Unless you live under a rock, you have most likely heard about the recent issues surrounding nurses and some comments made by co-hosts of "The View". Apparently, some things were said in a moment of ignorance, perhaps even disinterest. It's caused quite the uproar. And as a nurse myself, I have a reaction to this as well.
I'm actually grateful for the moment. I think we all have periods of ignorance and we may have even made the mistake of voicing that publicly. However, do any of us really know what other professions do with their day? I have no idea what goes into a day in the life of a mechanic. I couldn't pretend to understand the day to day goings on of a schoolteacher. In fact, it would probably be rather enlightening to sit down with others from time to time just to catch a glimpse of who they are professionally.
And admittedly, I too felt that hair-raising sensation when I heard the pageant contestants scrubs referred to as a "nurse's costume" and her equipment called a "doctor's stethoscope". But, I think we have those kinds of reactions to things when we fear that there is an element of truth to how we're perceived. As nurses, we do a lot of the grunt work. We're also responsible for people's lives, their well-being, their overall health. And although all of that is obviously vitally important, we neglect to give ourselves and our co-workers the credit for our work. We can be our own worst enemy at times. I think we owe it to ourselves and our profession to take a look at why this outrage was felt on such a deep and personal level. I believe we can do better, as a nursing community, to remind ourselves and our fellow co-workers, just how important our work has always been.
How do we do that? We give credit where credit is due. That means building each other up, and recognizing the hard work and compassion it takes to do this life-saving job. And that means ALL of us, from the newest nursing student, to the chief nursing officer. All of our jobs are vitally important. I would encourage nurses to purposely engage in a conversation with a new nursing student. They walk into a situation knowing very little about the day to day happenings, but are wide-eyed with desire to learn. TEACH them. Let's work hard to completely eradicate our self-inflicted "eat your young" mentality. I don't know about you, but someday I'd like to be able to take a vacation. And how does that happen? Someone else is doing my job, while I take time off. Part of being a good nurse means that we worry about our patients even when we're not clocked in for the day. I personally want to know that if I do happen to take some time off, that my patients will be well taken care of by the new nurses coming to our units. How do we do that? We encourage one another. We show them just what using a "doctor's stethoscope" means. We ask them to be a part of our team. We thank them for sharing our love of nursing, because let's face it, you can't do this job without passion. The work is too hard to do simply to collect a paycheck.
Even the most cynical and negative person you work with is passionate about her job. It may be habit for her to spout negativity, but as her co-worker, you see the compassion and care she gives to her patient at the bedside. Remind her of that when you can. And thank her for it. It's also equally as important to build up the positive person. She'll get wary after awhile, because the job is just hard. It is. There are bad days, and we all know it. Thank her for her contributions, for her positive attitude, and allow her a place to vent too. And why not build up our administration? Some of us can get awfully nit-picky about specific things happening within our workplace. We do the "talk behind her back" grade school thing, and forget that at one time, that administrator was a new nurse. She was wide-eyed and ignorant of the actual job, but filled with so much hope and compassion. She has worked her way to a position that may have taken her from the bedside, but it didn't erase her compassion, or her ability to be a good nurse. You may not always agree with the decision, but I guarantee that 99% of the time, the decision is made for the betterment of our jobs.
Conversely, administrative nurses must remember that feeling of fatigue after an extra shift. They must remember what it's like to lose a patient and then try to work again the next day. They must remember what it means to raise a family, while also providing excellent care to their patients while at work. Build up your staff. Let them know that you SEE them. You recognize their fatigue and their hard work. Hell, put on a pair of scrubs from time to time, and remember your roots, as they will reconnect you to your team.
So, what has a nurse done for me? Oh, I could fill a book with that information. When I had my first baby, it was a difficult and scary delivery. Things were not going well at all. It became a rather dire situation, in which a hysterectomy was possible. I was 21 years old. I was terrified. My family was terrified. And do you know what I remember? I remember Janeen. I remember Sandy. I remember their calm, compassionate faces. I remember their quick thinking and excellent skill. I remember getting to hold my baby for the first time, and because of their incredible knowledge and care, I would go on to experience that "first" three more times. I thank Janeen and Sandy.
That delivery stunned my son, and resulted in him being quite ill for awhile. But there were nurses there. Nurses whose skills and knowledge eventually brought my son to my room and helped him to nurse for the first time. A particular nurse was there to receive him and give him the necessary treatment he needed immediately after delivery. Her name was Rose. Thank you, Rose.
I had a miscarriage, and I was afraid and alone in the recovery room after surgery. I remember opening my eyes and seeing a face I didn't recognize. But it was a kind face. Her name was Wendy, and she held my hand and with tears in her eyes, told me that she was sorry for the loss of my baby. I thank Wendy.
And then of course there is my boy. My sweet, precious Easton. The nurses who made an impact on this child's life are immeasurable. In our hometown hospital, I remember Carla, and Crystal and Libby. We became repeat offenders to the pediatric unit, and seeing their faces always brought a sense of peace. I remember Becky. My phone call to her would be the first of many. Her continued excellence in the care of my son and my family is inspiring. When we had to travel to St. Louis Children's hospital, I saw a level of nursing care that I never knew existed. I continue to be in awe of the knowledge and skill level of these men and women. I remember Danielle, Lindsey, and Maggie. I remember Sarah and Ericka. I recall countless other faces that brought such relief in the most horrific time of my life. I watched as Lindsey administered pain medication at my request, as my son took his last breath in my arms. How do you thank someone for that? I'm not sure I'll ever know. But, I thank you. All of you.
Nurses are integral parts of the healthcare system. Without us, it would not survive. Without our compassion, our dedication, our sore feet, our tired eyes, our constant worry for people we don't even know, it would cease to exist. I encourage you to remind a nurse just what he/she means to you. We love to hear that our work hasn't gone unnoticed. And fellow nurses, instead of just anger at the ignorance, let's do what we do best. Let's teach them. Let's show them. Let's strengthen our profession by empowering one another and educating the public about our work. If that means using a "doctor's stethoscope", so be it. If it means donning our "nurse's costume", we can do that too. But do it with the kindness and compassion that you were born to share. #NursesUnite
Friday, September 18, 2015
Saturday, August 15, 2015
One Desk Short
It's coming. God, it's coming. The first day of school. I guess I was right about one thing...that first day is going to be hard. What I didn't know was why. The first day of every school year is hard. Now with social media, that day is full of pictures of kids dressed and ready for the day. ALL of their kids. That's the part that burns. It actually causes a physical reaction. My stomach will be in knots and it will feel as if someone is holding a lit match to my chest all day long.
I really wanted to feel the "burden" of buying school supplies for four children this year. I wanted so badly to complain about my empty nest and how time has flown and my baby has grown up. I realize now what a gift that complaint would have been. It used to anger me when people complained about things I no longer had the privilege of experiencing. Time has changed anger to encouragement. I say to those who get to experience the gift of this "last" to complain away! Do it. It's a gift you're being given. I'm not saying I'll receive it well, but that should never deter someone from having their own unique experience. I know the stab and twist of pain associated with the first day of school will come. But that's MY gift. It's my perspective and my experience.
Easton should be entering kindergarten this year. Most mothers who have lost children at a young age will tell you that this particular missed milestone is a big one. We notice the children of those mothers whose bellies were swollen right along with us. We see them with their new haircuts, their backpacks that look too big on their little bodies. We see their hesitancy at leaving mom's side. That burns. It causes such a fire inside that we will wonder if others can actually see the flames. We'll be simultaneously happy for them and crushed for our own missed opportunity.
So, dear teacher, this year you will be one student short. He would have had loose curls and brilliant blue eyes. He likely would have been ornery and I would have to apologize for his sheepish, guilty grin. He probably would have needed some extra help and I probably would have been a permanent fixture in your classroom. He would have been kind and loving. He would have been inclusive and brave. He would have held my hand to the door, but then let go willingly to try something new. He would have been amazing. And I'm sorry that you will not have the opportunity to teach him, because he would have had plenty to teach those around him. Teacher, I will watch your class this year from afar. I won't be signed up to bring in the snacks. I won't volunteer at class parties. And you won't see me at the parent/teacher conference. But I will still feel the ups and downs of your school year. I will watch silently as the five year old babies become 6 year old children. I thank you for your willingness to include me and my son in the ways that you already have. I know this year will get very busy. You'll have plenty to do, and time will fly. But, selfishly, I beg of you not to forget that you are one backpack, one set of gym shoes, one desk short. And that my broken heart will be with you and this very special class of 2028.
Happy first day of kindergarten, my precious boy.
I really wanted to feel the "burden" of buying school supplies for four children this year. I wanted so badly to complain about my empty nest and how time has flown and my baby has grown up. I realize now what a gift that complaint would have been. It used to anger me when people complained about things I no longer had the privilege of experiencing. Time has changed anger to encouragement. I say to those who get to experience the gift of this "last" to complain away! Do it. It's a gift you're being given. I'm not saying I'll receive it well, but that should never deter someone from having their own unique experience. I know the stab and twist of pain associated with the first day of school will come. But that's MY gift. It's my perspective and my experience.
Easton should be entering kindergarten this year. Most mothers who have lost children at a young age will tell you that this particular missed milestone is a big one. We notice the children of those mothers whose bellies were swollen right along with us. We see them with their new haircuts, their backpacks that look too big on their little bodies. We see their hesitancy at leaving mom's side. That burns. It causes such a fire inside that we will wonder if others can actually see the flames. We'll be simultaneously happy for them and crushed for our own missed opportunity.
So, dear teacher, this year you will be one student short. He would have had loose curls and brilliant blue eyes. He likely would have been ornery and I would have to apologize for his sheepish, guilty grin. He probably would have needed some extra help and I probably would have been a permanent fixture in your classroom. He would have been kind and loving. He would have been inclusive and brave. He would have held my hand to the door, but then let go willingly to try something new. He would have been amazing. And I'm sorry that you will not have the opportunity to teach him, because he would have had plenty to teach those around him. Teacher, I will watch your class this year from afar. I won't be signed up to bring in the snacks. I won't volunteer at class parties. And you won't see me at the parent/teacher conference. But I will still feel the ups and downs of your school year. I will watch silently as the five year old babies become 6 year old children. I thank you for your willingness to include me and my son in the ways that you already have. I know this year will get very busy. You'll have plenty to do, and time will fly. But, selfishly, I beg of you not to forget that you are one backpack, one set of gym shoes, one desk short. And that my broken heart will be with you and this very special class of 2028.
Happy first day of kindergarten, my precious boy.
Sunday, August 9, 2015
I'm Sorry You're Here
It's dark down here in this hole I've grown accustomed to calling "home." Its cold and dark. Sometimes it's quiet and sometimes you can hear the screaming for miles. It's crowded too. But, in some sort of sick and twisted trick of the universe, there will always be room for one more. I wish no one else ever had to come down here, but they do. And we recognize them as they join us.
For the first few days they'll be in such a bizarre tunnel of disbelief that they almost seem energized at times. This couldnt be happening. It isnt real. You can see the utter denial in their faces and body language. That denial is periodically pierced with realization and the stabbing pain it causes them is so powerful that it resonates through all of us. Our wounds are reopened at the sight of fresh agony.
It's an awful club, with forced membership and a lifetime sentence. We are the mothers whose children have left this earth before us. We recognize one another by the vacancy of our eyes. We hurt for one another on a level understood only by us. And we wish with our whole being that our numbers would never grow. But inevitably, they do...one more thing for which we have no control. We are powerless to spare another mother of this horror. So, we learn to live with our pain and lean on one another as we try to remember reasons for breathing.
And so I say to the newest members, the ones stumbling around in the dark of this place, certain that they are alone...we're here. We're here and we're hurting too. We're broken and in pain and at some point during your flailing about, you'll reach out and bump into one of us. We'll offer love and support, but never a fix. We know this can't be undone. The pain can't be removed. In fact, your pain will reignite in us, that same horrifying agony that we see in your eyes. But despite the pitch black that you see before you now, I can offer this...there will eventually be the smallest glimmer of light down here. There is a ladder that will take you out when you need to see the sun for a moment. Don't worry, you won't get there too quickly and you'll even stumble back down a few times on your way up. But there are hands to hold as you climb both ways, because if you'll notice, during your flailing, you ran into us. It's because we still need to be here sometimes. We need the feeling of solitude and the odd comfort of our new friend, grief.
Although it seems impossible to you now, you will find the ladder someday. Reach for those who have gone before you. They know the way. But for right now, scream. Hit things. Hurt. Be angry. Be LIVID. I am so sorry for your pain, dear sister. It's one I wish I would never have to share. I will see you in the dark, even if you can't see me.
For the first few days they'll be in such a bizarre tunnel of disbelief that they almost seem energized at times. This couldnt be happening. It isnt real. You can see the utter denial in their faces and body language. That denial is periodically pierced with realization and the stabbing pain it causes them is so powerful that it resonates through all of us. Our wounds are reopened at the sight of fresh agony.
It's an awful club, with forced membership and a lifetime sentence. We are the mothers whose children have left this earth before us. We recognize one another by the vacancy of our eyes. We hurt for one another on a level understood only by us. And we wish with our whole being that our numbers would never grow. But inevitably, they do...one more thing for which we have no control. We are powerless to spare another mother of this horror. So, we learn to live with our pain and lean on one another as we try to remember reasons for breathing.
And so I say to the newest members, the ones stumbling around in the dark of this place, certain that they are alone...we're here. We're here and we're hurting too. We're broken and in pain and at some point during your flailing about, you'll reach out and bump into one of us. We'll offer love and support, but never a fix. We know this can't be undone. The pain can't be removed. In fact, your pain will reignite in us, that same horrifying agony that we see in your eyes. But despite the pitch black that you see before you now, I can offer this...there will eventually be the smallest glimmer of light down here. There is a ladder that will take you out when you need to see the sun for a moment. Don't worry, you won't get there too quickly and you'll even stumble back down a few times on your way up. But there are hands to hold as you climb both ways, because if you'll notice, during your flailing, you ran into us. It's because we still need to be here sometimes. We need the feeling of solitude and the odd comfort of our new friend, grief.
Although it seems impossible to you now, you will find the ladder someday. Reach for those who have gone before you. They know the way. But for right now, scream. Hit things. Hurt. Be angry. Be LIVID. I am so sorry for your pain, dear sister. It's one I wish I would never have to share. I will see you in the dark, even if you can't see me.
Tuesday, July 7, 2015
"Don't Lick The Light Socket"
I've been doing some "stuff" lately. Stuff that looks an awful lot like living. That can be all-at-once, thrilling and scary, gratifying and guilt-provoking. Regardless, it's been happening...more and more "stuff".
I recently decided that grieving is a lot like being reborn. I found that thought ironic because the beginning absolutely felt like an end, my own death in many ways. I was so confused by the fact that I took another breath after my son took his last. It was a new breath, a broken one, but a breath all the same.
So, in its infancy, grief looks strikingly similar to a newborn. You spend much of your time crying out and flailing about aimlessly. You see things around you but you don't comprehend them. You babble incoherently, and do vritually nothing to ensure your own survival. Essentially, as far as functoning human beings are concerned, you're useless. It's the people around you who contribute to your successes in the quest for survival, not you.
Well, currently I feel like a toddler. I'm figuring out that if I pull up on things and let go of ledges for just a moment, I can sometimes get places on my own. But, like most toddlers, I'm falling a lot during these first steps, and I anticipate many more bruises.
I talked to a friend today on the phone and told her as such and her responose was epic. She said, "well, welcome to toddlerhood. Don't lick the light socket." I laughed out loud, as I often do when talking to her and thanked her for the encouragement. She then added, "you know, it may only look like you're licking the light socket. Maybe you're actually plugging in the vacuum cleaner. But I guess, if you do that, you'll have to vacuum. I'll let you decide if that's a win." Yes, she's a genius, this friend of mine, and I love her for it.
So, as I stumble through my toddlerhood and likely fall more times than I walk, I am trying to remember that I have at least moved past infancy. And although I imagine there will be times that I revert back, I will have at least taken a few more steps along the way.
Maybe these next steps will be great ones. Maybe they'll be the ones that lead to running.
Then again, maybe I'm just licking a light socket.
I recently decided that grieving is a lot like being reborn. I found that thought ironic because the beginning absolutely felt like an end, my own death in many ways. I was so confused by the fact that I took another breath after my son took his last. It was a new breath, a broken one, but a breath all the same.
So, in its infancy, grief looks strikingly similar to a newborn. You spend much of your time crying out and flailing about aimlessly. You see things around you but you don't comprehend them. You babble incoherently, and do vritually nothing to ensure your own survival. Essentially, as far as functoning human beings are concerned, you're useless. It's the people around you who contribute to your successes in the quest for survival, not you.
Well, currently I feel like a toddler. I'm figuring out that if I pull up on things and let go of ledges for just a moment, I can sometimes get places on my own. But, like most toddlers, I'm falling a lot during these first steps, and I anticipate many more bruises.
I talked to a friend today on the phone and told her as such and her responose was epic. She said, "well, welcome to toddlerhood. Don't lick the light socket." I laughed out loud, as I often do when talking to her and thanked her for the encouragement. She then added, "you know, it may only look like you're licking the light socket. Maybe you're actually plugging in the vacuum cleaner. But I guess, if you do that, you'll have to vacuum. I'll let you decide if that's a win." Yes, she's a genius, this friend of mine, and I love her for it.
So, as I stumble through my toddlerhood and likely fall more times than I walk, I am trying to remember that I have at least moved past infancy. And although I imagine there will be times that I revert back, I will have at least taken a few more steps along the way.
Maybe these next steps will be great ones. Maybe they'll be the ones that lead to running.
Then again, maybe I'm just licking a light socket.
Friday, June 26, 2015
Leave It To Pixar...
Leave it to Pixar to explain my feelings better than I'm able to do myself. If you haven't seen the new movie "Inside Out", I encourage you to see it. It applies to everyone with its excellent description of the emotions within all of us. For me, it helped to give a voice to my own roller coaster of crazy.
I experience so many feelings throughout the course of the day, and all of them stem from my grief in one way or another. But, that doesn't necessarily mean that I'm "sad." In fact, I'm never just "sad." It's true that I have really awful moments in which the pain of my grief threatens to swallow me up and propel me into some kind of dark abyss. However, it's also true that I have incredibly joyous moments. In fact, I don't believe I had experienced true happiness in a moment until I lost my child. That sounds very strange, and writing it even feels wrong, but then...it's true.
The thing is, I'm everything all at once. It's exhausting, but it's also just the way that it is now. I have incredible moments with my family in which I'm so humbled and grateful for the experience, but simultaneously angry and hurt at the piece that is missing. One emotion does not negate the other, and I believe they're both equally important to the process. In fact, I think you NEED one to accompany the other.
I think at the beginning of this journey, I too, believed that there was only room for one emotion. For instance, anger couldn't have a partner, and I was confused when it did. It felt "wrong" to be angry and happy at the same time, and not at the hands of anyone else. That feeling of shame came from my biggest critic...me.
I have never before appreciated the happy moments in life with such depth and gratitude, but I think it is BECAUSE of the pain that accompanies the joy. Each moment I experience with my other children feels like a stolen gift, and one that will always be tainted by the loss of my son. On the other hand, his absence makes me appreciate their presence that much more. They're such incredible little people, and I feel as though I can see that much more clearly from my new "grieving mother" perspective.
My husband and I are still navigating each day as it comes. Some days are good, and some just aren't. Sometimes we take turns, and other times we've both got nothing left. We can now recognize the moments of pain in one another and are occasionally able to attend to the needs of the other person. And sometimes, we can't. What we have seems deeper, stronger, and ironically more broken than ever before. Broken, but not shattered. And maybe we each have enough broken pieces to put them together and create something new.
I know that our lives will always carry with them, the burden of pain and loss. But I also know that though some days that burden will be more than I can bear, sometimes it will be that thing for which I am most grateful.
I experience so many feelings throughout the course of the day, and all of them stem from my grief in one way or another. But, that doesn't necessarily mean that I'm "sad." In fact, I'm never just "sad." It's true that I have really awful moments in which the pain of my grief threatens to swallow me up and propel me into some kind of dark abyss. However, it's also true that I have incredibly joyous moments. In fact, I don't believe I had experienced true happiness in a moment until I lost my child. That sounds very strange, and writing it even feels wrong, but then...it's true.
The thing is, I'm everything all at once. It's exhausting, but it's also just the way that it is now. I have incredible moments with my family in which I'm so humbled and grateful for the experience, but simultaneously angry and hurt at the piece that is missing. One emotion does not negate the other, and I believe they're both equally important to the process. In fact, I think you NEED one to accompany the other.
I think at the beginning of this journey, I too, believed that there was only room for one emotion. For instance, anger couldn't have a partner, and I was confused when it did. It felt "wrong" to be angry and happy at the same time, and not at the hands of anyone else. That feeling of shame came from my biggest critic...me.
I have never before appreciated the happy moments in life with such depth and gratitude, but I think it is BECAUSE of the pain that accompanies the joy. Each moment I experience with my other children feels like a stolen gift, and one that will always be tainted by the loss of my son. On the other hand, his absence makes me appreciate their presence that much more. They're such incredible little people, and I feel as though I can see that much more clearly from my new "grieving mother" perspective.
My husband and I are still navigating each day as it comes. Some days are good, and some just aren't. Sometimes we take turns, and other times we've both got nothing left. We can now recognize the moments of pain in one another and are occasionally able to attend to the needs of the other person. And sometimes, we can't. What we have seems deeper, stronger, and ironically more broken than ever before. Broken, but not shattered. And maybe we each have enough broken pieces to put them together and create something new.
I know that our lives will always carry with them, the burden of pain and loss. But I also know that though some days that burden will be more than I can bear, sometimes it will be that thing for which I am most grateful.
Sunday, May 24, 2015
One Whole Hand
I remember when your brother turned five. He was so excited to be "one whole hand." Five. It seems so much older than four. I wonder what you'd look like? Would you be excited about starting school in the fall? What bookbag would you choose? Would I fall in line with all the other mothers who are "mourning" the last days of their youngest baby being at home with them? I'm certainly mourning, but I wish with my whole heart that it were for that reason.
Sometimes it's hard not to be angry with you, to feel cheated. I know that isn't rational, but grief doesn't really care about that. I'm hurt that you left. I know you had no control over that, but I guess the pain has to go somewhere. I'm angry that instead of feeling overwhelmed by the prospect of returning to work now that my last baby is in school, I'm trying to figure out whether I'll ever be stable enough to do so again. Lately, I've been thinking that answer is probably yes. That doesn't necessarily feel good though. But then I remember that very few things feel wholly "good" or "right". Everything brings this underlying layer of pain or in some ways even worse, ambivalence. It's difficult to be passionate about anything these days. The attempt to do so seems futile.
However, I will say to you, as your fifth birthday approaches, that although we may have no idea what to get you for your birthday, the gifts you've given us have been immeasurable. As we were all crammed in the car the other night, coming home from various activities, I was struck once again by our good fortune. We had been running around all night, chasing your brother and sisters. And why? Because we can. They're healthy. They have friends.
Without you, I would still be trying to "control" nearly every aspect of my life. I would still be obsessed with making life as easy as possible for your siblings. I would still think it was my job to protect them from everything. You changed that for me. That's a gift one can't fully accept on their own. That came from you. Because of your life, your existence, your illness, your death, I KNOW that it isn't my job to "control" anything. Instead, I just get to live. I get to watch your siblings grow and learn, and I do so without fear. I do so without the idea that I need to protect them. All I do is love them as they go along. I watch them as they learn some of the things I already have, as well as teach me the things I could have never learned without them. I thank you for that.
I realize more and more with each passing day how very lucky I am to be your mother. You've taught me strength, generosity, humility, pain, and absolute, unconditional love. I would give it all up to smell your soft curls as I wrap my arms around you one more time, but knowing that this can't be, I'm simply grateful.
Your birthday always brings with it, a new type of pain. It burns and stings and I barely make it through the day. The support of friends and family, and their understanding that this day simply has to be set aside for that pain, is what gets me through it. So tomorrow, as we try to navigate the day, as we send up your 5 lanterns, as we hug and hold one another, send us a sign that you see us and feel our pain. Let us know that you're celebrating too. Know that we miss you with every breath, that we love you with each heartbeat, and that we celebrate your gifts to us on this day that you turn, "one whole hand."
Sometimes it's hard not to be angry with you, to feel cheated. I know that isn't rational, but grief doesn't really care about that. I'm hurt that you left. I know you had no control over that, but I guess the pain has to go somewhere. I'm angry that instead of feeling overwhelmed by the prospect of returning to work now that my last baby is in school, I'm trying to figure out whether I'll ever be stable enough to do so again. Lately, I've been thinking that answer is probably yes. That doesn't necessarily feel good though. But then I remember that very few things feel wholly "good" or "right". Everything brings this underlying layer of pain or in some ways even worse, ambivalence. It's difficult to be passionate about anything these days. The attempt to do so seems futile.
However, I will say to you, as your fifth birthday approaches, that although we may have no idea what to get you for your birthday, the gifts you've given us have been immeasurable. As we were all crammed in the car the other night, coming home from various activities, I was struck once again by our good fortune. We had been running around all night, chasing your brother and sisters. And why? Because we can. They're healthy. They have friends.
Without you, I would still be trying to "control" nearly every aspect of my life. I would still be obsessed with making life as easy as possible for your siblings. I would still think it was my job to protect them from everything. You changed that for me. That's a gift one can't fully accept on their own. That came from you. Because of your life, your existence, your illness, your death, I KNOW that it isn't my job to "control" anything. Instead, I just get to live. I get to watch your siblings grow and learn, and I do so without fear. I do so without the idea that I need to protect them. All I do is love them as they go along. I watch them as they learn some of the things I already have, as well as teach me the things I could have never learned without them. I thank you for that.
I realize more and more with each passing day how very lucky I am to be your mother. You've taught me strength, generosity, humility, pain, and absolute, unconditional love. I would give it all up to smell your soft curls as I wrap my arms around you one more time, but knowing that this can't be, I'm simply grateful.
Your birthday always brings with it, a new type of pain. It burns and stings and I barely make it through the day. The support of friends and family, and their understanding that this day simply has to be set aside for that pain, is what gets me through it. So tomorrow, as we try to navigate the day, as we send up your 5 lanterns, as we hug and hold one another, send us a sign that you see us and feel our pain. Let us know that you're celebrating too. Know that we miss you with every breath, that we love you with each heartbeat, and that we celebrate your gifts to us on this day that you turn, "one whole hand."
Sunday, May 10, 2015
Broken Mother's Memory
As per my usual, I've been awake for hours and it's only 5 am. My mind has my body trapped in that place where the past meets a future that will never exist. It's a funny thing, the grieving mother's "memory". At first, all I could think about were those last hours. The sights, the smells, the sounds...post traumatic stress at its finest. Eventually, mixed with those gut gripping moments, came memories of happier times. But all of that somehow gets jumbled now with thoughts of a future that my forever baby can never have. It's as if time doesn't exist in the broken mother's memory, at least not time as we know it.
He's going to be 5 soon. Five sounds so much older than 4. That probably has something to do with the fact that a 5 year old is now a school-aged child. I've never seen my son at 5 years old. And I never will. I won't see him try to carry a backpack that's bigger than he is. I won't see him learn to tie his shoes or read his first sentence from a book. That doesn't make any sense, so I think my mind creates those moments for me. It's like a "memory" from a future that will never exist. Just as I get flashes of the past, I see moments that have never happened as if I'm remembering them in some bizarre, reverse order.
Today is Mother's Day. I'm not a fan of this particular day, but add it to the list of days I wish I could sleep through. I need one more macaroni and fingerprint portrait to make it complete, but it won't come. I need a dandelion bouquet full of ants thrust in my face from the pudgy hand of a preschooler. Maybe today, my broken mother's memory will flash to a time when that happens. Maybe for a split second, that curse/gift of life without time, will take me to a place where I don't have to question my status as a mother of four.
My stomach turns in knots as I write. My brain races forward and backward and forward again. It's a broken mother's memory. It bends the rules of time. In an odd way, I'm grateful for this broken memory of mine. It goes well with my broken heart, and my lungs that don't quite take in enough air. It reminds me of the journey I'm taking. It reminds me that I am a mother in two worlds.
If only macaroni art and fingerpaint handprints could be delivered to both...
He's going to be 5 soon. Five sounds so much older than 4. That probably has something to do with the fact that a 5 year old is now a school-aged child. I've never seen my son at 5 years old. And I never will. I won't see him try to carry a backpack that's bigger than he is. I won't see him learn to tie his shoes or read his first sentence from a book. That doesn't make any sense, so I think my mind creates those moments for me. It's like a "memory" from a future that will never exist. Just as I get flashes of the past, I see moments that have never happened as if I'm remembering them in some bizarre, reverse order.
Today is Mother's Day. I'm not a fan of this particular day, but add it to the list of days I wish I could sleep through. I need one more macaroni and fingerprint portrait to make it complete, but it won't come. I need a dandelion bouquet full of ants thrust in my face from the pudgy hand of a preschooler. Maybe today, my broken mother's memory will flash to a time when that happens. Maybe for a split second, that curse/gift of life without time, will take me to a place where I don't have to question my status as a mother of four.
My stomach turns in knots as I write. My brain races forward and backward and forward again. It's a broken mother's memory. It bends the rules of time. In an odd way, I'm grateful for this broken memory of mine. It goes well with my broken heart, and my lungs that don't quite take in enough air. It reminds me of the journey I'm taking. It reminds me that I am a mother in two worlds.
If only macaroni art and fingerpaint handprints could be delivered to both...
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