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a month that changed the world

13 Comments

One month ago, I was in the hospital. The same hospital where my baby girls were born four years earlier.

The same hospital where they each died in my arms, days later.

One month ago, I was holding our newborn son. The same baby I pleaded to God to keep safe as I spent day after day, week after week, in the hospital with preeclampsia.

The same baby who wasn’t due to be born until this week.

By the time I left the hospital for good, my world had been turned upside down. We had a premature baby in the back seat. We had spent the anniversaries of our daughters’ deaths in grief’s ground zero. We had left our lives uprooted, torn away from home and work without warning.

I couldn’t make sense of how birth and death had broken me open all over again. It felt like too much to process, on top of a scary delivery and a slow recovery that left my heart literally sick.

But even then, I had no idea what was coming next. None of us did.

. . .

What seems like a lifetime ago, I had made myself a small, quiet promise. This last maternity leave would be a gift to myself.

I would soak up the sweet small baby like never before. I would cocoon us away from emails and agendas and deadlines. We would fall in love without interruption.

Instead I am homeschooling three kids upset at the disappearance of their friends, school, activities, and normal life. Instead I am watching my husband work in the home office that used to be mine.

Now we are sheltering in place. Now we are social distancing. New language for our new normal. Surreal headlines consumed without second thought.

Now I am never alone – not with my thoughts, not with the new baby – and yet I am desperately alone. It is ironic isolation we share now, separated from family and friends, church and community, work and school and neighbors and life as we knew it.

Everything has changed.

. . .

One night I could not sleep. (Many of us feel this now, awful anxious nights.)

I scrolled and scrolled as the baby nursed and nursed, and finally I said: enough. Enough.

I tried to pray but couldn’t. So I opened my phone, took a deep breath, and typed out the words that had been circling in my head.

A poem that arrived unbidden.

The next morning I decided to share it. Maybe I wasn’t the only one who needed the words, who was craving the old world, who wanted to hope that good would come back and we might be able to welcome it with deeper gratitude.

No. I wasn’t the only one.

By mid-morning I noticed that it was circling faster than normal. By evening the stats were wildly higher. Thousands. Then millions.

But I barely noticed – between the baby wailing to be nursed, the big kids clamoring for my attention, the house mess piling up, another dinner needing to be made, another day’s lessons needing to be planned. So much for that maternity leave.

Meanwhile the words spread like wildfire. (I hate to call them viral.)

What came next was surreal. First the schools shut down, then our workplaces, then the whole state. Meanwhile friends were sending me texts riddled with exclamation marks: politicians and celebrities sharing the poem, pastors and atheists and brands and universities and doctors and editors and the president’s daughter.

For days I tried to keep up with the comments, the emails, the copycats, the requests to turn the words into music, paintings, videos. Finally I had to let it all go.

This is no time for self or ego or ambition. This is the time for the common good. What happens to those words now is out of my control.

As was my son’s birth.

As was the past month of crisis and chaos.

As will be whatever our collective future holds.

. . .

I have no idea what comes next. None of us do.

This is our deep desperation.

All I want is for my family to be healthy, my friends to be ok, my baby to be safe. All I want is for those on the margins to be cared for, the health care workers to be protected, the government leaders in charge to act like it.

All I want is everything. All I can do is next to nothing.

But these are the small rhythms that will save us. Make dinner. Fold laundry. Call friends. Take walks. Answer emails. Wash dishes. Teach the kids. Feed the baby.

This is the reason the poem struck a chord around the world. Because we long for the everyday goods we didn’t know we loved until they were gone. Because we hope the world can be changed for the better, despite daily evidence to the contrary.

. . .

One more thing I want to tell you. The baby’s name is Isaiah.

As is our practice, we picked his name months ago and kept it secret. (Much to our older kids’ chagrin, though we did let them pick his middle name.)

We knew his name would be prophetic, but we never expected it to be prescient. Now the words of his namesake resonate like never before:

Behold, I am doing something new.

Do not fear, for I am with you.

I will make a way in the wilderness.

This strange new world is the only one he will know. He is a child of After, born in the time of pandemic.

Will he come to know all the things of Before that I wished for in these words? Or will some be known to him only in stories of long-ago?

None of us know. But none of us are alone in unknowing.

May this worst bring us to better, indeed.

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Reader Interactions

Comments

  1. Claire says

    28 March 2020 at 12:43 pm

    Wow Laura. I had seen that poem and it didn’t register that you were the author (let’s just say I’ve been a little distracted these days and certain details have escaped me). I got chills the first time I read it. I can’t believe what you have lived the past month. We’re all in the Twilight Zone, but your experience takes it to a new level. Congratulations on Isaiah. His name is so fitting.

    Reply
  2. Christina Jaloway says

    28 March 2020 at 2:50 pm

    Laura, thank you for this. I was just thinking this morning that, as much as I’m so thankful I’ve stayed off of social media (originally it was a Lent thing, now it’s a third-trimester-sanity thing), I wished I could somehow know without checking IG how you and your new baby were faring. And that poem is perfect. Thank you, as always, for being real and vulnerable with us. And I’m still praying your prayers for pregnancy and they’ve been a lifeline this past month especially.

    Reply
  3. Kristen Muldoon says

    28 March 2020 at 5:59 pm

    LOVE that video version of your poem! Your words always resonate so deeply with me (and obviously lots of others too)!

    Reply
  4. Terri BURTON says

    28 March 2020 at 8:32 pm

    Thanks Laura.
    Powerful words.
    Love your poem.
    May God continue to bless you with inspirational writings and may he strengthen you during these chaotic times.

    Reply
  5. Sabina says

    29 March 2020 at 3:48 am

    Congratulations Laura!
    God’s peace and protection to you and family. Thanks for a lovely read x
    May God heal the nations x

    Reply
  6. Jennifer says

    30 March 2020 at 10:41 am

    Just so beautiful, Laura. And your poem, too. As a busy parent also dealing with kids at home, I hadn’t been caught up in the wildfire of the poem, so I’m thrilled you shared it. Yes, it’s worthy of the wildfire. These are my hopes too, unspoken before your beautiful words expressed them.

    Reply
  7. Patty Spear says

    31 March 2020 at 11:15 am

    Thank you for this beautiful prayer. Our pastoral associate shared it for our prayer as we began our first ever virtual staff meeting at St. Joseph University parish in Buffalo, NY. I will be sharing with our parish, St. Joseph University on our facebook page. It is a prayer of hope and of challenge as we wait to see what will be on the other side of of this. Thank you and God bless you and your family as we live and pray (and cry) our way through.

    Reply
  8. Penny Bailey says

    1 April 2020 at 2:31 pm

    Laura, have been praying for you since we met last November at the Encounter Grace retreat. We are grateful for the poem shared and the story told. It lifts each of us who reads it and during this time; hopefully each of us will be reminded how precious life truly is – from start to finish.

    Reply
  9. Mikaela says

    2 April 2020 at 5:13 am

    Beautiful
    I read your poem in an email from our Parish and had to look up who it was by.
    Blessings to you and your family and your new baby (I have a 4mth old, our 6th, so I understand the craziness of life with a little one and big ones to teach and keep occupied!).
    May we all be changed for the better and grow deeper with God through all of this.

    Reply
  10. Patty says

    5 April 2020 at 6:12 am

    Thought of you often as I looked for you with your lovely family at Mass

    Prayers for you all and thank you for the words of comfort you offer

    Yes soon all will be well. All manner of things will be well and we will come out better people

    Reply
  11. Doriel says

    5 April 2020 at 10:49 am

    Very poetic, prophetic, just the perspective we all need right
    Thank you for sharing your spirit with the world

    Doriel

    Reply
  12. Jane Leyden Cavanaugh says

    21 May 2020 at 11:36 am

    Hey Laura,

    Congrats on Isaiah and love the new poem! I’d like to share it with the educators I am working with through Youth Frontiers… You are a gift to the world. I’m glad to know you. Continue on being a pen in the hand of God!

    Reply
  13. Amy Fistler says

    1 March 2021 at 2:46 pm

    Laura,

    What a beautiful website and inspiring. I miss you at our staff meetings. I hope this note finds you doing well and you are able to find small moments in your day you can call your own, you deserve it!

    Reply

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About Laura

I’m Laura Kelly Fanucci. Mother, writer, wonderer. This space is where I explore mothering through writing. It’s where I celebrate how God shows up in the chaos of raising children. It’s where I love to build community with readers like you. Read More…

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thismessygrace

Mother, writer, wonderer.
Seeker of God in chaos & life with kids.
Author of Everyday Sacrament & Grieving Together.
Glimpses of grace & gratitude.

thismessygrace
Woke up tired of tears, ready to move, Psalms in m Woke up tired of tears, ready to move, Psalms in mind. Who’s with me?
I am not resigned to the shutting away of loving h I am not resigned to the shutting away
of loving hearts in the hard ground.
So it is, and so it will be,
for so it has been, time out of mind:
Into the darkness they go, the wise and the lovely. Crowned
With lilies and with laurel they go; but I am not resigned.

Lovers and thinkers, into the earth with you.
Be one with the dull, the indiscriminate dust.
A fragment of what you felt, of what you knew,
A formula, a phrase remains,—but the best is lost.

The answers quick and keen,
the honest look, the laughter, the love,—
They are gone. They are gone to feed the roses. Elegant and curled
Is the blossom. Fragrant is the blossom. I know. But I do not approve.
More precious was the light in your eyes than all the roses in the world.

Down, down, down into the darkness of the grave
Gently they go, the beautiful, the tender, the kind;
Quietly they go, the intelligent, the witty, the brave.
I know. But I do not approve.
And I am not resigned.

Edna St. Vincent Millay, “Dirge Without Music.”

Margaret Susan Fanucci,
2-27-16 - 2-28-16.
Abigail Kathleen Fanucci,
2-27-16 - 2-29-16.

Thank you for walking these days with me. For your love, your kindness, and your generosity.

We will never forget them.
Now you'd be three, I said to myself, seeing a chi Now you'd be three,
I said to myself,
seeing a child born
the same summer as you.

Now you'd be six,
or seven, or ten.
I watched you grow
in foreign bodies.

Leaping into a pool, all laughter,
or frowning over a keyboard,
but mostly just standing,
taller each time.

How splendid your most
mundane action seemed
in these joyful proxies.
I often held back tears.

From "Majority" by Dana Gioia, a poet-father who knows.

2.27.2016.
Always a birthday.
Even when not happy.
I am standing in a fluorescent-lit gym, dingy mesh I am standing in a fluorescent-lit gym, dingy mesh tank top hanging off my scrawny shoulders. I am eleven years old, listening to a grey-haired coach with a whistle round his neck.

"Here is how you pivot," he says, grabbing the ball & crouching down. "Plant your foot, solid like a rock. Don't ever move it."

I am trying to learn, because basketball is cool & I am not. I desperately want to be good at shooting, scoring, stealing, anything. But he is teaching me something I will not forget.

“The power of pivoting is you can turn any way you want. You can move where you need to go. You just have to keep this foot planted."

Today I pivot.

One day between birthdays. 24 slim hours to turn from joy to grief.

Yesterday the bouncing babe turned a whole year old. He has seen all sides of the sun by now. He gets to keep going: an ordinary miracle.

Tomorrow his sisters would have turned 5. A ghost of a birthday, shared by twins, lost to us, held & gone all at once.

All I can do is pivot.

Here is my foot planted firmly in the ground of now. I can turn in any direction I want: from joy to sorrow & back again. This is the only power I have, but it is enough for today.

I will wobble. I will feel the frantic rise in my throat of attack coming at me, blocking my view, trying to steal what I hold. For a few desperate moments I will want to pick up both feet & run far away, run fast as I can from what I never wanted.

But my pivot foot is stronger & steadier. It will stay where I have asked it to stay, from when I learned deeper truth.

Pivoting is still movement, still freedom, still control over a small corner of here. You are the one who decides to stop & plant your foot.

And the pivot is not forever. It is part of a move, not the end point. It is an interim, a passage, a survival strategy.

Part of me is forever awkward & eleven, scrawny & uncertain. But more of me is almost-forty, scarred & stronger. Knowing I can stop when I need to stop & go when I want to go, even in a full court press out of my control.

Today I pivot. I never want to forget the strength here too, the potential to turn between all that comes at me. The power of knowing this is not the end.
One day I’ll tell him the story. How after days One day I’ll tell him the story.

How after days of long labor, sick & scary, heaps of drugs to save both our lives, I stared bleary-eyed at the hospital clock: ten to two, clear as night, & made a decision.

How with no midwives in the room—unknown OBs now, nurses we didn’t know, no familiar face among them—and the clock ticking, I had to do what all those strong women I trusted had taught me to do.

How I decided to midwife my own birth.

How with no strength left, I struggled up through fog & pain, fumbled for my phone, scrolled through the dark until I found the song, & turned it up to rise above the beeping & the monitors & the awful alone sounds of awake at 1:50 am in the hospital.

How I closed my eyes & waited for the beat to come & prayed for the strength. To be my own midwife.

Drop beat. Beat drop. Pause.

The battle of Yorktown. 1781.

I cranked one weary smile. Closed my eyes as the song picked up. Turned my clumsy body to the left side to bring on a contraction.

Gotta meet my son.

Breathed through the pain. Timed it. Heaved to the right side to bring on another wave.

The world turned upside down.

Smiled when the night nurse came to check, surprised. Feigned shock when she raised her eyes that things were changing.

How as soon as she left the room, I glared at the clock, hit repeat, turned to one side, then another, kept contractions coming & coming, coaching my body hour after hour to do what I knew it could do.

History will show that this child was born from pitocin for induction & magnesium sulfate for preeclampsia & a failed epidural or two & eight shots of epinephrine when maternal blood pressure tanked.

But I will know that he was born from sheer grit & the strength of every midwife I’ve loved & the back beat of Hamilton at 1:50 am in a lonely hospital room.

The world turned upside down, then 100 more times in the tumultuous first year of his life.

But I did what I had to do & what I could do & I did it all for love of him. That day & every one that followed.

That is a story worth telling.

His birth. (Mine, too.)

2.25.20
A story and a word of thanks. You are amazing huma A story and a word of thanks. You are amazing humans.
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