2 months: the luxury of delete

(Started @ 2 months, Posted @ 3 months)

Alexis is 2 months now and she's changed so much since her arrival.  We had her pediatric check up and she is a whopping 11 lbs 6.5 oz, a huge increase from her birth weight of 6 lbs 10.5 oz.  Life is really a miracle.

The other day, I caught myself in the mundane act of deleting iPhone pics.  And then I stopped - reflected for a moment - and realized how grateful I was.  I have an excess of memories with Lexi that I am willing to delete photos.  I've had the luxury to forget things about her already.  It's a weird feeling. 

I went back to my journal entries at 2 months after Louie died. 

Here is an excerpt from May 21, 2014 (2 months, 5 days) 

I miss Louie.  I miss not knowing exactly what he’d be like...all the details.  I wish I knew what foods would make him gassy or happy.  I miss not seeing him smile (or breathe) or even cry.  The little things that would make him only my son and no one else’s.  I wish that I knew a baby that didn’t feel like I didn’t know all of him.  I know that I loved him perfectly for his 2 minutes on this earth, but it’s so, so hard. It’s so, so sad.

As I think about Lexi's first two months, my heart is filled with more joy than I thought possible.  Throughout my grief journey, I wanted healing to be completely independent of another child.  I felt like it was an incomplete fix if I needed someone else to help with the pain.  But she's brought so much light into my life and my heart is healing in a new way.  I'm now lucky enough to add memories each day - enough memories that I'm willing to delete.  It feels like a luxury... because it is. That much I know in the deepest parts of my heart. 

The first two months after Louie died, I remember how hard it felt to breathe.  Grief is a physical journey, in addition to being an emotional one.  Over the last two months, I'm starting to feel like there's more oxygen in the air.  I'm sure it'll thin out again in the future, but I'll take some deep, grateful breaths for now. 

I decided to keep some of Lexi's "surplus" memories.  Outtakes below. 

New Hope

“Remember...Hope is a good thing, maybe the best of things, and no good thing ever dies."

- Andy Dufresne in Shawshank Redemption

For me, hope was the hardest thing to muster up after our Louie died in 2014.  It felt like a luxury -- something that people with smooth and easy lives could count on.  But not me.  And probably not for the many others we know who have also had to bury their child — M&R, L&J, S&A, T&A, P&K, S&R, C&K, D&P, W, the G’s, the C’s.  Just to name a few...  After Louie came and went, I wasn’t sure I was ready to hope in anything.  Maybe a solid online shopping bargain.  Maybe a good parking spot in the city.  But not anything of substance.  And certainly not another child.  Then we got pregnant.  And 39 weeks later, she arrived.

When we finally announced her birth, the congratulations came pouring in - I could feel the large collective sigh of relief from our wide network of supporters, friends, and family.  It felt like something miraculous had happened despite everything about the pregnancy was "medically routine”. 

  

Even up to when she came out of the womb, some part of me held back — is this real?  Does God really allow some kids to live?  Am I dreaming? It’s no joke, that Melissa and I have to constantly check to see if she’s still breathing every few hours.

There’s a lot of new things about this season: diaper changes, sleep schedules, breast pumps, disability forms, paternity leave, a new chapter in our marriage — but the most foreign thing at all has been this sense of emerging hope.  I can feel my heart opening up to the possibility that there are good things down the road (in this life).  

When we arrived home with Alexis, I noticed that a new bloom sprouted in the peace lily plant we received last year.  After Louie died, my workplace sent me this beautiful plant as a thoughtful condolence.  For the past 18 months I’ve tried to water and take care of it -- although the plant stayed healthy and green, it never recovered its signature white blooms, that is, until the day we came home.

 

The plant was literally showing me "new life begins".  And it was perhaps not a coincidence this happened from a plant connected to Louie.  I'm still quite unsure where God is in the midst of grief and pain, but I will take this bloom as a divine sign that even in the midst of death, life can rise again. 

One of our favorite movies is ‘Shawshank Redemption’ - and the quote at the top illustrates the persistence of hope for the protagonist, Andy Dufresne, who despite being wrongly sentenced to life in prison, continued to hold tightly to hope. He writes to his best friend, “Red”, reminding him that “hope is a good thing, maybe the best of things, and no good thing ever dies." Although Louie is gone, my hope to see him again someday and to cherish this new little one -- these are good hopes.  And nobody can ever take that away from me.

"Take (him) to the moon for me"

We've spent 2 weeks with Lexi and her middle name Xia (霞), which means dawn or daybreak, certainly rings true.  Her healthy birth is our first light in the midst of a dark season.  There's no way to dim the hope and life that she brings into our home.

I wondered how I would feel when she arrived.  Aside from relief when I saw her breathe and heard her cry, I've been surprised by how I've experienced many normal "parent to a newborn" emotions...  I like to clarify that I'm not a "new parent".  I've felt tired, confused at the current day/time, overwhelmed at learning to breastfeed, amazed that she is her own little person.  These mundane feelings are such a privilege. 

In the midst of the chaos and joy, it's hard not to compare to the infinite details that we missed with our son.  Even in a few weeks, I know so much more about Alexis than her big brother.  She likes to lean to the right side, she snorts like a little piggy, she has an involuntary smile when her tummy is full, and she has bright wide eyes in the middle of the night when she believes it's time to play. 

Lexi's first non-hospital outing was to view the super moon lunar eclipse last night.  I often imagine what Louie would be like as an 18-month old toddler.  It's a futile wish... so instead I only hope that he knows how much he is loved and missed every day.  

We wanted to take you both to see the moon.   

Photo credit on the lunar eclipse: Jill Kou

My wish for Louie, wherever he is in this moment...

"Take (him) to the moon for me, ok?" - Bing Bong, Pixar's film Inside Out

And I believe that is Louie's wish for his little sister, Alexis...

From the Womb to the World...

We're thrilled to announce the birth of the newest member of our family, Alexis Yeh-Xia Chiang (姜業霞), our baby girl, born on Monday, September 14, 2015 at 3:13am at UCSF Mission Bay, weighing in at 6 lbs 10.5 oz.   

The name Alexis has the meaning of "defender" which is similar to the old English definition of "Warren".  Yeh (業) is a generational name for the Chiang family (not Melissa's "Yeh", but awesome that it sounds the same).  Xia (霞) can mean clouds referring to sunrises and sunsets or dawn.  We like this name because we think of our little one as a new season for our family.

After nearly three days (yikes) in the hospital, Alexis emerged -- eyes wide open, without much crying, with a full head of hair, and already with some devious facial expressions.

Her addition has been accompanied by much rejoicing (that she's finally here), deep relief (that she's alive and healthy), wonder (that life can come from life), but also the bittersweet recognition that our family remains incomplete with the absence of our firstborn, Louie.  We carry our son in our hearts, even as we carry our new daughter in our arms.  We hope you will be able to meet her soon!

Bracing for and embracing the future

We are scheduled for Lexi's induction sometime in the next 7 days.

My anxiety levels have been heightened as we are getting closer to her delivery.  After all, I've met many parents along the way who's beloved babies die in these final weeks in utero or first weeks outside.  I imagine once a parent has experienced this depth of loss, you no longer wonder "if it's possible" and just assume that it always is possible.  And we slowly wait for what is to come.

On Monday, we went to Skylawn to visit Louie's grave.  Parents always say that your heart is unlimited in expansion for children and I have no doubt that it will in our case.  You can hold one in your heart and one in your arms.  Yet we have experienced so many invisible pains of loving a child who is not here - one where we have no memories or unique stories to tell.

What happens when the visible outweighs the invisible?

Will Alexis hold a space in her heart for her older brother?  How many times will I hear about how there are "only girls around" when out & about with friends?  And how many shocked looks will I get when I am comfortable in daily conversation about death?  I suppose we continue on our grief journey and stumble through.

In the next few days, we will embrace the hopefully healthy new addition to the Yeh-Chiang family while we continue to brace for a incomplete family life here without her big brother.

Lexi's first custom outfit from Aunt Jin.

Making Room For Other Things

"Ain't no shame in holding on to grief, as long as you make room for other things too."  - Reginald “Bubbles” Cousins, The Wire, Season 5

The newest addition to our family is chugging along at 30 weeks in Melissa’s belly.  It’s a baby girl.  The series of doctors visits have been medically uneventful, except that we both still get PTSD symptoms from being in those offices — on at least one occasion we had to reassure the OB that Melissa’s heart rate and blood pressure are actually quite normal according to our frequent home monitoring systems.

I guess we are both just bracing ourselves for the potential bad news.

It’s not that we are pessimistic people — quite the contrary — we are, on the whole, rather hopeful and positive.  But when Louie died due to unknown causes, with very little warning, and outside of anything I (or Melissa) could control, there were a few things that cemented inside of me:

(1) I am not entitled to, nor should I expect, my plans to come to fruition;

(2) The most important things in life are out of my control;

(3) Painful acceptance of the fact that God often does not prevent unimaginably horrible things from happening to people;

I guess when you add it all up, I am still hopeful about life and people, and less certain that we can have any say in the matter.


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For most of the past year, Melissa and I have been in a process of grief, anger, and sadness.  It’s been so challenging that it’s hard to really put into words.  I don’t wish even on my worst enemy to have to bury their own child.  When we found out we were pregnant again last winter, it was with such a tremendous mix of emotions - relief that our “plumbing” still worked, fear that we would lose another kid, uncertainty about what that meant for remembering Louie, and wondering whether we could survive the roller-coaster that goes with a pregnancy after loss.  When you lose something so great, sometimes the sorrow seems to fill up every available space.  Would we have anything left for this child?

**a couple of Louie's memorial cards designed by some of our artistic and caring friends on display in our living room**


We have sat this past 6 months in the juxtaposition between losing a child and waiting for another one — and I have found that there is room enough for more than just sadness and anger.  I have laid in the grass next to Louie’s grave while writing a letter to my unborn daughter.  We have smiled at the ultrasounds on the screen in one moment while in the next moment explaining to the doctor what happened to her older brother.  The maternity clothes painfully packed away a year ago are making fresh appearances again.  

In probably the greatest TV series ever created, The Wire, one of the most poignant moments in Season 5 has Bubbles, a recovering addict, sharing his thoughts on guilt and grief.  His inability to conquer his own demons directly led to the death of a young kid for whom he had been a father figure and mentor. This caused him to spiral into intense shame, guilt, and grief.  After a long period of healing and reflection, he concluded, "Ain't no shame in holding on to grief, as long as you make room for other things too.”  It’s perfectly put.

Despite others' well-intentioned advice to "move on" and "be positive", we hold steadfast to our dead son's memory and continue to let our love for him manifest itself in its many forms.  But rather than allowing ourselves to be completely dominated by this, we are doing as Bubbles suggests -- beginning to make room for other things -- and I am discovering that there is a lot more space in my heart than I ever knew.

To my baby girl -- we are making room for you.  And we can't wait for you to arrive.

We Will Always Have Paris

A few weeks ago, we had two events on consecutive weekends in Boston, so Melissa and I took the chance in-between to visit a new city (I've never been and Mel hadn't been in fifteen years).

We had three consecutive days of prix fixe menus, foie gras, chocolate croissants, and butter butter butter with everything (even ice cream!).  We don't necessarily consider ourselves foodies, but strangely our itinerary became dominated by our meals (we also had a ton of recommendations)

Our favorite items: fried foie gras and lamb chops at joel rubuchon, salted caramel macaroons at Laduree, a falafel stand in Marais.

Paris is truly a unique city.  Few places have such rich history, literally miles of museums (the louvre alone has 16km worth of art), culinary Mecca, and beautiful parks throughout.  We logged over 20,000 steps each day (according to my iPhone).

Some sightseeing highlights:

Driving a cart around Versailles, watching the sunset behind the Eiffel Tower on our last day, seeing the Mona Lisa (louvre) and beautiful Monet pieces (Musee D'Orsay).  Also spending an afternoon with one of Melissa's old Tulsa friends who happened to be in town with her husband and daughter.

These days some time away feels like a great luxury.  As life continues to plod forward -- a mix of grief, heaviness, but coupled with the hope of new things in Year 2 of life without Louie. Experiencing a taste of this beautiful city was wonderful.  Mel and I pride ourselves as being able to see most all major highlights of a city in 2 days.  

After four days, we felt like we just scratched the surface in Paris.

(From Mel)  As with most things after Louie, life is filled with complexity.  We're officially a family of four as I am due with baby girl Chiang in September.  I was grateful for the ability to "spontaneously" visit Paris, but still wish I could share every experience with our son.  And someday...in heaven... we'll get to share a family photo where everyone is together.  The road to hope still feels long and slow yet I'm proud that we're at least walking.  

On Your First Birthday

Louie’s birthday is today.  When I think of our little guy, I sadly cannot reflect on the memories we made.  His presence is mostly known to me by his absence.  But I can see how it still fills my heart and has changed me nonetheless.  The space between our heavenly reunion speaks volumes to me daily.

Over the last year, I’ve been given no choice, but to keep going. My heart broke into a million pieces and regardless if it is ever “put back together”, it still continues to beat.  It continues to love him beyond the grave.  It continues to choose life and hope, when possible. And the heart muscles grow stronger.  And somehow we have survived since our world stopped.

The year has been filled with love and grief, which are pretty much the same thing to me now. It has also been filled with support from our community of family and friends, along with the kindness of strangers (particularly the bereaved parent community).  Many times, while I have not been able to respond to the cards and emails and conversations and texts, I still read each of them often with tears of healing and comfort. They have been the unspoken strength that helped me to live on.

W and I have decided to go off the grid to camp at Big Sur for Louie’s day. I often feel closest to my son near oceans, sunsets, and the horizon.  He’s beyond my grasp and yet I know he is there.

I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about how to get through this year.  I hope it goes down in the books as the most difficult year of my life (loss of Louie, W’s mom’s diagnosis of cancer, an early miscarriage, loss of my grandfather, loss of W’s grandfather), but I fear that I’m tempting fate. So rather than assume things will get better, I continue down the path of “no choice” and take life day by day, moment by moment. And there’s a freedom to live that comes with this surrender.

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Happy 1st birthday, little love.  I will continue to allow your presence/absence to shape me as a mother/daughter/wife/friend.  After all, parenthood indeed creates an irreversible change.  I miss you and think of you every day.

To Louie. From Dad.

L,

You would have been a year old today.  There would have been a lot of milestones and markers to celebrate over the past few months.  smiling, pooping, crawling, turning, laughing, feeding.  We would have seen what you liked and disliked.  Which foods, which colors, which uncles/aunties, and all of your weird habits and preferences.  You would, no doubt, have had some strange behaviors.  And your mom would probably be the one to point most of those out.

These days I have begun to think less on what your mom and I missed out on, but on what YOU missed out on.  The chance to tackle challenges and difficulties.  To figure out a puzzle.  To be satisfied with mastery over something.  To watch many sunsets.  Marvel and wonder at things that can’t be explained in the world.  There are so many wonderful things that I wish you had the chance to experience.

I know that I’ll always be a father and parent to you.  But it's all so cruel to be so separated from you.  What do I do with all hopes and dreams I had for you and for me?  

Here’s what I know.  When you came out, just 12 months ago, everything changed.  You came out with your shrunken chest and little limbs.  But also a whole head of hair and surprisingly pink and cute cheeks. I will always be the proud father of the perfect kid.  The few minutes we spent together was probably the most important of my life.  I’ve become a better husband, a better friend, and a more whole human being.  I will always be grateful for that.  

I imagine you up in heaven hanging out with your cousin Laura.  Causing mischievous with your friend Emmett.  Amusing my ye-ye, nai-nai, and wai-puo, wai-gong with your antics.  Tell Uncle Bernie and Uncle Jeff that they need to keep an eye on you until I can get there.  

happy birthday, my little buddy.  I miss you.

Not Pictured - New Year, New Grief

If you are not the type of person that wants to be "around" sadness/anger or death topics which may cause social discomfort, I suggest you wander somewhere else on the inter web.  This will be my only warning. 

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We are entering a new year.  A new year that no longer shares the same dates as Louie's brief life.  W & I have been waiting to turn the page on something that may feel like hope.  But as I enter this year, there's a sadness that the distance grows from our time together as a family of 3. 

Through the last 10 months, many people have said they couldn't imagine what I am going through.  I'm usually glad to hear that because I would never wish this fate on anyone.  On the other hand, I thought I would try to articulate my feelings as it's not "how was your weekend" casual conversation. 

2015 has global travels and new jobs, but the most apt way to vaguely understand how I feel is that there is an asterisk on my life.  You have to search for it in the fine print. It says "*Not Pictured: Louie Chiang" since March 16, 2014.  

The sadness doesn't stop as a point in time that freezes, which is how deaths of peers (tragically young) or elders previously impacted me.  The pain ages with time when I track babies that get fatter and start smiling, babbling, sitting.  And the pain projects and flashes through future milestones too: walking, talking, fighting, graduating, getting married, having children.  Oh how I wish that "grief time" would fast forward, but it doesn't.  Grieving for a child ages at the same 24 hours that happens for the living.  Ever so slowly...ever waiting on heaven.  

There's also something I call "grief aftershocks".  This one was expected given what I read in blogs and books, but still hard.  It's that the typical, normal world can no longer relate to you. 

Let me walk you through the types of innocuous questions of every day life, particularly in a new job.  

Scenario 1: 

Person A:  Do you live in the city?  What kind of work do you do? (Small talk, small talk)  Do you have children? 

Me: (How should I answer this?  I'm the one in pain, but I need to worry about how they will feel.  In this stage of grief, I cannot give any other answer.)  Yes. I have a son.  He passed away shortly after birth.   

Person A:  (OMG. Panic strikes. I wish I never asked that question. I didn't mean to upset her.  What do I say?  How do I leave this conversation?)  I'm really sorry. 

Me: Thank you.  We are surviving the best we can. (P.S. I don't feel awkward because I already know my son is dead and live with the nightmare every moment.  I get it...you don't want to feel awkward and you're afraid you hurt my feelings.  You haven't, but feel free to run away.  I wish I could too). 

Scenario 2: 

Person B:  How are you doing?  Are you feeling better? 

Me: Not really, but surviving.   

Person B: Ok, well don't let this get you down forever.  It's not good to dwell.  Have hope, think happy thoughts and focus on the next baby.  

Me: Doing the best I can.  (It's been less than a year since my son, Louie, died. He counts as a person!!! I think I deserve a break on the pressure to feel better.  No one wants me to feel better THAN ME.).

 And you get the picture for the weird ways relationships change after this kind of loss.  

On the other hand, grief forces a posture of gratitude more than anything I've ever experienced.  There is so much unexpected kindness in the world.  I never take for granted the reality of life.  Yes...just living.  It's not something that I assume.  Sure, I plan for my retirement and go to work, but there's a clarity that comes with death.  Quite simply, you know what matters in life.  Louie has taught me to love more, be thankful for what I have, and be mindful of the present.  It will never justify this tragedy, but I will honor and remember him.     

I am so grateful for those who have pushed yourself to engage with the grief: the emails, visits to Skylawn, the songs, the presents for Louie, handmade gifts of love. They bring out the tears that heal.  I am not trying to dwell forever, but I will not ignore or pretend that I am ok. I will not speed through this defining chapter of my life.  

Every conversation I have, every blog post I write, every country I visit, just picture the asterisk that will always say "Not Pictured: my little love, Louie".  My grief is an overflow of the love that I cannot give you in this life. 

Louie, you deserve my whole heart, even if you left a hole in my heart.  

Pro tip for those who don't know how to engage in grief:  It truly is different for every person.  For me, I am always relieved to talk about how much I miss Louie.  After all, parents of live children talk about their kids all the time. Throw a bone to the bereaved.  If I'm too emotionally drained in the moment, I may just say that I'm tired, but I always appreciate when people ask. 

Mozart, Snow, and the Von Trapps

Our next stop on the European expedition was five days in Vienna and Salzburg - two of Austria's most famed cities located on opposite sides of the country.  Also, Mel's parents were able to join us for this part of the trip!

One highlight was attending a performance of Verdi's Rigoletto in the Vienna Opera House.  We enjoyed the incredible venue and stellar performances from our box seats (which you see behind Melissa) and tried not to think about the rather bleak Rigoletto story and its deplorable depiction of women.  Classical music and opera are held in much higher regard in this part of the world.  There were so many options to hear a different type of performance each evening in the "City of Mozart" (we saw four such concerts on this trip!)

Some of the best times for us were simply wandering around both cities while it was snowing out.  The blend of ancient and modern elements mixed with snowy elements was unforgettable.  Although we went to plenty of museums, tours, and performances, our favorite part, was probably just walking around the city.

Between Mel and I we have watched The Sound of Music over 30 times.  Since I (Warren) am responsible for 95% of those viewings, I was sure that I needed to go on the Original Sound of Music Tour -- which included visits to all of the famous sites depicted in the film -- the gazebo ("I am 16 going on 17") the fountains ("do-re-mi") the trees the children climb, and the lake where the Von Trapp family fall out of the boat.  It was definitely a way to relive my childhood memories of that cinematic masterpiece.