Heather S. Ingemar's Blog, page 14

As You Like It — Our SCA Anniversary

What a wonderful weekend.

The event As You Like It marks our 2nd anniversary in the SCA, and there was much feasting, fun, and frivolity! Not as much bardic activity as I had hoped, but it really was my husband’s day, as he took a big step in his rapier/historical martial arts career and became a Cadet:

The swearing in ceremony.

In our Society, the rapier arts have a heirarchy system of chivalry and education similar to the knights and their squires. In rapier, the “knights” are called Dons (or Doñas) and their “squires” are called Cadets. Like the knights/squires, the Don and Cadet relationship is a big, important one, that often spills over into our mundane lives — for example, my husband’s Don considers his Cadets as family, and does not just take a Cadet, he includes their spouse in the relationship (that’s why I’m standing there, because I have given my blessing and I’m part of the deal, too). No one becomes a Cadet who hasn’t been “vetted” by the rest of the “family.” In swearing the oath, there is a mutual agreement to not only study the art of rapier and practice all elements of valor and chivalry, but also to protect and honor the family.

It’s a Big Deal.

I am so proud. My husband has taken to the rapier like a duck to water and it has been such a pleasure to me to see him come into his own since we stumbled into this awesome Society two years ago. I love every moment I get to watch him out on the field — I consider it a privilege, and I look forward to seeing how far he will go.

But speaking of family…

After all that this amazing group of people had given us/done for us since Michael died, I had wanted to write a speech to thank them. Little did I know how the short speech I wrote last week would come in handy. During court that evening, we were gifted with the “friendship ball” as a token of the love and support these people so graciously give during a time of need. The timing couldn’t have been better, and I used that opportunity to talk about what family is, and how the saying that “the SCA becomes your family,” is 100% true, because they have. These wonderful, crazy, amazing people have given us  a place where we fit, they have held our hand during the aftermath, they have given us shoulders to cry on, they have been listening ears when that was what we needed… They opened their homes and their hearts to us in ways that stun me beyond words. These people are good people I am proud to know.

I didn’t set out to make anyone cry, but apparently there wasn’t a dry eye in the house when I finished. And then court kind of got suspended while there was a mass mob of hugging.

Our house was overran that evening with guests and it was fantastic fun to be surrounded by these great people for a while longer.

Here’s to many more years to come!

Tagged: family, medieval, Rapier, sca

Don’t Count Your Chickens

It will be a big weekend for us, and I was doing my part to help ready the house for any guests we may have. I wielded that vacuum with a skill and ferocity I typically never have. I wanted to banish the disarray of grief, get my house back in some semblance of organized chaos. J was moving things around in the upstairs, and called for my help. His hands were full.

“Can you move this stuff so I can make the corner?” He asked. I set to moving things immediately. And I saw them.

The swing. The playpen still folded in its case. The mobile with the little, stuffed Winnie-the-Pooh characters. The car seat.

The waterworks began immediately.

It amazes me how things can still inspire so much heartache nearly a full five months after. I can hold other people’s children with honest joy, I can walk through the baby section at Walmart unfazed, and yet the sight of what should have been Michael’s car seat still sends me into a fit of tears. I am viscerally reminded of the party all the people at The Day Job threw when they presented me with the car seat. They were all over the moon because I (the only young woman on the entire staff at the time) was pregnant. They looked forward to my son like grandmothers look forward to grandchildren. They had all pitched in to buy us the car seat. They gave cards full of excited good wishes. They baked a cake and hand-decorated it.

I feel so guilty. So incredibly guilty. So many people spent so much money on our son and I failed to bring him home. All those things sit wasted. It feels greedily extravagant. It feels wrong.

This last week I saw a family decorating a meeting room for a baby shower and all I could think of was that saying about counting your chickens. I hate that, I hate that I am being forced to walk this road and that the unadulterated excitement that should surround a pregnancy is gone, to be replaced with old wisdom like “don’t count your chickens before they’re hatched.” I hate that I am tainted now with old-timers’ caution and cold practicality. Parents are never supposed to have to bury their children….

And oddly, that is the very thing that gets me through, again and again and again. That parents have buried their children. We act and think we are far removed from it now, but it was not that long ago when this was the norm. Throughout history, women have borne their husbands large families, not because of the lack of contraception (as society would have us believe, which is a gross omission of the facts), but because they expected them to die.

Can you even begin to fathom that? They expected them to die. These women of days long past expected to stand where I am standing now: over a grave instead of a crib. And so, they gave more of themselves, over and over, so that a few might live.

Can you imagine? Knowing that every pregnancy could end in death? That one third — possibly even half — of those young faces gathered at your dinner table would be under ground before adulthood arrived? Can you imagine the selflessness? The bravery?

It gives me a small measure of comfort. During my dark days, I think of all the women before me who have inexplicably lost a full-term baby, and somehow, it makes it a little easier. While I cannot fathom how they could expect this, let alone go through this more than once (because even once is too many), it helps knowing that I am not as alone as I feel.

Tagged: courage, expectations, grief, history, loss, Pregnancy

Known World’s Got Talent: Semi-Finals!

This is just a friendly reminder (with just a touch of groveling ) that the Semi-Final Round of Voting has begun for the Known World’s Got Talent competition! You can view the entrants here:

http://socsen.sca.org/social-media/social-media-resources/got-talent-competition/

If you haven’t voted yet, I (as Emma Godwif) would greatly appreciate a “thumbs up” on YouTube for my entry of Agincourt Carol:

You have until 11:59pm EST on November 14th to get your votes in.

Then what happens:

On November 15th, they will announce the top four videos, which will then be judged and two will be selected for the Final Showdown.

So tell your friends, tell your family, help me spread the word and garner some votes! Let’s show the Known World how much fun the SCA is!

Guitar Center Singer/Songwriter Challenge

I have another favor to ask of you all.

I am now entered in Guitar Center’s Singer/Songwriter Challenge for a chance to win a recording session with legend Don Was III as well as a bunch of spiffy gear and such. The deal is, I have to have a bunch of people share my channel:

http://songwriter.revimage.com/channels/Heather+Stearns+Musi

It’s a bit of a long-shot given that I just heard about it and I believe they’ve been taking entries for several weeks now, but it will be fun, all the same.

So if you have a moment to spare, please grab that link and share it with your friends, family, whomever. I would be greatly appreciative!

Tagged: contest, music, performance, songwriting

Tears are okay, or, a note to those on the “outside”

After having several unexpected conversations with people this week about Michael’s loss, I want to throw this out there:

Tears are okay.

I understand how you don’t want to upset me, or make me cry. I understand that crying in public is uncomfortable. I understand that we are conditioned to apologize for our griefs (Hell, I’ve done that on many an occasion, without even thinking about it). But if you are moved to the point of tears when I am talking with you about my son, don’t be ashamed! Please. It’s alright. Believe me, I get it. If I let myself sit and consider the full weight of the tragedy called neonatal death, I would be in tears, too. I have been in tears.

You have nothing to apologize for. Your tears just tell me that you care. That’s a nice thing for someone in my position to see, because with the nature of my son’s loss, my husband and I were the only ones who knew him. It’s all too easy for people to pretend it never happened, because they didn’t experience the pregnancy as closely. Michael never lived long enough to make memories with anyone but his daddy and I. So your tears are lovely to me for the fact that you care.

It’s just like asking his name. Most people don’t because they are afraid to, when they shouldn’t be. Speak his name if you know it, and if not, please ask. It’s the only thing I have left of my boy, the only proof that he was ever here. When you speak his name, you acknowledge the fact that he mattered to me, and he mattered to his father.

Now the fear that by doing these simple things you’ll make it worse IS a concern. What it boils down to, I think, is where the griever is in their process. Don’t ask us to comfort you, because we are, quite frankly, incapable of it for a while. You also may want to hold off on asking about the details for the first couple of months. During that time, we’re still sorting it all out in our head, and I know we never even got the coroner’s report back until the middle of July or so. But after that first couple of months, I can probably guarantee you that we want to talk… we’re just floundering with how to go about it. There are all these social rules for what is acceptable and what isn’t, and we don’t want to make you run away. We are trying desperately to hold what is left of our lives together, and we are all-too-aware of how uncomfortable we make people. One lady told me that “if I ever needed to talk, to let her know,” and I took her up on the invitation only to see from her body language how much she hadn’t meant it. Which brings me to another point…

Please only offer the things you can give. It is heartbreaking to us not knowing where we can turn in safety, and situations like that lady above who offered something out of propriety that she didn’t want? Makes everyone uncomfortable. Even if all you can offer is a casserole, or a pie, or some no-pressure company, it is greatly appreciated. Any little gesture gives us hope and emotional support. Also, don’t feel pressured to say anything, sometimes nothing is the right thing to say. At an SCA event I attended, after, one of the nobles approached me before her class started and squeezed my arm. All she said was “I am glad to see you here,” and something as simple as that made me feel so good because she was acknowledging my loss, and offering something she could fulfill: her pleasure at seeing me in her class.

The other thing to understand is that this kind of a loss does not go away. We may heal, we may look like our old selves in a few months, a year, five years… But we just learn how to better carry the hurt. It’s like when you go to the post office and are handed a huge, heavy package to take home, and you struggle with how to grab it at first. You may even drop it, or your grip will slip a time or two. Especially if you are trying to juggle the car keys, your purse, the envelopes you also picked up. But by the time you get to your car, you’ve pretty well got it sorted with how to handle it. Grief is the same. The first few months are the hardest because we’re struggling with how to hang onto it and everything else in our lives. Eventually (and everyone is different, I find I have a pretty decent grip on things 4 months out, but others don’t get there for a year or two), we get it all sorted, and are capable of carrying that big parcel along with everything else, and we look like we have it all together. We haven’t “moved on” because there is no such thing — that implies leaving grief behind totally, as if it never existed, when Grief is the act of loving someone who is no longer here — however, there is moving forward.

So, if you are on the “outside,” my advice to you is this:

Please don’t be ashamed of feeling. It makes us feel like we aren’t alone, and it honors our experience of our loss.
Feeling does not make it worse. We live with our hurt all day, every day. Seeing you be upset doesn’t compound anything we are feeling so long as you don’t ask to be comforted (because it may be a long time before we are capable of that). In other words, we’ll feel terrible for a while, regardless.
Offer the support you CAN give, even if it’s just a silent hug, or a pie (can you tell that I really appreciate food gifts?).
Give us time to figure out how to carry this giant parcel, and understand that we won’t — can’t — ever leave that parcel at home. We may get a wheelbarrow or a wagon to cart it around in so we aren’t constantly dropping the other things in our hands, but it is with us wherever we go.

Now, it appears I’ve written you a book. But if there’s one thing to take away from this is that:

Above all, don’t be afraid to acknowledge.

See, with these kinds of losses — miscarriage, stillbirth, or neonatal death — it’s at once all too easy to forget and all too hard to forget at all. It’s a very difficult, touchy, HARD place to be. If there’s one thing I’ve learned from walking this path myself is that there is great comfort to be had when others talk with you about your lost child and treat the subject exactly as they would had the child lived a full life and not mere minutes.

Tagged: grief, life, loss, neonatal death, thoughts

Theme music

The post-office lady and I have a great relationship. On days that I am at The Day Job, I see her at least twice a day, and while I am picking up or dropping off packages we chat it up. She has a wicked sense of humor, and her face is so expressive as she gets into her comedic tales. We have a blast.

The other day, I made my afternoon stop, and informed her very seriously that they needed some theme music instead of their standard doorbell ringer for when customers enter. We had a good laugh over the idea as she rang up my postage. “Ooohh, great idea! You should totally do something,” she laughed as I left.

The next morning, I did. It couldn’t have gone better. No one else was waiting at the counter, and so I slunk in and announced my presence with an emphatic “dun dun DUUUUUUUUNNNNN!”

She busted up laughing, and the gauntlet has been thrown: just how many snippets of theme music can I come up with?

So far, it’s been the typical fare of the Heroic Trumpets (“taa tata TAAAAAA!” complete with “heroic pose”), Ride of the Valkyries, and when I see her next it will be Darth Vader’s march. I can also pull out Indiana Jones, the Good/Bad/Ugly, Chariots of Fire, and Beethoven’s Ninth, but you tell me:

What other theme music shall I use?

Tagged: hilarity, music, quirkiness, theme, work

Remembrances, or Putting the box away

It is time to put the box away.

It’s been sitting on my nightstand, guarding every little thing related to Michael’s short life: coroner’s reports, gifts, sympathy cards, the guestbook from the memorial service… the lyric sheet to the song I wrote for him. I have resisted doing anything with it because it’s the only thing I have left of him. The thought of packing it away made me feel adrift again, like I did in the hospital, after. So it’s sat on my nightstand, reminding me that I had a son every time I opened my eyes in the morning, and before I go to sleep at night.

It is time.

So many people fear grief, they fear the dark place called Depression, the natural sadness and despair that comes from saying goodbye to those you love, and having to live every day without them. It’s nearly unbearable at times as you encounter moments the Absent Ones should have seen or experienced. People don’t want to look at it, don’t want to deal with it.

At the start of this unexpected journey, I was like that, too. When people said “you will never stop grieving,” I cringed. I didn’t want to live my life in despair! I didn’t want to never be happy again! Ick! It was at this point, when I had played the “what-if” game one too many times and the choking despair enveloped me that I nearly gave up for misunderstanding. Thank God I didn’t. As I move on through, I’m beginning to understand the nuance: Grief is not always Depression, sadness, and despair, that’s just the first, incredibly intense phase — Grief is also how we remember, how we honor, how we love those gone. How we live our lives in ways that keep their memory.

So it is time to put the box away, because the box is remembrances of that first phase of grief.

Somewhere along the way I came across links for memorial jewelry, and I liked the idea of something I could wear to remember my son by that wasn’t a box of mementos from those immediate dark days after his loss. I wanted it to be something I would create myself, something simple. After a couple days of research, I found a design that really spoke to me. I ordered my supplies and YouTubed some videos to help me learn how to do it. It took some practice, but I think I finally got it the way I wanted it:

Antiqued copper and hand-stamped with his name, the only thing his daddy and I got to give him.

I wear it close to my heart. His memory — a positive one of my own making, not one of coroner’s reports and sympathy cards — will be with me in everything I do, everywhere I go, and that’s how it should be.

Tagged: grief, healing, loss, love, memories, neonatal death, Pregnancy

Stony Griefs

I had made sure to grab a bunch of change from the change dish for my copies before I left the house, so counting out the nickels and pennies for my copies was easy. A woman came up behind me to sign out of the computer use sheet and watched me count my change to the lady behind the counter.

“What’d you do — raid your kid’s piggy bank or something?”

Her light, tactless sarcasm made me angry. Outrageously so. My emotions this last week have been all over the map, and it was all I could do to not round on her with a livid “I don’t have a kid because HE DIED!” It was all I could do to keep counting the nickels and pennies in my hands when all I wanted to do was spit and growl my disgust at her. I seethed, and completely ignored her. When I left, I muttered and griped and hissed under my breath with colorful (ahem) language about idiot women and insensitive stupidity. I yanked open my car door and slammed it behind me.

I know, I know: completely over-the-top, even for my heart-on-my-sleeve existence. As I sat there in the safety of my car, I realized how petty I was acting. The woman couldn’t possibly have known. But I was still angry.

I had to run an errand at the church, and I welcomed the peace I always feel when I entered the Sanctuary (I love that they call it so). I dropped off the item I had to drop off, and took a moment for myself. I found a pew and made myself comfortable listening to the silence in that big room. I love going to church when no one else is there. It seems so private and personal and I never feel alone. My LDS friends told me about a room in their Temple called the Celestial Room, where you can go to pray and everything feels amplified. Our Sanctuary feels like that to me. When I am in there, I feel safe, even from my own turmoil.

When I am in church by myself, I am always overcome with a need to sing. Something in me hears the comforting hush of the large room, and yearns to fill it with music. I never give in, but today I did. My fingers found the index and the page in the hymnal by themselves. The notation was just as I had learned it all those years ago, and I took a steady breath and opened my lips with the first beautiful note:

Nearer, my God, to Thee, nearer to Thee!

E’en though it be a cross that raiseth me;

Still all my song shall be nearer, my God, to Thee,

Nearer, my God, to Thee, nearer to Thee!

Though like the wanderer, the sun gone down,

Darkness be over me, my rest a stone;

Yet in my dreams I’d be nearer, my God, to Thee,

Nearer, my God, to Thee, nearer to Thee!

There let the way appear steps unto heav’n;

All that Thou sendest me in mercy giv’n;

Angels to beckon me nearer, my God, to Thee,

Nearer, my God, to Thee, nearer to Thee!

Then with my waking thoughts bright with Thy praise,

Out of my stony griefs Bethel I’ll raise;

So by my woes to be nearer, my God, to Thee,

Nearer, my God, to Thee, nearer to Thee!

Or if on joyful wing, cleaving the sky,

Sun, moon, and stars forgot, upwards I fly,

Still all my song shall be, nearer, my God, to Thee,

Nearer, my God, to Thee, nearer to Thee!

Hearing my voice resonate to the rafters gives me chills, and I find a lasting comfort in it.

Tagged: grief, loss, music, Spirituality

Scared

“You look like my mommy,” she said, looking up at me from the little computer chair with an excited little-girl smile. “Will you stay here with me? I want you to stay here with me.” She latches onto my arm and starts inspecting my fingers and hands with a child’s intensity.

I am on duty at The Day Job and her innocent, sweet words feel like a stake in my heart. I don’t want to cry in front of her, and so I politely extricate myself so I can go bawl in the bathroom in peace.

It has been a couple months since I have cowered among the porcelain toilets, using toilet paper and my shirt sleeve to wipe my sniffly nose because the only box of kleenexes are out behind the front counter in full view. I thought I was over this shit. Well, over the crying-in-the-bathroom-like-a-teen-dumped-at-prom shit. I had been doing so well, exerting the strength and willpower to only let the tears fall when no one else could see. And thankfully, since I had my God Experience, I simply haven’t felt like crying. Not like this.

But this little girl’s happy insistence that I remind her of her mother feels like nails on a chalkboard and I am unstable. I am in tears before I ever make it to the door.

I feel torn in two. I feel we should try again, that I especially must try to fulfill this new-found need to be a parent. I ache to hold and raise a child and yet I am plain scared. If I thought my fears about being a parent were ever bad before, the thought of going through it all again — the joy of the positive test, the elation of the little aspects of pregnancy, the anticipation… only to leave the hospital again with empty arms — far outstrips any doubts I may have had about “life after baby.” I want it so bad I can taste it, but I fear it, too.

If the choice were laid out on a table — two neat cards, one for “pregnant” and one for “barren” — I wouldn’t have the strength to choose. Not knowing what I have been through. Not knowing how you can go the entire 9 months, how everything can be charmed and everyone says it’s a done deal, and you can still watch your child die in the doctor’s hands. If it were so easy as to just pick a card for the outcome, I would beg someone else — God, or my husband — to make the decision for me because I am so cowardly that I can’t knowingly set myself up for hurt like this. In my world, there is no such thing as blind faith because I have been blessed with vision for all potential consequences. Once the decision is made, however, I could deal with it and the ways it could play out — steadfastly, bravely, calmly — because I am that type of girl. I was raised to grit my teeth and carry on, regardless of what shit was hitting the fan.

Instead, I’m standing in front of the table staring at the cards like I’ve been staring at them ever since the doctors told us they couldn’t save our son. Instead I’m here bawling in the bathroom because a little girl compared me to her mother and I don’t know that I’ll ever be that for anyone except a ghost.

Tagged: difficulty, grief, neonatal death, Pregnancy

Playing the ukulele is a bit like being naked

…And I feel like I’m naked in front of the crowd

And these words are my diary screamin’ out loud…

(“3 a.m.” By Anna Nalick)

It sounds funny, but hear me out:

All of our lives we are conditioned. In school our concert bands require alto and bass instruments. If full instrumentation is lacking, band teachers will move gifted students to cover the missing parts. High school choirs will resort to bribery to get tenors and baritones to join. On the radio we hear nothing but bands with the bass turned up. We hear not a solo singer, but a lead with at least three backup singers. We hear toms and reverb effects and synthesizer, and that’s just in popular music.

In classical music, the majority of pieces are unable to be performed without the full spectrum of strings, horns, and percussion as supporting cast. The majority of classical piano works require the lion’s share of the keyboard.

Jazz musicians would be lost without a full rhythm section (guitar, bass, drums, and keys).

Folk music, especially American bluegrass, is happier with a stand-up bassist and a couple guitars.

We spend much of our lives hearing music that utilizes the entire range of tonalities, rhythms, and auditory effects. We are immersed in it so much that we come to expect it to the point that anything simpler sounds… Thin. Performing with it remains a bit like being naked. You have nowhere to hide, no way to immerse yourself behind guitars and basses or fancy effects. You are out there in your musical skivvies, front and center, and everything shines through over the brilliance of plucked strings.

Totally naked.

No barriers between you and your song.

It’s kind of a refreshing feeling…

(I could keep on with the double entendres, but I’ll leave it at that. )

Tagged: music, naked, performance, ukulele