Owen

We are all connected, the tenuous gossamer threads

like angels, Owen is there, I am here,

on different planes, I know.

I have been reading, listening, 

and convinced that Owen, my mother, and all

of them who have died are on the other side.

I will join them one day.  

Reading a book by Bruce Greyson, "After"

suggested by Jane Goodall

Life continues, but with Owen always at my side

some believe, or seem to believe,

they seem to say, or imply, that you get over it.

stay busy, they say, it helps to get over it -

I do not plan to get over it, Owen will always -

be beside me as I work and play, he is inside me.

I don't want to get over Owen, to forget his perfect feet,

the look on his face as I sang to him, his huge hands.

what does getting over it mean, anyway, as if you -

could wrench love from your heart and put it aside.

I go to this place, Owen's Pond, and I play his music-

and I lay beautiful things on the ground, cover them-

with fallen leaves, pinecones and rocks.

I'm not getting over this, why would I get over-

all the love I have for my-

precious little boy?

And life continues...gingerbread houses

the living keep living, 

the holidays are coming and gingerbread 

houses need decorating and assembly,

with glue that doesn't hold, and roofs slide 

off.

For a moment everything holds together

and everyone is smiling. 12/20/2021

..@withlovefromowen. Gingerbread House gift to Sarah Smith and her family.

Open to the sky

Owen is not next to me anymore,

whispering assurances in my ear,

it's quiet, he has left now.

the shrine is populated, only for me,

his small fingers do not place a new 

treasure with mine.

I left today, forgetting to cover our

treasures with the big leaf, like I usually do, 

realizing later that I could no longer

hold his spirit here with me, it

is dispersed into the wind.  

Tori and Fauna

sweet as ever.

the same stories, the same smile.

Fauna, your mind is leaving us, but

your spirit is still here,

sweet as ever.

same smile. 

Time to plan

Typhoid, Tdap and MMR

exchanged for $489 cold hard cash

all to go eat a fish on the beach in 

Dakar, Senegal.

It's worth it, as you can see, the sea,

the sand, the sun, the smiles.

I was happy

when I heard the news of her pregnancy,

while watching her belly swell week after week,

I could laugh at the walking watermelon on legs.

I was happy, excited, to hold him shortly

after his arrival and watch him grow.

I was happy then, before we realized

that I would never watch him grow,

that I would never rock him to sleep

in my arms, or watch him suckle at 

his mother's breast, or ...do anything

with us, here on this earth.

I was happy back then, excited.

Now in the shadow of grief, I 

find pockets of happiness, of holding

Mira in my arms, her heaviness

as she sleeps on my chest, of

watching her with her parents.

This makes me happy, now. 

Life goes on

life goes on

the sweetest sweet in my arms, so heavy

but I could carry her forever, as I could let

her sleep sprawled across my chest. 

life goes on, happiness,

and grief walks beside me, I can smile

and love, and cry tears of sorrow at the 

same time.

this is the life that goes on, parallel,

on this side, I smile in deep happiness,

on the other side, my arms are empty

and wanting that small weight of

infant Owen.

love and grief, I love, I grieve. 

I love, so I smile with a toddler

in my arms.

The vast

what is hidden in the vast

expanse of the sea, underneath the sand

we cannot see, our human eyes so limited,

the range of senses so small.

the heart knows what the eyes cannot see,

the nose cannot smell, the ears cannot hear,

the rhythm of life and death, the swell of the sea,

the roar of the waves, the water in our bodies

is linked to the Moon and the tides

of this, we see and hear nothing.

but we know that there is love, always there

in the surf. the sun, the clouds.

Owen is surrounded in love.  12/2/2021

Milkweed

The seeds on the ground, the stones of memory,

the dried shell of the milkweed

having dispersed its seeds into the wind,

the wind that carries Owen, brushing 

against my cheek, he tells me that this shrine

 is no longer needed, that he is within all of us,

no longer contained within the dried seeds

and leaves.

leave this here, grandma, for your memories,

but not for mine as I am here in the wind and

the trees, underneath the ponds reflection,

between the rhizomes of the soils. 

I am eternal. 12/1/2021

It's late

It's late, the clouds hang in the sky, pink.

the auditorium, bathed in pink.

streetlamps pierce the darkness 

Owen's Pond will be in shadow.

it's good to be in shadow, quiet, no one around.

Just Owen and me here under the pink clouds,

the wind and the night.

What's unseen

we can't see what's under the reflection,

only the bridge above.

we can't see the roots of the trees,

only the canopy in the sky.

we can't see above the clouds,

or behind the door.

we can't see death, our eyes only see life,

but we know there is something

in the water, above the clouds, and 

under the damp earth,

there is life there, life beyond

death, energy, grief only exists

when there is love. 

seeking peace

Missing them so much on Thanksgiving

it's good to be together,

Tom and Susan, Anna and Bill,

Karrie and my own Stephen.

Good people, people I can even say that I love.

But I am missing three others, my son, Daniel,

his wife, Tori, and my grandson, Owen.

Owen, gone from this world, in the wind,

Daniel and Tori, escaped to Mexico for sun and sand,

they are not here, we are not together as a family.

I miss them so much.

my mother, floating in the air

on the glass shelf

she hangs in the air, behind her beloved

Clic, her first dog love, after all the 

men had fallen away, or been pushed.

one never knows.

she's happy and young, with a nice smile

I can remember her that way

it's better that way.

@withlovefromowen

we must not forget the others, the babies

and their mothers that are here, alive and 

needing care.

@withlovefromowen, 365 days of random

acts of kindness, I will walk this child in the 

fall sunshine, while his mother packs,

and I will sing to him as I sang to Owen,

"I love to go a'wandering", and Owen's Song,

and he will look up at the blue sky and

Owen's spirit will be in the air.

Grief lies heavy

no matter how many embraces,

grief lies heavy on my shoulders,

it's a lonely load, no one can carry 

it for me, in the end, it's as if I am suffocating

under a black blanket, struggling to breathe

while watching my own child under his

own blanket of grief, and the mother

under yet more blankets of grief. 

we gaze at each other, make small talk at lunch,

but we know that we are barely breathing,

the shadow of Owen's loss is long.  11/22/2021

The Zones of Regulation

a sorrowful day,

the impact of two losses in three days

an innocent baby, then my mother,

the indominatable Ariane Devaud. 

The best description is that one up there

on the Zones of Regulation Chart,

SAD.

Ariane Devaud - the end of an era

A fiercely independent woman, 

a complex one, Phaedra, the victim and the victimizer,

the one who traveled alone across our country,

and others, who said her mind and forged her

own path.

She taught me this, to never depend on a man.

She showed me this, that education is essential,

regardless of the cost, the time, its usefulness.

she taught me that I never wanted to mother like her,

and I must find my own path in all ways.

these are all good things, she pushed me out

into the world, breech and without a 

second glance.

My mom, Ariane Devaud,

may she rest in peace.

She deserves it.

The third day

Beauty still exists, a flower blooming yet

in November, next to the brown decay of falling

into winter.

it's cold, yet the intricacy of stamen

calls out to me, I slow and stop,

the grief pauses as I study this unexpected

beauty in my garden.

it's the third day since Owen left us,

the flower is out, Owen's parents have

reached out into the world of friends 

and family.

this is beauty and healing.

the second day

a ritual of love and healing, of grief,

of being with, of holding, of passing through,

Owen, my beloved grandson, is no longer with us,

but as I saw the beauty and humanity in Owen's eyes,

I see the natural beauty in the berries clinging

tenaciously to bare branches, the lightest snow 

sparkling on the branches.

today I added a bough of elderberries and a

large leaf tented over the offerings.  

After I sang Owen's song and listened to Owen's 

playlist, I covered the shrine with dried leaves

and strolled the campus, descended the long

bridge to the floodplain that we call home.  11/17/2021

grief

there is no deeper sorrow than to lose a child.

each day an apprenticeship in grief, each day

searching for meaning, for solace, seeking

beauty, seeking ritual ...

as I go to Owen's Pond today, finding a 

tiny crevice under a majestic tree, the tree
I have sat underneath for so many weeks,

praying.

I start a small collection of beauty, of the earth,

of soil, of decay and renewal, the endurance

of the rock, the beauty of the snowberry, its

white purity, a fallen leaf, the end of

summer and time for rest and decay.

I will find Owen here as he has returned to

the universe; in the quiet here, I will pause

and listen to the birds, look for the ducks 

and the turtles, watch the squirrels, 

just as I had described to Owen.

He will always love the stories and the 

love we shared.

I will always love him.  11/16/2021

In grandma's arms

I sang to you, "Owen, ever morning, and every single night,

I think of you, I pray for you." and then..

I told you about Owen's Pond and we talked about

all the animals, one by one

we looked deep into each other's eyes, and I continued..

and the duck came and we sang the same song,

and then the duck came up on the land to see me

and then...

and then the two turtles were on the log and we sang

to you, for you, thinking of you, praying for you,

and then...

the squirrel chatted at me, and we sang our song for you

and then...

the crow flew in from overhead and we sang our song for you

and then...

the big orange koi appeared in the pond and we sang our song for you

and then..

I see your eyelids start to flutter as you fell into a slumber

of trust and love, and I just drunk you in, you beautiful baby

you delicious little darling, I love you so much.  11/15/2021

Up on the heli-pad at Children's Hospital

Before I go, 

let me see the sun set over the mountains,

let me gaze into my mother's face,

the face I have come to know so well, 

the one that smiles at me with tears in her eyes,

knowing that everyone is here for me, 

wheeling meters and IV lines, feeding lines

and blankets, all for me,

I know that I am loved, deeply loved.

Before I go, let me also see my father standing

behind me, knowing he loves me, 

he is a part of me, just as I will always

be a part of him.  11/14/2021

Complaining about the spa service

his parents are such hams,

saying that Owen, in his giraffe bathrobe, has some

complaints about the spa service at the Hospital.

they laugh with him and smile to have these

last moments with him;

I have tears running down my face,

and watching terrible Disney movies just

to escape the pain of losing him, 

of giving him back to the universe.

I admire his parents beyond imagine, that they

might hold their son these last three days and laugh,

in knowing how many hours of karaoke they shared,

and books read, songs sung, how many hours

they sat with him, laid him on their bare skin

and listened to him scream when he got his

diaper changes. 

all my love to all three.

that's the message I sent every day. 11/13/2021

Nuance/pessimism/optimism

 nuance trumps optimism
until I pick myself up from the picnic blanket
and say good-bye to my son,
the one I love so dearly, but who delivers
the reality, that Owen may not make it,
that he has to get off nitric oxide, that 
he has to reduce oxygen, that he needs to 
get off all these medications, and that even 
it he goes home, we don't know if he will outgrow
the hypertension.
so.
I still keep hoping and praying,
I am Owen's grandmother and that is my job
to never give up hope, until or if 
there is no choice. 

Rest up, little One

Rest up, little One,

while grandma sings to you,

rest so that you can heal another day,

so that your lungs grow stronger for a louder cry -

darn those diaper changes! 

and if the howls push the lungs, so much the better, 

little One,

but for now, rest for the fight tomorrow,

the push to go home and sleep in your

little bassinet, listening to the breathing

of your parents, their beating hearts.

Rocking in his mother's arms

there is no better place than in a mother's arms,

and there is no motion more natural than rocking,

a mother rocking her baby in her arms.

when the world seems hard and it's difficult to breathe,

there is no better place to be comforted than in a mother's arms.

this baby Owen feels his mother's warm hands wrapped around him,

the warmth of her body against his side

and as she sings to him, he sleepily responds 

in the language of a baby, his way of saying

mama, I love you, hold me forever.

Driving

yes, of course, I'll be there.

I've never driven so much, and never thought so 

little about it,

not one moments hesitation.

Highway 36 to 270 to 225 to 16th Way

right turn at Children's Way and right into

the parking lot.  

Usually a spot close to the exit.

I'll drive 1h30 to spend 30m with my son,

for the chance to hug him and be with him,

whatever he wants to say, has to say,

to share some sandwiches of buttered bread,

prosciutto and Gruyere cheese slathered in 

ripe avocado, finish with chocolate and carrot/walnut cake, 

to deliver pomegranate seeds to Tori.

it's all I can do, to drive, to love, 

to care.

I can do that.

There is only love

there is only love -

a baby in his mother's arms, the calming

hand of the father on his son's forehead.

the baby, swaddled in white, eyes open,

looking out into this world.

Let us hold this image in our hearts for all time,

the power and endurance of love.  

we can hope for miracles, but must accept

what may come, how we might be separated

in time, as all of us must say good-bye.

Not yet, though, it is not yet time to say

good-bye. 11/8/2021

My darling

my darling, our darling

Owen.

Stay with us, darling, we wait for you

to come home,

as surely as the eagle flew overhead,

the numbers on the phone said so,

darling,

darling Owen, stay with us, next to your

stuffed monkey, feel our strength, our love,

and fight for life,

for blood that flows freely through your lungs,

for infinite moments to spend with us,

to coo in our arms, to learn to walk,

until one day you become a man.

darling, my darling, our darling,

Owen, stay with us,

we love you so much. 

my new office

I need a break.

In my new office, a bike ride away, 

fall leaves raining around me,

away from home, teaching my young mentee

how to think.

I need a break from the endless

energy of balancing hope and reality,

of pushing away worry, to keep the light of hope

burning. 

I love my new office, with it's long table

to work together, my teapot and mug,

my folding bike in the corner.

I went there today for a ten minute meeting

before riding to Owen's Pond 

like I always do.

Don't Mess with Me in a Dark Alley

I may be small, I may be stuck in the NICU,

I may not be able to breathe very well yet,

but look at my arms. Look at my hands.

My  haircut even makes me look tough,

don't mess with me in a back alley.

One day, I will stride through the world

strong with optimism and goodwill.

I will fight, I will fight, next to my papa

for all babies that need our help.

I promise you that.

a baby boy and his dad

one more arterial line has been removed.

one less obstacle to papa/son time, one less

obstacle to free movement.

Freedom by Jon Batiste is on Owen's Play List.

I listen every day.

a baby boy and his dad, the former wearing nothing

but a diaper

the latter dressed for outside, just in from the cold

fall weather, snow maybe falling, or sleet, 

his cold hands on his son's warm hands -

I wonder what Owen thinks of that.  11/2/2021

A wild night

Grandpa Tom said it was a wild Halloween night,

and not in the best way, with splits soaring and sats too low.

Owen had a wild night, not what we wanted

we were waiting for a wild night here at 1935 Grove,

a dog and a pumpkin waiting for little ghosts and goblins

who never arrived.

 

Happy Halloween, little Yoda

Happy Halloween, Little Yoda,

who does not look too happy dressed up in such silly atire...

rather undignified for the son of Daniel and Tori.

Too young to overrule his mother,

reluctant arms and legs threaded through 

appropriate openings - 

ok, this year, next year, we'll see. 10/31/2021

 

apple pie for the family

an apple pie for the family

mimi and opa, mama and papa

uncle jacques and aunt chris

grandpa mitch

still warm, gently placed in my basket

for delivery to the big house on the hill,

mama and papa's house

the only one missing is little Owen

where is he

he will have to wait for the next pie.

a place to pray

the sun is getting low in the sky

blinding me.

I close my eyes to pray

to the Mystery, the Power, the Unknowable,

that we call God, I will call God.

The He, the She, the Infinite, the force of nature

that drives water and nutrients up a tree trunk to 

feed every leaf,

just like the blood from the heart should

flow across every alveoli to carry oxygen 

to the body

I think of that as I gaze up to avoid the

glare of the sun in my eyes, 

the reflection from the pond.

I pray for Owen,

for Daniel and Tori, for all those

who suffer,

especially children.

Let me rest

can't you see that I am sleeping, handsome in my new shirt...

and can't you tell that I don't want a new diaper right now...

and can't you give me a few days rest after the last insult,

pulling that horrible tube from my throat, and inserting

the cannula in my beautiful small nostrils.

Isn't is enough to be able to sit next to me and admire

my beautiful skin, my perfect lips, my large hands,

which will take on the world, 

when I am ready.

when I am ready.

I will decide. 10/28/2021

Mother and Child

Finally

she holds her child, this child,

our Owen, the one who danced with death,

twice.

the one who has challenged every obstacle

and come out,

perhaps a bit bruised and groggy,

but still with us.

this mother has loved and caressed her child,

this child,

every day and every night, willing

and praying, singing and reading,

holding him in her heart

until this day,

this day, she holds him in her arms.

Finally.

Classic Mira

well, she's worried, too, 

although perhaps not about her little cousin, Owen

this is, after all, classic Mira, assessing the situation

and finding "it" wanting, whatever "it" may be.

she may be urging her Mimi to take climate action seriously,

which I am planning to do, by the way,

or may be about to sneeze, maybe she is looking at 

her father with a look meant to alert him to his being

"inappropriate" - he may be making a big goofy smile

she would have issues with that.

We don't know exactly what Mira is thinking,

but I sure can't wait to find out. 

Spread the love

while Owen sleeps in his NICU bed,

this one needs a nap while his mom paints

colorful patterns on neighborhood streets.

this little one, warm under the borrowed blanket

of the infant next door, sleeps.

finally, after blocks of walking and singing,

finally in a leaf-covered quiet driveway,

he sleeps.

Joy

Joy is holding your son in your arms.

In that moment, the warmth of his skin

against yours, there is no greater joy. 10/23/2021

Back in Dad's arms

back in Dad's arms,

his skin against mine, I rest after

my surgery, how hard that was

but I am still here

in Dad's arms, warm in Dad's arms.

what road this has been, ejected so forcefully

into the world one month ago, sirens,

flashing lights, beeps and wires, 

tubes, oxygen

here I am in Dad's arms, my Dad.

My Dad.  10/22/2021

Our miracle baby is still with us!

Sucking on his ventilator tube, he

calmly returns to his NICU room,

ho hum, no big deal, no more heart-lung machine.

I'm here, I'm still here.  

I'm the miracle baby, the one who was signed

up to donate my kidney, about to be let go,

until my little echocardiogram showed "something", 

a shift of some sort and my trajectory did an about face.

and then

well, not so great, and about to give up hope

and 

I'm still here

sucking on my ventilator tube, contentedly even,

waiting for the next step.

I'd like to go home. 

We had fun and laughed, even when we may have wanted to cry

It's hard to imagine laughing when your

baby, your son, is on life-support.

Humans are amazing, in the most dire circumstance,

one can find joy, if one looks hard enough,

if one allows that feeling in, in spite of it all.

his hand in hers, he's making a joke,

laughing at it even if it's not that funny.

one adapts, as one has to, 

even knowing that in one second or one

minute, the game may be over and finding

joy may be hard to find,

until you do. 10/20/21

I'm still here with my rattle

I'm shaking it now!  one, two, three!

I'm still here with my rattle,

my mom and my dad, the nurses and the doctors.

late at night, with my grandpa and my grandma.

I'm still here, world.

We're waiting, world, to see if I can

take my rattle home.

The waiting is the worst, we all

want me to go home, I want to

go home. 10/19/2021

A bad day

 the tests did not go well.
the plans fell through.
long hours of talking with doctors
is there a path forward, a last push.
a couple or three days to clear an infection
a higher dose of drugs
but the window of hope is closing
and we push our love for Owen, push him
to keep going, keep fighting

but inside, I fear the light is dimming.

Owen's hands

Owen's hands 

will grab life by the horns -

I know this to be true.

the dials will spin wildly as his lungs

take in oxygen; the doctors will be stunned.

Our Owen, the fighter, will take on the world.

I know this to be true. 

At three weeks, he already needs his fingernails

to be clipped, the rattle is tiny in his grip.

Our fighter, Owen, will heal this week,

his lungs will expand to take in the

world.

This much I know. 10/17/2021

Update: Tomorrow is the big day when Owen will go through some stress tests by reducing the ECMO heart-lung machine to see his reaction.  I pray for him to shock everyone with his strength.