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. 

----

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. 

Polar Nights

We decided to boycott the holidays this year as a way to say good riddance to a pretty gnarly year.

Three weeks in Europe and Boston were just what we needed to have some time as a couple to get away and retool for the coming year.  First stop on our  trip was something on our "life-bucket-list" - to see the Northern Lights.  It did not disappoint.

It took us 24 hours of traveling to arrive in Tromso, Norway.  It's a nifty little town of about 75,000 inhabitants.  It's located completely within the arctic circle in the northern Norway at 69.6 degrees latitude (SF is at 37).

The main attraction is the Northern Lights, a natural phenomenon caused by the interaction between solar particles and the Earth's magnetic field and atmosphere.  Depending on the night, and the type of interaction, the sky appears shades of greens, blues, purples, and reds.

It was quite a chilly 20ish degrees throughout the "day".  I put "day" in quotes because in December, at this latitude, the sun actually does not rise above the horizon.  It's called a Polar Night.  It sounds cool, but it's super-disorienting.  You're never quite sure what time it is.  It's always dim and dark outside.

We both really like it, though.  It's an apt way for us to end our horrific year with a few polar nights. The juxtaposition of the endless night with the beauty in the sky is how we have felt all year.  Points of light and beauty amidst all the pain and seeming injustice.  For a moment we got to lay down on the ice, look up, and see God's creativity in the sky.  It was magical.

8 Months

Eight months ago, my son Louie, passed away shortly after birth.

I miss him terribly and think about him everyday – which might seem odd, because – really – I never got to know him.  I held him for just a few moments before his heart slowed and eventually stopped.

There have been some lonely and dark days these past few months.  The now empty room where he should have grown up - mirrors the void left in my own heart.  But with whatever days I have left to live I will carry this precious void within me.   Close to my soul, without shame, and without regret. Silent.  And Powerful.

Louie, you will be my constant reminder that every life matters, every moment is precious, and that love truly is stronger than death.  I will see you soon enough, little buddy....on that day when everything lost is found and when everything broken is made whole.

On Tattoos and Permanence

Some of you may know that I’ve been patiently waiting to get my memorial tattoo for 3 months.  I had picked out the exact design within a few weeks after Louie passed away. Then I found a portfolio from a tattoo artist at 2SpiritTattoo. This studio is terrific, but like everything else in SF, there is a very long wait.

Richelle decided to join the bandwagon for the least spontaneous tattoo ever as heartbreak has struck the Yeh family twice. My beautiful niece was stillborn in May 2010.  Richelle got a sparrow tattoo in remembrance of her daughter. Laura's middle name is 懷 (Huai), which means "to think, to remember, to cherish".

I chose a celtic motherhood knot.  There are two separate hearts shown as endless knots. Then the two hearts are intertwined as mother and child.  I wear it on my wrist (technically upside down) because I like the idea of seeing something that reminds me of Louie every day. I can never hold him again, but he is a part of me.  

In this interim wait time, the most common concern/question I encountered was “Are you sure about a tattoo? It’s permanent.”

It’s a very reasonable question.  And all I can say is the permanence is exactly what I was looking for.  I only got to hold Louie, my precious son, for a little over 24 hours in this life.  There is nothing more permanent than the longing to be reunited with him.  There is nothing more permanent than death.  There is nothing more permanent than our love for him.  The permanence is a perfect representation of Louie’s impact on my life - not just a past, but present and future.  

“Other” children may come (although hard to imagine that day), but there is no replacement for Louie - just like there is no replacement for your mother or father or brother or sister.  Family members are not interchangeable.  It’s unclear to me why the public believes that somehow people become interchangeable if they’re really small or if you haven’t personally met them.  

Louie and Laura - you will always have a permanent place in our families and hearts. (And now... an additional place in your mothers' arms.)

Refuge in Zion

Some friends of ours offered to treat us to a getaway trip shortly after Louie passed away.  We accepted this generous gift and headed out to Zion National Park for an emotionally loaded Mother’s Day weekend. Zion is a Hebrew word that means "a place of peace and relaxation" and that's exactly what it provided for us. (Not sure why I'm so into the meaning of words these recent posts).

There are so many metaphors when we're out in nature. I thought about a few life lessons as we hiked through different parts of the canyon.  None are particularly insightful, but they are particularly relevant for me in this season.   

Zion reflection #1: focus on the step directly in front of me.  When we were hiking on the trail called “The Narrows” (bottom right picture and yes...everyone should do this someday!), I would often casually browse ahead at our trail along the Virgin River. This is normally fine for easy parts, but definitely not the right move when wading through water.  I would start crossing, get a little over confident, look up ahead, and invariably lose my balance.  Then I had to remind myself to focus on finding my footing for every step...lest I fall in the river and damage my much loved iphone or camera.  

It feels the same way for processing this tragedy.  My grief therapist often reminds me to pace myself since I try to anticipate too many variables for the future.  It’s hard to only look at one step when we had planned out something very different for our life with Louie. That being said, it makes sense to takes things slowly and gently to see how I feel after each step.

Zion reflection #2: My grief is not larger than the canyon (look for Warren standing on the bottom in the left pic).  

It’s been 60 days since Louie’s death.  I’ve cried every day.  That’s 60x more than any other time in my life and still going.  The sadness can feel suffocating sometimes.  But when I was walking through the canyons, it reminded me that while my grief is deep, the world is bigger.  And being small helped me to take a breath and remember that many others have suffered and survived.  And that’s what we’re doing right now.  We’re surviving.    

May 12 was Louie’s due date.  Somehow W & I feel different now that we’ve turned the page on that date.  You turn a little into Rain Man as a bereaved parent.  Dates, holidays, days of the week, anniversaries of birth/death are all significant.  2014 was supposed to be the best year yet: having a baby, celebrating 10 hard-earned years of marriage, turning 35.  We never imagined that our life would be quiet and peaceful after May 12.  But it’s time to take a step back from looking ahead and work on getting through tomorrow.