‘Tis the season. Doesn’t it feel like we are in the middle of a marathon of food right about now? And we’re only at mile seven or eight, maybe nine. Its starts with the Halloween candy and carries right on through until the final scraps from the fortune bearing pork dishes are scraped off the plates as they begin their first wash of the new year.
There’s an entire diet industry planning their marketing calendars and banking on our over indulgences this season. But this isn’t a post about weight loss, decadence, condemning, condoning or even resolutions. Because food is a special part of this time of the year.
It is both celebration and community. There’s the patience of tending to a harvest as it grows over months. The art of combining different ingredients and techniques to make something flavorful and fulfilling. The act of coming together over laughter and cheer to work collaboratively towards a common goal. And the practice of giving thanks for the bounty of the season.
Food can be comfort and food can be home. The sound of clanging dishes indicates a table being set for not one, but many. The way our mothers wipe their hands on a dish towel feels as familiar as the way our fathers use their hands to carve a turkey. The squealing delight of children pulling a wishbone sets against a delicious scent wafting in the air serving as a reminder that these things are only presented to us once a year, at this special meal.
The sights, sounds and smells of the kitchen can represent family and togetherness and are just as timeless as a handwritten recipe card. Its beauty lies not within the directions themselves, but in the way the ink is smeared from a greasy thumb of yesteryear. These simple instructions are transcending technology, being delivered from hand to hand, skin to skin, generation to generation all while forging a connection from a family’s past to a family’s future.
Yes, this food and these festivities are beautiful indeed. With food at the axis of the season, how would we celebrate without it?
Since I’m the parent of a child with life-threatening food allergies, food poses a paradoxical puzzle because what sustains my child, will also cause him great harm. Between the holiday cookie exchanges, gingerbread parties and chocolate advent calendars there’s only so many creative solutions I can come up with to help make the holidays more allergy friendly and safe before it feels like one big circus act.
A few weeks ago I wrote about how I want my son to approach his food allergies with a can-do attitude. He loves to eat and prides himself on having a big appetite. So while I want him to have a healthy respect for the threat that some foods pose to him, I also want him to have an equally healthy appreciation for food. Its confusing to square away my own feelings about something that is both dangerous and enjoyable, let alone trying to explain those opposite emotions to my son.
So during a season that is often focused on food, we’ve incorporated the below practices into our holiday repertoire as a way to make the holidays not only safer and but more settling for us all:
We keep our family traditions allergy-free. If our son can’t have it, we don’t have it. During the rest of the year we have a few exceptions. But in general and especially on special days like holidays, we’re all in it together! The holidays are about family so what one of us eats, we all eat. We and us! Its how we operate.
We gravitate towards family and friends who get this and do it as well. As our son grew older we didn’t want the conversation with others to always be about what he couldn’t have. He was getting old enough to overhear those conversations and feel it. We don’t want to emphasize his differences so when my extended family members graciously offered to dine on an entirely allergy-free meal themselves, we were so happy! What a nice way to show us how much they value all of us being a part of their holiday and letting us know that they accept us in whatever dietary form we require.
We get creative. After a bit of practice, we’ve all grown to enjoy the challenge of making dairy-free, egg-free and nut-free feasts. Olive oil or soy butter works just as well as dairy-based butter to baste or saute, and there’s plenty of soy and tofu creamers available as well. We make cut-out cookies using applesauce, baking soda and oil to stick since we can’t have eggs to do so. And thanks to Disney’s Prep & Landing, we know that Santa has a nut allergy, so we give the big guy a personalized ingredient alert. We still make treats for our neighbors and special friends, but those tin canisters are filled with homemade oatmeal instead of cookies. One of our favorite traditions is to decorate gingerbread houses. And we’ve designed some really clever ones using gum drops for roof linings, marshmallow shrubs, gummy bears for toys and even added aquariums on the interior with Swedish fish.
We remove the food-focus. The meals are nice, but there’s plenty of other things making the season special. We take the horse and carriage rides, but skip the hot cocoa…its just as cozy. We go caroling, but don’t have the cookies…its just as joyful. We visit with Santa, but skip the candy cane handout at the end…its just as magical. One of the most special things we do is one of the most simple things. This idea was shared with me a few years ago by a dear friend. At some point in December we give the kids baths, and put them in their pajamas just like every other night. But right as they are about to be tucked in we tell them that this is the night and we drive around listening to holiday music on the radio and looking at the lights on houses. We wear Santa hats, giggle and sing and its sheer delightful memory-making, without an ounce of food!
We remind ourselves that food is nourishment and survival. During every holiday season we volunteer at the food packaging charity, Feed My Starving Children. We volunteer here a few times throughout the year, but especially a this time of the year. It is one of my son’s most favorite things to do! He invites friends and together the kids and adults prepare Manna packs to ship to children around the world in need of nourishment. Its collaborative, fast paced, fun and often set to rowdy music. Its right down my nine-year-old son’s alley! The organization does a nice job of explaining how each Manna pack is specifically formulated to feed malnourished children and at the end of a packing session, they tell you exactly how many meals you prepared for how many children in need. My son and his friends enjoy being able to quantify their efforts. I love the cause. I love that he loves it. But I especially love that not only is it a powerful reminder of the real value of food, but is also a way for him to be involved in the tradition and art of preparing a meal for others, despite his food allergies, all while helping others who desperately need it.
And so we’re back to those conflicting feelings I have about food and the holidays. In many ways food is such a big part of the festivities at this time of the year. And I understand that. But when we stop and think, isn’t Thanksgiving really about gratitude, Christmas about giving, Hanukkah about light and New Years about beginnings? With all of it falling under an over-arching theme of family, love, tradition and togetherness? Well that seems to me to be the real reason to celebrate!
How To Help Parents Survive Pregnancy after Perinatal Loss
Last week I was honored to sit on a parent panel discussing how we survived the emotional turmoil of a pregnancy after suffering an unexpected full term still birth. The workshop was called “The Effects of Perinatal Loss on Subsequent Pregnancies” and the audience was a group of medical professionals from around the Chicago area comprised of nurses, hospital chaplains, social workers and physicians all working in bereavement support.
I wish I didn’t have this expertise. Oh, so many times I’ve made this wish. Yet its mine and its one that I’m glad to use if doing so can help someone be better able to provide a bit of a peace to parents at a time when their world is falling apart. So I sat on this panel sharing my experience and owning my expertise.
I was a bit rattled during the discussion and understandably so. The workshop was taking place in the very hospital that holds some of the most tragic and sacred moments of our lives. It is also the professional home of some of the treasured people who helped us survive those moments. These are the moments that have shaped our family story and nurtured this expertise.
It is in this location where we attended monthly support group meetings diligently for twenty-two months through not only our grieving process but also our subsequent pregnancies. We have gone on memorial walks at this hospital and planted flowers in our children’s honor in this hospital’s roopftop garden.
Whenever we drive by this building our living children will point with delight and declare it as their sister’s hospital. On sad days or holidays when I’m especially missing my daughter I jog by this hospital and intentionally take an extra beat under the wing where we delivered and spent time with her. Just recently a special room was dedicated and set aside for families who are in the process of saying goodbye to their dying or recently deceased baby. My husband and I donated a crib to this room after carefully choosing that specific model because it’s name happened to be the same as our daughter’s.
Its natural that for us to want to give back to this hospital, this organization and this cause. Its a space and place that means so much to us. Yet during last week’s workshop I had to describe how I couldn’t return to this beloved hospital to deliver our subsequent babies.
Some of my fellow panelists shared my perspective and need for a new setting. Some did not and felt most comfortable returning to the same hospital where they experienced their loss.
I thought I would until when just a few weeks into my subsequent pregnancy I had a spotting scare and went to the Emergency Room at that hospital. As I sat paralyzed with fear and grief for a baby I was certain I was about to lose, I heard a name over the PA system. It was the name of the doctor who had the unfortunate role of informing me that my baby’s heartbeat had stopped during my last pregnancy. I thought highly of that doctor, but hearing her name in that space, triggered an emotional muscle memory and I knew I wouldn’t be back as a patient.
I told this story last week during the workshop. My fellow panelists each had their own story to describe what the physical space meant to them. Just as each of our children is unique, each of our losses are unique. Yet we all share the universal heartbreak of grieving a child we never had the chance to get to know.
Because of this bond that we share, a few key themes presented themselves as our discussion unfolded. I want to capture those here so that other medical professionals might keep them in mind if they have patients who have suffered perinatal loss and are going through a subsequent pregnancy. In fact, these are probably good things to note for anyone who is providing friendship and support to someone who is grieving the loss of a baby.
Use the term “child” not “pregnancy”
Sure from a medical and clinical standpoint, our experience is considered a pregnancy. But to us and our hearts this baby is a person, not an event. We are deeply grieving the child’s life who either ended inside of us right before they were born, or shortly after they were born. At a minimum we’ve spent the last nine months already parenting our child, making sacrifices and plans, eagerly reading books and preparing nurseries. But often times we’ve spent years awaiting the arrival of our child. Even as long ago as I was child and old enough to imagine myself as a mother I was already thinking about and planning for the baby I assumed I would have one day. So in that way, we are also deeply grieving the loss of a dream. The point being, that to us this is so much more than a pregnancy and we appreciate you acknowledging that.
Review our file first
This whole process is exhausting and its extra draining every time we have to repeat our story. It would be wonderful if every one we encountered from a medical perspective during our subsequent pregnancy was aware of our history prior to meeting with us. From the physicians to the nurses, to the ultra sound technicians there is a lot of small talk during pregnancy appointments and that’s friendly and fine. But please know the enormous tension we are feeling while we’re hooked up to an ultra sound machine or doppler device desperately waiting to hear a baby’s heartbeat. We are probably analyzing your tone and facial expressions looking for clues that everything is ok. It is taking every last ounce of our energy to just be here, doing this.
It is excruciating
Period. Even with a thesaurus, I can’t find the right word. There isn’t one. Agonizing, grueling, tormenting, excruciating. None of these words do this process justice.
We need reassurance
My husband and I made multiple trips to the hospital during the third trimester of our subsequent pregnancies because we were worried about a lack of fetal movement. Often times we spent hours overnight hooked up to a monitor or ultra sound machine. There were so many phone calls and extra appointments. We spent the night before one of our daughters was scheduled to be delivered in a hotel room across the street from the hospital. We were too worried to be further away. When our next daughter was born we spent the night before her birth in the hospital triage area worried about a lack of fetal movement. We were discharged at 5 am, drove home and then returned five hours later at 10 am for her scheduled delivery. Right up until we hear that baby’s cry we are terrified and in need of doctors who will allow us all of the reassurance visits and phone calls we need.
The best thing you can ask us is “how are you doing today?”
My husband helped identify this mantra during our subsequent pregnancies: “Today we are pregnant, and today it is going well”. That is all we allowed ourselves to celebrate…today. And frankly, as we had sadly learned in the past, that was all we were guaranteed. Our moods change daily, if not hourly, during this process. Sometimes optimistic and upbeat, sometimes sorrowful and grieving and sometimes nervous and distracted. The best thing you can do is help us focus on that moment, that day and don’t push us into a space, either in the future, or past, that we aren’t prepared to be in right then.
When possible use our child’s name
As I said before we spent nine months, and sometimes longer, parenting our child. But we will never be able to go to her soccer games or his school conferences. We’ll never build the science fair volcano together or give our child birthday parties. We can’t teach him the ABC’s or meet her college roommates. There are so many things we’ll never get to do with our daughter or son. But one of the few gifts we were able to give to our child is a name. We are proud of our child’s name and since it is one of the only things that we can cling to as proof of his or her existence, we love hearing it.
All of that being said, of course there’s no one playbook on how to grieve, just as there’s no one playbook on how to help someone through this process. But as the parent panel portion of the workshop came to a close last week the members of the medical community clapped, and cried and stopped to give us hugs or tell us how much they appreciated our insights. I was touched by how badly they wanted to know the right answer and right thing to do. And I was reminded that wanted or not, this is now my expertise. And just as the medical community guided me through the darkest of my days, I can help them guide others back to the light.