black curtains: parts I and II
**trigger warning: contains narrative about infant loss and grief**
PART II : STAY OR GO
I lay for nine endless days in the quiet, darkened room, my back turned to the door I demanded remain closed. Bryce checked on me intermittently, finding me in the same shattered state as the hours and days before. I recoiled into myself, shielding the belly that once held my two miracles. I had a persistent ache in my back, a dull throb in my hips, and a tension in my neck so pronounced that it traveled up the base of my skull, from the prolonged fetal position. But I couldn't escape the discomfort because moving felt like wading through thick mud; each tweak of a toe and arm repositioning was incredibly strenuous. And so, I stayed anchored to the bed, yearning to mirror how it would be if I departed too.
I refused visits —except for Stephanie, a nurse from the hospital. She was the first to 'meet' my boys via ultrasound and checked on me night after night during my two-week stay on hospitalized bed rest. From the beginning, she felt like a kindred spirit. She had also seen this type of childbirth tragedy before. She knew how to approach this grief and knew what my heart could handle. Walking into my bedroom, she'd gently say, "Hi, my Neanie." She anticipated no reply, and I effortlessly met that expectation. Later, I let her help me into the claw foot tub to shower, braid my hair, and paint my nails blue for my boys. We mostly sat silently, except when she mentioned Gavin and Chase's names, saying how much she loved them. She never minimized my pain. Our bond was invaluable to me, and her gift of two grey cherub statues remains in my remembrance garden to this day.
But for the rest of my Italian family, my refusal to accept their visits was unprecedented; after all, we gathered, shared, and were integral parts of one another's lives. Yet, I found myself angered by the way my family members and close friends continued with their daily routines. I questioned how their worlds were still moving, intact, while infant loss had destroyed mine. Unlike me, they were uncomfortable with grief and crying. Some cracked jokes to lighten the somber mood, telling me about their seemingly unphased lives, and how they celebrated the Fourth of July with cocktails. How dare they? Their projected normalcy created distance and resentment instead of comfort. I also couldn't bear to see the disappointment on their faces when I refused to engage or even smile, and I didn’t care to explain why I would never be the same again.
When I was seven years old, my paternal grandfather, Bepa, passed away—it was my first experience with a broken heart. My parents grieved but didn’t talk much about how the spirits of loved ones remained. They focused more on the finality of death and occasionally mentioned the concept of guardian angels. I understood that Bepa’s death meant the end of his infamous turtlenecks, the smell of his Old Spice aftershave, and his weekly rides on the Metro North train to visit us, but I knew it wasn’t the end of his presence. I witnessed my seventy-year-old grandmother, Mema, navigate her new life without him; seemingly out of nowhere, tears would fall from her eyes. And I saw how she kept piles of his clothes folded neatly in his mahogany dresser and left his carpentry tools untouched in the basement for years afterward. I never questioned it. Even as a young girl, I felt her pain deeply, often taking her hand in mine to comfort her, seeing her tears as proof of her deep love for my grandfather. I believe this bonded us, and over the years our connection continued to strengthen. In experiencing my own deep loss years later, her nightly chats with him made so much sense to me. I was just like her.
My mom alternated between receiving my visitors in the living room and performing mundane tasks around the apartment, cleaning the bathroom, washing and folding Bryce’s clothes (mine remained unchanged and therefore unlaundered), and sorting mail. She simmered Sunday gravy and chicken soup. She scrambled eggs and sprinkled pieces of toast with cinnamon sugar. This was her love language; she infused each dish with unspoken hope. But the aroma of her food was an intrusive reminder of the time before my loss. Her gravy, which I had eaten at my parents' dining room table the day before I was admitted to the hospital, now smelled revolting. "Take just one bite," Mom pleaded at the edge of my bed. I ignored her. She cradled a humble bowl of chicken soup, flecked with herbs and ditalini, in her palms. It was the last meal I ate before being told my twins wouldn't survive. It was no longer comforting, and I wanted to kick it out of her hands.
Unlike my parents and grandparents and maybe even generations before, I was choosing to fully embrace my emotions instead of dusting myself off and carrying on with a façade of strength. Or, as my dad would put it, "Buck up!" — whatever that means. I have never been a 'fall off your bike and jump back up and keep riding' kind of kid. My style was to sit on the ground, shed a few tears, take a moment to breathe, then slowly rise to my feet. I wasn't accepting defeat; instead, I welcomed the emotion. I was allowed to wince over the raw pain of my knees grazing the sandy pavement, a sting radiating through my body as the skin peeled back, trickles of blood dripping down my legs. It wasn't a weakness but part of the human experience. If I had the space to grieve then, I had it now; after all, hadn't my heart been torn open? Wasn't I bleeding? I was compelled to navigate the complex emotions, permitting myself to be broken, owning my vulnerability, and fighting for the space to express it. The expectation and pressure to always appear "okay," stand tall with shoulders back, and sweep it all under the rug, even in the aftermath of life-shattering tragedies, felt to me archaic and unrealistic.
Still, at the edge of my bed, my mother tried a small plate of diagonally cut toast, the butter melting into its crumb, cinnamon and sugar sprinkled on top spanning crust to crust. This was my childhood comfort food. But it didn’t work this time. Then, she tried a cup of yogurt. I stared blankly at the wall. I could tell she was desperate. Not only had I refused food, but I had forsaken self-care and hygiene and hadn't stepped foot in a shower in twelve days. My thick hair was frizzy and tangled and smelled. I was soaking sanitary pads and refused to change them, fearful of washing away the evidence of childbirth.
In bed, I clutched the swaddling blankets the hospital sent home with me. Each fiber carried the lingering scent of Chase and Gavin—intoxicating, sweet, and musky. The blankets held more than their unmistakable aroma; they were stained with tiny drops of blood, proof of their devastatingly beautiful delivery. As I wept into them, I ran my fingers over the soft blue and pink striped flannel, tracing every memory of the night they were born. With the bedroom door closed tightly and my black curtains blocking out all light, I couldn't distinguish between day and night: no sun's rise and fall or birds' songs outside my windows. When my eyes burned from exhaustion, and I sought the reprieve of sleep, I pressed the dampened blankets to my nose, and, taking a long inhale to soak in the imprint of my babies; I closed my eyes. I had always found safety as a child and even as an adult in my childhood blankie that Mema crocheted. I'd pull it close and breathe in its smell to soothe myself. There it sat, cast to the side of my deflated pillow, Gavin and Chase's blankets in its place.
Sleep did not allow for a momentary pause in my grief. Instead, I wailed and shook. Tremors radiated down my body, and I thrashed my limbs from side to side as I relived haunting details from the delivery in my sleep, the shrieking in the delivery room, as I pleaded for the nurse to cease placing a needle into my bulging veins; my teeth chattering, as my body trembled with chills, the result of a rampant uterine infection. The images were vivid and horrific, yet the scenes were sacred and magnetic, pulling me closer to my boys' existence. Night after night, I woke, drenched in sweat, screeching into the darkness. "No! Come back! I want my babies," Bryce, startled from his sleep, would sit straight up in bed and frantically pull me into his arms, my body surrendering to his. Clinging to one another, we wept in silence.
In losing my children, I lost all the dreams for the family I had always imagined. I'd wake at night, my arms clenched around my stomach, only to realize it was no longer cradling two lives. All that remained was a still, slightly swollen postpartum abdomen with skin that was oddly rippled and folded. I felt inhuman and disgusted, and an overwhelming feeling of detachment from my former self overtook me. I wasn’t just grieving the departure of my boys but suffering unfulfilled hope as well. Their room, right down the short hallway from our bedroom, was to be a nautical nursery adorned with navy accents. We envisioned wooden oars affixed to the walls and chose a plush rug for them to play on. I even selected authentic sailing cleats to drape their towels on after changing into pajamas, imagining our after-bath time routine, and I registered for a beige rocking chair for late-night nursing sessions.
And then, my breast milk came in. No one warned me about this. The pressure of engorgement felt as if my chest was going to explode. Instead of warm infants pressed closely to my body, I got the reality of cold cabbage leaves stuffed into my bra and a hefty dose of antibiotics for the mastitis that had taken hold: fevers, body chills, and more Ativan to calm me. More days spent surrendering under the covers, a hot throbbing sensation pulsing throughout my upper body, shoving me further into seclusion. Severe depression and crippling anxiety descended upon me. "Why did they go and not me?" 'Why did my body fail?" These questions, among others, raced frantically through my mind as I tried to rationalize my altered reality, scrutinizing every life decision that led me to this point. Why was I being punished? I must have done something to deserve this hellish nightmare. The loss of Gavin and Chase had destroyed my will and faith to carry on, and I began to run through ways to end my life. I didn't own a gun, and I wasn't leaving my house to buy one, so that wasn't possible. Swallowing the whole bottle of Ativan was an option. Was drowning in the bathtub another?
"I would be better off dead; I wish I died too," I murmured one evening, sending fear like electricity through Bryce's body. I watched his shoulders rise to his ears and his breathing start to labor as if he were drawing air through a clogged straw. Bryce often cried at nighttime, sitting hunched over on the side of the bed with his head in his hands. I could feel the slight shake of the bed with each of his sobs. Afterward, when he hugged me, he rested his forehead on my shoulder, and his tears soaked my shirt.
Despite the pretense of daily functioning, making small meals for himself, managing hospital bills and my care, and chatting with visitors, Bryce was not alright. "Please," he pleaded, gasping for air between sobs, "I need you to stay. You can't leave me, too." But Bryce couldn't do anything to save me.
The choice to stay or go was solely in my hands.
PART III : STAR LIGHT, STAR BRIGHT
When I was seven and my sister, Jaime, two years my elder, each night, our mom tucked us into our separate twin beds, smoothed the covers around our shoulders, and recited our nightly prayer: Now I lay me down to sleep, with angels at my head and feet. Thank you for this wondrous day and keep me safe in every way. God bless everyone I love and everyone who loves me. Amen. I would gaze up at the night sky, searching for the North Star. And when I found it: Star light, star bright, first star I see tonight. I wish I may; I wish I might have the wish I wish tonight: I wish for a brother. My parents weren't planning on expanding our family, and my sister and I had long ago graduated from diapers, car seats, and naps. But despite that fact and my sister's mockery of me, "Janine, why are you so obsessed with babies? It's so weird!" I continued my ritual.
One night, our mom came into our room and, forgoing our routine, gathered us on one bed. "I have news to share," she announced, "It better be a bike," Jaime shot back. "What is it?" I asked. Mom was grinning. "Tell us! TELL US!!," I impatiently begged. "We're having a baby!" It's a brother, Joseph James." I threw my arms excitedly around her neck and thanked her over and over. Jaime rolled her eyes in disgust.
We called our brother "J.J." for short. When he was born, I wanted him constantly by my side and most days abandoned my usual imaginative playtime to care for him. Jaime went about her life: She got her bike and raced it through the neighborhood, sporting her uniform of black and white Adidas Sambas and Umbro shorts. I was happy to toss a burp rag over my shoulder and rock J.J. to sleep.
I sang his favorite song, "Don't Worry Be Happy" by Bobby McFerrin, until my throat was dry.
Here's a little song I wrote
You might want to sing it note for note
Don't worry, be happy
In every life, we have some trouble
But when you worry, you make it double
Don't worry, be happy
Don't worry, be happy now.
Most days, I refused to go to school, insisting that our mom would neglect J.J.'s care if I were not home. She found this comical; my mom devoted her entire day to looking after him. We joked that I was out for her job! I loved changing his diaper, lifting his spoon to his mouth, and bathing him. I pulled him down our street in a red Radio Flyer wagon and taught him to walk and talk, hoping "Neanie" – my family nickname—would be his first word.
As a little girl, my favorite make-believe activity was playing "restaurant." I'd pretend I was the Executive Chef. I'd drape crocheted blankets over the blue and brown Little Tikes table and set the colorful plastic dishes and utensils on top. My menus were simple, usually scraps of paper leftover from art projects, a few suggested words, but mostly scribbles—more of a choose-your-own-adventure kind of establishment. At the play stovetop, I whipped up Fisher Price waffles, topped with a fluorescent yellow plastic square of butter, served alongside a rubber piece of bacon and a make-believe maple syrup dispenser. The kind that, when tipped, the liquid disappears, making it magically lifelike. For lunch, I relied on my McDonald's hamburger maker, the buns Nilla wafers, the meat a combination of Rice Krispie’s, peanut butter, and cocoa powder, and fruit roll-ups cut into cheese and tomato shapes for the toppings. These sugar-laden specialties were served with a slice of white Wonder bread fed through the provided crank cutter to form them into "fries." For looks, I finished them with cinnamon-sugar "salt and pepper”. I fed my baby dolls out of real bottles filled with baby powder combined with water to resemble formula and mashed-up peas from the freezer. My mother wasn't thrilled with my concoctions. I was a messy chef and not the best dishwasher.
Some days, I prepared food in the backyard, grilling “hot dogs” and “chicken legs” on the pretend grill. I crushed blades of grass, red and purple flowers, and dandelions for vibrant side dishes. All my customers loved my dirt soup with mulch and twigs for texture. There was no limit to what I could create from the simplest and fakest ingredients in the basement and backyard of Chickadee Lane. Playing pretend was my identity. I lived out my wildest fantasies of becoming a mother, a doctor (that didn't pan out), a wife, nourishing others and sparking joy with my culinary prowess. I longed to have tiny eyes looking up at me, to wear a flowing white gown and my mother's lace-trimmed veil (which later was my ‘something borrowed’ at my wedding). As my J.J. grew, I dressed him in firefighter hats and police costumes, and built his elaborate Lego creations. I'd rummage through the play kitchen, banging miniature pots and pans, then place the rubbery mound of noodles topped with what looked like congealed sauce and two mini meatballs onto a plate. I forced J.J. to be a customer at my pretend café.
- J.J., tell me you want spaghetti marinara.
- Do you want parmesan cheese? Say: "Yes, Neanie."
I'd grab a small bowl and sprinkle tiny pieces of cut-up yellow construction paper over the spaghetti. After his "meal," I'd place fake scoops of ice cream into a bowl for dessert. He'd "pay" me, then run off to play with his Matchbox cars.
***
On day 17 of my isolation, I heard J.J.'s voice crack as he opened my bedroom door. "Janine, can I come in?" He was nineteen years old, had graduated high school, and was a kid who played flag football with his friends and snuck beers. Without eye contact, I nodded my head yes. Jaime had been trying to coax me into allowing her to enter my room for weeks so she could care for me; I shut her out completely. But I couldn't turn my baby brother away. I knew Jaime could handle my distance. J.J. couldn't. At first, his movements were calculated and awkward, his hand lightly resting on my bony shoulder as he sat on the edge of my bed. Instantly, guilt gripped my heart. He was so sad. I had always been his protector, mother figure, and a source of joy. He softly rubbed my shoulder as he spoke quietly yet firmly. "I found a therapist. She lost her son when he was six, so I think she might understand," he offered. I watched his face wince as if to brace for the impact of my anger and refusal. "Please, Janine, will you talk to her?" he asked.
I am not sure it was courage that pulled me out of bed that day. Instead, it’s possible it was the force of motherhood that J.J. had awakened in me.
One foot at a time, I mustered what little physical strength I had left to swing my legs over the side of the bed. With my feet on the floor, Bryce supported my upper body and pulled me to standing, a wave of dizziness rushing over me. I wobbled, my knees buckling as they adjusted to support my weight. He lifted my dirty grey V-neck t-shirt over my head and replaced it with a bra and a clean tank top. I cringed as he changed me. That shirt was the one I wore while on bedrest in the hospital. My pregnant belly once filled it out, causing its fibers to stretch beyond their capacity. The fabric had lost its original shape, hung oddly on my body, and reeked with a lack of self-care.
Bryce led me into our compact bathroom, the small window above the claw-footed tub revealing the only daylight I had seen since arriving home. My eyes squinted to adjust to the sun. As I leaned over the pedestal sink and splashed cool water onto my face, I saw myself in the bathroom mirror, utterly unrecognizable. My puffy eyes seethed with loneliness, the circles underneath them shadowed bluish. My skin was pale and dull. The once-naïve, hopeful, vibrant, optimistic, and confident woman had vanished. The person staring back at me was skeletal and hollow, and she was carrying battle wounds, her survival hanging by a thread. I abandoned my reflection, hid behind my oversized sunglasses, and made my way, tread by tread, down three flights of stairs. And back to the car.