Archive for November, 2008

Happy Birthday, Magritte!

It is hard to pick a favorite painting to put here, but I do love this one.

I don’t know why your mother threw herself off the bridge and killed herself in the Sambre river when you were 14.  Four years later you decided to quit school and study painting and your first works were landscape paintings showing the Sambre River.

How many times, in your surreal dreams, have you returned to the Sambre?

I think, maybe today I will go to the thrift store and try on a bowler hat.


I have been indulging in my senses. I think it is the seasonal shift.

During summer, all is too glaring here. Everything is swung to the extreme. Too bright, too glaring, too hot, and then too cold when the a/c is cranked up. We scurry from car into buildings and scramble from buildings back to car into house. Squinting, grinding, muttering, swearing. When will this heat subside?

Now, the light is softer. The leaves rustle and flutter. The doors can be swung open and we breathe deeper, lustily. Instead of being afraid of the heat touching one’s skin, we welcome the warmth as the cool breeze sends in a touch of th chill.

I wash and fold clothing. For the little one. I am preparing for her arrival. I act as if she will come, of course. In a small corner of my mind, I see myself weeping over these same clothes again, should she not come. But I cannot leave the drawers empty, pretending that this will help, that if anything should happen, it will not hurt as much if  I never did plan for her. Of course I plan for her. For me there is no other way. I smooth my palms over and over and over the soft clothes. Like I am soothing my own broken, trembling heart. As if I am trying to calm myself down. sssshhhhhhhh, ssssshhhhhhh, it’s going to be ok. It’s going to be OK. My tears well up as memories flood back, yet again, once again. I imagine a tender young life enveloped by those clothings and it became too much to imagine, so I stopped.

I imagine her smell, how her soft skin will feel. I summon the sound of her first cries, loud, shrill, and joyous.

I do all these when I am alone. Furtive hope. I am going insane. and there is no other way.

This is not a dream.


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I have had a million things and thoughts percolating through my brains, so many things… but nothing I felt worthy to blog about. You know, mostly the blah-blah’s and yada’s yada’s.

But, this, I gotta share.

I saw it on Joanne’s blog.  She is not just an amazing writer, she is a wonderful woman with a shining, beautiful soul . Would you believe we live in the same state and have never met? Yet, our hearts are so close. We have tasted from the same bitter stew of loss. She is further ahead on this journey, and I look toward her for her beckoning light.

This image, it touched me to the core:

It is a family. Parents with their two children. A stone age burial found in central Germany. They are 4,600 years old. It appeared they died from a violent attack. In death, they were carefully buried together.

Here is an artist’s rendition of how it had looked like, before time wore away their flesh:

I don’t know. Like Joanne said, we do not speak the same language, use the same tools, wear the same clothes… but what connects us is the love that binds us to our loved ones. It could be anyone’s guess why they were buried together in death. Perhaps, superstitions; perhaps it was just the cultural norm then. Perhaps they seek company in the netherworld. Perhaps they desired to return again as a family unit. Perhaps, they wish to never ever part, to always travel together.

It’s just, today’s burial customs, in stark contrast, seem… too orderly. Too… functional. We are informed by reason and science that death is the end, and the best we can do is to have burial plots next to each other. That ought to be close enough. But to look upon the artist’s rendition of their burial- naked bodies curled up to each other, it stuns me. For these people, who lived thousands of years before me, with their primal emotions and primitive tools… it meant much to be huddled together in death. “Till death do us apart” does not apply to them at all. There is no doing apart. There is no end, only continuity.

Like the mother who held her sweet little one in death, I cradle mine- however figuratively, or symbolically- in my bosom. Morbid? Perhaps. But to me, beautiful. There is no other way. Enough of all that nonsense and philosophical babble about “letting go.”

This discovery actually brought me comfort in strange measures. It may not be possible for us to replicate this (and goodness knows, my grown-up daughters may not even tolerate being in the same room as me, much less the idea of being buried together, sheesh!), but the idea that someone, many years ago, did this, inspires me and soothes me. See? I say again, there is no end, only continuity. Love transcends all boundaries. At least, I would like to believe in that. For me, this is my version of “letting go.”

I would like to think, that, my last second of my life, is not about fear, or gripping, or regrets. It will be something like: I hold my loved ones with me as I go. One day, we shall meet again.

Something like that. My brain and tongue and fingers are all clumsy today.


ps: Please remember to send me your rocks. And if you would like a beaded crane as well, let me know. I am more than happy to send one to you.

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My friend Marybeth, said in her comment on my previous post, “as i don’t know your grief and you don’t know mine, the thought that it can transform into beauty, that it’s ugliness itself is actually beauty…makes those moments when i sometimes can’t forgive myself for choices i have made, or let go of the tight heart that i myself choose to have, well, makes even them beautiful in some way.”

I have been thinking about this a lot. This, about whether we truly can reach across and understand each other’s grief. I remember, when Ferdinand first died, I received an email from a fellow bereaved, whom I did not know before. Her second son was stillborn about nine months before. She reached out and she wrote, “I know how you feel.” And I spat back at my computer screen, “Oh no, you don’t!”

Can you imagine, that kind of blatant insolence? That kind of burrowing, narrow loneliness that descended upon me? I am sure every other soul on this planet can wag their fingers at me, shaking their heads and telling me, “But you also do not understand my grief… do you know how it is like to… …” and there will just be no end. Walls crash down between us, vines sprout and climb, the distance spread, and it seems there is no cure, no hope.

It seems, when something horrible like this happens, we all just wish someone will understand. We wish they were inside our bodies, experiencing every sensation and thought and every wave of pain that hits. The bereaved wants to be left alone, because there is so much to process; suddenly nothing makes sense and we have to re-navigate and re-negotiate this world, after it had been completely shattered. I think the worst thing really is having to explain our grief, like we need reasons for our behavior and wants and needs. Like we need to justify and validate. That is the worst part, I think.

I had thought, when Ferdinand died, that the world just totally collapsed and snapped around me; I was wrapped with pain, grief, devastation in a most suffocating manner. My world totally contracted. I could not see beyond this tunnel that was just as big as I was, and this tunnel only seemed to be inching in every second, squeezing and throttling.

But slowly, I am starting to realize that, my world has also expanded. I got to understand how it can be. I got to see that others had their own griefs too and it is possible for them to understand. Maybe not 100%, because I am not sure I can even completely fathom myself, let alone others. I saw my potential, my children’s potential and that of others. I see people in their different lights, and I witnessed much beauty. And, of course, everything requires contrast to be seen and understood better. There have been ugly moments, which makes the beauty shimmer even more. There had been deep moments of hurt, which makes the moments of beauty heart-bursting.

Probably, I had felt small because I had been cowering in the corner of a big world that exploded in expansion, almost at the same time when I felt the grips of loss and grief snapped around me, wrapping me up skin-tight, with no space to breathe. I probably needed that strangling, bundled up feeling, because it felt too scary and unsafe to reach my hands out and feel if there is something ahead of me. So I backed up against the wall and squat down, and rocked myself and learned to adjust myself to the darkness.

Slowly, slowly, light came through. I realized there have been people waiting with me in the dark. Silent, and noble. Suddenly, I knew I was not alone. I mean, yes, I am alone. I have always felt, even though we find friends and relations and companions, we are ultimately all lone travelers on this journey of life. But we all have little sparks of light with us, and in walking together, we make light.

It is still hard. Especially in these last weeks of this pregnancy, everything a big unknown, it is hard. But I am able to spread my limbs a bit more. I mean, I dare to now, no longer cowering. I have been thinking about this poem (quoted below) that wonderful, sweet Leigh sent me, not long after the event. I read it and cried uncontrollably, because upon reading it, I realized I was a corpse. I had died, when the nurses dimmed the lights and said “I am so sorry” and left us alone. I was a walking carcass, moving, but my heart was dead. Dead with grief and pain, unable to feel, refusing to feel, and not daring to feel. When I read the poem, it told me that I will come alive again, and every cell in my being shuddered at that thought — that it could be possible. That there is the possibility that one day I will cast off this carcass, this dead skin, and emerge into the world again. Perhaps even soar, instead of hobbling and shuffling, crouching and limping. It’s incredible, how painful Hope can feel.

Maybe it is never really possible to understand the grief and pain for others, we can only choose to hold and accept, to be patient and abide and wait. So long as a heart is alive, it can feel, not just in oneself, for oneself, but also for others as well. As the saying goes, “The biggest grief is for the heart to die.” I feel my heart, warm and throbbing. I am sure you feel yours too. We are not alone.

The Phoenix Again

On the ashes of this nest
Love wove with deathly fire
The phoenix takes its rest
Forgetting all desire.After the flame, a pause,
After the pain, rebirth.
Obeying nature’s laws
The phoenix goes to earth.

You cannot call it old
You cannot call it young.
No phoenix can be told,
This is the end of the song.

It struggles now alone
Against death and self-doubt,
But underneath the bone
The wings are pushing out.

And one cold starry night
Whatever your belief
The phoenix will take flight
Over the seas of grief

To sing her thrilling song
To stars and waves and sky
For neither old nor young
The phoenix does not die.

~ May Sarton

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Something about that McCracken book- she is so good with visuals. Like the part where she felt like a crazy woman dressed in white, blood-stained clothes, carrying a tiny bundle in her arms, walking around hushing the baby and asking people “Do you want to look at my baby?” Gosh. It took my breath away. I will not lie. I thought I could have dressed like that for Halloween. How did she know that was how I felt, how I visualized myself for a long time?– a crazed woman walking around with her dead little one, refusing to let go.

The other visual- how she felt like an opera singer, ready to break into an aria at any moment, while others around, uncomfortable and awkward, shuffled and jumped in to fill in any awkward silence with forced smiles or redundant conversations. Again, how did she know?

It is not that I do not wish to talk or share. See here? I have spewed millions upon millions of words. I don’t think I have ever written that much in my whole life. Typing the words, letting the emotions flow across the screen, has been easy, therapeutic, and a life-saver for me. I just vomit all over the computer screen and then I can shut down and finally go to sleep. Sure, I may get delayed responses, unlike if I speak to someone face-to-face, or even on the telephone, but I can’t talk. I choke, I sputter, strange noises come out of my throat and before I even begin, I have to end because the deluge of words and emotions that needs to get out of me suffocates me first.

For the past months, I feel as if I have walked around, silent and sullen, cradling my little bundle of grief to my chest, scowling and hostile. No, I did not want to share it. It felt as if it is all mine. No one can take it from me, no one can share the burden, no one can understand. No one.

Then, this past weekend at the cabin, Sophia and I held hands in the numbing cold, and we said we would stomp through the carpet of fallen leaves and make crunch crunch sounds together. The sky was this gorgeous blue, all clear. The light, golden and gorgeous. The beauty of fall leaves took my breath away. I love their hues, as only Nature can make them. I love how they fall in a graceful dance of abandonment as they flutter to the ground, and then tumble along as the wind blows. When the leaves turn color, I always feel they are conspiring a symphony of color and sounds. As the wave of color turn across the foliage, their whisperings of time a-flying and the cycle of the season a-turning get louder and louder. Finally, with a crescendo of color-bursts and thundering crushes of crisp leaves under our feet, they bid farewell and return to earth.

That day, I felt my grief is like this. Melancholic. Sad. Thunderous. But not without beauty. A different sort of beauty, that not every beholder can appreciate, but beauty nevertheless.

That day, I felt, I do not cradle my little bundle of grief to myself. No. I do not want to. I want it to be on a scale of grandiose. To flutter and carpet the ground. Because grief cannot be bundled neatly into a package, even though we all try to do it as we try to manage that flood of grief. That day, I thought, let it burn red, let it flutter, let it fall. Let its beauty come through. Let it ebb. Let it flow.

Beauty in grief? How is that possible?

Of course, because grief is an energy that can be transformed, and channeled in so many ways. Read Joanne’s blog and you will be startled by her shimmering beauty and wisdom, and of course, MISS Foundation was formed because she lost her sweet little daughter Cheyenne. Read what C over at My Resurfacing did, and you will know that, even when the bereaved may be out of their minds, their hearts are so very much alive and glows with beauty, and they inspire beautiful acts too. And even as she hobbles along, Tash, whom I puffy-heart, is always busy holding hands, alerting the community to remember. And did you see those cards Sara made a while back? There are those further down the road, who inspires and shows us there is glow ahead… And, so many more examples… some done publicly on blogs, some in the form of private emails that is just titillating with love and heart and warmth… I cannot imagine how I thought I could negotiate this path alone. No, I was never alone, even though it felt that way. I have been buoyed, loved, and Ferdinand had been remembered in so many ways, including on someone’s back, as a tattooed star. (Thank you all, you know who you are.)

Last week I sent my friend Margaret, who made me bawl with the cards she made with her children when Ferdinand’s first anniversary rolled around, an email asking if she might be able to help with the girls in case I go into labor. Her reply, she changed the subject to: YES WE CAN HELP! I just teared up already, before even reading her email. At the end of it, she said, I would like to host you a baby shower, middle of December, what do you think?

What do I think? NO. I loved that she asked. I know what she is thinking in her blessed heart, but I just can’t do it. I love this little one, I do. I love her to bits already and I know I will die if she does not come to this realm but, I. Just. Cannot. Have. A. Baby. Shower. Not now, not middle of December. Not January. But I think I will throw an extravagant global party when this little one turns one. Fireworks across the Universe, that kind of stuff. But right now? I just cannot.

Also, it is because I know who will be invited. I have nothing against them… they will be inivted because we are the same skin color, but they for some reason do not understand my grief. They have good intentions, they wanna be nice, but, they also tend to put their feet into their mouths. One of them, who learned of my state a couple of weeks back, called me, and congratulated me and then said in a most approving tone, “I am so happy for you. Yes, I am. It shows that you are moving on. Good for you, you are making your way out.”

I will reserve my comments, and my reaction, to myself. So you all can imagine, won’t that be fun and more colorful? ( Actually, my reaction was pretty lame. I tend to have delayed reactions.) But really, do I need evaluations here? What pagent is going on here? What’s the trophy and the prize money? Goodness. This is just one of the reasons why I have swung my doors open a few times, and then decided, what the heck, I think I am staying in my cave a while longer.

Well, grief is just a strange creature. It makes you expand and yet contract at the same time.

And the rocks for the River of Hope. I am really thrilled that people are contributing. I think this is so neat. Because it shows that grief has no boundaries. I look forward to holding your rocks, whatever they may be heavy with- grief, exasperation, love, hope, ambivalence. I can’t wait to hold them, searching for any remnant warmth from your hands. I have been thinking, these rocks will hold so much, they so inevitably sink. But then, nothing wrong with sinking, and tumbling around. That’s how you get beautiful sea-glass. That’s how you need to be sometimes- heavy. Sometimes we need to hit rock-bottom before we find that ground to push back and float upwards, perhaps towards the light. We stumble, fall over and hit the ground. To stand up, we need to push back against the ground. I think I’m tumbling a bit more… because I am still feeling heavy. See ya around… …

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So yesterday morning we met up with the Infant Bereavement Officer at the local hospital and she showed us the little Memorial Garden that they have. It’s a small garden, with three palo verde trees, some smaller bushes, a couple of benches and a rock “river” that is called the River of Hope. At one end is a tear-drop shape, to represent the sadness and devastation of loss, but still, as it flows on, becomes a river of hope nevertheless. Other than some butterflies clipped onto the tree branches, the garden does not have much else. Vicky, the Infant Bereavement Officer told me this garden does still need work, it is rather new, but it is not looking too shabby. It has been well-kept. Plain, perhaps, but decent.

I went to look because I wanted to have an idea how to string up the paper cranes we received after Ferdinand died. I am thinking I will keep a dozen of so and make it into a mobile, and the rest, I will string up with beads and ribbon and hang them from the branches of the trees in the Memorial Garden. Vicki really loved the idea, she thought it would add “life” to the garden. I agree. I think it will be a beautiful sight. I am going to get a ton of beads the next day, and lengths of ribbon and get working on the stringing, as I hope to have them hung up by year’s end.

Vicki felt I should not be hanging the cranes, as I should not be standing on a ladder in this state of being, but I am sure I can manage the lower branches, and I am going to ask local friends to see if they will participate. I know a few of them read this blog, even if they do not always post a comment.

Before we left, Vicki thought of an idea and asked the girls to pick a rock each from the River of Hope, and told them to decorate it, and then bring it back to the Garden, so there will be more color to it. I thought it was a wonderful idea. We talked about it on our way to the car and thought we could paint stars, or hearts, or just write wordsof hope, or a poem on the rocks. Fa.bu.lous. I love the idea. Vicki said the river does need more rocks, so I thought I could put out a call here, for your painted rocks. If you wish to participate, please also paint a pebble or a small rock and send it to me, so I can add it to the River of Hope as well. Post a comment so I can email you my postal address. Feel free to spread this.

It is hard for me to see beyond 24-hours these days. Just one day at a time. One hour at a time… groping around with a little blind hope. R thinks I am being crazy pessimistic and paranoid. Maybe I am. But at least I am looking forward to the day when the Memorial Garden will be a-flutter with cranes and the rock River bubbling over with colored rocks.

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Grief has no expiration date.

Grief is also like that wash you apply on your paper when you work with water-colors. The foundation layer. Usually a light, inconspicuous color. It sets the tone, holds up the other hues and sometimes provide contrast. Sometimes, by the end of the painting, you no longer see much of the wash. But, it is there.


I am in big-time anti-social mode. The homeschool park days are starting up, because the weather is finally cooling down, or so it seems. I am trying that “fake it till you make it” approach. I try to keep up with the online discussion about where to meet, what time, all those logistics. I post my replies, sometimes even enthusiastic with ex.cla.ma.tion marks!!! Heck, I even use smiley faces!  But really, I don’t care to be around most people. There is nothing wrong with them. But I am certainly not “right.” I did not make any “announcements” so I am dreading people seeing me in my current state of being and smiling and asking me questions. Those innocent questions. I do not want to mention Ferdinand to follow it with just three words “But he died.” and I also do not want to talk to him to just anyone standing in the park.

When I am out and about running errands, I sometimes get into a panic mode. I kept thinking, what if a bereaved mum sees me and she is hurt by my existence and state of being? What if I made her sad and she thinks, “Oh, look at that pregnant woman with her two girls. She has no idea how lucky she is. Does she know that her baby can die any second?!” It kills me to think by walking around I am causing pain to someone whose pain is not visible to me. It made me want to make a T-shirt that says, “I am not that innocent pregnant woman.”

And then of course, those questions and comments I get. I dread those. I just hate them, actually, even though I know people only have good intentions. Some people even say nice things. But, it is just not the same this time around.


We went for our first hospital tour of the so-called Birth Center last night.

It was awful. We planned our first delivery at the birthing center and ended up being transferred, and I still cannot forget the horrible experience. Sophia was born at home. For Ferdinand, we dreamed of him being born in the water tub on our deck at our cabin. Ended up with a two-day induce-and-deliver. This time, we just do not have the balls to plan a homebirth. We both know deep well that whatever technology they can provide us with at the hospital will all be an illusion of control, and prolonged false assurance. But we also feel a closer monitoring might give an extra shred of hope.

Although, what hope? Even our OB makes sure that every time he sees us, he will tell us, so things look fine so far, but you know that bad things can still happen despite all the good things we do. He will remind us, of course you know this does not guarantee anything. Of course, doc, of course. We know because we have been through that already.

Six weeks ago our CNM told us to schedule our hospital tour. Being superstitious, we waited longer. Just in case, you know.

We dropped the girls off at S, R’s free-and-single French colleague. Then we found our way to the correct entrance, this being our first time there, despite the hospital being just about 6-minute drive from our home.

Our “tour guide” did not look very friendly or enthusiastic; she does not even look like she is happy with her job. But, that’s not my business. She started at the entrance and helped us by telling us, “Remember- B for Baby. That’s the entrance you are looking for.” uh-huh. Then she showed us this small little area curtained off behind the reception. That’s where they check the women who come in. I remember hearing something loud, like a baby’s heartbeat, when I checked in for our tour. No kidding. This hospital may be bigger than the one that belonged to the small town we went to for Ferdinand’s delivery, but they seem pretty hard up for space. I almost blurted out– “But, what if you do not find a heartbeat?!” Am I suppose to wait till they roll me to a remote room before I start to scream and cry?

Then she pointed out the triage opposite the corridor. 14 beds, she said, each with a curtain around it. My stomach started to lurch. Again, I asked her telepathically, “But what if something goes wrong?!” She did not get my telepathic question.

We moved on to the Labor & Delivery Room. There are 18 of them, and she said, they all look the same. It was small. It had a funny smell. R asked about their water-tub policy. She turned and said to everyone, “He’s asking about laboring in the water” and told us well, you will have to bring it in and set it up yourself, as long as your doctor says you can labor in water. R wondered where that tub will fit?

I saw that R had softened his heart a little bit. When we first found out about this little one in me, and I brought up the issue of water labor, he vehemently said NO WAY. He told me he is not going to touch the water tub, or have anything to do with it. It is just going to be too traumatic. I could not reply. Yes, he was the one who had to secure the tub to our car as a summer storm was brewing, and drove it two hours up to the cabin, with the wind and rain chasing him down. But that was not the worst part. There was the returning. Securing the tub on the car again and driving it down for two hours and returning the tub to the lady who rented it to us… without having used it… with a dead baby heavy in his heart.

I had not thought about the water tub again. But he asked the question. He asked it! I started to tear up. He also asked about candles, music and aromatherapy… …

And then our tour guide said, once you are in this room, no food or drinks for mum, only ice chips. R took a double-take. “Not even fruit juice?” he asked. “No. maybe small sips of water. But no juices. Just ice chips.” R frowned and muttered that such practice is unusual and gave me a quizzical look.

By then, we had to move on to the Operating Room, so I just walked. By then, I was screaming inside and starting to have a panic attack. Tragic vibes overcame me. I was sure I was not going to deliver a live baby there. I wanted to rush to the guide, grab her and ask her, where do the dead babies go?! Every cell in me was bursting with defiance, “No! No! Go home now! Have a homebirth in the water!!” Only I blinked and swallowed my tears and trudged on.

And flashbacks. As we walked the hallways, R and I had flashbacks. Lots of flashbacks. It was getting harder and harder to stay present and breathe.

Operating Room, blah blah blah.

Next, the Nursery. We had to stand with our backs against the walls along the corridor, so people can pass. They had huge, and I mean, huge, blown-up picture of healthy, world-cutest babies along the walls. My heart ached. Then, someone rolled by with a bassinet and she said, “Yes, everyone see that? That is the baby bassinet. Beautiful baby in there… blah blah blah…” The baby was small, but quiet, cute, peaceful, precious… and belongs to someone else. My knees felt like they were buckling and I was going to keel over. I leaned back harder against the wall, trying to listen to what she is saying about why a baby needs to be in the nursery, but I was needing every ounce of strength in me to stay there and look normal without breaking down.

Thankfully, it was coming to an end. She waved to some rooms further down the hallway and say that’s where you go after baby is born, blah blah blah…

Then it ended. R and I walked out. Once we stepped out of the building the deluge of tears came. By the time we made it into the car I was totally bawling. R’s eyes were red. “I know,” he said, “It was traumatic for me too.” We sat there, darkness falling around us, and I started to wonder how many other lonely and sad couples are there like us, right now, in the past, on this planet… …


This is the only place where I will come and spew this. No one else will know or learn of our horrible 40-minute tour last night. We go forward, as bravely as possible, the pain and grief throbbing in our hearts, traveling through each and single cell, trying to summon forth hope. Maybe, maybe in a couple of months, we will hold a fresh little life in our arms and the pain will begin to slowly recede… but grief? it is always there.

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You know how some say when doing yoga it is like turning yourself into a pretzel, twisting all over?

Well, the type of yoga I do almost exclusively, Kundalini, does not involve pretzel-like positions.


But, do you know, evolving along on a grief journey, you may need to turn yourself inside out? Not exactly like pretzel-twisting, but still, it sure is some work.

At least, that was what Lorraine Ash‘s grief evolution had been like. She had to turn her grief inside out, had to turn herself inside out. First in, then out. So I titled her interview “Turn it inside out: the evolution of her grief.” I did not tell her that would be the title, it came to me when I was editing and re-arranging the interview questions, and I decided to keep that title a surprise. I hope it’s a pleasant surprise when she sees it.

So, my friends! After talking about it for months, I have that interview up over at Glow in the Woods. And Lorraine? She is just the sweetest darling, really. I am bowed over by the glow and peace she emanates. I kept thinking, “Oh, she is so calm, and peaceful, and wise…” and then we talked about the little research and database on stillbirths and she exploded with techicolor fireworks. I mean, I could imagine her climbing up onto and standing on her desk and waving her fists, blowing the whistle and kicking butts into action. No kidding. ok, I exaggerated just a teeny bit, but she has great passion and feels strongly that we do something. Go pester your congressmen and write letters and talk about your grief and your loss.

I hope you will enjoy the interview. It was a pleasure, and an honor for me.

Now, I’m going to do some twisting and writhing and turning and hope I get it the right way… … eventually…

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