only thing I’d be sure to grab if the house was on fire. 

And yes, we posted about our loss on social media. (My pragmatic sister had already turned off my facebook wall within hours of losing him, so no one could inadvertently upset me by asking for updates or if he had been born.) But when it came time to share, I know exactly where I sat as I had to come up with the words to let people know what had happened, “Our sweet boy is gone. We are devastated but grateful for all the love and support...” No words could convey what happened, nothing was enough, but still we posted because it was the only way to feel less alone. 

I’m writing this all to say, in reaction to Chrissy Teigen’s gift of sharing their loss, that the list of people who gets to decide how someone grieves begins and ends with: the person who lost the baby. The person who, at whatever stage their loss, has to deal with the logistics of losing or delivering a baby they will not bring home. That person gets to decide how and what they share about this most person loss and trauma. 

Everyone else can shut the actual fuck up. 

thoughts on other olivers

I had two irrational thoughts after Oliver died. (Okay, really, I had a lot. But let’s focus on two right now.) 

One, I thought he’d be the last baby to die. I couldn’t fathom that this tragic thing would keep happening over and over again. I figured we should be the last ones and then the universe should figure out a way to make sure that no one else ever had to go through it. 

And two, I kinda hoped I’d never come across anyone named Oliver ever again in my life. I wanted the name to be his and his alone. 

Neither of these things are true unfortunately. It keeps happening to parents every single day. And I didn’t pick a unique enough name to prevent ever having to see or hear it elsewhere. Last week I was looking through the interwebs for a picture of a cake for Sam’s upcoming birthday. The week before Sam’s birthday traditionally holds some feelings as I process never getting to see Oliver grow up. I hate that we never got to celebrate each year with him and I get a little crabby that Sam’s new age is the first time we get to experience it, not the second time around like I wish. The feelings don’t knock me down or anything, they just pop up to say hi and I acknowledge them and move right along. Of course as I scrolled through cake after cake I saw this one. For some other Oliver out there. Age 8. Just like mine should be. 

And it reminded me of that irrational thought. The wish I had (still have sometimes) that our Oliver was the only one. 

It came up a couple years ago, and this time it did in fact knock me over. As a preschool teacher I knew someday I’d cross paths with another Oliver at my school. I wasn’t looking forward to it and irrationally hoped I could avoid it forever. Every time we have a new kid, or a family of ours gets pregnant with a new younger sibling, I hold my breath when I ask their name. Anything but Oliver is all I hope for. A sigh of relief every time I hear a different name. 

And then one day a family came in for a tour at school and introduced their tiny blonde son to me, their Oliver. I made it through the conversation politely but I broke down later. (To make matters worse I was largely pregnant at the time and, surprising no one, my subsequent pregnancies after Oliver were always experiences of extreme heightened emotions.) 

The idea that I’d have to say this kid’s name over and over again, hear my coteachers use it every day, was too much. And what if he sucked. Like what if he ruined the name with a terrible personality or behavior. (Ask any teacher, it happens.)

I hated the idea of it all. 

He didn’t end up coming to our school and I haven’t come across another one since. (When it has happened that I have a distant acquaintance name their kid Oliver, I remove them from my feed. Watching another Oliver get to grow up just isn’t something I need to see.) But when I saw that cake it reminded me of the feeling. 

And after all these years I realize why it’s such an emotional thought for me. 

When a parent loses a baby (or really when anyone loses someone they love) the worst thing that could happen is that they’ll be forgotten. That people will move along with their lives and simply forget. People say they won’t. But it happens. I know it. I know it every time someone who knows about Oliver tells me I have three kids. 

Today I realized my fear of meeting and knowing other Olivers is a fear of him being replaced in name. A real visceral fear of his memory being diluted by some other Oliver out there coming into our lives. Filling our family and friends with memories and experiences our Oliver never got to do. 

It hit me that I’m not afraid of meeting another Oliver and being reminded of mine, I’m afraid of another Oliver existing in my world and people forgetting mine as a result. 

The cool thing about grief though is that our feelings grow and change and shift as the years go on. Never over it, but different. And I know lots of loss parents who love hearing their children’s names out in the world, being reminded of their beloved. Maybe that’ll be something I feel one day. Maybe it won’t. The other cool thing about doing grief this long and this deep is that I know I will be okay either way. 💚

runaway sam

Sam packed his pillowcase today. Filled it up halfway with a small pillow, blanket, stuffed animal, two pairs of pajamas and underwear and twisted it up to the top so he could throw it over his shoulder. The drama of it all. He was leaving, he told me, because his brother “is just a big ball of meanness” and he needed to go “somewhere where no one is annoying” him. 

I told him no, he’s not going anywhere. For one thing, we’re sheltering in place so it’s not an option. Two, it’s my job to take care of him and I can’t do that if he’s gone, so for the next eleven and a half years he’s stuck with us. 

He begs to differ. 

We snuggled for a bit because he “wanted to soak up every last second” with me before he left. We did sympathy for a while and talked about how frustrated he feels and what could we do to change the situation here instead of abandoning ship. Then we did empathy and I talked about how I used to pack bags when I was a kid too. I told him what a terrible roommate my sister was and how she used to torture me for kicks. (But left out specifics, because the last thing that kid needs is ideas.) 

He listened patiently, snuggled tightly. 

And nevertheless he persisted, framing everything for the following hour around his imminent departure. 

“I need to eat something...before I leave.” 

“Can you get me a nightlight that doesn’t need to be plugged in? For when I’m gone.” 

I maybe blasted Leaving On A Jet Plane from my phone. 

He was not amused. 

He grabbed his packed pillowcase and walked towards the front door. Opened it. Bleary eyed and determined. 

I turned him around and we snuggled back up in the chair. He repeated, “I’m leaving. I don’t want to live in this house anymore.” 

So I did the only thing left I could do, I lifted him off my lap and pointed to the door. 

“Okay. Leave.” 

He sobbed. Back in the lap. 

The feelings are big with this one. And while I knew this milestone was coming eventually, I have to imagine our current circumstances fast forwarded its arrival. 

Who doesn’t want to run away right now? Who isn’t desperate for a change of scenery and a new cast of characters?? I don’t blame him. 

And if I’m being honest, it filled me with nothing but pride and laughter when he laid the news on me, so determined and sincere, his earnestness overflowing. A milestone for him and a level up in parenting for me. 

He hasn’t mentioned it since the final sobbing so I think he’s sticking with us for the foreseeable future. I hope so. Because if he threatens to run away again, I just might join him. 

don’t know when I’ll be back again

birthday feelings

Birthdays and birth and babies are always gonna feel a little different after your first kid dies before they are born. Like many things after loss, you just can’t see them in the same way as you did before. 

Birthdays in particular bring up some extra feelings for me. They’re celebratory of course, because we know better than anyone that (yes grandpa) it’s certainly better than the alternative. We know how miraculous it is when everything goes right and a human is born and gets to grow up and experience life year after year. It’s worthy of a party and cake and presents and whatever else you need to treat yourself. (And puh-lease take any complaints about getting older elsewhere. It’s a gift. Quit complaining and eat your damn cake.) 

But amidst all the celebration the feelings can get a little complicated. 

Even more so when Sam’s birthday sneaks up on me, as it always seems to do because the days are long but the years, guys...they’re so short. Sam’s birthday stirs some feelings in me that I’m never quite prepared to deal with. 

I hesitate even to share because I hate the idea that Sam (or anyone else) would ever feel like he’s living in Oliver’s shadow. (Because, hello, he’s not.) But alas, we younger siblings are inextricably linked and compared to those that came before us. It’s just the way it is. And so when it comes time to celebrate Sam turning another year older, I can feel a lump in my throat as I recognize how much I wish we’d gotten this with Oliver. I wish this was our second time celebrating a six year old Gensler boy. I feel cheated and mad and sad. 

And of course ungrateful. To even take my mind off the gift of Sam (and Eli and Lorelai). But I know these are the cards we’ve been dealt and we’re just playing the game as best we can. And life repeatedly reminds me that it is possible to feel all the feelings at once. It would be a disservice to myself (and my kids, all four of them) to ignore or disregard these very real feelings. 

So I just have to feel the feelings. And vomit them out in writing because the only thing worse than feeling them, would be to keep them locked up inside. I have to share. So I can breathe. And sleep. And wake up tomorrow fully present and ready to celebrate Sam in all his six year old glory. Because damn we’re so grateful he’s ours. 

(artistic representation of all the feelings I have inside.)

creating the space

A group I follow on Facebook posted a quote in honor of pregnancy and infant loss awareness month, something about surrounding ourselves with people who allow us the space to be sad. It’s a beautiful statement, and I’m grateful for a community of friends and family who continually supports me in this never ending journey. But I think we as people in grief have the job and responsibility to help create that space. (Our community might be great, but they’re not mind readers.) 

I’m someone who has written about and fully believes that there is no “getting over” or “moving on” from grief. And while that sentiment is true, it is hard to live. 

Because sometimes grief creeps up on us from out of nowhere. Even six and a half years later. Maybe a sweet friend sends you a picture of your sleeping kid and you can’t help but see Oliver’s face in theirs. Maybe Sam asks to see pictures of his brother. Maybe you come across a notebook with the list of names you took to the hospital before you knew he was gone. Maybe you get the chance to explain to a new person in your world that yes Sam is our oldest but he’s not our first. Maybe all those things happen in the same week. 

Maybe in the midst of all that someone asks why you seem low and you want to say, “well, my kid is still dead.” 

But you don’t. Because it feels dramatic and attention seeking. It feels ungrateful for all you do have. It feels awkward and uncomfortable, for the other person mostly. 

And it feels like a failure. It feels like a failure to still be so sad, so many years later. 

It feels like people will think you’re stuck and haven’t moved on. Which you know is bullshit. Because you know there’s no such thing. And you know that a life can be full of love and joy and sadness all at the same time. And there’s no failure in acknowledging that. 

So it’s our job to open up the space. It’s our job to say, “Well my kid is still dead. And I’m still sad about it.” Because when we stay quiet it’s a disservice to ourselves, and it’s a disservice to others to not acknowledge death and its lifelong consequences in our every day life.

And when we open that space, we open up the world of grief for everyone. We let people see that grief isn’t just one thing and it doesn’t look just one way. It isn’t sitting in your room, shutting the world out. It isn’t immobility or failure. It isn’t overshadowing the good in your life. Grief is simply the lifelong price of having loved and lost, and it is existing in us constantly, right alongside love and laughter and abounding joy. 

kindness is the revolution

I have been feeling hopeless these days. I know a lot of us have. I had no hope that the senate was going to do anything other than what they did. I had no hope that women’s lives wouldn’t be threatened for telling the truth. I had no hope that a woman’s trauma would prevent a man from gaining even more power.

I’m beginning to lose hope in these supposed grown ups altogether.

But I’m lucky because I spend most of my time with people who are not grown ups, in my home and in my work. And I have nothing but hope when I look at these children.

I know my real work is to ensure they grow up with different messaging than what has created the adults currently in control of our government. So that’s where I’ll focus my protest and revolution.

I’ll make sure kids know they are in charge of their own bodies.

I won’t ever force a kid to hug me or give affection to anyone they don’t want to, not even as a joke or a game.

I will listen to their words and help them develop language to articulate their feelings.

I will stop commenting on their appearance, especially girls, because a person’s worth has nothing to do with their clothes or hair.

I will teach them that mistakes are inevitable, and still we are accountable for our actions and always take the chance to make it better and try again.

I will make sure they know it is always okay to walk away from people who are not giving them the respect they deserve.

And I will teach them to speak up for those who cannot.

Ultimately I will work every single day to make sure these children know they are inherently good and the most powerful, revolutionary thing that they can do is be kind.

(And then when they’re old enough, I’ll tell them two things. Be kind. And vote.)

no day but today

Every year for Oliver’s birthday we go out of town together.

The first couple years were self preservation. I couldn’t emotionally stand to be in Sacramento and relive all the “lasts” of that terrible April in 2012. It’s enough to relive it in my mind, the actual physical landmarks surrounding me may have sent me over the edge.

But as the years progress, my reasoning for the trip has altered somewhat. And it wasn’t until I was faced with the possibility of not being able to get away this year that I really understood why. I’m not unreasonable; I knew (or at least assumed) that eventually life would get in the way and it wouldn’t always be feasible for us to drop everything and get outta town. I told myself that we’d handle it whenever that moment arose. I should have been prepared when we realized months ago that Daniel’s new full time school schedule would likely jeopardize our trip. As it turns out, I was not prepared at all. (Cue my brief meltdown months ago when Daniel casually mentioned his school schedule included finals in mid-April.)

The idea that we wouldn’t get to take our trip seemed unthinkable. But not because I can’t handle being in Sacramento come April 11th, because I’m fairly certain I could. If there’s anything I’ve learned in the past six years it’s that grief doesn’t wait for anniversaries and birthdays to arrive. I’m faced with Oliver memories daily. As I drive past the funeral home, or walk around the same park I did while I was having contractions, or meet someone new who has no idea who Oliver is to me. I handle all those head on, with a deep breath and as much honesty as I can muster. Time has done its job and things are certainly different (not better of course, but different) as the years pass, but the potential for no birthday trip felt unthinkable because of what this trip has come to mean to me.

Yes, this trip will always serve as time to honor and celebrate Oliver, all the while wishing he was still here with us. But now I see it more as an important celebration of what Oliver taught us, what he means to us on a daily basis, which is this:

there is no other time more important than now, and no other people more important that us.

(Or as Jonathan Larson more succinctly writes: “There’s only us, there’s only this.”)

So every year, for as long as our lives allow, we will make the time for a trip. It might be short, we might not get to go very far, maybe it won’t even get to be on 11th of April but a trip there will be.

Every time we get out of town we are telling ourselves (and the people around us) that we haven’t forgotten Oliver, and we haven’t forgotten the painful truth we found in losing him, that this could all be over in an instant. So we will always find a way to drop everything and celebrate us. We will celebrate Oliver and our family, spending time the only way that matters: together.