Elouisa We Are Hairy

Elouisa We Are Hairy
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Fully supported English (United States) Partially supported Français (Canada) Français (France) Deutsch (Deutschland) हिंदी (भारत) Italiano (Italia) Português (Brasil) Español (España) Español (México)

We Are Hairy (TV Series)

Elouisa strips and masturbates in her bed
(2017)

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Elouisa’s bleeding heart bush. Perhaps a perfect symbol for her - both the absolute sadness and emptiness or her loss, but also the beautiful overflow of love from around the world for her and through her. Only love.
We went to an event last
night. It was awful. A bestselling author who has written a book about empathy
gave a talk and a reading. I find writers who manufacture experiences in order
to write about them trying at best. But to manufacture experiences that involve
exploiting other people’s pain is offensive. I found much of what this author
had to say offensive. My favourite part of the night was when we stood up and
walked out. Perhaps we have a more developed a more delicate understanding of
empathy and pain in the last few months. Perhaps her prose was really just that
insipid and clichéd.
Afterwards, I found myself
wondering aloud if any and all writing about pain is inherently exploitative.
The thought chilled me. I never want to feel as though my writing about the
anguish of losing Elouisa and continuing to love her is somehow exploiting our
pain. Then again, I did not manufacture our experience to write about it. And I
wouldn’t wish it on anyone. I don’t even want people to emphasize – don’t move
towards this, don’t imagine it, don’t put yourself in my shoes. Stay far away
and hold onto love.
And I began writing here
partially in a desperate attempt to order the chaos of my shattered heart.
Mostly I write for her. I write to let Elouisa know how much she is loved.
Whatever exists of her that is with us through rainbows and sunsets and
surprising purple flowers, in the laughter of her cousins and the tears of her
grandparents, in the dances of her brother and my reaching for her in the early
dawn light. She is here, there, nowhere, everywhere.
And now I am beginning to
sound like Dr. Suess, so maybe it is time to stop. Maybe I will stop. Elouisa –
We love you and we miss you every day. Missing you is now our everyday.
I am in Italy for work. Italy is my land of what ifs. Being here is full of golden sunsets of what ifs. I see them in the skies. On the water. I swat them away from my face like flies. What if we hadn’t left? Would her birth have gone differently? What if my husband didn’t blame me for moving us? Would I find myself less at fault? What if I could have learned to be happy in Milan? What if I could have learned the importance of love and hope above all else without losing Elouisa?
Some moments it is impossible to be here. Just as in some moments it is impossible to meet new people, to be anywhere. Maybe it is just the beauty here that makes me weep. I see beauty and I see her. Beauty or overthinking. Maybe it is just the overthinking.
You’d think I would blame Amsterdam. I don’t. Perhaps that is a choice. It’s always a choice.
I caught up with an old friend today who noted that I sounded defensive. Dutifully reciting the improbable, terrible silent statistics that offer no solace and do not capture the pain of the lived experience. Or the screams.
I sounded defensive of myself. I probably am and probably always will be. I will need to be convincing myself for ever after that I made the best choices I could for our perfect baby girl.
And yet I know now that choices, the best of choices with the best of intentions, guarantee nothing. Mean nothing. Just as statistics mean nothing when you are on the wrong side of the math.
And maybe locations, sunsets, swarms of unanswerable questions, the assault of my own mind, mean nothing. There are no what ifs. I need to deny them space in my mind or heart. To do otherwise may destroy me. In this, as in all things, discipline is freedom.
If our little girl had lived she would be six months old today. Today of all days babies were everywhere and my heart broke a little each time I saw them. Generally, seeing babies doesn’t upset me. I could be in a blossoming field of random, beautiful babies and it would’t bother me. None of them would be our Elouisa, and she is the only one I am searching for. Today, however, I saw a deliciously chunky little one, turned away, and wept.
I had convinced myself that six months was some magical number, that it would be better after that. Now I realise it is just yet another moment you never want to experience, yet another milestone you never want to reach.
I awoke in the wee hours of the night last night and could not fall back asleep. At first I didn’t understand why. And then everything was illuminated and I did. The body doesn’t forget. So I remembered the pain and horror of it all and missed our girl. Our girl who should be six months old today.
And then there are the things that actually haunt me. The things I cannot carry. Yet I must carry them. Just as we all must carry our own burdens. And if given the opportunity to struggle carrying someone else’s things – loss, pain, disappointments, regrets – we’d probably drop them and snap our own back up as soon as possible. At least we become accustomed to their weight.
- I packed multiple, adorable pink baby outfits – those tiny bows! – so we would have options when it came time to bring Elouisa home and also just in case we had to stay in the hospital for some reason. My husband laid out a few of the outfits on a small table at the hospital. At some point during my labour, I asked him to put the clothes away. It breaks me to think of that. I am not sure why I asked it. I am not sure if some deep, primal, maternal, intuitive, spiritual part of me sensed that something would go wrong and she wouldn’t be coming home with us and would never wear her adorable clothes, never know pink bows.-
- When things started to go wrong, which happened so quickly, I was immediately rushed for emergency c-section. The team assembled quickly, but there was a three-minute delay between when I was prepped and everyone was ready – knife poised above me – and when the second anesthesiologist arrived so the surgery could commence. It is impossible to know if those three minutes mattered. And if they mattered, they may have only meant the difference between having an extremely damaged child and a dead one. The former seems harder to me. Perhaps simply because it is not the burden I carry. I know how it feels to have a dead child.
- Knowing that my husband saw her emerge lifeless from my body. He witnessed that and I did not. He had to live through the terrible moment of realizing everything was not alright and then watch as a team of panicked doctors took turns exhausting themselves trying to resuscitate her until they found a heartbeat. She had a strong heart.
- Regaining consciousness and, still blurry, realising something was very wrong. Feeling my heart break amid the confusion.
- Seeing Elouisa’s face without tubes and tape for the first time, knowing it would also be the last.
- Watching the colour slowly drain from our daughter’s face as I held her.
- The doctor softly crying as we handed her Elouisa’s body.
- The fact that coffins are made small enough for infants.
I try not to think of these things. I try to think of her strong heart. I try to think of love. I try to think of how she continues to touch the lives of people near and distant. A friend wrote today: Like a lullaby she is always in my mind. If she is love and love is the whole then we are the pieces.
That I can carry. That thought I want to haunt me.
Elizabeth McCracken wrote
a beautifully illuminating memoir about the stillbirth of her first son, whom
she called Pudding. The book is An Exact
Replica of a Figment of My Imagination and there is a passage that spoke to
me when I first read it and that I find myself returning to now. Now that some
months have passed. Now that I am “better”. Now that I sleep again.
Here is a character from a gothic novel; the woman with
the stillborn child. Her hair is matted and black. Ghosts nest in it. Her white
nightgown is mottled with book. In her hands is an awful bundle: the corpse she
cannot bear to put down. Sh
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Elouisa We Are Hairy

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