My Tribe – Page 61 – Apron Strings for Emily

24 September 200713 June 2011

Remembering Our Angel, Liam

The following was read yesterday at my nephew Liam‘s funeral service. Thank you for everyone that came to visit with our family. And thank you for all the emails and phone calls to show your love and support. Your words and hugs mean more than you’ll ever know.

Hello and on behalf of D and J, Tyler, and the rest of our family, I would like to sincerely thank each and every one of you for being here tonight.

The loss of a loved one is always a difficult thing to understand. The loss of an infant, a son … a grandson … a nephew is just about incomprehensible. This evening, we are here to try to make sense of such a thing.

When J asked me to say a few words tonight, I admit I was a little hesitant. However, I knew right away in my heart that this was something I had to do; not only for her and D, but for myself as well.

Liam was born on May 19th, 2007. He was born prematurely at 31 weeks and weighed 5lbs and 14oz. But despite the unexpected early arrival, Liam came out ready to live life. In fact, I told Janet that Liam was the perfect name for him. It was a strong Irish name, a fighting name. And that’s what Liam was … a fighter from day one.

Liam born with some imperfections such as a cleft lip and omphalocele, a birth defect in which a portion of the abdominal organs formed outside of the stomach. Nevertheless, to me (and to his mom and dad) he was the most beautiful baby in the NICU. Liam had the first of many procedures, only four days after his birth, to correct the omphalocele. It was one of the biggest that the hospital had ever seen and surgery was a success. He would return to the NICU and unknowingly be loved by all he touched. In fact, I remember one of the male respiratory therapists telling us that Liam was “the miracle baby,” as no one could believe how well he did during and after surgery.

Although he was making small gains here and there, Liam still was having difficulty breathing on his own. Every time they would wean him off the respirator, he would eventually need to be put back on it. After three months of this, J and D made the tough decision to have surgery to place a tracheostomy in the hopes that Liam would eventually grow out of it and be able to breathe on his own. It was to be the procedure that would eventually allow Liam to go home.

For a while afterwards, Liam was doing really well. We were all excited that he was becoming more and more active. He was able to sit up in a bouncy chair. He even started to take his feedings by bottle. On the days I would visit, I would even observe him “flirting” with the nurses and therapists.

And finally after three months of impatiently waiting, I was actually able to hold my nephew for the very first time.

Although I knew I loved him from the day he was born, the moment Liam looked up at me while in my arms with those beautiful brown eyes, I absolutely fell head-over-heels in love with Liam. Just by holding Liam, I could feel the strength that he had within him. I wanted so badly to bottle up this strength and use it for myself.

How could I not fall in love with him? How could anyone who ever came in contact with Liam not fall in love with him? The times I’ve been to the NICU, it was obvious that Liam was quite a popular baby. I jokingly told J and D that even at such a young age, Liam was quite the “Ladies Man.” All the nurses and therapists that I came in contact with just absolutely fawned and fussed over him. They would tell stories of how Liam was such a curious baby, staring at any activity or at any one who was around him with those big bright eyes. He was absolutely well loved and well taken care of by his nurses and therapists and doctors in the NICU.

Sadly, in the end Liam’s little body couldn’t withstand all the curveballs that was thrown his way. As I saw him in his crib this past Thursday, it was pretty visible that he was declining. His color was much paler than usual and he was definitely less active than I was used to seeing him. But despite that, I could still see him fighting to stay with us. His heart continued to beat strongly and his oxygen levels continued to fool us until he took his very last breath.

“Why?,” J asked me many times that day. “Why now? Why after all this time?” That is the incomprehensible thing that we are all still trying to understand.

Now I can’t answer this question for everyone. However, tonight I will give you my answer to that question:

God gave us Liam for this short period of time for a reason. He sent Liam here for four months so we could get to know him and love him. So we could experience his love and witness his excitement for life. But most of all, Liam was sent here to teach us strength… specifically the strength to go on despite adversity.

Tonight and tomorrow … and even during any milestone in life, we will all mourn the loss of Liam and what his life could have been. However, I do think that we should all take comfort knowing that, despite his short life, Liam lived life to the fullest and with all the strength that he had. And we should follow Liam’s lead and do the same.

21 September 200713 June 2011

Our Angel, Liam

Today is a very sad day. My nephew Liam took a most unexpectedly early journey to heaven. He was born at 31 weeks and fought for every moment of his four months and 1 day of life. I used to joke around with my sister-in-law and her husband that Liam was the perfect name for him … a very Irish name, a “fighter’s” name. And that’s exactly what he was. He was also a “lady’s man,” touching every single woman that walked into his room. All his nurses and therapists fell in love with him and his big brown eyes. And while we know that Liam is in a much better place, we still can’t help but miss him something fierce.

Thank you, Liam for giving us the opportunity to know you and love you. We know you will always be our angel looking out for us.

To see more pictures of Liam, click on the album below:

Liam

14 September 200713 June 2011

Saving Face, Losing Control (Alone? Part 2)

Well, my post has been up for over a week now, and no response from anyone. Hmm … the power of words wasn’t strong enough I guess. Really, I can’t complain. I’m seriously not trying to fish for comments at all. In fact, the reason I started to blog was more to get all these intense feelings and emotions out into the world. And in doing so, I do admit it feels good.

So why am I still feeling alone? Well, after posting my latest ramblings last week, I happened to stumble upon an article at work that helped explain a little about why I continue to feel the way I do. And now I’m sharing this information with whoever wishes to read on.

Photo Sharing and Video Hosting at Photobucket

The article discussed the reluctance of Asian-Americans to seek or use mental health services. It even goes on to cite that when Asian Americans and Pacific Islanders eventually seek professional help, the severity of their problems tend to be high, most likely because of the delay in seeking treatment until their problems reach crisis proportions.

It also states that Asians are not used to meeting with strangers and discussing their problems because many of their cultural beliefs go against this. Traditionally, Asians with mental health problems tend to speak first with a family member and then maybe with a close friend about their issues. Only after that might they consider involving someone outside their networking community. While talking to a therapist would be more accepted by a second-generation Asian person, many of the traditional values of their culture, such as seeking help from an “outside source,” still permeate their belief systems.

The reason, as the article states, that many Asian cultures associate seeking mental health services as a “weakness” is largely from the fact that these cultures stress “saving face.” According to the article, if a person was found to be talking to a therapist about issues that cannot be solved amongst family or close friends, this would be considered “losing face.” Once a person “loses face”, they can no longer function in his or her social network and are therefore not considered useful in certain situations.

The findings in this article aren’t anything completely revealing to me, a second-generation Filipino-American. I have always, in some way, known that “saving face” was always something that our culture did. Growing up in the Filipino culture in the US, I have witnessed some situations where family or friends have had to “save face,” but I never had the “opportunity” to experience it myself. That is, until now … as I continue to struggle with infertility.

To give you a little more background, my husband and I are both Filipino. We both grew up in a typical Midwest suburb, met each other in high school, and married shortly after college. We started trying to start our family within a year of after getting married with (obviously) no success. Two to three years into our marriage, I was already on Clomid and doing the whole ovulation charting. We didn’t tell anyone about our problems because we figured that it was only a matter of time. And I’ll admit it now, we also didn’t say anything because, well … frankly, we didn’t want to “lose face.” For a while, it wasn’t a big deal with our parents that we were having “issues” until other family friends started to ask them when my husband and I were going to make them “grandparents.” And well, I can’t imagine what it was (or still is) like to have to try and “save face” for them.

Now the Filipino culture, like many other Asian cultures, places emphasis on family and on being a parent. Women, particularly, are seen as the nurturer’s in the family and are expected to manage the household and raise the children. The woman can still have a very successful career or work outside the home, but the expectation is that she is still the primary caregiver for the children.

If infertility gets thrown into this mixture, many times it is “hush-hushed” because it isn’t an issue that: #1 other people, let alone Filipinos want to talk about, and #2 it’s a matter of being able to “save face.” If we don’t talk about it, it doesn’t exist and therefore those affected by infertility can still be connected to their social networks.

Now “saving face,” in my own personal experience, only works for a period of time until there’s a feeling of losing control. When no one talks about the problem, then the feeling of anxiety increases until loneliness starts to settle in. Questions like “Why am I going through this?” and “Am I the only one that has this issue?” suddenly become “I’m so alone” and “no one understands what I’m going through.”

For lack of better words, there is no support. There’s no one there to talk to about such issues and no one to empathize with what I’m going through. And it’s mainly because no one wants to talk about infertility. It’s a disease that no one, especially those who have a strong cultural upbringing such as Asians, can get a firm grasp on. I seem to think it’s because literally … there is nothing to grasp on to, as a person going through infertility isn’t visually sick. And that’s certainly different then, let’s say, my nephew Liam who is still in the NICU, or someone who is suffering from cancer.

Please don’t get me wrong. I don’t mean to belittle any of these health problems because they certainly are life-altering events. These just happen to be health issues that people can readily understand and empathize why someone can be sad or depressed over. Infertility is not.

So this is another reason why I’ve been feeling alone in this journey. My husband and I do talk about these issues quite often and he certainly continues to provide me with much support. But sometimes it’s nice to be able to talk to someone other than my wonderful husband about these things.

31 August 200713 June 2011

Fairy Tales and "Happily Ever After"

The following piece is something that I wrote back on September 12, 1997. I thought it quite appropriate to post this in honor of the tenth anniversary of Princess Diana’s death. I think it’s pretty interesting to look back at this piece and reflect on my thoughts about marriage and life ten years prior. Anyway, I hope you enjoy.

Fairy Tales and “Happily Every After”

It was my first wedding anniversary on the day the Princess of Wales died. My husband and I were in bed enjoying the cable television we had installed just three days before and had planned to stay in bed all morning. As we flipped through the stations, we could not help but notice that every station seemed to be talking about Princess Diana. “Probably some corny tabloid news,” I remember joking with my husband as he continued to change the channels rapidly. Then one of the bylines caught my eye.

“Wait,” I told my husband. He stopped and read what I had seen: “The Death of Princess Diana.” We both looked at each other in disbelief, listening to the broadcaster as she told of the care accident and the attempts to revive the Princess. “This is all a big joke,” we kept trying to reassure one another. Desperate to find out if the news was true, I climbed out of bed and ran to the front door to retrieve the Sunday paper. The shocking truth hit me as I read the front page.

At that moment, for reasons I couldn’t comprehend, I began to cry. My husband looked at me strangely. I think he, too, couldn’t understand why such a tragedy would make me grieve. After all, it wasn’t as if she was a close friend or family member or even an acquaintance. She was just the ex-wife of a prince and the mother of the future King of England.

I followed the news faithfully that week. I flipped through the television countless times trying to obtain as much information as I could. I just couldn’t seem to get enough. My husband, busy at work, wasn’t able to keep up with me. In all honesty, I believe he just wasn’t as interested as I was. Yet, he woke up with me at 4 am on the day of the funeral and watched it with me.

It reminded me of another time, sixteen years back, when my mother woke my brother and I up at that same un-Godly hour to watch the “Wedding of the Century.” She took all the blankets from our rooms and spread them out on the floor in front of the television. My brother quickly went back to sleep. I, on the other hand, was 9 years old and was so excited to watch an actual Cinderella wedding occur. After all, how often does one get to watch some lucky girl become a princess?

I watched in fascination as Lady Diana’s horse-drawn carriage traveled throughout the streets of London, anxious to see what her dress was like. My eyes widened in awe when I finally saw her walking down the aisle with such a stunning gown. “I’m going to have that same gown when I get married,” I recalled telling my mom. My mother responded jokingly, “Do you want a train as long as that, too?” I nodded my head vigorously. “And are you going to marry a prince as well?,” she asked. I lifted my head with childhood arrogance, smiled and said, “Of course!” I couldn’t wait to grow up at that time and marry my prince and live happily every after.

Of course, Diana’s fairy tale wedding did not have a happily ever after. The shy 20-year old princess seemed to only have a few moments of blissfulness, not to mention privacy, after her wedding. She literally grew up in front of the world, the center of news and gossip. And I, at whatever age I was at the time, tended to gravitate toward news of her. Ever since her wedding, I envied her and secretly dreamed of living her glamorous lifestyle. I remember other schoolmates also pretending to be her, confirming that I was not the only girl who envisioned a life “like Diana.”

However, as the tabloid news exploited her throughout the years, my interest in Diana’s life began to decline. I could no longer separate fact from fiction. And, in reality, I was so busy with my own life that I could no longer fantasize of being like Princess Di. I was in college when Diana’s marriage fell apart and didn’t pay too much attention to it, as I was already romantically involved with my future husband at that time. I couldn’t hold it in my heart to be true that I could find romance while a princess’ own romance was ending. The same year Prince Charles and Princess Diana separated, my very own prince proposed to me. And finally, just one month after Diana’s divorce was finalized; I had my version of a fairy tale wedding. Regardless of all of this drama in the Princess’ life, I still dreamt that my own life would eventually read just like a fairy tale, as Diana’s once did.

But one year after my own wedding, I could no longer imagine having a life like Princess Diana. How could I celebrate my first wedding anniversary after all that had happened? For one week, I grieved for her and her children. I grieved for the loss of her “fairy tale” existence. It was strange that after all those years of following Diana’s life so closely and then stopping for a period of time that I, as well as many other women, should once again be utterly enthralled with her.

My brother, whom I spoke to the night before the funeral, also voiced that same sentiment. He couldn’t understand why thousands of people could grieve over someone they hardly knew, leaving flowers at Diana’s home and standing in line to sign condolence books. My brother couldn’t comprehend the “fascination” most women had over Princess Diana. In that sense, my brother forced me to question exactly why I, myself, was grieving so much. While the news portrayed that the world was grieving the loss of the “People’s Princess” or the “Queen of Hearts,” I knew my grief felt more than just that. But during that conversation with my brother, I could not pinpoint exactly why I was grieving differently.

And then came that morning that my husband sat next to me and watched Diana’s funeral. We watched Princess Di’s procession move through the streets of London, much like it did sixteen years before on the way to her wedding. This time, however, the horse-drawn carriage carried her casket adorned with flowers and topped with a card addressed to “Mummy.” We felt our hearts go out to Prince Charles and the Princes William and Harry as they walked that last mile behind the carriage to the Abbey. We held each other as I sobbed throughout Elton John’s heart-wrenching version of “Candle in the Wind.” We cheered for Diana as her brother delivered that brutally honest eulogy to the people of England and to the rest of the world. And afterwards, in my husband’s arms, I finally felt some peace.

I realized at that moment that I was grieving something that “should have been.” Diana’s life should have been longer, should have been more blissful. She should have been able to have a successful marriage, should have lived to see her son become King. She should have had that happily ever after that fairy tales were made of. But she didn’t, and instead her life ended much like a bad Shakespearean tragedy.

Diana’s death made me realized that all is not a fairy tale. That even though I could dream about having a life like a princess, it would never “just happen.” Fairy tale endings needed to be earned, achieved, and worked at diligently. Then, once obtained, cherished fervently. And of course, I found out that happily ever after literally did not mean forever.

It was at that moment, with my own Prince Charming sitting next to me, that I finally felt a personal closure. I remember kissing my husband at that moment, vowing to make my very own fairy tale end happily ever after.

Happy Anniversary, Hubby!
It’s been 11 incredibly wonderful years with you …
You’re definitely my “Happily Ever After!”

14 August 200713 June 2011

Comic Relief

So this past weekend, hubby and a good friend of ours made a trip to Chicago. The reason we went to Chi-town is to attend the 2007 Wizard World Comic Convention (a.k.a. The Chicago Comicon). We’ve made this (insert “Star”) trek every year for the past five years so that my favorite “fanboys” can get their fill of all things comic-related.

I usually go to the “Con” for at least one of the three days to check out what’s going on. Mostly it’s to check out all the latest toys, games, and movies coming out in the next year from major companies like Sony and Marvel. For hubby and our friend, it’s about the hunt to find those comics or graphic novels, statues or busts or any pop-culture related toy for a decent price. For hubby, it’s also about being able to participate in Heroclix tournaments.

For me … it’s all about the costumes. Where else can you see grown men in spandex bodysuits made to look like Superman or Spiderman? Some can pull it off, but the majority … well, I give them an “A” for having the guts (literally) to dress up. The cute ones definitely are the kids; who can resist an adorable Supergirl or cool-looking Cyclops? I just wish I could have seen a dog dressed up as Yoda or a cat dressed up like Puss-in-Boots.

As luck would have it … this year’s trip wasn’t strictly about Comics. While trying to find directions to the Donald E. Stephens Convention Center, I found out that the Midwest Stitches knitting convention was happening at the same time as the Comicon. Yes, definitely more up my alley. Aisle after aisle of beautiful luscious yarn, knitting “tools”, and embellishments. If they could only schedule their conventions EVERY year at the same time as the Comicon …

Well, we couldn’t very well be in Chicago without heading downtown or meeting up with some friends. The goal was to head to the Virgin Megastore off of Michigan Ave and then over to Lincoln Park to meet up with our friends for dinner. So we boarded the Blue Line at Rosemont only to find out that, since service was being done on the line, we couldn’t head directly downtown. Instead, we were ushered onto busses that would eventually take us to “The Loop“. After finally making it to the Magnificent Mile, we were disappointed to learn that the Virgin Megastore permanently closed … Oh, the humanity!

So then it was off to find the Red Line to take us to the Lincoln Park area. After a quick rest stop at the corner Starbucks for some intense “fanboy discussion,” we met up with friends to enjoy some great sushi. And because I had to get my fix of dessert somewhere, we made a stop for some home made ice cream. Eventually, we had to find our way back to the Blue Line in order to get back to Rosemont. Unfortunately, the only way we could get back to the Blue Line from the Lincoln Park area was to take another bus. And well, after being out and about all day long in quite warm weather (it was about 94 degrees outside during the day) … let’s just say being in a pretty crowded bus was not a quite comfortable experience. Once we got back onto the Blue Line, it was smooth sailing back to our hotel.

Overall, the trip to Chi-town was so much fun. Trips around town became major adventures. Conversations about every day life became interesting discussions about philosophy. While the main reason that we make the yearly trip is to head to the Comicon, it really was more about spending time with those friends who make life interesting.

To view more pics of our Chicago Adventure, click on the album below:

Chicago Comicon 2007