Heather S. Ingemar's Blog, page 17

Three weeks until Tumbleweed!

My upcoming performance at the Tumbleweed Music Festival is getting nearer by the day. Slowly I am getting ready… Working on a set list, making arrangements for accommodations, practicing, writing more music, and reclaiming my performance mojo… It’s worthy of a montage set to “Eye of the Tiger.”

Can you tell I am very excited?

If I haven’t mentioned it before, I will have copies of my 2nd CD, “Let Me Go,” available for purchase after my set. And if you prefer to download music, I will have cards with my online store information you can pick up as well.

I hope to see you there!

How can I? or, The Question of the Subsequent Child

It’s the biggest question on my mind these days, whether its because my hormones are still telling me I need a child or whether its all the well-meaning folks who say they hope my experience won’t “turn me off parenting,” or that my husband and I are “too good of people to not try for another,” or that we’re “still young,” or any of the myriad things people say about the idea of a subsequent child in a situation like mine. Whether it is said aloud or not, the question is there: how can I have another child?

How I answer depends on the day.

Some days it is a matter of how can I not? If there is anything I learned about myself through carrying Michael, it was that I want to be a mother. I want to be the chief boo-boo kisser and bedtime story reader and teacher… I want that, so bad I can nearly taste it. I want to hold that future in my arms and sing it to sleep at night. I want to share that with my husband. There is no more of the wishy-washiness I used to have about it, no more ambivalence. I know now. And so, on those days, it is not a matter of “if,” but of “when” and “how soon?”

Some days it’s even a desire to not let this tragedy “get the better of me.” I don’t want to let it win, let it rule the rest of my life like those sad stories you hear about women who were “never the same” after this outcome, who could never stand the sight of children, who lived out their lives with no more joy.

Other days, it’s “how could I even do it?” It’s “what makes me think I could do it again and not have the same outcome?” It’s “how could I even last the nine months necessary and keep my sanity, let alone make it through labor?” On those other days, it is a matter of the very real fears and hypothetical outcomes that make up my sole childbearing experience. Because I have had exactly one pregnancy, exactly one birth, and no living child. My failure rate is 100%. In my experience children don’t live and parenthood only brings sorrow. I have no positive outcome to cling to as a bastion of hope because in my experience, all pregnancies end in death. I am living proof that the impossible — losing a full-term baby after a textbook, perfect pregnancy and labor — still happens. Because shit happens.

And, say that I find myself pregnant again, how do I choose whether to go through regular labor or have an elective cesarean? How do I know that the choice I make won’t be the reason that subsequent child dies? And say that child dies like Michael did, how many more times must I subject myself to that heartache?

How do I find the courage that I am missing? I want it back almost as much as I want to not hurt anymore. And more importantly, how do I learn to trust in my Maker? After this clusterf*ck of a situation, how can I ever trust that everything will be fine?

Unfortunately, there are way too many questions and no one right answer, and I am writing my own how-to instruction manual as I go…

In the meantime, I breathe in and I breathe out, and I hold my insides back from that cliff of “what if.” In the meantime, I focus on the things that need doing, the songs that need singing, and simply the little span of time known as ‘today.’

Becoming Alright

In a few days it will be two months, and I feel alright.

I have been waiting to say that for what feels like a long, long time. I’m alright. I’ll be alright.

I will always miss my son with this near-constant dull ache, I think. I had to dig through the bag of stuff we’d displayed at his memorial and the sight of those onesies I had made for him brought tears to my eyes. I really, really had looked forward to sharing my life with him. There was, there remains so very much I had wanted for our lives…

I will be alright.

Each day brings a new set of challenges. I am about ready to resume my full schedule at the Day Job, and yet it remains a difficulty: though the dread of my work day has lifted, the tears linger. I am reminded, daily, of what I never had. Call it a hazard of working in a place where mothers and fathers and children are welcome, call it whatever you like, but every day it picks at the edges of that emotional scab I’ve formed until I have to excuse myself to the Ladies’ room for a few tears and kleenexes. Yes, it is rough and oh-so unfair, but it is my life now. I must deal.

I will be alright.

I will be alright because of the little things: my love for my husband, my music, my friends, and the kind acknowledgment from that lady I barely know. She came in to make copies and asked if she had heard right, that I had a baby. And when I told her what happened, she took me in her arms and cried with me before asking me his name. She asked me his name. Do you have any idea how wonderful that was? She wanted to know. She wanted to hear about my son, Michael. He wasn’t just a figment of my mind, he wasn’t just a statistic, or a tragedy. In her eyes, he was real, as real a person to her as he was to my husband and I.

She was the first person to have asked, honestly, genuinely, and unflinchingly. She made that ugly, tough day alright, and slowly, I am coming to realize that I will be alright. The clouds and rain will clear off some day…

I am almost ready to put Michael’s box of remembrances away. Not yet, but soon. The pain is fading, and eventually I will be able to file my memories where they belong, where they aren’t ruling my every breath. Eventually.

And that’s alright.

Sergeantry Trials, or, I am now an Artisan of Music for my Barony!

The Sergeantry Trials for my local Barony were yesterday. If you’ll remember, I posted a photo of my Letter of Intent a while back…

Dear Lady of Raven hair, Baroness of this noble land

‘Tis my wish to serve you fair; I offer skills to be an Artisan

‘Tis my humble desire bold to pluck the brilliant melodies

And to sing the songs of old, your heart and ears to please

To honor Wastekeep’s blessed fame, and lift in song your gracious name!

To honor Wastekeep’s blessed fame, and lift in song your gracious name!

As I was presented to my Baroness, I could see the question form in her mind as she looked at my “letter.” At that point, I requested my guitar (conveniently pre-staged near the throne), dropped to one knee, and sang my song to her. I am well-pleased — my tune brought tears to her eyes as I sang of my desire to be a Bard in her name. As the last note died on my lips, the populace raised the roof of the court hall with joyful noise. (It was AWESOME!!!)

I am very happy to report that I made it! I passed the Trials, and have now become an Artisan of music for my local Barony and Baroness. It was a fantastic day filled with testing on period dancing, music, bardic, arts & sciences, and gaming. For my success, I received a bauble (pictured on the right) from my Baroness, a token of her favor which will take up residence on my guitar, and an Artisan’s Medallion.

The medallion is very special…

Once upon a time in the fair land of Wastekeep, there was a talented and noble man known as Arthur Greene. He was a vibrant personality, and won over many in the populace with his charm. He took the Trials, and after much study and thoughtful preparation, became the first Artisan of Wastekeep. Every project he took on furthered excellence in the realm of Arts and Sciences with his enthusiasm for knowledge.

Arthur eventually became Baron of Wastekeep, and was much beloved by his people. Years passed, and alas the Hand of Death came upon him suddenly. All were grieved at his unexpected passing. A great light had gone out in the land, but his people remember him fondly. Stories are told, and songs are sung in honor of his memory. Tales of Arthur abound among all of Wastekeep, and soon, all who pass through this land learn of his legend.

Yesterday, Arthur’s widow, Lady Rowena, chose me as the recipient of Arthur’s medallion. Though it is a little worn and the colors faded, I will cherish it. After the event, I located Lady Rowena and thanked her. She told me that the Sergeantry Trials was the last event Arthur attended, and that just made it ever more special.

I am well and truly honored, and I hope I can uphold the standard of excellence this honor deserves.

Singing for Michael… and others are listening

I am totally amazed. There have been OVER 350 views on the song I wrote for Michael.

Just let that sink in for a minute.

I, the little, unknown, locally infamous, folkie singer-songwriter who has had a pretty quiet last few years on the performance front has garnered OVER THREE-HUNDRED-AND-FIFTY VIEWS on a quick YouTube video I put together the Friday before my son’s memorial service.

I can hardly believe it.

Not hardly a day goes by where I hear people tell me how much my song or my blog posts here have touched them, or how much it’s helped show them what their friends/family have gone through after the loss of a child. I am humbled.

See, when I wrote “Hole in My Heart,” I wasn’t thinking of anything other than getting all that ugly baggage OFF my chest. I wasn’t thinking about a performance piece, I wasn’t thinking about how others might hear it. I was thinking only how I had all this really intense emotion building up and suffocating me, and how if I could put it into words and music, it would help me breathe again. I wanted to write something for my little boy who loved it when I played guitar and sang. I wanted to write a song that, if God could hear it, he would know how much I loved my boy and how hurt I was at losing him. That’s where “Hole in My Heart” came from. I wrote it for me…

…And apparently others — LOTS of others — are finding solace in it, too.

It feels really weird, sometimes, writing about such a personal topic, but it’s obviously something that is far more common than we’d like to admit, and something that is obviously far less talked about than it should be. And if my writing is helping THIS MANY people cope or understand, then I can’t not…

It would be a disservice to all those who have gone through this terrible trial, or have yet to go through it, and feel they’re alone. They’re not. You’re not.

So please, don’t be shy: if you want to share my blog posts or my video of “Hole in my Heart,” please do. Let’s talk about it. Let’s not keep this bottled up somewhere dark and deep.

Share. Talk. Heal.

You were unexpected, a blessing from above

Two lines of stunned elation, and all I felt was love

I gave to you my body, I gave to you my soul

But at the moment of truth, you left me all alone

CHORUS:

Now there’s a hole in my heart, it’s deeper than the sea

Filled with all the wreckage of the dreams you’ll never see

And though you’re now an angel watching over me

There’s a hole in my heart

That I wish had never been

From day one you changed me and I’ll never be the same

Seeing my innocence vanish the day you came… Ohh….

CHORUS

And I know it wasn’t your fault

It just wasn’t meant to be

CHORUS, 2x

Re-Focus

My final doctor checkup went as well as could be expected. Physically, I am stellar. My body, it seems, was made to bear children. Recovery was a snap, as had been my pregnancy and delivery experiences. Even though I like to grouse about the fact I am a different shape now than I used to be, or that I had to buy some new jeans to wear because the old ones don’t fit the same, the fact remains that — apparently — my body is a baby-making machine.

My mind, however…

To all outward appearances, I am coping with Michael’s death amazingly well. People tell me regularly how I am doing so great… The truth of it is, I’m not. My doctor’s final assessment is that I have passed the ‘okay’ threshold for grief struggle and I am becoming weighed down by my grief — and she’s right. I can feel it getting the better of me, and it’s putting strain on my marriage, my work, and my life.

I recognize that I have an inability to re-focus myself when I feel that black hole spiraling up, especially when other things in my life are not harmonious (which is the case right now. Don’t even get me started on farm equipment… Or the many who prefer to act like the last nine months me never existed, like my son never existed…). I tend to be a broken record: hashing over details, berating myself, worrying, and being unable to see the good all around me. Like most artistic personalities, when life is good it’s really good, but when life is bad, it’s blacker than the most terrible, darkness imaginable… It can get quite ugly, and even drowning myself between the notes of my music barely helps.

So this week I’ve been taking steps to minimize my struggle. Making sure I’m eating right. Taking supplements to help balance things out. So far, it appears to be working. I am still saddened by thoughts of my son, or thoughts of what I’ve lost (motherhood), but I’m not being eaten alive by the darkness.

And that’s something.

Daily grind

I am officially back at the Day Job this week. It feels like it’s been the hardest week of my life since Michael died.

Don’t get me wrong: it is great to be back among people. It is great having a steady schedule again. But it is so hard at times…

Dealing with those who don’t know about Michael’s death, who are excited about his obvious birth, and having to explain
Conversely, dealing with those who know, but prefer to pretend nothing happened
Having difficulties focusing on the task at hand. It feels like I’m even more ADHD than I was before…
Seeing reminders (mothers with young children) of what I lost, or more accurately, what I never had in the first place
Not having the freedom to fall apart at the seams when I feel like it, because, hey, work to be done
Not knowing where anything is anymore, because there have been renovations during my absence

It’s exhausting. I hop in the car to come home and the tears begin flowing before I’ve even left the city limits. I arrive home completely tapped out, barely able to form a coherent sentence.

This? This is the part of grief that I hate. The part where daily life goes on (and on and on and on…) regardless of the fact that you aren’t healed yet, and each day’s events rip off what scabs you’ve managed to form overnight. And it hurts, all over again, to the point you find yourself in tears over just the thought of having to face people again at 9a.m. and go through another day of feeling like a failure.

It’s simply not fair. Which sounds entirely childish and petulant, but it’s the truth. Life isn’t fair. Sometimes you end up hiding in the bathroom in tears and sometimes you don’t…

But this is my life now, such as it is. I’ve got to either take it or leave it, and let’s just say I’m too damn stubborn to let go.

Not a Mom

Everyone rushes to assure me I am a mother. That I am still, or that I was the moment I got pregnant. They trip all over themselves to refute my opinion.

I don’t think I am. Rather, I do not view myself as a “mother.”

Being a mother entails having a child to raise. It entails parenting. My son is in heaven. He is not here with me. He is not here with my husband. We do not get to raise him. We do not get to teach him about cows and rapier and guns and archery and music and country life. We do not get to show him how to be a good man and a kind person. We do not get to see him off on his first day of Kindergarten, we do not get to cheer him on at Little League games. We do not get any of it. No baby clothes, no lullabies, no hugs and kissing of boo-boos. No family pictures for Christmas letters, no pictures of first dates and graduations. Nothing.

I am not a mother, and merely getting myself pregnant does not make me one. Is the woman who gets pregnant and gives her baby up for adoption a mother? The woman who eventually gets an abortion? If mere pregnancy is the sole criteria for being a mother, then I think we need to seriously redefine the criteria. Being a mother is more than being a baby-incubator, just like being a father is more than being a sperm donor. Being a parent is time, love, educating your child. It is caring for that child, and helping gently mold them into the best person they can be. It is being their role model, being their guide through this crazy rollercoaster ride called life.

My son is dead, and with him, those opportunities for “motherhood.” I am merely a woman who wanted to be a mom, but never got the chance. I had the most wonderful pregnancy a woman could ask for, but that’s the end of it.

God still refuses to answer my prayers to take away my desire for children, to help me through the pain and the fear. I don’t know why or for what purpose. No matter how much I beg and plead and cry and pray and wish to go back to being the girl I was before I held that positive pregnancy test — the girl who was ambivalent about the idea of children — the terrible ache for the things I see every woman around me enjoying remains. Even going on a month and a half later, when the hormones are fading and I am supposed to be “healed” and “normal,” I still long to be what I am not. He, in His infinite wisdom, has seen fit to ignore me. So I muddle my way through each breath of each minute of each hour of each day, fighting to make sense of my identity. Fighting the resentment when it seems like every woman in the free world is pushing a stroller. Fighting the jealousy when I see a new mother with her newborn. Fighting the nightmares that highlight what I’ve lost. Fighting the lingering fears and doubts of “did I truly do everything right?” Fighting, always fighting to regain the person I used to be, but who eludes me.

I do not grieve for the son I lost, because he is safe and happy and cared for in heaven. I know this. I believe this deep in my soul.

I grieve because I am not a mother. I grieve for opportunities lost. I grieve for my stolen sense of identity, for the theft of my innocence, my hope, and my sense of security.

I grieve for the dream that lies shattered. I am not a mom, and please don’t tell me I’m something that I’m not.

Potential Artisan of Music — SCA projects

I needed something to keep me busy this summer, and so I decided (after much coaxing and cajoling by my friends and fellow geeks) to try for the rank of Artisan within my local SCA chapter. Most of the candidates who are studying for this rank or others similar (my husband is going for Gallant, which is a rapier-based rank) announced their intentions in January or shortly thereafter, as the trials are in August. I announced my intentions in June.

Let’s just say I like to work under pressure…?

I have been active enough in the Arts & Sciences divisions that fulfilling those requirements will be no problem. And developing a letter detailing my medieval persona has been easy. Getting all my ducks in a row for the others? A bit more of a challenge.

I have been fussing and fussing and fussing these last couple of weeks, because I must submit a formal Letter of Intent at the Trials. I have not been happy with my letter. It was lacking a certain… Something.

Then I had the Idea of All Ideas.

What better for a potential Artisan of Music to present than a Letter in the form of a song?

Sad Guitars, part II

I have one of the sad guitars playing and she’s not so sad anymore.

Everyone, this is Lola (because every classical guitar, the instrument of Spain, deserves a Spanish-esque name):

I am well-pleased. I ‘listened’ to what the instrument needed, listened to what my hands told me to do, and after a near-all-nighter of sanding and tweaking, I ended up with a nicely playable instrument. Perfect action, perfect intonation at the 12th fret. It does have a minor buzz somewhere in the bridge that I haven’t been able to pinpoint, but for an inexpensive guitar that was abused and then rescued, I really can’t complain.

Now, to get her sister fixed up. Unfortunately, I had to rob the tuning machines off the sister guitar to get Lola up and running, because people! There’s a reason steel strings DO NOT belong on a classical guitar — they eat up the gears on the tuning machines! So, I need to buy a few more parts. But that’s small potatoes — given how well Lola has responded to some TLC, I have no doubt her sister will do just as well.