It's the season of germs. Every school in the midwest is experiencing the joys of vomiting, feverish children leaving for various doctor appointments. Today was my turn, and although this is an "annoyance" most of the time, for me and my family, it was our first trip back to a very familiar and very painful home away from home. I dreaded this moment from the time I confirmed the appointment for my oldest son. In fact, when my oldest daughter found out that he had to go, she asked with tears in her eyes, if he was going to die. My children don't fear shots as much anymore. Doctor's offices are much scarier than any vaccination could ever be. While I was quick to assure her that his was a minor illness, I, too, feared the worst. My reasons were just a bit different. I imagined being taken to the same room and seeing the same Nurse Practitioner that marked the beginning of the end. Each time I thought about the possibilities, my stomach would turn and I'd try to distract myself.
I ended up needing to take both my oldest son and my youngest daughter, because she'd been acting a little under the weather as well, and I wasn't about to take the chance in needing to come back to this place. By the time I got to the office, I'd conjured up every possible scenario. However, when I walked through the front door, nothing happened. Nothing. No breath sucked from my lungs. No racing heart. And you know what the truly amazing part was? I got to watch my two "sick" children walk through the doors on their own. And when we were taken to the room, which was mercifully different from the scary one I'd anticipated, I listed their symptoms with no fear. Do you know how many times I got to answer "No" to the potentially scarier questions? I was absolutely aware of how blessed I was in that moment.
I also had some questions about a possible issue with my son, but even in that moment, I wasn't afraid. And do you know why? Because NOTHING surprises me. This is one of those hidden gifts given in a situation like this. I hear seemingly horrible news all the time, and it isn't that I don't care that "this" person has cancer, or "that" person was in a car accident. It's that I'm never surprised by that. I realize how terribly morbid that probably sounds to some, but I can also tell you that it's completely freeing. I know I have control over nothing, so I don't stress about trying to make it all work according to some plan. That's a complete 180 from my previous personality. And quite honestly, a piece I wouldn't give up.
After the appointment, we had to get lunch before going back to school because they'd missed it. We went through a drive-thru. Again...BLESSED. I could NEVER do that when Easton was here. You cannot have normal food around a 2 year old on a ketogenic diet. Especially not when his siblings are the ones getting to eat it. Now, obviously, I'd rather have my son here and would avoid ever eating out again if I had to, but he isn't here and the little people who are don't have the diet restrictions he did. So, I got to feed my children horrible, grease-filled, deliciously indulgent fast-food. I'm grateful for that. The next time you chastise yourself for shirking your "dinner responsibilities" and driving through somewhere, try to consider the blessing in that. (It makes fries taste lots better, too) :)
I dropped my son off at school and he went in on his own, to his wonderfully supportive school family, where he does very well. Blessed a thousand times with that moment. Do you know how many things have to go right for a ten-year-old boy to be able to do all of those things, while simultaneously being relatively happy and fulfilled? I do. I'm very much aware.
I'm not better, and I won't ever be better. Not today, not tomorrow, and not 20 years from now. However, I do have moments where I see the beauty in the life I'm experiencing. I always have. But, now I have a heightened sense of appreciation for what used to seem like the small things in life. I'll continue to have these moments. Just as I'll continue to have the periods of time when I can't seem to breathe, but they're my moments. They're my life, and they're mine to experience. I know he's with me. The signs are too ridiculously obvious to ignore or explain away. And while I'd readily have given my own life to have been able to create a different earthly existence for my son, I'll honor his memory by seeing the beauty in the small moments. He continues to show me daily, that they're the big ones.
Thursday, November 7, 2013
Tuesday, November 5, 2013
The Date
Yeah, yeah, yeah...that "date" is coming. It's going to be December 8th soon, and while no date in the last year has been a good one, I think most people assume that this one will be the hardest. Will it? Hell if I know. In my experience, the days leading up to "the date" are actually worse, and it's nearly impossible to shed even one tear on the day that everyone expects you to be a heaving mess. You want to see that? Come over a few days before, or now for that matter. Why does it work that way? Who knows? I know it doesn't make much sense, but the beauty of grief is that NONE of it makes any freaking sense.
In fact, do you know what day scares me the most? December 9th. Why? Because then the "date" will be over. A year will have officially passed and the last day that I'm allowed to be visibly upset will have come and gone. I know, I know, "there is no time limit on grief," "take as much time as you need", etc. Sure, except that isn't true. The truth is that even those with the best of intentions assume that at some point, this part will pass. I don't believe that, and maybe it's just because I'm in the beginning stages and it only happened five minutes ago. Does time even matter in this situation? I think, no. I recently heard a woman say that she didn't want to let go of her grief, because it was the last thing that connected her to her daughter. Thank allah for that woman because I was beginning to think that maybe I was a little crazy. (No comments necessary on that one.)
I was having a seemingly innocent conversation with a friend a couple of weeks ago, and I remember saying, "Oh yeah, Easton was Superman last year for Halloween." That was right before the punch in the gut. I felt like I'd literally had the wind knocked out of me. It's a very physical experience and it happens all the time. Immediately after saying that simple line, I realized that it would be the last time I'd ever be able to start a sentence with, "Last year he...". Never again will that be true. None of my years or "last years" will involve a story in which Easton was alive. How is that possible? I have no idea. It makes absolutely no sense. These moments happen so often that it's almost become routine. Wake up, brush teeth, get punched in the gut. Exercise, eat something, punch in the gut. Smile, laugh, gut punch. Over and over and over again without fail. And as awful as that sounds, this is not the worst part. Insane? I know, trust me.
The part that makes your head spin, that brings you to your knees, that surprises you on a daily basis, is the loss of self. I'm no longer the same person. That may sound cliche, or even "expected", but the truth is that you could never expect to know what it's like to wake up in a completely different body that's guided by some new person's brain. Is all of it bad? Of course not. Of course there are parts of this new person that I'm eternally grateful for. She's much slower to judge and quicker to love. She has no expectations of anyone or anything, so everything that happens is pretty much a "roll with the punches" situation. She no longer fears any of the things she used to because nothing she experiences now will even come close to what she's already seen. However, I don't KNOW her. She's broken. She's foreign. A stranger. And she never goes away. She's still there when I'm supposed to be compassionate about someone else's "dire" situation. Hers seems to be the only perspective that matters.
Anyone who knew me before, doesn't know this woman. Anyone who knows her now wouldn't recognize the person I thought to be me. A particularly poignant moment in my recent experience came as I was remembering the first Christmas that my oldest son was old enough to care about presents. I was working nights at the time and had been up all night Christmas Eve, but stayed up the next day so that I could see him enjoy the day. I remember telling my husband that although I was a nurse, I didn't care what I had to do in whatever job I happened to have at the time, I would never miss a Christmas morning with my children. But that was the old me. This new woman hates Christmas, and all other holidays, or any family gathering for that matter. I can't imagine anything worse than sitting around a tree, with a room full of family, passing around gifts that mean nothing. So, like so many other things, I've also lost Christmas. How many ways can you lose someone? You'd be surprised...
So what's the point of saying all of this? Why do I keep re-hashing pain that isn't going to go away or change? Because, like I said, she doesn't go away. All she knows is pain and grief. It's the air she breathes and the water she drinks. The woman before her has died, and to expect her resurrection is as futile an expectation as that of Easton's. She's not coming back, so say your good-byes to her and move on or don't, but know that no one misses her and simultaneously loathes her existence like I do.
In fact, do you know what day scares me the most? December 9th. Why? Because then the "date" will be over. A year will have officially passed and the last day that I'm allowed to be visibly upset will have come and gone. I know, I know, "there is no time limit on grief," "take as much time as you need", etc. Sure, except that isn't true. The truth is that even those with the best of intentions assume that at some point, this part will pass. I don't believe that, and maybe it's just because I'm in the beginning stages and it only happened five minutes ago. Does time even matter in this situation? I think, no. I recently heard a woman say that she didn't want to let go of her grief, because it was the last thing that connected her to her daughter. Thank allah for that woman because I was beginning to think that maybe I was a little crazy. (No comments necessary on that one.)
I was having a seemingly innocent conversation with a friend a couple of weeks ago, and I remember saying, "Oh yeah, Easton was Superman last year for Halloween." That was right before the punch in the gut. I felt like I'd literally had the wind knocked out of me. It's a very physical experience and it happens all the time. Immediately after saying that simple line, I realized that it would be the last time I'd ever be able to start a sentence with, "Last year he...". Never again will that be true. None of my years or "last years" will involve a story in which Easton was alive. How is that possible? I have no idea. It makes absolutely no sense. These moments happen so often that it's almost become routine. Wake up, brush teeth, get punched in the gut. Exercise, eat something, punch in the gut. Smile, laugh, gut punch. Over and over and over again without fail. And as awful as that sounds, this is not the worst part. Insane? I know, trust me.
The part that makes your head spin, that brings you to your knees, that surprises you on a daily basis, is the loss of self. I'm no longer the same person. That may sound cliche, or even "expected", but the truth is that you could never expect to know what it's like to wake up in a completely different body that's guided by some new person's brain. Is all of it bad? Of course not. Of course there are parts of this new person that I'm eternally grateful for. She's much slower to judge and quicker to love. She has no expectations of anyone or anything, so everything that happens is pretty much a "roll with the punches" situation. She no longer fears any of the things she used to because nothing she experiences now will even come close to what she's already seen. However, I don't KNOW her. She's broken. She's foreign. A stranger. And she never goes away. She's still there when I'm supposed to be compassionate about someone else's "dire" situation. Hers seems to be the only perspective that matters.
Anyone who knew me before, doesn't know this woman. Anyone who knows her now wouldn't recognize the person I thought to be me. A particularly poignant moment in my recent experience came as I was remembering the first Christmas that my oldest son was old enough to care about presents. I was working nights at the time and had been up all night Christmas Eve, but stayed up the next day so that I could see him enjoy the day. I remember telling my husband that although I was a nurse, I didn't care what I had to do in whatever job I happened to have at the time, I would never miss a Christmas morning with my children. But that was the old me. This new woman hates Christmas, and all other holidays, or any family gathering for that matter. I can't imagine anything worse than sitting around a tree, with a room full of family, passing around gifts that mean nothing. So, like so many other things, I've also lost Christmas. How many ways can you lose someone? You'd be surprised...
So what's the point of saying all of this? Why do I keep re-hashing pain that isn't going to go away or change? Because, like I said, she doesn't go away. All she knows is pain and grief. It's the air she breathes and the water she drinks. The woman before her has died, and to expect her resurrection is as futile an expectation as that of Easton's. She's not coming back, so say your good-byes to her and move on or don't, but know that no one misses her and simultaneously loathes her existence like I do.
Thursday, October 17, 2013
No Commercials
One of my guilty pleasures is the tv show Glee. They recently aired an episode in tribute to Cory Monteith or "Finn", one of the stars of the show. I don't know when it was actually shown because I tried to watch it then, and made it about 5 minutes before turning it off. I couldn't do it, but saved it for another time when I knew I could fall apart in the privacy of my own pain. Today was that day.
The opening monologue from his "brother" talked about the numbness and the inability to answer the question of how you're feeling. He also mentioned the fact that the reason for his death was irrelevant, because regardless of the "how", the end result was the same. His brother was gone. I agreed wholeheartedly with that sentiment. I also found myself nodding along as each character expressed their surprise at the pieces of him that they missed.
But then came the scene of his mother sorting through the things in his bedroom. She fell to her knees and talked about how she always turned the station when she heard a story about someone losing their child. She couldn't bear to watch something so horrible, but always found herself wondering the same thing. How did they get up in the morning? How did they breathe? She then goes on to say that now she knows that you do get up. Every. Single. Day. And for a split second you forget, but then you remember...and it feels like you're hearing it for the first time, again and again and again. And you have to keep being a mother, even though you no longer have your child. All of this is so true, so very nail-on-the-head, except...
In real life there is no "end scene". There are no commercials. You can't pause the show or turn away when it's too hard. Trust me, if there were a way to fast forward 50 years from now I'd take it in a heartbeat. I wanted the mother scene to last forever. I wanted to watch her and see how she DID get up each day. I wanted them to show the part where she does the laundry and realizes that his shirts are no longer coming through to be cleaned. I wanted to see her go to the grocery store and pass an aisle that she could never have skipped before because of the son who would have demanded his specific favorite. I want to see if she breaks at that thought, too. Does she stop and suck in her breath when someone who looks eerily close to her baby walks by? Does she wonder if today might be a good day to simply stay in bed and forget the list of things she's "supposed" to do? Are there times when that isn't even a choice, but a demand? Does SHE ever scream out in the middle of the night, reaching for someone who never reaches back? Does SHE know the pain of the "never will"?
No. She doesn't. Because this is a television show. But, it struck me that this is how anyone on the outside of my own grief could be viewing it. It's a television show. Once they're no longer in my presence they're able to hit pause. They're able to fast forward to the part of their day that "must be done." THIS is why grief is so lonely. Everyone else is given a magic remote while I have to watch all of it in real time. I don't have the luxury of walking away from the show, the salve that is the commercial, that brief break from the agony. And while many will gladly come to my "house" and watch my show with me, maybe even provide the kleenex, they'll never give up their remote. They need to be able to turn the channel, to walk away. No one wants to trade places. And why would they?
So, lonely is commonplace. Pain is as natural as walking. Crying is breathing. And there are answers to the actresses questions, "how do they get up each day?" and "how do they breathe?" But, they don't come in hour long tv shows. They don't come with fancy background music, or impressive monologues. They come in the eyes of Debbie and Vicki. In the hearts of Chelsea and Amy. In the kindness and generosity of June and Tiffany. In the compassion of Cathy and Megan. And maybe someday, even for me. But there will be no commercials.
RIP
Andy Fleer
John Hiland
Racheal Jamison
Caitlyn Bishop
Samantha Otte
Cadan Frericks
Klayton Howell
Molly Mann
Easton Zanger
The opening monologue from his "brother" talked about the numbness and the inability to answer the question of how you're feeling. He also mentioned the fact that the reason for his death was irrelevant, because regardless of the "how", the end result was the same. His brother was gone. I agreed wholeheartedly with that sentiment. I also found myself nodding along as each character expressed their surprise at the pieces of him that they missed.
But then came the scene of his mother sorting through the things in his bedroom. She fell to her knees and talked about how she always turned the station when she heard a story about someone losing their child. She couldn't bear to watch something so horrible, but always found herself wondering the same thing. How did they get up in the morning? How did they breathe? She then goes on to say that now she knows that you do get up. Every. Single. Day. And for a split second you forget, but then you remember...and it feels like you're hearing it for the first time, again and again and again. And you have to keep being a mother, even though you no longer have your child. All of this is so true, so very nail-on-the-head, except...
In real life there is no "end scene". There are no commercials. You can't pause the show or turn away when it's too hard. Trust me, if there were a way to fast forward 50 years from now I'd take it in a heartbeat. I wanted the mother scene to last forever. I wanted to watch her and see how she DID get up each day. I wanted them to show the part where she does the laundry and realizes that his shirts are no longer coming through to be cleaned. I wanted to see her go to the grocery store and pass an aisle that she could never have skipped before because of the son who would have demanded his specific favorite. I want to see if she breaks at that thought, too. Does she stop and suck in her breath when someone who looks eerily close to her baby walks by? Does she wonder if today might be a good day to simply stay in bed and forget the list of things she's "supposed" to do? Are there times when that isn't even a choice, but a demand? Does SHE ever scream out in the middle of the night, reaching for someone who never reaches back? Does SHE know the pain of the "never will"?
No. She doesn't. Because this is a television show. But, it struck me that this is how anyone on the outside of my own grief could be viewing it. It's a television show. Once they're no longer in my presence they're able to hit pause. They're able to fast forward to the part of their day that "must be done." THIS is why grief is so lonely. Everyone else is given a magic remote while I have to watch all of it in real time. I don't have the luxury of walking away from the show, the salve that is the commercial, that brief break from the agony. And while many will gladly come to my "house" and watch my show with me, maybe even provide the kleenex, they'll never give up their remote. They need to be able to turn the channel, to walk away. No one wants to trade places. And why would they?
So, lonely is commonplace. Pain is as natural as walking. Crying is breathing. And there are answers to the actresses questions, "how do they get up each day?" and "how do they breathe?" But, they don't come in hour long tv shows. They don't come with fancy background music, or impressive monologues. They come in the eyes of Debbie and Vicki. In the hearts of Chelsea and Amy. In the kindness and generosity of June and Tiffany. In the compassion of Cathy and Megan. And maybe someday, even for me. But there will be no commercials.
RIP
Andy Fleer
John Hiland
Racheal Jamison
Caitlyn Bishop
Samantha Otte
Cadan Frericks
Klayton Howell
Molly Mann
Easton Zanger
Monday, October 14, 2013
Sleepless
What's the first thing that comes to mind when you hear the movie title, Sleepless In Seattle? Is it Tom Hanks, or Meg Ryan? Maybe you just get confused and wonder if that's the one where she gets mail? I think for many of us, the first scene that we recall is that last one. You know, the one where she leaves her dinner with her former fiance, and begs to take the last trip up to the top of the tower in hopes of meeting her soul mate. That's everyone's favorite scene, right? I mean, that's why we're watching the movie...again.
The most infuriating, confusing, painful thing about grief is all of the unknown. There are so many twists and turns that you never expect, and lurking around each corner is a new way to throw you off of an already foreign landscape. Everything changes. Everything. All that you've known up until that point is either in direct opposition to what you now know, or is so deeply buried in the murky, evil bowels of grief that you couldn't possibly recognize it as anything familiar. It's insane how even the little moments in your life become wary strangers. Did you know that every single song, book, and movie you've ever experienced takes on a whole new meaning after you've lost someone you love? I've been shocked by this fact more times than I can count. For example, never again will I stop on a station showing Sleepless In Seattle if it's current scene is anything but the very first one. I don't know that I'd ever even noticed it before, but now it means more to me than the rest of that movie ever could.
The opening scene shows Tom Hanks' character, Sam, in his high-rise office talking to a colleague. His friend asks about something work related, and Sam becomes angry and throws all kinds of unwarranted hatred toward his costar. When he realizes he's just had an outburst, he looks at his colleague and says,
"Don't mind him. He's just a guy who's lost his wife."
No line has ever been more accurate. When I say that everything changes, that's exactly what I mean. I don't mean that sometimes there are subtle reminders or that I notice some differences every once in a while. I mean that each breath I take feels and even sounds different. And while some of these things may eventually return to something more familiar, my essence is forever changed. I will not be the same person. My world has been colored with pain and loss. Even beautiful moments come with a sting that can't be denied. A life without that simple truth will never again be part of my reality.
However, I've noticed that there are people surrounding me that don't judge that change. They accept that this is my reality, and they even support it. They never say, "I'll love you if..." or "You should be doing this" or "You're not doing that". I'm extremely grateful for those people. I know with certainty that if they haven't freaked out and run yet, they're probably not going to. I've been horrible and unfair. I've yelled and screamed. I've blamed and hated. And yet, there they are, saying nothing. Because honestly, nothing anyone has to say will change any of it. Somehow they know this. One of my good friends recently said, "I don't know what everyone is looking for. I still see you. You're still in there." Unfortunately this friend understands the expectations of others all too well. Luckily, we both know that each day that we live being true to who we are, and forgetting what anyone else thinks we should be doing, is the ONLY way to do this.
I assume there will be a day somewhere in the very distant future where more pieces of the old me will show more frequently. I also assume that anyone uncomfortable with the current version of me will start to drift back in, and I suppose that's up to them. I honestly don't think about that very often because no matter what I lose now, it will never be worse than what I've already been through. I give very little power to anything that doesn't keep me going in the current moment. But, even if I do eventually find that place of familiarity, I'll remember those who were here for this part. I'll remember that you held me during the dark moments, and that you talked to me on the phone late into the night even when you were exhausted. I'll remember that you walked silently beside me as I screamed and cried, and offered a hug when I needed it. I'll remember that you never said, "I know you're sad, but..." If you give me time, I'll be that strength for you too. In the meantime,
"Don't mind her. She's just a mother who's lost her baby."
The most infuriating, confusing, painful thing about grief is all of the unknown. There are so many twists and turns that you never expect, and lurking around each corner is a new way to throw you off of an already foreign landscape. Everything changes. Everything. All that you've known up until that point is either in direct opposition to what you now know, or is so deeply buried in the murky, evil bowels of grief that you couldn't possibly recognize it as anything familiar. It's insane how even the little moments in your life become wary strangers. Did you know that every single song, book, and movie you've ever experienced takes on a whole new meaning after you've lost someone you love? I've been shocked by this fact more times than I can count. For example, never again will I stop on a station showing Sleepless In Seattle if it's current scene is anything but the very first one. I don't know that I'd ever even noticed it before, but now it means more to me than the rest of that movie ever could.
The opening scene shows Tom Hanks' character, Sam, in his high-rise office talking to a colleague. His friend asks about something work related, and Sam becomes angry and throws all kinds of unwarranted hatred toward his costar. When he realizes he's just had an outburst, he looks at his colleague and says,
"Don't mind him. He's just a guy who's lost his wife."
No line has ever been more accurate. When I say that everything changes, that's exactly what I mean. I don't mean that sometimes there are subtle reminders or that I notice some differences every once in a while. I mean that each breath I take feels and even sounds different. And while some of these things may eventually return to something more familiar, my essence is forever changed. I will not be the same person. My world has been colored with pain and loss. Even beautiful moments come with a sting that can't be denied. A life without that simple truth will never again be part of my reality.
However, I've noticed that there are people surrounding me that don't judge that change. They accept that this is my reality, and they even support it. They never say, "I'll love you if..." or "You should be doing this" or "You're not doing that". I'm extremely grateful for those people. I know with certainty that if they haven't freaked out and run yet, they're probably not going to. I've been horrible and unfair. I've yelled and screamed. I've blamed and hated. And yet, there they are, saying nothing. Because honestly, nothing anyone has to say will change any of it. Somehow they know this. One of my good friends recently said, "I don't know what everyone is looking for. I still see you. You're still in there." Unfortunately this friend understands the expectations of others all too well. Luckily, we both know that each day that we live being true to who we are, and forgetting what anyone else thinks we should be doing, is the ONLY way to do this.
I assume there will be a day somewhere in the very distant future where more pieces of the old me will show more frequently. I also assume that anyone uncomfortable with the current version of me will start to drift back in, and I suppose that's up to them. I honestly don't think about that very often because no matter what I lose now, it will never be worse than what I've already been through. I give very little power to anything that doesn't keep me going in the current moment. But, even if I do eventually find that place of familiarity, I'll remember those who were here for this part. I'll remember that you held me during the dark moments, and that you talked to me on the phone late into the night even when you were exhausted. I'll remember that you walked silently beside me as I screamed and cried, and offered a hug when I needed it. I'll remember that you never said, "I know you're sad, but..." If you give me time, I'll be that strength for you too. In the meantime,
"Don't mind her. She's just a mother who's lost her baby."
Sunday, September 29, 2013
Princess
One of the most difficult things about losing a child, ironically, is having more children at home. I know that seems to be in direct conflict with mainstream thought, because it's been suggested more times than I'd like to count that I "get better" or "continue living" for my other children. However, one who has never been in this situation cannot possibly know the pain and fear brought on by the "other" children at home. They are potential for more pain, pain that you know better than anyone else. The truth is that IF someone CHOOSES to live beyond that moment that changed their entire world, it is because they themselves make that decision every minute of every day. I assure you that it's not one you make and then are free to simply forget your other options, and I'm not suggesting that the choice to truly live is the right one for everyone. As scary as that statement may be for some, for me and anyone else who's lived here, it's simply truth.
I've learned that nothing in life is coincidence. None of the people we meet come into our lives purely by chance. When I was about 16 years old, I met a woman whose name I wouldn't actually come to learn until many years later. I remember that she walked up to me with her beautiful little two-year-old daughter bouncing on her hip. I was wearing a crown at the time, (small-town fodder to be used at a later date, when I find it more amusing) and she asked if I'd be willing to take a picture with her little girl who was pretty convinced that I was a real princess. I smiled and reached for the baby and we took the picture. When I returned her to her mother's arms, I noticed that their smiles were identical. They had those "whole face smiles". You know, the kind that makes it impossible to do anything else but smile with them? I remember thinking, even in my 16-year-old ego-driven brain, that this was one of the beautiful moments. Their identical eyes smiled back at me, and I knew I'd witnessed something great. I watched as that woman carried her daughter away, and she was giggling and whispering to her precious, cherub-faced mini-me.
I've thought about that moment a lot over the past year. At the time, I'd known that it was special, but I'd had no idea how much those two people would come to mean to my life. That sweet little baby girl has grown into an incredible young woman. A young woman who's had to become incredible without her mother because she was taken from her entirely too early. Although her youth suggests that I would be the one teaching her about life and loss, I'm amazed daily by what she teaches me. I know, because of her, the value of a child's time spent with their mother. I see the pain of the little girl who misses her Mommy, while at the same time she shines as a woman who's choosing, each day, to honor her mother's memory by becoming something incredible. She's still beautiful. She still captures my attention with that smile, and she still boasts those unforgettably identical eyes.
My husband and I decided to take each of our "other" kids on a special trip this year instead of having birthday celebrations. They each got to choose a destination and we bought three tickets for each trip, one for the child, one for Daddy, and one for Mommy. These trips were meant to focus on them individually, so we left the other two with family. We were never able to do things like this when their brother was alive because he needed such constant care that my being away from him for more than a day at a time proved impossible. And even if I'd allowed for a brief time away, my thoughts were always consumed with him and his well-being. This weekend happened to be our youngest daughter, Morgan's, trip. She chose Disney On Ice. I don't know what it is about that man that built a world around a mouse, but his healing powers cannot be denied. She loved every second. We spoiled her rotten. Price tags don't exist on these trips and the tears we typically seem to find daily, give way to hugs and giggles every time.
This morning, in the last few moments of our one-on-one time, she climbed into my bed while I was reading, and opened her own book. We lay like that for a while before Daddy came down to find us. He asked her what she was doing in his bed and reached to tickle her. She laughed and begged him to stop because he was moving the blankets and it was making her cold. He said, "You sound like Mommy, now. She's always stealing the covers because she's cold." She didn't hesitate, but looked straight at him and said, "I AM Mommy." He told her that she did look very much like Mommy, but she shook her head and corrected him again. "I AM Mommy." How many times had that other baby girl thought the same thing, and wished for one of these moments?
Daddy left the room and I looked over at my beautiful baby girl, the one who looks so much like my forever baby that sometimes it's painful to do so. I reached around and tickled her until we were both laughing so hard we could barely breathe. Then she looked over at me, sleep lines still not completely gone from her cheek, and in all her 6-year-old innocence said,
"Mommy, there's a tear in your eye."
"I know, Baby."
"But why, Mommy?"
"Because my heart is so beautifully broken and full all at the same time."
Although she probably didn't totally understand, her response was perfect. She simply reached up and caught the tear as it fell, then snuggled closer. And in that moment, that crossroads of the beautiful moment given and the one that will never be, I couldn't help but think of that baby girl and her Momma. So, to the woman who brought her wide-eyed, giggly girl to have her picture taken with a princess fifteen years ago:
Thank you for that day. Thank you for this moment with my own daughter. And thank you for the opportunity to know and love YOUR princess. I assure you, she's everything you'd ever dreamed of and more.
I've learned that nothing in life is coincidence. None of the people we meet come into our lives purely by chance. When I was about 16 years old, I met a woman whose name I wouldn't actually come to learn until many years later. I remember that she walked up to me with her beautiful little two-year-old daughter bouncing on her hip. I was wearing a crown at the time, (small-town fodder to be used at a later date, when I find it more amusing) and she asked if I'd be willing to take a picture with her little girl who was pretty convinced that I was a real princess. I smiled and reached for the baby and we took the picture. When I returned her to her mother's arms, I noticed that their smiles were identical. They had those "whole face smiles". You know, the kind that makes it impossible to do anything else but smile with them? I remember thinking, even in my 16-year-old ego-driven brain, that this was one of the beautiful moments. Their identical eyes smiled back at me, and I knew I'd witnessed something great. I watched as that woman carried her daughter away, and she was giggling and whispering to her precious, cherub-faced mini-me.
I've thought about that moment a lot over the past year. At the time, I'd known that it was special, but I'd had no idea how much those two people would come to mean to my life. That sweet little baby girl has grown into an incredible young woman. A young woman who's had to become incredible without her mother because she was taken from her entirely too early. Although her youth suggests that I would be the one teaching her about life and loss, I'm amazed daily by what she teaches me. I know, because of her, the value of a child's time spent with their mother. I see the pain of the little girl who misses her Mommy, while at the same time she shines as a woman who's choosing, each day, to honor her mother's memory by becoming something incredible. She's still beautiful. She still captures my attention with that smile, and she still boasts those unforgettably identical eyes.
My husband and I decided to take each of our "other" kids on a special trip this year instead of having birthday celebrations. They each got to choose a destination and we bought three tickets for each trip, one for the child, one for Daddy, and one for Mommy. These trips were meant to focus on them individually, so we left the other two with family. We were never able to do things like this when their brother was alive because he needed such constant care that my being away from him for more than a day at a time proved impossible. And even if I'd allowed for a brief time away, my thoughts were always consumed with him and his well-being. This weekend happened to be our youngest daughter, Morgan's, trip. She chose Disney On Ice. I don't know what it is about that man that built a world around a mouse, but his healing powers cannot be denied. She loved every second. We spoiled her rotten. Price tags don't exist on these trips and the tears we typically seem to find daily, give way to hugs and giggles every time.
This morning, in the last few moments of our one-on-one time, she climbed into my bed while I was reading, and opened her own book. We lay like that for a while before Daddy came down to find us. He asked her what she was doing in his bed and reached to tickle her. She laughed and begged him to stop because he was moving the blankets and it was making her cold. He said, "You sound like Mommy, now. She's always stealing the covers because she's cold." She didn't hesitate, but looked straight at him and said, "I AM Mommy." He told her that she did look very much like Mommy, but she shook her head and corrected him again. "I AM Mommy." How many times had that other baby girl thought the same thing, and wished for one of these moments?
Daddy left the room and I looked over at my beautiful baby girl, the one who looks so much like my forever baby that sometimes it's painful to do so. I reached around and tickled her until we were both laughing so hard we could barely breathe. Then she looked over at me, sleep lines still not completely gone from her cheek, and in all her 6-year-old innocence said,
"Mommy, there's a tear in your eye."
"I know, Baby."
"But why, Mommy?"
"Because my heart is so beautifully broken and full all at the same time."
Although she probably didn't totally understand, her response was perfect. She simply reached up and caught the tear as it fell, then snuggled closer. And in that moment, that crossroads of the beautiful moment given and the one that will never be, I couldn't help but think of that baby girl and her Momma. So, to the woman who brought her wide-eyed, giggly girl to have her picture taken with a princess fifteen years ago:
Thank you for that day. Thank you for this moment with my own daughter. And thank you for the opportunity to know and love YOUR princess. I assure you, she's everything you'd ever dreamed of and more.
Friday, September 20, 2013
The Pillow
I asked for a dream and I got one, but it was the kind of dream that makes me want to scream when I'm told to try and "get some sleep." This is what happens when I try...
It was a strange mix of two women experiencing something at the same time. The two women being my "now" self and my "dream" self. In the dream, I knew that Easton was going to die long before that day ever came. The "now" me knew the twisted agony of loss and kept encouraging my dream self to cherish every precious second, to soak up every scent from every fiber, and to trace every line with my finger. At times he could even speak and would ask questions that suggested that he didn't know he wasn't going to have a future. Other times, he was that baby that I knew. He was the one that I was nursing as he was staring up at me with such innocence. You know how your baby looks up at you mid-meal and when they catch your eye and smile, milk runs out of their mouths and your whole being is consumed with love for this little person? It was that moment, and in that moment I was telling my dream self to forget the idea of wiping away that milk that would soak my clothing as it dripped from his mouth. I urged the dream me to envelope myself in that moment, pulling him closer to me, letting him nurse longer. Forever wouldn't be too long. In fact, forever would be perfect.
When he was able to ask questions about a future I knew he wouldn't have, my now self told my dream self to just answer as if we had all the time in the world. Tell him that someday he'll be begging for a car and that first taste of freedom. Tell him that the books will get heavier as he nears graduation. Tell him that you'll be there on the day he tells you he met the love of his life, and although you vowed you never would, you'd secretly pester him about grandchildren. Tell him these things and save the pain for later. Save it for when you alone are experiencing it and he is in a place of peace. Carry the burden of relentless pain over the "never wills" on your own and spare him that moment.
Then I woke up, my body shaking violently, wracked with sobs. The sleep stupor gave way to the harsh slap of reality (as it always does) and the realization that he was already gone settled in once again. There was no longer a dream self. There was just that now self. The one who'd already cried a thousand tears. The one who'd already isolated herself from the world she'd once known. My now self raged with anger as I cried myself fully awake. My face hot, and my tears hitting my burning cheeks, I rolled to my side to crush into my pillow and bury the sound of sobbing because the now me had already woken too many in the middle of the night with her pain. No reason to do that again. Instead, I cursed whatever silent power had allowed me to dream in such a painfully paralleled way. In my head I was screaming at how unbelievably unfair all of it was. Of course I'd asked for a dream, but did everything have to come with an edge, a knife just waiting to dig into a still very open wound?
But, as I lay there letting my body regain some semblance of control, I began to see the dream from a different perspective. This is how it could have been if you would have known. At one point, we could have learned of his disorder, but because he didn't fit the bill, the doctors didn't pursue it. Babies with this disorder DIDN'T get better. The first hit should have killed him. I remember when we finally did test him, and I sat alone in his room with him, reading what a positive result would mean. I clutched his hand and BEGGED for them to say they'd gotten it wrong and that he actually had cancer. PLEASE say he has cancer. PLEASE tell me that we are fighting a disease that said that though our chances are small that we at least have SOMETHING to fight. TELL me he needs an organ. I have all of them, and he can have any one of them. Just give me that chance, because I know that this particular disorder means one thing...no future. After that positive result there would be no begging, no pleading, no last glimmer of hope. There would only be pain and impossible decisions. And that's exactly what happened. How could a "yes" carry with it so much undeniable "no"? It meant no more possibility. It crushed my being in a single moment. It wiped away any hope of any "prayer" being strong enough to save us. This was it. This was reality and living it for the next 12 hours was indescribable.
So, maybe this dream was yet another "gift." Maybe it was showing me how it might have been had I been forced to know that each moment no longer represented the joy of a "first", but instead came with the sting of a "last." Maybe someday my gifts won't come with such excruciating pain. Maybe I'll be allowed to learn a lesson covered in goodness and light instead of being shrouded in unrelenting dread. Maybe my dream self and my now self will feel loved and protected enough to really sleep again. Maybe. But for now, the pillow still catches the tears and stifles the screams...for both of us.
It was a strange mix of two women experiencing something at the same time. The two women being my "now" self and my "dream" self. In the dream, I knew that Easton was going to die long before that day ever came. The "now" me knew the twisted agony of loss and kept encouraging my dream self to cherish every precious second, to soak up every scent from every fiber, and to trace every line with my finger. At times he could even speak and would ask questions that suggested that he didn't know he wasn't going to have a future. Other times, he was that baby that I knew. He was the one that I was nursing as he was staring up at me with such innocence. You know how your baby looks up at you mid-meal and when they catch your eye and smile, milk runs out of their mouths and your whole being is consumed with love for this little person? It was that moment, and in that moment I was telling my dream self to forget the idea of wiping away that milk that would soak my clothing as it dripped from his mouth. I urged the dream me to envelope myself in that moment, pulling him closer to me, letting him nurse longer. Forever wouldn't be too long. In fact, forever would be perfect.
When he was able to ask questions about a future I knew he wouldn't have, my now self told my dream self to just answer as if we had all the time in the world. Tell him that someday he'll be begging for a car and that first taste of freedom. Tell him that the books will get heavier as he nears graduation. Tell him that you'll be there on the day he tells you he met the love of his life, and although you vowed you never would, you'd secretly pester him about grandchildren. Tell him these things and save the pain for later. Save it for when you alone are experiencing it and he is in a place of peace. Carry the burden of relentless pain over the "never wills" on your own and spare him that moment.
Then I woke up, my body shaking violently, wracked with sobs. The sleep stupor gave way to the harsh slap of reality (as it always does) and the realization that he was already gone settled in once again. There was no longer a dream self. There was just that now self. The one who'd already cried a thousand tears. The one who'd already isolated herself from the world she'd once known. My now self raged with anger as I cried myself fully awake. My face hot, and my tears hitting my burning cheeks, I rolled to my side to crush into my pillow and bury the sound of sobbing because the now me had already woken too many in the middle of the night with her pain. No reason to do that again. Instead, I cursed whatever silent power had allowed me to dream in such a painfully paralleled way. In my head I was screaming at how unbelievably unfair all of it was. Of course I'd asked for a dream, but did everything have to come with an edge, a knife just waiting to dig into a still very open wound?
But, as I lay there letting my body regain some semblance of control, I began to see the dream from a different perspective. This is how it could have been if you would have known. At one point, we could have learned of his disorder, but because he didn't fit the bill, the doctors didn't pursue it. Babies with this disorder DIDN'T get better. The first hit should have killed him. I remember when we finally did test him, and I sat alone in his room with him, reading what a positive result would mean. I clutched his hand and BEGGED for them to say they'd gotten it wrong and that he actually had cancer. PLEASE say he has cancer. PLEASE tell me that we are fighting a disease that said that though our chances are small that we at least have SOMETHING to fight. TELL me he needs an organ. I have all of them, and he can have any one of them. Just give me that chance, because I know that this particular disorder means one thing...no future. After that positive result there would be no begging, no pleading, no last glimmer of hope. There would only be pain and impossible decisions. And that's exactly what happened. How could a "yes" carry with it so much undeniable "no"? It meant no more possibility. It crushed my being in a single moment. It wiped away any hope of any "prayer" being strong enough to save us. This was it. This was reality and living it for the next 12 hours was indescribable.
So, maybe this dream was yet another "gift." Maybe it was showing me how it might have been had I been forced to know that each moment no longer represented the joy of a "first", but instead came with the sting of a "last." Maybe someday my gifts won't come with such excruciating pain. Maybe I'll be allowed to learn a lesson covered in goodness and light instead of being shrouded in unrelenting dread. Maybe my dream self and my now self will feel loved and protected enough to really sleep again. Maybe. But for now, the pillow still catches the tears and stifles the screams...for both of us.
Wednesday, September 18, 2013
Forever Baby
Your friends are in school now. Did you know that? Three-year-old preschool has begun. They wear their new backpacks and tennis shoes and spend a few hours learning their colors and shapes. Some of them cling to their parents' sides and others race ahead, not wanting to wait another second to start their school day. And I get to watch all of it. I get a front row seat to what will never happen.
Sometimes I imagine the things I'd be doing during your school hours if you were still here with me. I assume I would have had that same look of mixed emotion about letting you go that first day. I'm sure I would have mentioned that you were growing up too fast. But, now when I hear that from others, my immediate thought is that it beats the hell out of the alternative. I don't think anyone actually wants that "forever baby" that they think they do. I have one and it doesn't mean what they think it would mean. It doesn't mean that you get to keep all of the wonderful parts of infancy and complete dependence. Instead it's a never-ending list of "never get to" moments. I didn't get to see your little face looking back at me as you joined your friends for a day of playing and learning. I didn't get to laugh at your silly choice of backpack. I didn't ever utter the words, "he's growing up too fast" or "what will I do with two hours to myself?!" Those things didn't happen, and they won't. But why?...
Your "class" is made up of all of those babies we used to see waiting for siblings to get out of school. They're still here. They grew up. Why didn't you? I know some will throw out the name of a disease at this point, but that isn't a sufficient answer for me. I need to know why I won't be getting a puzzle piece picture frame of a curly-haired little boy. I want to know why my fingers won't stick together as I try to separate 3-year-old works of art. I have to know why the moms around me get to do these things we all imagined were inevitable and I don't. Why? Didn't I want it too? Didn't I complain about the same stupid things they did?
I still pause several times daily and marvel at the fact that you're not here. A stoplight can cause a violent burst of fresh tears as I realize the silence of my empty car is now supposed to be the norm. A momentary lapse of memory can leave me curled in the fetal position for an entire day when I accidentally turn your favorite show on, but then can't find you smiling up at me from your Elmo chair. And seeing those babies run to their mommies after preschool will inevitably take me to my knees.
I don't know how we got here, you and I, to this place of seeing each other only through signs and dreams. I suppose I was given what everyone else claims to wish for, right? I have a "forever baby." Well, I have a new wish and it doesn't involve you being frozen in time. I know I'll never see an updated picture of you. I'll never clean the glue off your fingers after a day of popsicle stick art. We'll never sing "Wheels On The Bus" as I drive you home from school. But, if you could, allow me to sleep long enough to dream of your beautiful three-year-old self. Please give me at least the illusion of my curly-headed monster running through the school parking lot to be wrapped up in a hug. Let me feel your arms circle my neck and squeeze the pain away. Let me get lost in one sweet moment of a promised future, a growing boy, and no sign of that coveted forever baby.
Sometimes I imagine the things I'd be doing during your school hours if you were still here with me. I assume I would have had that same look of mixed emotion about letting you go that first day. I'm sure I would have mentioned that you were growing up too fast. But, now when I hear that from others, my immediate thought is that it beats the hell out of the alternative. I don't think anyone actually wants that "forever baby" that they think they do. I have one and it doesn't mean what they think it would mean. It doesn't mean that you get to keep all of the wonderful parts of infancy and complete dependence. Instead it's a never-ending list of "never get to" moments. I didn't get to see your little face looking back at me as you joined your friends for a day of playing and learning. I didn't get to laugh at your silly choice of backpack. I didn't ever utter the words, "he's growing up too fast" or "what will I do with two hours to myself?!" Those things didn't happen, and they won't. But why?...
Your "class" is made up of all of those babies we used to see waiting for siblings to get out of school. They're still here. They grew up. Why didn't you? I know some will throw out the name of a disease at this point, but that isn't a sufficient answer for me. I need to know why I won't be getting a puzzle piece picture frame of a curly-haired little boy. I want to know why my fingers won't stick together as I try to separate 3-year-old works of art. I have to know why the moms around me get to do these things we all imagined were inevitable and I don't. Why? Didn't I want it too? Didn't I complain about the same stupid things they did?
I still pause several times daily and marvel at the fact that you're not here. A stoplight can cause a violent burst of fresh tears as I realize the silence of my empty car is now supposed to be the norm. A momentary lapse of memory can leave me curled in the fetal position for an entire day when I accidentally turn your favorite show on, but then can't find you smiling up at me from your Elmo chair. And seeing those babies run to their mommies after preschool will inevitably take me to my knees.
I don't know how we got here, you and I, to this place of seeing each other only through signs and dreams. I suppose I was given what everyone else claims to wish for, right? I have a "forever baby." Well, I have a new wish and it doesn't involve you being frozen in time. I know I'll never see an updated picture of you. I'll never clean the glue off your fingers after a day of popsicle stick art. We'll never sing "Wheels On The Bus" as I drive you home from school. But, if you could, allow me to sleep long enough to dream of your beautiful three-year-old self. Please give me at least the illusion of my curly-headed monster running through the school parking lot to be wrapped up in a hug. Let me feel your arms circle my neck and squeeze the pain away. Let me get lost in one sweet moment of a promised future, a growing boy, and no sign of that coveted forever baby.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)