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The New York Times had a piece last week on the formation of accidental ritual in the form of YouTube videos after a stillbirth. It’s a form of connection and mourning that didn’t exist even ten years ago and is now an outlet for parents processing grief.

Findings from research into these videos after a stillbirth found:

[They] average about 5.5 minutes. And they tend to follow a familiar script. The first section shows happy scenes and color images of the pregnant mother, everybody smiling. Midway through, tragic news comes as a shock, symbolized with an abrupt change to black and white. This second section tends to include religious imagery, photos of the stillborn baby, and a mournful song, often one with lyrics about child loss.

And by following that loose script, the video becomes a crucial (and depending on your culture, missing) ritual: “The repetitive nature of a ritual imbues it with social meaning, which is larger than an individual.” It’s cathartic for the creator, and it’s cathartic for the viewer as a place to set their own grief, either due to their own stillbirth or because they have a connection to the video creator. “YouTube has become a kind of virtual cemetery for parents experiencing stillbirth.”

I love that the article also points out that the video becomes a way to mark a life, not just a death. “This also helped the Fishers to convey their loss to loved ones. ‘I think without the video it may have been more difficult for people to comprehend that she was here,’ said Ms. Fisher.”

A few days ago, Carolyn Hax had a great point about painting grief and disappointment with the same brush; treating both as something to get over or put in perspective.

A person wrote her because they were having trouble getting through a series of deaths, all in a row. Hax answered:

“I know there is so much worse stuff going on in the world right now.” This can be a useful thought exercise for dealing with disappointment, say, but for grief, especially on so many fronts? There’s no “first-world loss,” there’s just loss — unless your Mercedes-Benz has died.

I hate the usage of “first-world” as a slang term — it’s a demeaning term — but I love how she shuts down the Pain Olympics thoughts. Or really, the opposite of the Pain Olympics thoughts, since this is the person minimizing their loss and self-judging their ability to deal with it. Loss is loss. Marking your own as “better” or “worse” doesn’t change the circumstances or the feelings of grief.

I was thinking about it the next day as I watched the news about Notre Dame. Hax’s words came back to me: “there’s just loss.” This is a loss, and while it is good that so much was saved, it doesn’t minimize the deep grief at watching history go up in flames.

We shouldn’t need permission to mourn, but it’s always good to have the reminder.

Many years ago, my cousin was a student at Gallaudet (the only university for the deaf in the US), and she asked if I wanted to come to a play that night on the campus.  Sure.  I’m always game for theater.

But my takeaway from the performance — seeing theater signed — was an emotional expansion of the experience of theater.  I’m not deaf, but seeing a play signed changed my world. It was like… theater+ to see a play paired with a language that naturally complements the art in the same way that the round vowels of Italian lend themselves to opera.

Then, a few years ago, we were watching the Tony’s and caught Deaf West’s performance of a scene from Spring Awakening.

Again, it was theater+. I couldn’t stop talking to people about that performance.

Josh mentioned about a year and a half ago that Olney Theatre was going to workshop The Music Man. The idea for the performance came from Joey Caverly, recently in Children of a Lesser G-d on Broadway, and it grew and grew, looping in deaf and hearing actors alike (including the actress who opened that clip from Deaf West above). For a year and a half, the kind people at Olney Theatre got to endure me asking whether I could sit in on a day of the workshop over and over again.

Fast forward to last week. I got to sit in on two hours of rehearsal.

It was incredible. Mind-expanding. Emotional. Beautiful. I walked out of there grateful that I got to witness it. Turner Hitt’s write-up about the experience says it best: “This week-long workshop would light a fire under the pants of every single person involved.” The fire is lit. I’m just a witness, and I’m now dedicated to doing everything I can to help them bring it to the stage because I want everyone else to get to see it, too.

So expect me to talk about this. A lot. Because it was that good and everyone should get a chance to sit in a room and understand how much larger theater can be.  Or as Turner so perfectly puts it:

Every single one of us walked away with the realization that this kind of process and product has the potential to radically change musical theatre–to make it more inclusive and accessible, and to celebrate what every individual has to offer.

The twins (clearly) share a birthday, so we’ve had a tradition since birth that every year, they would each get a surprise extra day that was their day.  They would choose the activities and meals and be generally celebrated like a birthday.  They wouldn’t know when this extra day would appear; they would just wake up in the morning and see the decorations and have 24 hours to be smothered in attention.

A few months ago, I started seeing ads on Facebook for a museum in Delaware (Winterthur) that was hosting the costumes from The Crown.  Can you imagine anything more perfect for ChickieNob Day?  We got tickets for this past weekend, and I spent the weeks leading up to it doing everything in my power to not scream, “I HAVE A SURPRISE PLANNED FOR YOU.”

She had no clue where we were going or what would be there until we walked into the building.  Her little mind was blown.

And it was such a good exhibit.  They did a great job giving a behind-the-scenes look at how the costumes and props were made.  It was amazing to see them up-close.  Can you name the scenes where these were  worn?

Afterward, we went on a tour of the grounds.  (Oh, and we kicked off the visit with a guided tour of the permanent collection.)

It was such a great day.  And the exhibit is there until late December if you’re on the east coast.

There’s a vegan restaurant nearby that changes its menu four times per year.  There are one or two items that remain constant, but most of them change from season to season.  I know this would be a big plus for some people, but I hate it.  If I like something, I want to be able to get it again, and there have been too many times  when I can’t find anything I want on their menu.  When that happens, I need to either avoid the restaurant or go with a salad I could make at home until they change their menu again, three months later.

Today is the menu changing day.  They finally had something I really liked on their menu and now it’s gone.  I’m going to spend the morning hitting refresh on their site until they post, moping that they took away my sandwich.

*******

Our amazing vet sent a letter that she is retiring this summer. I immediately called the office, trying to keep the tears out of my voice. Why did she have to retire? Why did she have to enjoy golf and hanging out with her husband? Why did she need to purchase a house in a different state?

They don’t have anyone else on staff who can take care of Linus. They are working to get another vet who specializes in small mammals, but baring that, I need to go to a different practice. We have a backup vet that we used for Truman once when our main vet wanted a second opinion, so we’ll go to her if they don’t get another vet in our main office, but I’m really sad.

A theme to my week may be “I don’t like change,” but it’s more than that. She coached me through Cozy’s death and Truman’s death. She was there in my hardest moments, when I was all alone in the office, needing to make a terrible end-of-life decisions. She was so caring, with Cozy and Truman AND with me. And I’m going to miss her. I’ll miss her guidance, but I’ll also miss her care.