Here & Now

6/29/22

It’s a summer morning, and I am enjoying the sounds of the singing birds through the screen doors at the front & back of the house as I sip my slow drip coffee. Today is June 29 and I know that tomorrow is exactly five months since we found out that our baby’s heart stopped. Our baby, Malcolm Mackenzie Fitzpatrick. 

This is the “here” that I exist in. This is my “now”. 

Five months ago, my “here” and my “now” were very different. My mind reminds me of it often. By 10:56am on that Sunday morning in January, I was panicked as I tried to instigate movement from our little babe, who typically kicked as I enjoyed a Limoncello La Croix and danced to the sounds of the music that we played in our home. This was not the case for that moment in time. 

In the June version of my “here” and “now”, I don’t panic in the same ways, but the PTSD from my January version of “here” and “now” is weaved into every day of my lived experience. 

In February, my “here” and “now” existence was much less mobile. Much less capable. Much more disconnected. 

I was healing from a c-section, or belly birth, and I relied heavily on the care from my partner, Fitz and the others in our “Crisis Management Team”. At least that is what we call the close circle of people who held/hold our hands & hearts through the trenches of this grief. In this stage, Fitz and I welcomed some visitors, as we cried or distracted ourselves long enough to feel slightly less terrible. We were showered with love through flowers, food, gift cards, and donations made to non-profits in Malcolm’s name. 

I gained a support network of incredible women through Return to Zero: HOPE and their offerings of monthly virtual support groups. This connection helped lessen the feeling of isolation as we found community in the shared holes in our hearts.

Additionally, in my February existence, I had chosen to let my milk come in so that I could donate to the Ohio Health Mothers Milk Bank & to our infant nephew, Jensyn. I spent 4 weeks doing everything to make sure that the milk was exactly what these other babies needed. That version of my “now” allowed my body to heal as oxytocin from each pumping session helped contact my uterus back down to typical size while it also gave me a sense of purpose amongst the feelings of hopelessness and despair. By the end of the month, I gained the courage to move on as planned, and be the officiant for my sister’s wedding.

In March, well, I became more mobile, I got a little braver, and of course I became incredibly grateful for the Medical Marijuana access in Ohio. I slowly transitioned back to teaching at Journey Nature School and learned about the abundant  resiliency the children & other staff showed, despite the “Series of Unfortunate Events” that struck our small learning community. 

Conversations on big emotions, grief, life, death, and connection all showed up in our learning as led by their curious young minds.  At this point, my “here” and “now” welcomed tears for the baby that wouldn’t grow up to walk in the woods we trekked. However, it also welcomed thoughtful gifts and experiences from the children aiming to connect to Malcolm. 

“Here” and “now” in April moved along slowly and mindfully. By this time, Fitz and I grieved as we celebrated our 2nd Anniversary and his 40th birthday without the baby we expected to be with us. Or rather, with the version of his existence that we wanted and didn’t have with us. I became a little more social during this month, allowing myself to wander into public spaces outside of the small network of our local community. I let my tears show up with friends and sometimes strangers. My heart ached knowing that as Fitz engaged more in his work at the taproom and restaurants he owns, that he was facing terribly rough conversations with acquaintances on a regular basis. On Earth Day, I ventured out into our local community during what I thought would be a low-risk social experience. It ended up giving me an emotional hangover for the entire weekend as I had to navigate telling someone (a new parent themselves) that our baby was stillborn. 

Move into May and I had let my “here” and “now” lead me back toward engaging with reproductive support work for a close family member, in addition to a close friend. On Mother’s Day weekend, I attended an RTZ: HOPE Healing Retreat in California and had one of the most transformative experiences with this collective of women. 

However as I departed early, I ran into the cycle of my PTSD that arises from Saturday to Sunday. Sometimes this occurs each weekend, sometimes it occurs a couple times a month, and sometimes less. However, this particular weekend, I was rushing back to Ohio to see the Leon Bridges concert on Mother’s Day at Jacob’s Pavillion in Cleveland. 

This concert was important because 1) I listened to Leon Bridges heavily during my entire pregnancy 2) We were discussing this concert being “baby’s first concert” and even bought noise canceling headphones to support this experience and 3) After Malcolm died, we bought the tickets in the hospital and THEN realized that it would be on Mother’s Day. 

The “here” and “now” of that Mother’s Day ended up being beautiful and highly connected for Fitz and I, although I had to overcome ridiculous obstacles on my travels home to get there. 

Toward the end of May, I was relieved from all the high energy things that I was doing to be wrapping up the school year and easing into summer. However the tempo stayed fast, as on Friday, May 27, at 37 weeks and 4 days, my pregnant cousin went into labor. We had a meeting scheduled for the following morning to go over final birth preferences, laboring positions, comfort measures, and hospital packing details. However, this little babe had different plans. For about a 20 hour window, I spent time supporting her & her husband through this labor & birth experience. Let it be known, this birth was taking place at the same hospital where we not only found out about our baby’s death, but also where I went on to give birth to him. 

Thankfully, I understood that I would not exist in a helpful way of her “here” and “now” birth experience unless I took time to process my trauma in that space beforehand. I was kindly welcomed to have about an hour to do some healing, crying, meditating, and journaling in an empty room a couple weeks before attending her birth. 

We were all so relieved when that sweet babe, Emma, was born at 4:00am the following morning. It was an honor to be a part of the experience, as it also opened up a wave of grief in my body as I drove home from the hospital early that morning. 

So here I sit, in this “now”. I’m finally ready to put words to my experiences. I’m finally ready to let this journey be one of education, perspective, and transformation. 

Here we are, here you are, here I am, in this “now”.