Boe resides in a mausoleum niche with my Opa (grandfather). He is surrounded by people who, for all intents and purposes, appear to have lived long full lives. Small brass plates display the names and life spans of those who occupy them, informing passersby that someone who was loved rests here. In that 4x4 square lies someone's mother, sister, wife, friend, etc... No one knows that Boe is there.
He lies in the niche protected by his Opa, but no one who happens by knows that Albert W. Muller AND Boe Holland Kinowski share that space. Over the last several months, this has been becoming increasingly more difficult for me to handle. I want people who pass by to know that he is there. I want them to know that life is not all about living a long full life and then passing peacefully in your sleep. Sometimes, those who we love the most are taken from us unexpectedly, without warning; and it is heartbreaking.
Since Boe died, there have been a few times when people have done unexpectedly touching things. Acts that reaffirm that he exists, he is remembered and he is loved. Recently, one of those things was done for us. My stepmother, who has never had any children of her own, bought a new plaque for the niche. The plaque will have my Opa's name on it and Boe's name on it.
I am so incredibly touched that she did this. It means people will know about a little boy named Boe. They may not know about his life or his death, but they will know he "is".
Friday, August 24, 2012
Sunday, July 29, 2012
It's Not as Glamourous as You Think...
We all know that the summer nights have very little of interest to watch on TV. For that reason, my husband and I often find ourselves watching repeats of things which we have already seen. Old episodes of Law and Order: SVU. Two and a Half Men and the Big Bang Theory occupy our evenings after the children are asleep. Lately, we have rediscovered Friends.
I have all 1o seasons on DVD, and this is a show which is near and dear to both of us; so many of our earliest relationship memories revolve around this show. The episodes which are currently airing are depicting Phoebe's triplet pregnancy, and I'm finding it really hard to deal.
I'll admit, I laughed right along with the rest of America when Phoebe carried her brother's children and gave birth to them. Her brother, Frank, announcing, "My sister's having my baby!!!!!", is still one of my favorite Friends moments of all time; however, the episodes that follow are painfully difficult to watch.
It seems that multiple births are so glamorized these days. The triplet ogres in Shrek, there are triplet boys in Brave, John and Kate Plus 8, Table for 10, Quints By Surprise, we are all obsessed with multiples. But for some of us, this is not an oddity, not something at which we should gawk and whisper as the family passes by. For some of us, this is life, it is real, it is everyday, and we would not have it any other way... almost.
If I could change one thing about my life, it would be to have Boe here. It would be to have my group of 3 intact, whole... complete. From the moment we found out there were 3 of them, that's how we planned, that's what we envisioned for ourselves; 3 little princes with one princess to preside over them.
Alas, that is not what the Lord had in store for us, and we have honestly made our peace with that fact. It does not change the fact that there is forever a piece missing and that to have that missing piece so frivolously thrown in our faces stings, just a bit.
To watch Phoebe joke about carrying a litter and eating for three, to see her hold all three of them at once and speak words of love and inspiration to all three is like a knife in my heart. I no longer laugh when I see this; I turn the channel and try not to cry. Instead of holding all three at once, I held one and cried for him, and I held the other two and told them about their other brother. A brother with whom they spent so much time in such close proximity, but would never get to wrestle with or play. A brother who gave up so much so that they may thrive. A little boy who is so deeply cherished and missed, a little boy who makes it impossible for me to laugh at the cavalier manner in which multiple pregnancies are displayed.
It's not all laughs and silly Phoebe'isms, people. It really happens, sometimes things go wrong, and it really sucks. Sometimes people stop laughing, so why does everybody else still think it's so funny?
Tuesday, July 17, 2012
The House of the Lord
I'll admit it, since Boe died, I have had a very hard time with church. I am way past the "How could God do this to me?" phase. I am no longer angry or willing to take issue with Him; afterall, he takes care of my baby and loves and protects him as I never could.
I have a hard time with church because it is the last place that I saw Boe right in front of my eyes. He was physically present in the vestibule of the church before his service and in the church with us during the ceremony. I'll always remember what it was like to watch the little blue box that held his remains be carried to a car and driven off, forever out of my arms. It happened on the steps of the church, and for that reason, it has been so hard for me to return.
When we do go to church, I often find myself standing in the circle right in the center of the vestibule, that is where his little box lay as we greeted friends and family before his service began. As odd as this may seem, I truly feel him there, and it is the only place in the church where I feel at peace.
What is the answer? Do I avoid church forever? No. I still believe, wholeheartedly, in God and the miracle of his creations. I want my children to be raised knowing that there is a being so much bigger and more powerful than we, someone to whom we can always turn in our darkest hour or greatest triumph.
Maybe there is hope. Just recently, Brody was baptized. We had to go to mass not only to have him anointed, but for his Christrening as well. For the first time in a longtime, I was able to stand in church and recall certain aspects of Boe's service while simulataneuosly rejoicing for Brody. I was able to hear the "Twinkle Twinkle, Little Star / Jesus Loves Me" medley without being reduced to tears. I was able to sit right up front without being paralyzed by the fact that one of the last times I sat there was at Boe's service.
Isn't that how it's supposed to be though? With God I mean. Isn't He supposed to stand next to us in celebration and then carry us when our burdens are simply too much to bare? Maybe that is why convening in His house is so important, regardless of the events through which we are currently passing. Being in His home reminds us that we always have a place. A place where we can go to shed feelings of sadness and give them over to Him; a place where we can go to turn our faces to the heavens in joy and celebration; a place where we can bridge the gap between the physical and spiritual plane to feel those we love the most around us.
I have a hard time with church because it is the last place that I saw Boe right in front of my eyes. He was physically present in the vestibule of the church before his service and in the church with us during the ceremony. I'll always remember what it was like to watch the little blue box that held his remains be carried to a car and driven off, forever out of my arms. It happened on the steps of the church, and for that reason, it has been so hard for me to return.
When we do go to church, I often find myself standing in the circle right in the center of the vestibule, that is where his little box lay as we greeted friends and family before his service began. As odd as this may seem, I truly feel him there, and it is the only place in the church where I feel at peace.
What is the answer? Do I avoid church forever? No. I still believe, wholeheartedly, in God and the miracle of his creations. I want my children to be raised knowing that there is a being so much bigger and more powerful than we, someone to whom we can always turn in our darkest hour or greatest triumph.
Maybe there is hope. Just recently, Brody was baptized. We had to go to mass not only to have him anointed, but for his Christrening as well. For the first time in a longtime, I was able to stand in church and recall certain aspects of Boe's service while simulataneuosly rejoicing for Brody. I was able to hear the "Twinkle Twinkle, Little Star / Jesus Loves Me" medley without being reduced to tears. I was able to sit right up front without being paralyzed by the fact that one of the last times I sat there was at Boe's service.
Isn't that how it's supposed to be though? With God I mean. Isn't He supposed to stand next to us in celebration and then carry us when our burdens are simply too much to bare? Maybe that is why convening in His house is so important, regardless of the events through which we are currently passing. Being in His home reminds us that we always have a place. A place where we can go to shed feelings of sadness and give them over to Him; a place where we can go to turn our faces to the heavens in joy and celebration; a place where we can bridge the gap between the physical and spiritual plane to feel those we love the most around us.
Monday, June 4, 2012
Life as it is... Not how it was supposed to be
Bittersweet. That is how I feel right now. Yesterday, Brody turned 7 months old. Last night he slept in the nursery with his sister and brothers for the first time.
Saturday, Adam slaved to assemble the crib, hang the curtains that will divide Brody from his siblings during sleeping time, and move the dresser to the walk in closet to make way for his crib. The room is beautiful. It is sweet and dear and houses the most precious beings in this world, but I still cried when I saw it.
I cried because, in another lifetime, the cribs were supposed to be arranged differently. Each little crib was supposed to be placed under the A, B, or C which corresponded to Adler, Boe and Cameron. Today, the "B" circle holds a framed quote and tiny little hand and footprints, little mementos that provide precious proof that a boy named Boe Holland existed, his brothers, "A" and "C", end to end so they can conspire in the night.
Today, the third crib sits on its own wall, with another precious little "B", Brody", filling it. That's what he does, he "fills". He fills my heart with joy where there was sadness and despair. He fills my arms with warmth and weight, where once there was such emptiness and longing.
He fills our home with giggles and squeals and smiles that Boe was never able to give.
In the midst of all these wonderful, fuzzy feelings, he also fills my heart with guilt and conflict. I feel guilty because it's almost as though I'm betraying Boe's memory by loving Brody so much, by smiling and laughing when I hold him in my arms; those smiles and laughs should have been for Boe. I feel guilty because I do not ever want Brody to think that he was a replacement or not wanted. I do not want him to feel that he was born out of some desperate attempt to fill a void which can never truly be filled. He was born to be his own person with his own gifts and talents, and we love him because he is "Brody".
Certainly, seeing the nursery ready for Brody was bittersweet. It conjured up memories and images of what was supposed to be, but it also painted a picture of life as it is. A picture of a life, that through sadness and loss has become so very full, vibrant, and a true celebration of God's abundant love and grace. It paints a picture of my life, a life that, for right now, I couldn't imagine living any other way.
Saturday, Adam slaved to assemble the crib, hang the curtains that will divide Brody from his siblings during sleeping time, and move the dresser to the walk in closet to make way for his crib. The room is beautiful. It is sweet and dear and houses the most precious beings in this world, but I still cried when I saw it.
I cried because, in another lifetime, the cribs were supposed to be arranged differently. Each little crib was supposed to be placed under the A, B, or C which corresponded to Adler, Boe and Cameron. Today, the "B" circle holds a framed quote and tiny little hand and footprints, little mementos that provide precious proof that a boy named Boe Holland existed, his brothers, "A" and "C", end to end so they can conspire in the night.
Today, the third crib sits on its own wall, with another precious little "B", Brody", filling it. That's what he does, he "fills". He fills my heart with joy where there was sadness and despair. He fills my arms with warmth and weight, where once there was such emptiness and longing.
He fills our home with giggles and squeals and smiles that Boe was never able to give.
In the midst of all these wonderful, fuzzy feelings, he also fills my heart with guilt and conflict. I feel guilty because it's almost as though I'm betraying Boe's memory by loving Brody so much, by smiling and laughing when I hold him in my arms; those smiles and laughs should have been for Boe. I feel guilty because I do not ever want Brody to think that he was a replacement or not wanted. I do not want him to feel that he was born out of some desperate attempt to fill a void which can never truly be filled. He was born to be his own person with his own gifts and talents, and we love him because he is "Brody".
Certainly, seeing the nursery ready for Brody was bittersweet. It conjured up memories and images of what was supposed to be, but it also painted a picture of life as it is. A picture of a life, that through sadness and loss has become so very full, vibrant, and a true celebration of God's abundant love and grace. It paints a picture of my life, a life that, for right now, I couldn't imagine living any other way.
Monday, May 28, 2012
I hold my breath...
Whenever someone I know shares with me that she is pregnant, I find myself holding my breath. It goes without saying that I am thrilled for them and the impending arrival of their little baby, but I hold my breath.
I know too much. I know that with the joy and excitement that come from a pregnancy and birth of a baby, there can also come great loss and sadness if a baby happens to die. I know that there is no "safe" time during a pregnancy. Babies can die at any time for any reason,and even when they are born living, there are no guarantees, and that sucks.
I know that babies can die during the 1st trimester, the 3rd trimester, or even during the birth process itself. They can die for no apparent reason, leaving the heartbroken parents with no answers or explanations, or they can die because they had a serious birth defect or abnormality that is not compatible with life.
I know the shock and sadness of discovering that, at some point in the last 12 hours, your child's heart stopped beating. I know what it means to hold a baby who will never move, never breathe, never open his eyes or snuggle close to his mommy and how it hurts like hell to see him one more time before he is taken away forever.
I know what it is to live everyday feeling "different" because a part of me is missing. I know what it is to hear a song on the radio or come across an outfit he would have worn or see how he'd look as I watch his brothers and be reduced to tears because he is not here, and I miss him.
I know that having a baby is wonderful and miraculously joyous, but I also live what is on the other side of that coin everyday. So, yes, when friends tell me they are pregnant, I am excited. But until that baby arrives, kicking and screaming, I hold my breath.
I know too much. I know that with the joy and excitement that come from a pregnancy and birth of a baby, there can also come great loss and sadness if a baby happens to die. I know that there is no "safe" time during a pregnancy. Babies can die at any time for any reason,and even when they are born living, there are no guarantees, and that sucks.
I know that babies can die during the 1st trimester, the 3rd trimester, or even during the birth process itself. They can die for no apparent reason, leaving the heartbroken parents with no answers or explanations, or they can die because they had a serious birth defect or abnormality that is not compatible with life.
I know the shock and sadness of discovering that, at some point in the last 12 hours, your child's heart stopped beating. I know what it means to hold a baby who will never move, never breathe, never open his eyes or snuggle close to his mommy and how it hurts like hell to see him one more time before he is taken away forever.
I know what it is to live everyday feeling "different" because a part of me is missing. I know what it is to hear a song on the radio or come across an outfit he would have worn or see how he'd look as I watch his brothers and be reduced to tears because he is not here, and I miss him.
I know that having a baby is wonderful and miraculously joyous, but I also live what is on the other side of that coin everyday. So, yes, when friends tell me they are pregnant, I am excited. But until that baby arrives, kicking and screaming, I hold my breath.
Sunday, April 22, 2012
A letter to Boe on his second birthday
Dear Boe,
Two years ago today, you changed our lives forever. Two years ago today, we lost so much. In an instant, we lost our son, our innocence, our hopes, dreams and aspirations. We lost "normal" and the Kirsten and Adam we used to be. In an instant, it seemed that we lost everything.
Yet, even in the midst of unbelievable shock and pain, we also gained a lot, too. We gained your brothers, Adler and Cameron, we gained the true meaning of sacrifice and heroism, we gained the knowledge that, in an instant, life can change and everything you thought you knew, everything you believed in, dreamed of and hoped for, is up for grabs; nothing is sacred, nothing is for certain, and nothing is guaranteed.
Our eyes were opened wider than we ever thought they could be to sights so simultaneously beautiful and wrought with pain, that we truly did not know whether we should laugh or cry, so we did both. We learned that, despite our best efforts, this thing called life is truly out of our hands. Someone else is in control, and we are merely along for the ride.
Boe, today it has been 2 years since you died. Two years since we lost you physically, but gained an angel. It has been 2 years since we held you in our arms, but you have been held in our hearts and minds every moment since. It has been 2 years since you died and were born, 2 years since a part of us died and, in its place, a new more aware and open part was born. It has been 2 years, and I still miss you like hell, but I am able to remember you with a smile more frequently than with tears. It has been 2 years, and tonight I will light 2 candles, and rather than blow them out, they will remain lit, for to keep them lit is to keep a piece of you alive.
Happy birthday, Boe. I love you and miss you more than words can say.
Tuesday, April 17, 2012
Closing in...
It is approaching... The 2 year anniversary of Boe's death, and my boys' birthday. I have found myself thinking of "Two years ago today, I was..." a lot recently. I realized that I started doing this around the 1st of April. That is when my perinatologist decided to hospitalize me for observation while he was out of town. I was 29 weeks pregnant.
This week it is "Two years ago today was the last time I saw Boe's heartbeat". The last time I knew he was safe, alive; the last time I was "normal". I don't really play the "what if" game except in one instance, and it centers around this day, April 19th.
I had gone in for a Biophysical profile. Basically, they looked for heartbeats, breathing, movement, and possibly even hiccups from the boys. If they did all of these things, they "passed". On this day, it took the nurse a long time to locate Boe and get a steady reading on him. I really did not think too much of it because he was under Adler and Cameron and had always been a little tricky to find. When she did find him, he was fine. His heartbeat was normal, he was moving and practicing his breathing.
Now, looking back on that day, I wonder "what if"? What if she had been concerned that she had so much trouble getting a good read on him? What if he had failed even one point of his profile and she had called my doctor in for more careful observation? What if the boys had been delivered that day? Would Boe have survived? Would he have been OK?
Sunday is their birthday. It will be a joyous day, filled with laughter and fun. It will also be a bittersweet day filled with a hint of sadness. Sadness over the loss of what should have been, sadness over the knowledge that there is a piece of the puzzle that is missing, sadness over the candle left lit and not blown out. Sadness is closing in, and just as quickly as it comes, it will be wiped away by the joy that comes from being his mommy.
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