Poems & Essays

07 Oct

Review of Kelly Kittel’s Breathe

In Mother Words Blog 5 Responses

Review By Jennie Robertson

When reviewing a book, I ask myself such things as: Was it an enjoyable read, Did the plot make a logical progression, Are the characters believable, Is the information helpful? Having read Kelly Kittel’s Breathe: A Memoir of Motherhood, Grief, and Family Conflict, the question foremost in my mind is, “How dare I say anything at all about this family’s huge tragedy?” I wish I could just cry with Kittel and tell her how very, very sorry I am that this happened to her.

The details are plentiful, raw and vivid. Kittel remembers every single thing that happened at this horrific period in her family’s history. The story is compelling and suspenseful, and that suspense is certainly necessary to keep you reading a story so filled with tragedy: Kittel’s toddler son, Noah, was killed in an accident and nine months later, a second son, Jonah, was stillborn. On top of that, her formerly close relationship with her in-laws turned hostile, her marriage was strained, and, ultimately, she and her husband ended up taking their obstetrician to court.

That telling this story was cathartic to Kittel, there is no doubt, but what does it do for the reader? Kelly’s cherishing of her children, remembering the curves of their cheeks and the fluttering of their eyelashes and their weight in her arms, has changed my enjoyment of my own children for the better. I am relishing their childhood more, despite frequent frustration. I treasure moments and details more, their coziness beside me, their chatter at bedtime, their songs and jokes. The most important role of the book, I believe, is that it memorializes two people that the world would not know otherwise, Noah and Jonah Kittel. If only for them, one should read Breathe.

It is a testament to Kittel’s strength as a writer and her integrity as a person that she tells her story in such a way that I can imagine her sister-in-law’s motivations when she is sometimes brusque, rude, aggressive, hurtful; I can trace the line of tragedy and hardship in Cody’s own life—mothering an already troubled teen who is then scarred by tragedy, a painful and costly lawsuit against her husband that colored her perception of medical lawsuits in general. These tragedies aren’t on a par with the deaths of two children; they are nonetheless very weighty and life-changing. It is generous for Kittel to allow me to feel sympathy for both herself and her adversary.

Breathe does end on a hopeful note, with the births of babies Isaiah and Bella into the Kittel family, bringing comfort and joy with them.

Breathe is a book that reads easily and quickly, but the sadness lingers for a long, long time. Do read it, but steel yourself to face unthinkable sorrow. I think Kittel describes it best herself:

“A memoir about grief and family conflict may not be the story you feel like reading; Lord knows it’s not the story I felt like living…telling the story of my sons is the last thing I can do for them besides carry their cells to my grave. My story isn’t always pleasant, though it has many joyful moments. And it may not always be believable, because truth is stranger than fiction. But if you need a kindred spirit to help you untangle the weave of your own undeniable grief or family drama, know that I wrote this for you.”

Kelly-author-best-copy-199x300                               Breathe-Cover-1479543_446052098832060_1647607536_n-194x300


Kelly Kittel is an author and a mother. She’s had 13 pregnancies and has five living children, her best work beyond compare. She lives with her husband and their three youngest children on Aquidneck Island but her favorite writing space is in their yurts on the coast of Oregon. She has written many notes to teachers and has been published in blogs, magazines and anthologies. Her first book, Breathe, A Memoir of Motherhood, Grief, and Family Conflict, was recently awarded the IPNE Book of the Year and Best Narrative Nonfiction Book and was also an award-winning Honorable Finalist in the Readers Choice International Book Awards. She can be found at www.kellykittel.com.

Book Giveaway:  Kelly loves to meet with book groups. Be the first book group to invite Kelly to meet with your group to discuss Breathe and she will send your group one free copy of Breathe. (Kelly will visit in person in RI or Southern MA  or by Skype if you are located outside of this area.) Contact Kelly through the comments section on her website.

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05 Oct


In Mother Words Blog 2 Responses


A while ago, a friend and colleague received some devastating news. She and her husband were expecting their second daughter, and at over three months into the pregnancy they had assumed everything was fine. A routine ultrasound unexpectedly revealed multiple birth defects and a tumor, called a terratoma, attached to the base of the baby’s spine.

They were told they could choose to terminate this pregnancy, as the effects of those birth defects were not clear. Or, they could try to carry the baby to term and hope that surgery might be able to correct the problems.

As she shared her news with me, her despair carefully but not completely masked, I was brought back to the moment many years earlier, when I had received similar news. A tiny tsunami of nausea intermingled with terror and regret, flooded my body.

My first pregnancy was planned, but happened sooner than expected. Exhausted from full time work and a year of studying for a post-grad certification, my body was not in peak condition. My husband and I had fully intended to start trying for a baby once my exams were over, but the universe was impatient and so conception was precipitous.

We were overjoyed none-the-less, and I did what assume every mother-to-be did. I bought parenting books, baby-name books, maternal vitamins, I started to worry about never sleeping again, and I prepared to say goodbye to my thirty-something pre-baby body.

Despite my focused efforts to nurture this tiny creature percolating inside my weary body, I worried. Something indefinable, a small irritating something, pricked at my consciousness and created unrest.

I had been diagnosed with hypothyroidism in my twenties but frequent testing revealed that medication had it under control. Unfortunately, during the early days of this pregnancy, my TSH levels fluctuated widely. Concerned, I scoured every available source to determine if this would impact my pregnancy. I found no information confirming this fear.

Still I worried.

Six years earlier, my husband’s brother and his wife had delivered their first child. They were both in their early thirties at the time with no health concerns, and so were stunned when their beautiful little girl was born with Trisomy 21, Down’s syndrome. The family was shocked but fell immediately in love with this sweet child. One month later, my husband’s sister and her husband gave birth to their own little girl. Her appearance raised concerns. Her small, low set ears, and the epicanthal folds covering the inside corners of her eyes seemed to suggest she suffered from the same genetic condition as her cousin. Further testing revealed that although she did not have Down’s syndrome, she did have other genetic concerns.

So I worried.

A dating ultrasound at eleven weeks had shown our baby’s crown-rump length, a measurement used to determine the developmental age of a fetus, to be off. “No worries,” they assured me. “You’re dates are just off a bit.”

I told myself to heed their words, but I could not. I knew my dates were not off. Still, I pushed away my concern and tried to carry on as if all was well.

But I still worried.

With this knowledge chewing holes in my stomach, with my husband’s unusual family history, and with the persistent itch of worry that continued to keep me awake at night, I finally asked my family doctor to send me for genetic counseling. He did, but grudgingly, convinced my concern was unfounded.

My appointment with the genetic counselor would be at 20 weeks of pregnancy, and I would have a detailed ultrasound at the same appointment. Outwardly calm I was calm, but inside I was a mangled mess of misery.

My husband was unable to come to the appointment with me because of work commitments, so I drove to the hospital on my own, chanting my mantra, ‘All will be well, don’t stress about this,’ for the entire trip.

The counselor was the perfect combination of concern and reassurance. She went over our detailed family history and explained that both cousins were victims of multifactorial causes, and nothing that could be passed on genetically. And, my thyroid problems were a non-issue. There was absolutely nothing for me to worry about. “Relax,” she told me.

I worried all the way down to the ultrasound appointment.

Lying on the table, bladder filled to the point of panic, I watched the monitor and the grainy black and white pictures that filled the screen.

A beating heart, all four chambers clearly visible, and a small hand that stretched upwards were comforting signs that all was well. The baby rolled, and I could make out tiny linking segments. The spine. But, as I scrunched my eyes to make out more details, the technician spoke.

My heart stuttered. Dread, like a lead lined casket, descended and crushed.

“I’m just going to borrow the screen for a moment, dear.”

She punched the keyboard and swirled the sound head over my swollen belly. The clacking of the keys and the ‘swoosh’ of metal over gel covered skin were the only sounds in the room. I’m sure my breathing had stopped.

She spoke again, “I’ll be right back. I’m just going to get the doctor.”

As the door closed behind her, all sound disappeared. The air, heavy and thick, refused to enter my lungs. My hands flew to my stomach, to the child I had just watched roll happily in its liquid world, and I finally managed to take a gasping breath.

The term for my baby’s condition was Acrania, a neural tube defect, a failure of the bony components of the skeletal system to develop properly and fuse. A condition that was not compatible with life.

Not compatible with life. What a horribly tidy way to sum up a baby’s future. Our baby. MY baby. Safe and secure within his watery world, rolling and reaching and hanging on to life with a tiny fervor; he was doomed.

I had a choice, they told me. Ha. A choice?

I could try to carry the baby to term, but it was likely he wouldn’t survive that long. If he did and I delivered, he would not survive the birth. If they did a caesarian, he would die soon after. Or, I could terminate the pregnancy before the baby suffered even more.

Oh yes, a choice.

My family doctor, staunchly pro-life, was surprisingly supportive. He told us to feel no remorse over our decision. We were not terminating a life but instead a non-viable life form.

My husband told me he would stand by whatever decision I made. After all, the doctor had told us it was non-viable-life-form, and it was my body.

I slammed him with a look that should have ruptured his aorta. “It…is not a non-viable-life form. It…is a baby. Our baby. Then I promptly dissolved into a quivering pile of 20% terror, 20% guilt and 60% despair.

In the end, we did what they expected us to do. To terminate the pregnancy at twenty-two weeks meant that after being induced and enduring labor, I would have to deliver this child.

It took ten days to make the arrangements.

Ten long days, during which I stared at every pregnant mother I saw, wondering if she was taking proper care of her unborn child. Was she drinking coffee, or alcohol? Was she eating properly? Did she take her vitamins, and especially her folic acid supplement? (The doctor told us that taking adequate folic acid could prevent most neural tube defects.)

Ten tortuous days, in which I lost more than a little bit of my mind. I’d sit and rub my belly, singing a disturbing little ditty, “Momma’s going to kill you don’t you know,” to the tune of “Momma’s going to buy you a mocking bird.”

My poor husband didn’t know what to do. It wasn’t his fault. He didn’t understand. The baby was not real to him yet. He did not feel the connection that every woman who has carried a life within her body knows.

From the instant my pregnancy was confirmed, the baby was real to me. The physical effects of pregnancy are hard to deny: nausea, weight gain, tender and enlarged breasts, and finally the movement. Those tiny tickles of touch that at first you’re not really sure about. Then as the movement grows stronger, you know.

Sadly a man never gets to experience that.

He offered his support by never questioning any of my reactions. He just loved me.

And so we made it through the process physically intact, but emotionally scarred. I have only a hazy memory of the events of that day, perhaps from the pain medication, or perhaps because I have blocked those memories. I think it’s better I can’t remember.

I have regrets.

I regret I didn’t know about folic acid.

I regret we got pregnant before my body was ready.

I regret not holding my son. I had been too terrified of losing what was left of my mind to do so. I was a coward.

I regret being a coward.

I regret not having a funeral for him.

But, I do not regret having him. We named him Simon.

His gifts to us were his sisters. If things had worked out differently, if I had not gotten pregnant with Simon at that particular moment, if he had been born healthy at full term, then the eggs that became my two amazing daughters would not have been fertilized by the spermatozoa that gave them each the other half of their genetic material.

If Simon had not existed neither would have my two beautiful daughters.

I try to find comfort in that knowledge. My girls know they had a brother who did not survive and they know they are his gifts to us. They also know they need to take folic acid before they consider getting pregnant. I made sure of that.

My colleague decided to try to carry her baby to full term. Although the doctors had never seen a baby with two such rare birth defects, a heart defect known as atrophic left ventricle syndrome, and a terratoma, there was a chance surgical intervention could save the baby’s life.

The tumor was removed immediately following her birth. By the time she was delivered, the tumor had grown to four pounds.

Surgery to correct the underdeveloped left side of her heart took place as soon as she was stable and strong enough after the first operation, to tolerate the second.

Unfortunately, upon opening the baby’s chest, the surgeon discovered her heart was more severely malformed than he had anticipated. So much so that he had no idea of what to do for her. He improvised and she survived the surgery. The first attempt to take her off the heart lung bypass machine failed. They had to put her back on. When she was stable, they tried again. Again she failed. They told my friends they could try only one more time. If her heart failed to beat following this attempt, they could not put her back on the machine again.

Her heart failed to start. Fifteen days after they welcomed their precious daughter to the world, they had to say goodbye.

I watched them struggle to make sense of everything that happened to their tiny daughter. I saw their stress, their heartbreak, and the emotional roller coaster they were on, and I knew the pain their precious girl had to endure. I also watched them hold that tiny girl in their arms and kiss her with a powerful love.

They had fifteen days to love their sweet baby. I had none.

I was filled with sadness for their loss, but also with an intolerable regret for our own. I worried all over again that we had made the wrong decision. Then I realized that although their child had as little chance of surviving as ours did, they were given one formidable gift we weren’t.



Leslie Wibberley is physiotherapist by profession, a slightly maddened mother to two outstanding young women and one slightly insane cocker spaniel, and wife to a loving and extremely tolerant husband. Writing has always been her passion but one she has only recently re-committed her life to. With one middle grade novel complete, one young adult novel in the throngs of revision, and numerous short stories and personal essays lying in repose in her beloved MacBook Air, she is now proud to call herself a writer. Her article RAISING A CHILD WITH SPECIAL NEEDS, A DIFFERENT PERSPECTIVE recently won 6th place in Writer’s Digest annual contest.

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02 Oct

At Fourteen, He Rages Red Ash

General/Column 6 Responses

splatters my collarbone
arms, cheeks. Blooming like freckles,
his anger rests
heavy. A body clothed, plunged into water
down coat boots and jeans and
sinking hate that he rests
where it is safe, where it can be picked
up again when he needs it,
leaving only the imprint of the burn.

It’s just a Learning
Disability, but Listen hides behind the words
like a have-a-heart-trap
cloaked in his old blue blanket,
chicken nugget resting inside.

I don’t want your help.
I’m not the classic case you think I am.

Suns, still shiny as Jawbreakers, lumber
East to West, forecasting alteration as if
the star were a crystal ball and not
some ancient scorching truth
stamping marks as it goes.

I wait for his view to change.
The way day changes our seat on the train
or the way we like
Brussels Sprouts now.


Sabrina Fedel holds her MFA in creative writing from Lesley Univesity and writes from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, where she lives with her three children, four cats, one dog, and one husband, generally in that order. You may learn more about her at her website, Destination Providence, at www.sabrinafedel.com.

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28 Sep

No One Prepared Me For This

General/Column 10 Responses

No one prepared me for this.

Sure, I read the parenting books that told me my job as a parent was to help my children grow up to be independent adults, and to send them happily off to make their way in the world.

It all sounded easy on paper, and in the early throngs of motherhood when I would have sold my soul for an uninterrupted night of sleep, it even sounded desirable.

But that was then.

Now that my two girls are both on the cusp of branching out into independent lives, it has become quite another story. A new story I am desperately struggling to rewrite into one with a much happier ending, at least for me. A new tale in which they stay happily ensconced in our family home with me as their beloved matriarch; until I no longer need them.

That’s right. Me, need them.

I have spent so many hours, days, months, and years with their lives completely intertwined with my own, it has become impossible for me to comprehend a new reality that does not include them on a yearly, monthly, daily, and hourly basis. They have been the reason for ninety-nine percent of everything I have done for so long, I find myself at a loss to decipher exactly what my purpose is now supposed to be.

This past summer my youngest moved out with her boyfriend for the relatively short period of eight weeks, mostly for the convenience of commuting to her summer job, but also to try on the mantle of independence. She is doing quite well. I, however, am not. Four a.m. seems to be my personal witching hour. In the black of night my racing heart pulls me from the depths of sleep. I wake in a panic; pulse throbbing in my temples, and the worry begins. Is she safe? Was this the right move for her? Will he break her heart? And finally, the kicker: why does she not need me like I need her?

My baby is gone.

My baby is looking to someone else for guidance and support.

My baby is growing up and away from me.

She will return in the fall to continue her studies at university, but then it will be even harder for me to keep at arms length. She has proven herself capable of surviving on her own, so how to stop myself from stepping in and trying to take charge again?

I’m not quite sure how our relationship is going to survive this new reality.

And, just when I have begun to accept this foreshadowing of things to come, my oldest tells me she has been looking for an apartment.

My heart, still reeling from my youngest daughter’s departure, now stutters in panic at the thought of losing another.

I am torn. Proud that my girl is self sufficient enough, both financially and emotionally, to consider this move but devastated that she is now financially and emotionally independent enough to consider this move.

Where is the instruction manual that would have prepared me for this? Telling me my job is to prepare my children to move forward into their own independent lives is useless. That part I understand. What I need to know now, is how to accept that they have reached that point.

Why is it that the majority of parenting books are focused on mothering children from birth to the toddler years? As far as I’m concerned that was the easy part, and a job at which I excelled. I was a great mother; creative, compassionate, caring and above all, involved.

My heart wants to continue to be all those things. It does not know how to stop. Some parts will still be acceptable to my children; that last bit? Not so much.

So now what? Shouldn’t there be some rulebook for us menopausal mothers? Some wonderful tome filled with sage advice to assist us in this transition?

Maybe I’ll have to write that book myself, and then when that middle-of-the-night witching hour arrives, I won’t be worrying, I’ll be writing.


Leslie Wibberley is physiotherapist by profession, a slightly maddened mother to two outstanding young women and one slightly insane cocker spaniel, and wife to a loving and extremely tolerant husband. Writing has always been her passion but one she has only recently re-committed her life to. With one middle grade novel complete, one young adult novel in the throngs of revision, and numerous short stories and personal essays lying in repose in her beloved MacBook Air, she is now proud to call herself a writer. Her article RAISING A CHILD WITH SPECIAL NEEDS, A DIFFERENT PERSPECTIVE recently won 6th place in Writer’s Digest annual contest.

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