**With apologies to Bebe Moore Campbell, who is heartbreaking and brilliant.
Ed looked up from his salad and stammered.
"I...well, I almost feel embarrassed even talking about this. I mean, compared to what you've been through, this seems really trivial, but..."
I can't tell you how many times over the last six months friends and acquaintances have started conversations this way. Not a single tragedy is described, except as preceded by the caveat that the story I was about to hear could not, in any way, begin to compare with the pain I've experienced in losing my little girl.
And in some ways, it's true. In my experience, there is very little any of them can describe that can be as heartbreaking...for me. But just because my experience has been tragic and awful, doesn't mean that they don't have legitimate heartaches, setbacks and disappointments.
"Ed, your problems are real. Don't discount them because they're different from my problems."
"But you've been though the worst thing that can possibly happen."
"Ed", I said, "I'll tell you something. Three weeks after Kiersten died, my mom told me a story about her co-worker. Her 20-year-old son was a heroin addict. After the third time he dropped out of the rehab center, he hung himself off the backyard swing set. I don't know; given a choice, losing a happy, innocent child instantly doesn't sound so bad."
I wasn't trying to be flippant. We each live our own experiences; we each define pain based on those experiences. I can see how much my friends are devastated by divorces, job changes, lost homes, illnesses. They are overwhelmed by the gulf oil spill, or local drilling for natural gas, or illegal dumping of waste.
For each of them, this pain is real. My personal loss doesn't lessen that for any of them. Likewise, knowing that my mom's co-worker suffered a more difficult loss than I did doesn't at all diminish what I have gone through over the last six months. I won't miss my daughter any less because she lost her son so terribly.
Some of us will gain perspective at one level, some at another. But we cannot pretend to judge the experiences of another based on our own joys and heartaches. If you've never lost an arm, that paper cut can hurt pretty bad. If you've never lost a spouse, the breakup of a 6-month relationship can feel like the end of the world. And we cannot diminish our own pain because it is different from that of another. There will always be someone worse off. There will always be a story of another that takes our breath away.
As humans, we need to treat each other, and ourselves, with compassion.
So Ed, and the rest of you. Don't apologize. Your blues ain't like mine. But they're still your blues.
Showing posts with label The Bug. Show all posts
Showing posts with label The Bug. Show all posts
Thursday, June 03, 2010
Thursday, May 27, 2010
Friends, Roses, and the Beach Girl's Enduring Spirit
My friends, Cathy and Mike, performed a remarkable and beautiful favor on behalf of another friend, Patty, last night. That sounded convoluted, didn't it? Well, read about it here; it'll make more sense.
So I haven't mentioned this too much before, but Bug loved the ocean. When she had just turned three, we took her to Florida for the first time, and immediately headed to the north point of Captiva Island on the Gulf coast. I love that point -- it's a haven for Dolphins, Herons, Egrets, sport fishes of all kinds. The beaches are covered in shells, the waters are sparkly, and the sand is fine and soft. Bug took one look at the place and fell deeply in love with the great expanse of water that lay before her.
At three, she didn't have the skill for ocean swimming, so I held her hand tightly while she was in the water. She hated that. She longed to venture out. I longed to keep her from being carried out to sea. But she loved it. There are a lot of stories from that week. Stories that include her getting cold in the water with resultant pooping on the beach and hungry seaguls and Mommy deciding that she could no longer show her face in public and having to find a new beach after that. Stories of our needing to stop at every alcove and inlet, so she could get out of the car, feel how the water was "different" on her feet in each place, and dip her bottom in the water. Stories of first encounters with manatees, including more impromptu swimming forays. But we can tell more of those stories another time. They made her life richer, and ours, too.
Bug insisted I teach her to swim, immediately upon our arrival at a pool, and at every opportunity thereafter, so she would never again have to spend her beach time tethered to her mother.
By the time she was seven, she was "Beach Girl". Here she is, saving sand fleas in a bucket.
Have you ever seen sand fleas? Also called "Mole Crabs", they're tiny crustaceans that live on the beach, just at the breakline. They like the extra oxygen that is generated by the churning of the water as the waves break. When you pick them up, in a handful of shells, they try to burrow into the sand and they tickle your hands. This was Bug's definition of "The Best Animal God Ever Created".
Cute little suckers, aren't they?
No? I don't think so either.
But Bug loved them, which doesn't surprise me. Because she was always finding wonder and beauty in the things the rest of us found odd or even ugly. And because she was, is and always shall be a sea-loving creature.
So the favor? Cathy and Mike took a rose from Bug's funeral, lovingly saved for the last six months by Patty, and cast it into the ocean when they reached the shore yesterday. It was a beautiful gesture of love and remembrance. I'm sure her spirit was there to catch it. And I'm sure she smelled it, then smiled and laid it on the beach next to her bucket, just before she grabbed her dip net to head back into the water.
So I haven't mentioned this too much before, but Bug loved the ocean. When she had just turned three, we took her to Florida for the first time, and immediately headed to the north point of Captiva Island on the Gulf coast. I love that point -- it's a haven for Dolphins, Herons, Egrets, sport fishes of all kinds. The beaches are covered in shells, the waters are sparkly, and the sand is fine and soft. Bug took one look at the place and fell deeply in love with the great expanse of water that lay before her.
At three, she didn't have the skill for ocean swimming, so I held her hand tightly while she was in the water. She hated that. She longed to venture out. I longed to keep her from being carried out to sea. But she loved it. There are a lot of stories from that week. Stories that include her getting cold in the water with resultant pooping on the beach and hungry seaguls and Mommy deciding that she could no longer show her face in public and having to find a new beach after that. Stories of our needing to stop at every alcove and inlet, so she could get out of the car, feel how the water was "different" on her feet in each place, and dip her bottom in the water. Stories of first encounters with manatees, including more impromptu swimming forays. But we can tell more of those stories another time. They made her life richer, and ours, too.
Bug insisted I teach her to swim, immediately upon our arrival at a pool, and at every opportunity thereafter, so she would never again have to spend her beach time tethered to her mother.
By the time she was seven, she was "Beach Girl". Here she is, saving sand fleas in a bucket.
Have you ever seen sand fleas? Also called "Mole Crabs", they're tiny crustaceans that live on the beach, just at the breakline. They like the extra oxygen that is generated by the churning of the water as the waves break. When you pick them up, in a handful of shells, they try to burrow into the sand and they tickle your hands. This was Bug's definition of "The Best Animal God Ever Created".
Cute little suckers, aren't they?
No? I don't think so either.But Bug loved them, which doesn't surprise me. Because she was always finding wonder and beauty in the things the rest of us found odd or even ugly. And because she was, is and always shall be a sea-loving creature.
So the favor? Cathy and Mike took a rose from Bug's funeral, lovingly saved for the last six months by Patty, and cast it into the ocean when they reached the shore yesterday. It was a beautiful gesture of love and remembrance. I'm sure her spirit was there to catch it. And I'm sure she smelled it, then smiled and laid it on the beach next to her bucket, just before she grabbed her dip net to head back into the water.
Monday, May 17, 2010
Mother
Yes, it's once again been two weeks since I've posted.
There was a part of me that wanted to post something on Mother's Day. But I struggled to figure out what to say. That I survived it? That really, I had hoped with all of my heart and soul that I wouldn't? That I got the most beautiful, heartfelt letter from Daisy Mae that both lifted my heart up and shattered it to pieces? Because all of those things were true.
I will never, ever again be "Mama". The extent to which that rends my very soul is indescribable.
But I am still a mother.
Case in point: this weekend.
Friday was Daisy Mae's 8th Grade Banquet. The days before were a flurry of dresses, jackets, hairdos and shoes. I let her borrow my good black Coach bag. She squealed and proclaimed her love for me. We jumped up and down in place to test our undergarments. We reviewed the use of proper silverware. We took pictures. We looked at pictures. We got awards. We smiled.
The rest of the weekend was spent helping Daisy with her final project for History. And I mean the entire weekend. Because, as teenagers are wont to do, she decided to expend the entire 25 hours necessary to complete the project in the last 48 hours before it was due. At 1:14 this morning, as I was gluing her reference sheet to the back of her poster, having sent her to bed -- no, you may not shower tonight; wait until morning. Just go to bed -- a half hour earlier, I thought of my own mother. Finishing the painting on Jupiter for the scale model of the solar system I had made out of papier mache'. Finishing the popsicle-stick model of a geodesic dome I had started at 2 pm the day before it was due. Sitting beside me, with the Funk and Wagnall's encyclopedia and three cookbooks, helping me figure out why a Passion Fruit was named thus and trying to find a recipe that would tell me what to do with one, for my Home Ec. class. Proofing my term papers.
These events, invariably, take place between midnight and 3 am on Monday mornings. They are what takes the place of putting SpongeBob bandages on skinned knees, pushing swings at the
playground, and re-sewing the seams on over-loved stuffed animals. These late nights, the rescuing of school projects, the borrowing of purses, the ever-present knowledge that Mom Won't Let You Fall Too Far -- these things re-define how our children depend on us, as they stop being "kids" and start being "teens".
It's been a tough jump into the deep end of this particular swimming pool. It still hurts. I still sometimes feel like I'm not a Mom anymore, but not as often as I did. More weekends like this have the potential to make next Mother's Day feel more real.
And on an unrelated note: My garden is fully planted. Glad I didn't do it last weekend, as we had a hard freeze last Sunday night. Anybody need extra tomato plants?
There was a part of me that wanted to post something on Mother's Day. But I struggled to figure out what to say. That I survived it? That really, I had hoped with all of my heart and soul that I wouldn't? That I got the most beautiful, heartfelt letter from Daisy Mae that both lifted my heart up and shattered it to pieces? Because all of those things were true.
I will never, ever again be "Mama". The extent to which that rends my very soul is indescribable.
But I am still a mother.
Case in point: this weekend.
Friday was Daisy Mae's 8th Grade Banquet. The days before were a flurry of dresses, jackets, hairdos and shoes. I let her borrow my good black Coach bag. She squealed and proclaimed her love for me. We jumped up and down in place to test our undergarments. We reviewed the use of proper silverware. We took pictures. We looked at pictures. We got awards. We smiled.
The rest of the weekend was spent helping Daisy with her final project for History. And I mean the entire weekend. Because, as teenagers are wont to do, she decided to expend the entire 25 hours necessary to complete the project in the last 48 hours before it was due. At 1:14 this morning, as I was gluing her reference sheet to the back of her poster, having sent her to bed -- no, you may not shower tonight; wait until morning. Just go to bed -- a half hour earlier, I thought of my own mother. Finishing the painting on Jupiter for the scale model of the solar system I had made out of papier mache'. Finishing the popsicle-stick model of a geodesic dome I had started at 2 pm the day before it was due. Sitting beside me, with the Funk and Wagnall's encyclopedia and three cookbooks, helping me figure out why a Passion Fruit was named thus and trying to find a recipe that would tell me what to do with one, for my Home Ec. class. Proofing my term papers.
These events, invariably, take place between midnight and 3 am on Monday mornings. They are what takes the place of putting SpongeBob bandages on skinned knees, pushing swings at the
playground, and re-sewing the seams on over-loved stuffed animals. These late nights, the rescuing of school projects, the borrowing of purses, the ever-present knowledge that Mom Won't Let You Fall Too Far -- these things re-define how our children depend on us, as they stop being "kids" and start being "teens".
It's been a tough jump into the deep end of this particular swimming pool. It still hurts. I still sometimes feel like I'm not a Mom anymore, but not as often as I did. More weekends like this have the potential to make next Mother's Day feel more real.
And on an unrelated note: My garden is fully planted. Glad I didn't do it last weekend, as we had a hard freeze last Sunday night. Anybody need extra tomato plants?
Friday, April 23, 2010
Perspective 2
She sat across from me on the bus. We, the only two there so far, had taken seats across from each other while we waited for the others.
She'd spent the last two hours questioning me -- short, awkward questions that hinted at a desire for intimacy where before we had always had distance. I walked the line carefully -- trust is dangerous, even among women.
Thus far, I had been able to demure, focusing instead on the thousand tasks that needed to be completed. Now, however, it was just the two of us, trapped here by the expectation of our soon-arriving colleagues, and she saw her opportunity.
"So if you were to ask God a question, what would it be?"
Every cell in my body commanded me to pause, to think. I didn't.
"What job did you have for her to do that was so much more important than being my daughter?" I fought not to let the emotion choke my voice.
She leaned forward and removed her glasses. Her green eyes were striking against the auburn she had chosen for her hair. She chuckled.
"You are too young to be my sister; too old to be my daughter. So how to answer you...
...It may not be about her job, you know,"
"How do you mean?"
"Perhaps it's not about what her job is. Perhaps God is interested in what you have to do that is so much more important than looking after a soul he has already taken into himself."
I met her gaze and formed another question on my lips.
And then the others arrived.
She'd spent the last two hours questioning me -- short, awkward questions that hinted at a desire for intimacy where before we had always had distance. I walked the line carefully -- trust is dangerous, even among women.
Thus far, I had been able to demure, focusing instead on the thousand tasks that needed to be completed. Now, however, it was just the two of us, trapped here by the expectation of our soon-arriving colleagues, and she saw her opportunity.
"So if you were to ask God a question, what would it be?"
Every cell in my body commanded me to pause, to think. I didn't.
"What job did you have for her to do that was so much more important than being my daughter?" I fought not to let the emotion choke my voice.
She leaned forward and removed her glasses. Her green eyes were striking against the auburn she had chosen for her hair. She chuckled.
"You are too young to be my sister; too old to be my daughter. So how to answer you...
...It may not be about her job, you know,"
"How do you mean?"
"Perhaps it's not about what her job is. Perhaps God is interested in what you have to do that is so much more important than looking after a soul he has already taken into himself."
I met her gaze and formed another question on my lips.
And then the others arrived.
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Bittersweet
Things I did today:
Gardened a bit.
Watched Mr. Bean put away two new hives of bees.
Went to a memorial for the sister of a far-away friend who couldn't be there himself.
Spent time with the beautiful and talented ClevelandK8.
Cried a little. Together.
Talked to my Dad, who is in the hospital while his new bone marrow takes hold and gives him a new lease on life.
Took a nap.
Basked in the April sunshine.
Missed my beautiful baby girl a ton and a half
Felt thankful for the beautiful girl I still have here.
Gardened a bit.
Watched Mr. Bean put away two new hives of bees.
Went to a memorial for the sister of a far-away friend who couldn't be there himself.
Spent time with the beautiful and talented ClevelandK8.
Cried a little. Together.
Talked to my Dad, who is in the hospital while his new bone marrow takes hold and gives him a new lease on life.
Took a nap.
Basked in the April sunshine.
Missed my beautiful baby girl a ton and a half
Felt thankful for the beautiful girl I still have here.
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Glad it's not Monday anymore
I don't know why I get maudlin on Mondays. Ellie has Taco Tuesdays; maybe I should have Maudlin Mondays.
I didn't get a chance to blog about the event I hosted last week. We had a chance to host several generals and rear admirals here to learn about the work we're doing in helping develop new treatments for wounded military personnel. I've written before about the need for these treatments; it's vitally important. They also wanted to learn about the program we have in face and hand transplant, which is a big part of the work I do. And yes; I'm being a bit cryptic for a reason. I don't want to give away too much, as it wasn't a public event.
I'll just say that the day went swimmingly. Better than super-fantastic, truth be told. I felt proud of the work the team did and to toot my own horn for a moment (you'll indulge me a little toot, won't you?), I totally rocked the whole "gather the right people in the right place at the right time and get them to say the right thing", thing.
The funniest part of the day was when the general's aide-de-camp called my cell phone.
"We're about 40 minutes late taking off. We're going to try to make up some time in the air, but we might be about 30 minutes late."
It was supposed to be a 90-minute flight; I figured they might make up 10-15 minutes, but I wasn't holding my breath.
45 minutes later, my phone rang again. "We're landing right now."
"You're what?"
"We're landing. Does the limo have clearance to come onto the tarmac?"
"Wait; you just took off 45 minutes ago. It's supposed to be a 90-minute flight. How did you do that???"
"It's the general's plane Ma'am." I could hear the smile in her voice. "I believe his exact words were, Punch this thing, Son. I don't want to miss lunch."
It's good to be the king, I guess. ;)
All of the presentations went great. The military folks asked a ton of questions and were genuinely interested in the program. As he left, the general pressed his personal coin into my hand. "You're doing good things here. You give these young men hope. I appreciate it."
Anyway, when the world looks bleak, sometimes it's good to remember that there are reasons to keep going and there are people who appreciate the effort.
Maybe next time, he'll let me ride in the jet. ;)
I didn't get a chance to blog about the event I hosted last week. We had a chance to host several generals and rear admirals here to learn about the work we're doing in helping develop new treatments for wounded military personnel. I've written before about the need for these treatments; it's vitally important. They also wanted to learn about the program we have in face and hand transplant, which is a big part of the work I do. And yes; I'm being a bit cryptic for a reason. I don't want to give away too much, as it wasn't a public event.
I'll just say that the day went swimmingly. Better than super-fantastic, truth be told. I felt proud of the work the team did and to toot my own horn for a moment (you'll indulge me a little toot, won't you?), I totally rocked the whole "gather the right people in the right place at the right time and get them to say the right thing", thing.
The funniest part of the day was when the general's aide-de-camp called my cell phone.
"We're about 40 minutes late taking off. We're going to try to make up some time in the air, but we might be about 30 minutes late."
It was supposed to be a 90-minute flight; I figured they might make up 10-15 minutes, but I wasn't holding my breath.
45 minutes later, my phone rang again. "We're landing right now."
"You're what?"
"We're landing. Does the limo have clearance to come onto the tarmac?"
"Wait; you just took off 45 minutes ago. It's supposed to be a 90-minute flight. How did you do that???"
"It's the general's plane Ma'am." I could hear the smile in her voice. "I believe his exact words were, Punch this thing, Son. I don't want to miss lunch."
It's good to be the king, I guess. ;)
All of the presentations went great. The military folks asked a ton of questions and were genuinely interested in the program. As he left, the general pressed his personal coin into my hand. "You're doing good things here. You give these young men hope. I appreciate it."
Anyway, when the world looks bleak, sometimes it's good to remember that there are reasons to keep going and there are people who appreciate the effort.
Maybe next time, he'll let me ride in the jet. ;)
Monday, March 22, 2010
nothing left to hide behind
Dear Bug,
You've been gone four months now. Things here are awfully hard right now. There aren't any holidays, or milestones, or excuses to hide behind anymore. There is no shock now to make us feel like you've just taken a vacation. I'm not quietly, secretly convinced that you're going to walk back in the door, any minute now. There's just a great big hole in our lives where you used to be.
I haven't touched your room. Your bed is still unmade. In those first few weeks, I was still shocked to see that you were not there. Now I'm just overwhelmingly, profoundly sad.
I'm worried about your Daddy. He doesn't seem to want to do anything, or see anyone. I'm worried that he's going to give up, that he's not going to finish school. Baby, if you could give him a sign, any sign, that you want him to pick up and start living again, I know he could use it.
I'm scared, Bug. I'm scared that your memories are going to fade. I'm scared that some day, I will come across your Winnie-the-Pooh washcloth, but I won't be able to remember how soft your skin was, or how much you loved being SuperPidge in the hooded towel, or the sound of your laugh. I'm scared that some day, I won't be able to remember the night we sat under the big maple tree over by the school and you told be about the worst school day ever and you read me your poetry book and we figured out how to make the world better together. Those memories are all I have left of you and I'm so very terrified of losing them.
I'm sorry, sweetlove. I don't mean to dump on you. Baby, I hope that heaven is, well...heavenly. And I don't want you to worry too much. I know we're going to be OK in time. It's just that right now, it's a bit of a walk through hell down here. So if you have a bit of comfort to send to us, just a small sign that reminds us that your spirit is still here and that you know how much we miss you, we sure could use it right now.
I love you, sweet baby, and I miss you so much.
You've been gone four months now. Things here are awfully hard right now. There aren't any holidays, or milestones, or excuses to hide behind anymore. There is no shock now to make us feel like you've just taken a vacation. I'm not quietly, secretly convinced that you're going to walk back in the door, any minute now. There's just a great big hole in our lives where you used to be.
I haven't touched your room. Your bed is still unmade. In those first few weeks, I was still shocked to see that you were not there. Now I'm just overwhelmingly, profoundly sad.
I'm worried about your Daddy. He doesn't seem to want to do anything, or see anyone. I'm worried that he's going to give up, that he's not going to finish school. Baby, if you could give him a sign, any sign, that you want him to pick up and start living again, I know he could use it.
I'm scared, Bug. I'm scared that your memories are going to fade. I'm scared that some day, I will come across your Winnie-the-Pooh washcloth, but I won't be able to remember how soft your skin was, or how much you loved being SuperPidge in the hooded towel, or the sound of your laugh. I'm scared that some day, I won't be able to remember the night we sat under the big maple tree over by the school and you told be about the worst school day ever and you read me your poetry book and we figured out how to make the world better together. Those memories are all I have left of you and I'm so very terrified of losing them.
I'm sorry, sweetlove. I don't mean to dump on you. Baby, I hope that heaven is, well...heavenly. And I don't want you to worry too much. I know we're going to be OK in time. It's just that right now, it's a bit of a walk through hell down here. So if you have a bit of comfort to send to us, just a small sign that reminds us that your spirit is still here and that you know how much we miss you, we sure could use it right now.
I love you, sweet baby, and I miss you so much.
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Snow Angels
Dear Bug,
I miss you today. It's weird; every day I miss you, but every day it's for a different reason.
There is a LOT of new snow on the ground here. Like, Bluebird can't get her belly out of the snow and Angus disappears entirely if he gets off the path.
But the snow is too even. It's nice and clean and undisturbed. There are no snow angels. You always loved making
snow angels. I can still see you out there, in your bibs and jacket, methodically working your way across the yard. Stop. Set. Drop over backwards, disappearing into the powdery white. Then emerge, laughing, with snow in your jacket and a perfect, beautiful snow angel as evidence that you were there.
There are no footprints. No forts. No tunnels where you and Will have been playing Ben 10 or Pokemon.
Every time one of the branches outside gives up its payload, I think of you, standing under your little tree back by the river, shaking it to knock the snow off and laughing when it all fell on your head. I went back there and shook off your tree this morning. I knew you would be worried about it.
It snowed the morning you left me. It was the first snow of the season and you were so happy about it. I wish with all my heart you were still here to enjoy it today.
I miss you today. It's weird; every day I miss you, but every day it's for a different reason.
There is a LOT of new snow on the ground here. Like, Bluebird can't get her belly out of the snow and Angus disappears entirely if he gets off the path.
But the snow is too even. It's nice and clean and undisturbed. There are no snow angels. You always loved making
snow angels. I can still see you out there, in your bibs and jacket, methodically working your way across the yard. Stop. Set. Drop over backwards, disappearing into the powdery white. Then emerge, laughing, with snow in your jacket and a perfect, beautiful snow angel as evidence that you were there.There are no footprints. No forts. No tunnels where you and Will have been playing Ben 10 or Pokemon.
Every time one of the branches outside gives up its payload, I think of you, standing under your little tree back by the river, shaking it to knock the snow off and laughing when it all fell on your head. I went back there and shook off your tree this morning. I knew you would be worried about it.
It snowed the morning you left me. It was the first snow of the season and you were so happy about it. I wish with all my heart you were still here to enjoy it today.
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
And in other news...
People who study grief for a living say that there's a peak in the overwhelming, can't-make-coffee-without-crying portion of the program between three and six months after your loss. I gotta figure that's where i am now. Because seriously; brushing my teeth makes me burst into tears.
I guess it's just something to gut through. It's interesting that this peak comes just about the time when the rest of the world starts to figure you should be getting back into the swing of things.
I'm just glad my office door closes, and doesn't have a window.
So instead of recapping the ongoing "Kleenex Count" here in the land of Bean, I thought we'd come up to date on things that are far happier: The ongoing progress with bringing Daisy Mae into our family.
I've neglected this in my writing, although it's been a major focus of our activity. I guess my point here in the last three months has been to try to find a place to pour out my pain. I'm still going to do that, although it's probably time to intermingle some more discussion of living, rather than dying.
We're starting to become a family again.
It hasn't been easy. We've had a lot of family therapy over the last three months, with a lot of homework and very difficult heart-to-heart talks along the way. I'll confess that, when the Bug died, I realized that I had been thinking of Daisy Mae more as "the Bug's sister" than "my daughter". It was a difficult and painful confession to make. But in making it, I freed myself to figure out how to build my relationship with Daisy from scratch, with our own rules and our own ways of doing things.
I have to say it's working out well. She's still a teen, and by that I mean she makes me stop and stare, dumbfounded, at her at least once a day. But she's increasingly becoming MY teen.
I had a wonderful time fussing over her for Valentine's Day, picking her up from a weekend away at a teen Purity Conference with flowers and balloons and candy. She acted like it wasn't a big deal at the time, but later, I overheard her tell three of her friends and her counselor about it.
This weekend, we got her ears pierced. This was a big deal, and she was scared. But she's happy with the results, and so am I. We also went shopping for her dresses for her spring semi-formal dance, which might have been a disaster, but ended up being a delightful time. We got dresses that she loved and that even Dad approved of.
She seems...happy. And that's a big deal. She hasn't had a lot of happy in her life. We're honestly, collectively looking forward to finalizing the adoption. We're looking forward to a trip to Ireland together with Aunt Kate. We're laughing more and fighting a LOT less. We're cooking together more. We're making plans.
It's not perfect. We still disagree over bedtimes, food choices, R-Rated movies, chores, boyfriends, the Internet, cell phones, and towels on the floor. We all take turns feeling and expressing hurt. We each take our turns crying, and each for our own reasons. But we're becoming a family and that's a good thing.
I guess it's just something to gut through. It's interesting that this peak comes just about the time when the rest of the world starts to figure you should be getting back into the swing of things.
I'm just glad my office door closes, and doesn't have a window.
So instead of recapping the ongoing "Kleenex Count" here in the land of Bean, I thought we'd come up to date on things that are far happier: The ongoing progress with bringing Daisy Mae into our family.
I've neglected this in my writing, although it's been a major focus of our activity. I guess my point here in the last three months has been to try to find a place to pour out my pain. I'm still going to do that, although it's probably time to intermingle some more discussion of living, rather than dying.
We're starting to become a family again.
It hasn't been easy. We've had a lot of family therapy over the last three months, with a lot of homework and very difficult heart-to-heart talks along the way. I'll confess that, when the Bug died, I realized that I had been thinking of Daisy Mae more as "the Bug's sister" than "my daughter". It was a difficult and painful confession to make. But in making it, I freed myself to figure out how to build my relationship with Daisy from scratch, with our own rules and our own ways of doing things.
I have to say it's working out well. She's still a teen, and by that I mean she makes me stop and stare, dumbfounded, at her at least once a day. But she's increasingly becoming MY teen.
I had a wonderful time fussing over her for Valentine's Day, picking her up from a weekend away at a teen Purity Conference with flowers and balloons and candy. She acted like it wasn't a big deal at the time, but later, I overheard her tell three of her friends and her counselor about it.
This weekend, we got her ears pierced. This was a big deal, and she was scared. But she's happy with the results, and so am I. We also went shopping for her dresses for her spring semi-formal dance, which might have been a disaster, but ended up being a delightful time. We got dresses that she loved and that even Dad approved of.
She seems...happy. And that's a big deal. She hasn't had a lot of happy in her life. We're honestly, collectively looking forward to finalizing the adoption. We're looking forward to a trip to Ireland together with Aunt Kate. We're laughing more and fighting a LOT less. We're cooking together more. We're making plans.
It's not perfect. We still disagree over bedtimes, food choices, R-Rated movies, chores, boyfriends, the Internet, cell phones, and towels on the floor. We all take turns feeling and expressing hurt. We each take our turns crying, and each for our own reasons. But we're becoming a family and that's a good thing.
Monday, February 22, 2010
Today
Today, I am tired of being brave. I want to scream and rage and cower. I want to wallow in self-pity.
Today, I do not want to go to work and make decisions and solve problems. I want to spend the day curled up in a ball, hugging Kiersten's stuffed gharial and crying.
Today, I resent every intact family I see, with their healthy, happy children who give them joy. I want to switch places with them.
Today, I do not want to answer the co-worker who has cornered me in the ladies room, with the tears in her eyes, with an optimistic story about how grateful I am that my beautiful little girl didn't suffer when she died. I want to collapse into her arms and sob and tell her how sad I am.
Today, I want to look people straight in the eye, and answer the question, "How are you?" with the honest answer, "The most precious person in my world is gone and it hurts so much that I'm struggling to breathe."
Today, I want to cry and not have to fix my eye make-up afterward, so I don't look a wreck in my 3:00 meeting.
Today, I do not want to make small talk, cogent presentations or even sense in English. I want to babble like the village idiot and talk about my baby and how much I miss her.
Today, I do not want to "prop up" another living being. I want to be selfish and keep all of my energy for me. I want to blame everything and everyone I see for my pain.
Today, I want my sweet baby back.
Today, I will not get any of these things. But it doesn't stop me from wanting them.
Today, I do not want to go to work and make decisions and solve problems. I want to spend the day curled up in a ball, hugging Kiersten's stuffed gharial and crying.
Today, I resent every intact family I see, with their healthy, happy children who give them joy. I want to switch places with them.
Today, I do not want to answer the co-worker who has cornered me in the ladies room, with the tears in her eyes, with an optimistic story about how grateful I am that my beautiful little girl didn't suffer when she died. I want to collapse into her arms and sob and tell her how sad I am.
Today, I want to look people straight in the eye, and answer the question, "How are you?" with the honest answer, "The most precious person in my world is gone and it hurts so much that I'm struggling to breathe."
Today, I want to cry and not have to fix my eye make-up afterward, so I don't look a wreck in my 3:00 meeting.
Today, I do not want to make small talk, cogent presentations or even sense in English. I want to babble like the village idiot and talk about my baby and how much I miss her.
Today, I do not want to "prop up" another living being. I want to be selfish and keep all of my energy for me. I want to blame everything and everyone I see for my pain.
Today, I want my sweet baby back.
Today, I will not get any of these things. But it doesn't stop me from wanting them.
Thursday, February 18, 2010
And just who, exactly, is going to eat all these pickles???
As any parent who has had a child go off to college knows, our kids leave a lot behind when they exit our lives. The circumstances of that exit really don't matter, ultimately --their stuff is still there and has to be dealt with .
I haven't been able to tackle the Bug's room yet; in fact, I still haven't made her bed from the day she died. Can't do it. It's now covered with the hundreds and hundreds of cards and letters from people who cared enough about her -- or about us -- to send a note of condolence. It may be 2012 before I get it cleaned off and I'm OK with that. The door is closed and we'll open it again when that particular wound has scarred over.
But this really isn't about dealing with The Room. More to the point, this is about the stuff our kids leave behind in our dining rooms, family room...and pantries. The management of this "stuff" can be painful and utterly absurd, all at the same time.
You see, I have come to realize that children train us. They train us to buy things. Over and over. I have bought cucumbers and red peppers no fewer than five times since the Bug died. It's automatic. They were the Bug's snackfood of choice for when she got home from school or had the munchies before dinner. I have, for the last eight years, cut the top off of every pepper I use to prepare a meal and set it aside, so she could sneak in and pretend to "steal" them off the cutting board. I probably always will.
There are myriad other things of Kiersten's that so far have remained utterly untouched, as if we're all waiting for her to come home. Her pretty little silver purse is hanging off the back of one of the kitchen chairs. It has $34.82 in it (I swear, that kid had more money than God). We all look at it. We all acknowledge that it needs to be put away. And yet, none of us will touch it, let alone take the money out of it. I have gone so far as to pick it up, and verify that her money is still in there, then replace it on the back of the chair. I know that Mr. Bean and Daisy Mae have done the same. It may sit there forever.
So, too, we are
faced with the dilemma of the Untouchable Pickle Jar. The Bug loved pickles. LOVED them. I used to have to restrict her from eating pickles before breakfast and from drinking the pickle juice. (In fact, in my Paranoid Mommy moments, back before the Worst Thing in the World came to pass, I used to indulge perverse waking nightmares of my kid dropping over dead of a heart attack from eating too much salt. Who'd have thought...) In any event, about a week before Thanksgiving, we indulged the Bug and bought her a gallon jar of Vlasic Kosher Dill Spears. She opened the jar the morning she died -- and I think ate several of them before breakfast. Because they were then open, she made room in the fridge for the pickle jar (because pickles, as we know, are always better cold). It might as well be labeled, "Kiersten's Pickles! Keep out!"
So there it sits. A gallon jar takes up a lot of room in the fridge. Daisy Mae has GERD, making pickles strictly verboten. I like pickles well enough, but probably only eat 2-3 per month. But we can neither get rid of the pickle jar, nor can we even open the jar and eat the pickles. They were -- they are -- the Bug's pickles.
I hope that I can report back later that I have managed to return from the grocery store and not opened the bag, found red peppers and cucumbers, and said "WTF?". I also hope that I will have retained a small handful of pickles from the jar, to keep for making tuna salad and the like, and that I have removed the jar from the fridge.
But I can't make any promises.
I haven't been able to tackle the Bug's room yet; in fact, I still haven't made her bed from the day she died. Can't do it. It's now covered with the hundreds and hundreds of cards and letters from people who cared enough about her -- or about us -- to send a note of condolence. It may be 2012 before I get it cleaned off and I'm OK with that. The door is closed and we'll open it again when that particular wound has scarred over.
But this really isn't about dealing with The Room. More to the point, this is about the stuff our kids leave behind in our dining rooms, family room...and pantries. The management of this "stuff" can be painful and utterly absurd, all at the same time.
You see, I have come to realize that children train us. They train us to buy things. Over and over. I have bought cucumbers and red peppers no fewer than five times since the Bug died. It's automatic. They were the Bug's snackfood of choice for when she got home from school or had the munchies before dinner. I have, for the last eight years, cut the top off of every pepper I use to prepare a meal and set it aside, so she could sneak in and pretend to "steal" them off the cutting board. I probably always will.
There are myriad other things of Kiersten's that so far have remained utterly untouched, as if we're all waiting for her to come home. Her pretty little silver purse is hanging off the back of one of the kitchen chairs. It has $34.82 in it (I swear, that kid had more money than God). We all look at it. We all acknowledge that it needs to be put away. And yet, none of us will touch it, let alone take the money out of it. I have gone so far as to pick it up, and verify that her money is still in there, then replace it on the back of the chair. I know that Mr. Bean and Daisy Mae have done the same. It may sit there forever.
So, too, we are
faced with the dilemma of the Untouchable Pickle Jar. The Bug loved pickles. LOVED them. I used to have to restrict her from eating pickles before breakfast and from drinking the pickle juice. (In fact, in my Paranoid Mommy moments, back before the Worst Thing in the World came to pass, I used to indulge perverse waking nightmares of my kid dropping over dead of a heart attack from eating too much salt. Who'd have thought...) In any event, about a week before Thanksgiving, we indulged the Bug and bought her a gallon jar of Vlasic Kosher Dill Spears. She opened the jar the morning she died -- and I think ate several of them before breakfast. Because they were then open, she made room in the fridge for the pickle jar (because pickles, as we know, are always better cold). It might as well be labeled, "Kiersten's Pickles! Keep out!"So there it sits. A gallon jar takes up a lot of room in the fridge. Daisy Mae has GERD, making pickles strictly verboten. I like pickles well enough, but probably only eat 2-3 per month. But we can neither get rid of the pickle jar, nor can we even open the jar and eat the pickles. They were -- they are -- the Bug's pickles.
I hope that I can report back later that I have managed to return from the grocery store and not opened the bag, found red peppers and cucumbers, and said "WTF?". I also hope that I will have retained a small handful of pickles from the jar, to keep for making tuna salad and the like, and that I have removed the jar from the fridge.
But I can't make any promises.
Sunday, February 07, 2010
Having trouble finding my voice
I have had a lot of things going through my head of late, but I'm having trouble articulating them in any fashion that makes sense to anyone else. But because I've been writing fairly regularly lately, I figured I should put something down so you all know I didn't get hit by a truck or anything. I might have to resort to a bulleted list however.
So, in no particular order, here are about ten days of random thoughts and occurrences:
I got be spend the night of the State of the Union address in Washington DC. Although I have been there several times, I've actually never gotten to go look at any of the tourist-y parts of it before. I was lucky this time, however, in that my friend Maria and I found ourselves with a free afternoon when it was sunny and in the 40s. We decided to go walking and check out the city a bit. We were rewarded, not only with a chance to go take totally stupid pictures of ourselves and each other in front of the White House, but also with finding a fabulous bistro, serving Pays d'Oc fare, across the street from the Ford's Theater. So Fabulous Lunch + 5-mile walk on a sunny afternoon + touristy goodness + true friendship = the nicest afternoon I've spent in quite awhile - certainly the nicest since Kiersten died. Yay. Oh, and we got to watch the SOTU in the lobby bar of the Mandarin Oriental hotel, nibbling oesetra caviar on toast points and drinking cognac. It didn't suck.
I find that I am more functional, mentally, than I have been thus far. However, when the whole grief thing does come on, it strikes with a viciousness I never could have imagined. This scared the devil out of me for awhile, but then I saw an article in the New Yorker that basically said, "yep; you'll have that." It also suggests that grief builds for about six months for most people and then starts to get better. So I guess we have awhile longer to tough this out before it's actually going to improve.
I went house-hunting with my friend Joyce today. She's looking to move back from Texas with her husband Mike. I've written about them before. We found a beautiful -- and by beautiful, I mean head-for-the-mountains stunning -- home on an equally stunning piece of property. With all the goodies they need to take care of their horses. And it's only about a half-hour from our house. This could be a very good thing. We spent an enormous amount of time with them before Kes was born; they moved away when she was still very young. I'm looking forward to having them home; I think they may be part of our healing.
Daisy Mae has started saying "I love you". She also called me "mom" the other day. These may seem like little things, but around here, they're a pretty damn big deal. Especially since the first I love you came about a half hour after I busted her for sexting (a bra and panties shot sent to one of the boys at school via MySpace) and we had a long talk about what building an ugly reputation in school can do to the rest of your life. It's true what they say -- kids desperately want to know that you care enough to stop them from hurting themselves.
We've decided to stop going to Karate. Even though I dearly love the people who run the local dojo, it's just too, too painful for us to go back there. Kiersten loved it there very much and we can't walk in without seeing her. So we're looking at the health club down the street for an exercise option. I need it desperately.
Well, I guess we've progressed from "I got nothin" to a full-fledged update. I'll find my voice to write about something other than a newsreel in a bit. For one, I have a flyer advertising for a local writer's contest for which entries are due April 1. I took first prize in this competition a couple of years ago, and because of that, I haven't entered since. But I'm not proud -- I need a little pick-me-up right now and I need to focus on writing a piece of fiction before my brain forgets how to do it.
So gentle readers, I will leave you with one final thought: Just like the world feels new after a big thunderstorm, or looks beautiful and clean after a blizzard, our emotional selves can feel purified by a storm of tears. I've learned a lot about the usefulness of crying in the last few weeks. If you're feeling out of sorts lately, I recommend indulging in a good 20-minute pity party. It'll help. I promise.
So, in no particular order, here are about ten days of random thoughts and occurrences:
I got be spend the night of the State of the Union address in Washington DC. Although I have been there several times, I've actually never gotten to go look at any of the tourist-y parts of it before. I was lucky this time, however, in that my friend Maria and I found ourselves with a free afternoon when it was sunny and in the 40s. We decided to go walking and check out the city a bit. We were rewarded, not only with a chance to go take totally stupid pictures of ourselves and each other in front of the White House, but also with finding a fabulous bistro, serving Pays d'Oc fare, across the street from the Ford's Theater. So Fabulous Lunch + 5-mile walk on a sunny afternoon + touristy goodness + true friendship = the nicest afternoon I've spent in quite awhile - certainly the nicest since Kiersten died. Yay. Oh, and we got to watch the SOTU in the lobby bar of the Mandarin Oriental hotel, nibbling oesetra caviar on toast points and drinking cognac. It didn't suck.
I find that I am more functional, mentally, than I have been thus far. However, when the whole grief thing does come on, it strikes with a viciousness I never could have imagined. This scared the devil out of me for awhile, but then I saw an article in the New Yorker that basically said, "yep; you'll have that." It also suggests that grief builds for about six months for most people and then starts to get better. So I guess we have awhile longer to tough this out before it's actually going to improve.
I went house-hunting with my friend Joyce today. She's looking to move back from Texas with her husband Mike. I've written about them before. We found a beautiful -- and by beautiful, I mean head-for-the-mountains stunning -- home on an equally stunning piece of property. With all the goodies they need to take care of their horses. And it's only about a half-hour from our house. This could be a very good thing. We spent an enormous amount of time with them before Kes was born; they moved away when she was still very young. I'm looking forward to having them home; I think they may be part of our healing.
Daisy Mae has started saying "I love you". She also called me "mom" the other day. These may seem like little things, but around here, they're a pretty damn big deal. Especially since the first I love you came about a half hour after I busted her for sexting (a bra and panties shot sent to one of the boys at school via MySpace) and we had a long talk about what building an ugly reputation in school can do to the rest of your life. It's true what they say -- kids desperately want to know that you care enough to stop them from hurting themselves.
We've decided to stop going to Karate. Even though I dearly love the people who run the local dojo, it's just too, too painful for us to go back there. Kiersten loved it there very much and we can't walk in without seeing her. So we're looking at the health club down the street for an exercise option. I need it desperately.
Well, I guess we've progressed from "I got nothin" to a full-fledged update. I'll find my voice to write about something other than a newsreel in a bit. For one, I have a flyer advertising for a local writer's contest for which entries are due April 1. I took first prize in this competition a couple of years ago, and because of that, I haven't entered since. But I'm not proud -- I need a little pick-me-up right now and I need to focus on writing a piece of fiction before my brain forgets how to do it.
So gentle readers, I will leave you with one final thought: Just like the world feels new after a big thunderstorm, or looks beautiful and clean after a blizzard, our emotional selves can feel purified by a storm of tears. I've learned a lot about the usefulness of crying in the last few weeks. If you're feeling out of sorts lately, I recommend indulging in a good 20-minute pity party. It'll help. I promise.
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Act 3, Scene 1: in which I set aside any attempts at eloquence for a few moments and just put some naked truth out there...
.
BHD wrote this yesterday, in response to my post about Horatio: What others call courage you probably know as simply keeping on with life.
Something as public as a blog sort of forces you to take all the feelings you have inside and sort them through and make them palatable for the rest of the world to read. I suppose there are those who would call that "courageous" or the exercise "therapeutic". And they would, perhaps, be right. But it's only part of the story.
Others have made me aware that there are a few of you out there in Blogland who are reading this because you're trying to process a loss of your own, and you're thinking, "Holy crap! I am five months (or 8 months, or 3 years) out from losing (someone very dear to you) and I'm still a blubbering idiot most of the time. Why am I not moving along like she seems to be?"
I wish I could tell you that I’m 'OK' and 'taking things day by day' and all that – and I guess in reality that’s what I’m doing. But really? I’m pretty effing far from OK. I have exactly 12 functioning brain cells (up from 6 last week, but still) and a hole in my heart the size of Wisconsin. Probably a good thing that I’m too old and fat to join the Army Special Forces, otherwise I’d probably enlist, just on the off chance that I could get myself killed in an honorable way and it'd let me be close to her faster. So don't let the composed exterior fool you.
And I'm going to let you in on another secret: All the books and whatnot say that the 'milestone' days are really hard when you lose a child. And they are. But the thought that the 'milestone days' are the really hard part of all this? In my experience, that’s a big, fat lie. The really tough days? The days that make you really, honestly think that you wish you had the stones to go join the Special Forces or something? That would be just the regular days. The days that don’t require you to do anything. The days when you don’t have a “role” to play. The days when you can't put on someone else's face and pretend that this is all some macabre production number. The days when you just can’t distract yourself from the awful, painful reality of your loss.
Tuesday. Sunday. Laundry day. Those are the tough days. The days when you have to look, search, hope that you'll find some meaning, some purpose to why you and your geriatric cat are both still here when three months ago, you were worried about how she was going to cope with eventually losing you both. That meaning is tough to find. And believe me; I'm looking pretty hard. It sucks. It hurts like hell. Makes me want to sit and blubber like an idiot.
So, blubbering idiots of the world, unite. We are all brothers and sisters in this club that none of us wants to belong to.
Thanks for being here, to give me someone to reach out to. This is helping me. And if you're reading because you're searching, too, I hope it's helping you.
BHD wrote this yesterday, in response to my post about Horatio: What others call courage you probably know as simply keeping on with life.
Something as public as a blog sort of forces you to take all the feelings you have inside and sort them through and make them palatable for the rest of the world to read. I suppose there are those who would call that "courageous" or the exercise "therapeutic". And they would, perhaps, be right. But it's only part of the story.
Others have made me aware that there are a few of you out there in Blogland who are reading this because you're trying to process a loss of your own, and you're thinking, "Holy crap! I am five months (or 8 months, or 3 years) out from losing (someone very dear to you) and I'm still a blubbering idiot most of the time. Why am I not moving along like she seems to be?"
I wish I could tell you that I’m 'OK' and 'taking things day by day' and all that – and I guess in reality that’s what I’m doing. But really? I’m pretty effing far from OK. I have exactly 12 functioning brain cells (up from 6 last week, but still) and a hole in my heart the size of Wisconsin. Probably a good thing that I’m too old and fat to join the Army Special Forces, otherwise I’d probably enlist, just on the off chance that I could get myself killed in an honorable way and it'd let me be close to her faster. So don't let the composed exterior fool you.
And I'm going to let you in on another secret: All the books and whatnot say that the 'milestone' days are really hard when you lose a child. And they are. But the thought that the 'milestone days' are the really hard part of all this? In my experience, that’s a big, fat lie. The really tough days? The days that make you really, honestly think that you wish you had the stones to go join the Special Forces or something? That would be just the regular days. The days that don’t require you to do anything. The days when you don’t have a “role” to play. The days when you can't put on someone else's face and pretend that this is all some macabre production number. The days when you just can’t distract yourself from the awful, painful reality of your loss.
Tuesday. Sunday. Laundry day. Those are the tough days. The days when you have to look, search, hope that you'll find some meaning, some purpose to why you and your geriatric cat are both still here when three months ago, you were worried about how she was going to cope with eventually losing you both. That meaning is tough to find. And believe me; I'm looking pretty hard. It sucks. It hurts like hell. Makes me want to sit and blubber like an idiot.
So, blubbering idiots of the world, unite. We are all brothers and sisters in this club that none of us wants to belong to.
Thanks for being here, to give me someone to reach out to. This is helping me. And if you're reading because you're searching, too, I hope it's helping you.
Monday, January 25, 2010
To you, Horatio.
The mug of Foster’s slid across the table at the Lazy Flamingo, aided by perhaps a quarter inch too many layers of varnish. I stopped it before it hit the wall at the edge of the booth. S similarly stuck a hand out just in time to keep his mug from colliding with the Bug’s virgin strawberry daiquiri. S and I made a quick motion of a toast to each other and took the first sip of Foster’s while the Bug busied herself with trying to lift the dollop of whipped cream off the top of the daiquiri with her straw. *Plop*. The recalcitrant whipped cream slid from its perch for the third time and landed back on top of the drink. I handed Bug my spoon. She scowled, “Don’t spoil my game.”
Fatigue sat just below the surface of my consciousness; S and I had been up until 3 am on a late night snapper fishing run, during which I had landed three beautiful mutton snappers and a spectacular case of seasickness. Don’t be bashful; don’t be shy. Lean over the edge and let it fly! The mantra from the previous night had tickled the Bug to no end, “Mama, did you really honk off the back of the boat?!” Her toothy giggle revealed that she had succeeded in transferring some of the whipped cream from the daiquiri to her mouth.
“Yes; I really honked off the back of the boat. Did you really honk all over that bed in the emergency room?”
Bug scowled at me for the second time, “Hey I was really sick! And I had to get a shot!” I winked at her. She screwed up her face once more and then giggled. The night before last had been spent with Bug at the emergency room in Ft. Myers, after she developed a nasty fever. I had been leery about visiting an inner city ER at 2 am on a Saturday – thinking that a seven-year-old with a virus would wait in line behind a fair share of auto wreck and gunshot victims. But 104 degrees was more than I felt like I could handle on my own and in the end they had fawned over her like a princess, and an hour and a magic shot later her fever was down and she fell asleep on the way back to the condo. And today, we’d taken a short walk on the beach at the Sanibel lighthouse and were huddling at our favorite watering hole on the island, awaiting conch fritters and grilled grouper.
"Daddy, how big was that fish you caught?”
As S measured out about 14 inches with his hands, explaining how the length of a fish is measured from the tip of the nose to the caudal peduncle, Bug grinned like she was up to something. With her fingers, she measured out a span of three inches and leaned forward, conspiratorially. “It was Horatio the Honkapuss!” The giggle erupted from her.
Last weekend, we sat in the same booth at the Lazy Flamingo, with S’s parents. I told the story, and we raised a glass to the Bug and to strawberry daiquiris with whipped cream, and to Horatio the Honkapuss. The varnish was a couple layers thicker. The grouper was temptingly fresh. The Foster’s was still cold and the conch fritters still delicious. All that was missing was the goggle-eyed grin and the belly-laugh of a little girl. I’m not sure the place will ever feel the same to us, but I’ll always feel grateful for the memory it’s given me.
Love you, Bug, and I miss you very much.
Fatigue sat just below the surface of my consciousness; S and I had been up until 3 am on a late night snapper fishing run, during which I had landed three beautiful mutton snappers and a spectacular case of seasickness. Don’t be bashful; don’t be shy. Lean over the edge and let it fly! The mantra from the previous night had tickled the Bug to no end, “Mama, did you really honk off the back of the boat?!” Her toothy giggle revealed that she had succeeded in transferring some of the whipped cream from the daiquiri to her mouth.
“Yes; I really honked off the back of the boat. Did you really honk all over that bed in the emergency room?”
Bug scowled at me for the second time, “Hey I was really sick! And I had to get a shot!” I winked at her. She screwed up her face once more and then giggled. The night before last had been spent with Bug at the emergency room in Ft. Myers, after she developed a nasty fever. I had been leery about visiting an inner city ER at 2 am on a Saturday – thinking that a seven-year-old with a virus would wait in line behind a fair share of auto wreck and gunshot victims. But 104 degrees was more than I felt like I could handle on my own and in the end they had fawned over her like a princess, and an hour and a magic shot later her fever was down and she fell asleep on the way back to the condo. And today, we’d taken a short walk on the beach at the Sanibel lighthouse and were huddling at our favorite watering hole on the island, awaiting conch fritters and grilled grouper.
"Daddy, how big was that fish you caught?”
As S measured out about 14 inches with his hands, explaining how the length of a fish is measured from the tip of the nose to the caudal peduncle, Bug grinned like she was up to something. With her fingers, she measured out a span of three inches and leaned forward, conspiratorially. “It was Horatio the Honkapuss!” The giggle erupted from her.
Last weekend, we sat in the same booth at the Lazy Flamingo, with S’s parents. I told the story, and we raised a glass to the Bug and to strawberry daiquiris with whipped cream, and to Horatio the Honkapuss. The varnish was a couple layers thicker. The grouper was temptingly fresh. The Foster’s was still cold and the conch fritters still delicious. All that was missing was the goggle-eyed grin and the belly-laugh of a little girl. I’m not sure the place will ever feel the same to us, but I’ll always feel grateful for the memory it’s given me.
Love you, Bug, and I miss you very much.
Thursday, January 14, 2010
Random Acts of Kindness and Senseless Beauty
Today, a few of my colleagues bestowed a gift on us, in honor of our beautiful bug, that overwhelmed us entirely.
I can't tell you what it is yet; there will be a news story about it later. (Yes; we'll be in the news again. I don't mind so much this time.) But today, S and I are once again feeling profound caring and a bittersweet sense of the goodness of the world.
I can't tell you what it is yet; there will be a news story about it later. (Yes; we'll be in the news again. I don't mind so much this time.) But today, S and I are once again feeling profound caring and a bittersweet sense of the goodness of the world.
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
Getting back in the saddle
One of the toughest things to do when you are grieving -- especially when your tragedy has been such a public thing on so many levels -- is to try to get people to let you do your job again.
This week, I am at a review meeting for a national program I'm involved with, developing new therapies to treat our war-wounded. There's a lot of work to do -- we have reviews for all of our projects, there is media to manage, strategic planning to be done for the year, as well as re-affirming the team of nearly 300 who have to get all this work done.
This is the first time since we lost the Bug that I've seen many of my colleagues. Most of them know what's happened and their first priority is to check in and see how S and I are doing. It's only been seven weeks, after all, and the grief can still be very fresh at times. Some of them don't know what's happened, and I'm left with how to answer the question, "Gosh, I don't think I've talked with you in MONTHS. You must be busy. So how are things going?"
The first instinct is to go with the standard, "Good. Things are going well." But in truth, things are NOT going well. I've been through the worst hell imaginable. But of course, you can't answer that way, either. So I have to take the deep breath, stand up tall, look these people in the eye and say, "My husband and I lost our young daughter the day after Thanksgiving."
And then there is shock, and pity, and tears. I've told the story so many times, it doesn't even make me flinch anymore. Once again, my job is to help everyone else process my tragedy. We talk about faith. I share a story or two. I talk about what a lovely, caring man my county coroner is.
Invariably, they all ask me, "How are you doing this? Shouldn't you just take it easy?" They don't really feel this inside -- their sense of urgency matches my own. I tell them that "taking it easy" isn't the reason I'm here, nor the reason any of the rest of us are here. We're here because there is work to be done, and if we don't do it, the result will be more mothers having to tell stories about how they lost their children.
And then we have to move on. Because we have work to do. Because there are other lives at stake. Because the Bug told me, more than once, "You have to help them take care of those men, Mama."
Baby girl, today I am looking into the eyes of each and every one of these soldiers, their doctors and their caretakers. I am looking for the thing in each of them that you would see -- the reason each of them deserves to feel love, the reason each of them deserves the best I can bring to this. And I'm honoring you while I do it. Thank you for helping me be mindful of the reason I do my job, and for the love and compassion I need to bring to it to do it well.
This week, I am at a review meeting for a national program I'm involved with, developing new therapies to treat our war-wounded. There's a lot of work to do -- we have reviews for all of our projects, there is media to manage, strategic planning to be done for the year, as well as re-affirming the team of nearly 300 who have to get all this work done.
This is the first time since we lost the Bug that I've seen many of my colleagues. Most of them know what's happened and their first priority is to check in and see how S and I are doing. It's only been seven weeks, after all, and the grief can still be very fresh at times. Some of them don't know what's happened, and I'm left with how to answer the question, "Gosh, I don't think I've talked with you in MONTHS. You must be busy. So how are things going?"
The first instinct is to go with the standard, "Good. Things are going well." But in truth, things are NOT going well. I've been through the worst hell imaginable. But of course, you can't answer that way, either. So I have to take the deep breath, stand up tall, look these people in the eye and say, "My husband and I lost our young daughter the day after Thanksgiving."
And then there is shock, and pity, and tears. I've told the story so many times, it doesn't even make me flinch anymore. Once again, my job is to help everyone else process my tragedy. We talk about faith. I share a story or two. I talk about what a lovely, caring man my county coroner is.
Invariably, they all ask me, "How are you doing this? Shouldn't you just take it easy?" They don't really feel this inside -- their sense of urgency matches my own. I tell them that "taking it easy" isn't the reason I'm here, nor the reason any of the rest of us are here. We're here because there is work to be done, and if we don't do it, the result will be more mothers having to tell stories about how they lost their children.
And then we have to move on. Because we have work to do. Because there are other lives at stake. Because the Bug told me, more than once, "You have to help them take care of those men, Mama."
Baby girl, today I am looking into the eyes of each and every one of these soldiers, their doctors and their caretakers. I am looking for the thing in each of them that you would see -- the reason each of them deserves to feel love, the reason each of them deserves the best I can bring to this. And I'm honoring you while I do it. Thank you for helping me be mindful of the reason I do my job, and for the love and compassion I need to bring to it to do it well.
Thursday, January 07, 2010
The first closure.
Of all the questions in the world, "Why?" may be the hardest to answer. Why are we here? Why do people suffer? Why is the sky blue?
The question that, for me, has dominated nearly every waking minute for the last six weeks has been, "Why did my baby die?"
My need to know has been manifold: On an intellectual level, the scientist in me hasn't been able to understand how anyone could die as quickly as she did. On an emotional level, the mother in me needed to know, for sure, that my baby really didn't suffer. And on a purely selfish level, I needed to be re-assured that I couldn't have done anything different to affect what happened that horrific night.
I have played the minutes between 8:55 pm and 9:06 pm in my mind, over and over, a thousand times. What if I was wrong? What if she really did have a pulse and I just didn't get the defibrillator on her quickly enough? What if I'd been skating by her side, as I had been just 10 minutes earlier? Maybe I could have started CPR 90 seconds sooner? What if we hadn't gone skating that night?
Today, I had a call from the county coroner. After a short exchange of pleasantries, he took a deep breath and said, "We have been completely unable to find a single anatomical or pathological reason for her death." His voice caught. "I'm sorry."
"So that means Long QT Syndrome, right?" I finally exhaled.
"By process of elimination, yes. That or a channelopathy even more rare." He paused. I could feel his shrug over the phone. "A lightning strike."
It was precisely the answer I expected. Figuring this puzzle out has taken no small amount of my attention over the last few weeks. I had crossed off all the other causes of sudden cardiac death, settling perhaps a week ago on potassium ion Long QT Syndrome. Long QT is uncommon, but not rare either. It happens because the careful balance of sodium and potassium that make the electrical signals propagate through the heart (and cause it to beat) gets out of whack. The protein mutations that cause it can range from nearly benign to inevitably fatal. It causes the heart to "forget" to beat, and is usually diagnosed from a fainting incident. It is usually first evident in young boys, but nearly always makes its first appearance in girls at the cusp of puberty. In the most malignant form, the first indication is sudden cardiac arrest. When this happens, it not only kills the heart, but the errant electrical signals cascade through the body and cause nearly instant loss of brain function as well. These children do not recover.
Perhaps two dozen children per year die because of this. You can't diagnose it after death, but all the other causes had been exhausted.
So there it was. A lightning strike. Can't predict it. Can't stop it. Can't repair it. He reassured me that there was nothing that I could have done or not done to prevent this outcome. I knew in my heart he was right.
"For the record, she may have been the most beautiful child I've ever seen. I don't know why that's important. We tried so hard to find you a definite answer. I'm so sorry."
We cried together a little bit. Then he wished me well and said goodbye.
I know why she died so quickly. I know she didn't suffer. I know I couldn't fix it.
Not that it changes the outcome, or lessens the pain of having lost our beautiful girl. But at least I can stop asking Why.
The question that, for me, has dominated nearly every waking minute for the last six weeks has been, "Why did my baby die?"
My need to know has been manifold: On an intellectual level, the scientist in me hasn't been able to understand how anyone could die as quickly as she did. On an emotional level, the mother in me needed to know, for sure, that my baby really didn't suffer. And on a purely selfish level, I needed to be re-assured that I couldn't have done anything different to affect what happened that horrific night.
I have played the minutes between 8:55 pm and 9:06 pm in my mind, over and over, a thousand times. What if I was wrong? What if she really did have a pulse and I just didn't get the defibrillator on her quickly enough? What if I'd been skating by her side, as I had been just 10 minutes earlier? Maybe I could have started CPR 90 seconds sooner? What if we hadn't gone skating that night?
Today, I had a call from the county coroner. After a short exchange of pleasantries, he took a deep breath and said, "We have been completely unable to find a single anatomical or pathological reason for her death." His voice caught. "I'm sorry."
"So that means Long QT Syndrome, right?" I finally exhaled.
"By process of elimination, yes. That or a channelopathy even more rare." He paused. I could feel his shrug over the phone. "A lightning strike."
It was precisely the answer I expected. Figuring this puzzle out has taken no small amount of my attention over the last few weeks. I had crossed off all the other causes of sudden cardiac death, settling perhaps a week ago on potassium ion Long QT Syndrome. Long QT is uncommon, but not rare either. It happens because the careful balance of sodium and potassium that make the electrical signals propagate through the heart (and cause it to beat) gets out of whack. The protein mutations that cause it can range from nearly benign to inevitably fatal. It causes the heart to "forget" to beat, and is usually diagnosed from a fainting incident. It is usually first evident in young boys, but nearly always makes its first appearance in girls at the cusp of puberty. In the most malignant form, the first indication is sudden cardiac arrest. When this happens, it not only kills the heart, but the errant electrical signals cascade through the body and cause nearly instant loss of brain function as well. These children do not recover.
Perhaps two dozen children per year die because of this. You can't diagnose it after death, but all the other causes had been exhausted.
So there it was. A lightning strike. Can't predict it. Can't stop it. Can't repair it. He reassured me that there was nothing that I could have done or not done to prevent this outcome. I knew in my heart he was right.
"For the record, she may have been the most beautiful child I've ever seen. I don't know why that's important. We tried so hard to find you a definite answer. I'm so sorry."
We cried together a little bit. Then he wished me well and said goodbye.
I know why she died so quickly. I know she didn't suffer. I know I couldn't fix it.
Not that it changes the outcome, or lessens the pain of having lost our beautiful girl. But at least I can stop asking Why.
Monday, January 04, 2010
First day of the rest of my life
So today starts a new routine for a new year and a new "us". Daisy is back to school. I'm back to work full time. S is back to trying to finish his education. The world, unfortunately, keeps plugging along, as much as I would like to make it stop for me. The world is both kind and cruel that way.
I find that I am surprised, almost continually, by the ways the world has not changed. The bus still arrives promptly at 6:45 every morning to take Daisy Mae to school. It snowed this morning, which meant that traffic was backed up and it took me nearly two hours to get to work. Don't ask me why I was convinced that I would be exempt from this ordeal. There are times you want to say to the world, "Sorry, excuse me; the little love of my life is gone. My baby is dead. Can't you see that I'm just not equipped to handle frustrations like lake effect snow? Can you please teleport me to work now?" Unfortunately, there is no one with whom I can register this complaint. God, I have found, is not inclined to bend to my requests of late; his having so recently re-assigned my Bug to a new job title on a different plane of existence.
So I am left to find creative ways to cope with the reality of a world that has not stopped and is increasingly expecting me to come along for the ride:
1) I find that I absolutely must cry, as hard as I can, every morning. Otherwise, my emotions, not being sufficiently exhausted, will sneak up and whack me in the back of the head while driving in snow traffic, or in the middle of budget meetings. I usually do this while walking the dogs in the woods. This works on several levels: I am alone and outside and the day is new and my mind can go where I will it. The dogs do not care that I am crying. And I get to take a shower afterward, so I'm not a ragged mess. I simply take out a memory that is particularly happy, or sad, or painful -- one that really, it would be a lot easier to bury -- and ponder on it for awhile. S has likened it to the mental equivalent to picking a scab. Anyway, I can take fifteen minutes and cry like a baby while the dogs investigate what critters have invaded the woods overnight. Most of the time, I can then keep it together for the rest of the day. Most of the time. Mileage varies.
2) I always keep a funny story about Kes at the ready for when friends call and sob on the phone to me, or co-workers appear in my doorway with tears in their eyes. The exchange goes like this:
"It's good to see you back."
"Thanks; wish I could say it's good to be back, but seriously, I want to go back to bed."
Now the crying starts. "God, I just don't have any words for you...it's so sad."
"Hey. Did I ever tell you about the time when the Bug ... (insets clever story here)"
3) I always, always, always carry tissues, mascara and lipstick.
4) I do yoga stretches several times a day. It helps me re-center and breathe. I must be careful while wearing tight pants, however. I already had to get my emergency sewing kit out once.
5) I write. I write some things here. I write the really gnarly stuff in a private journal. But I write every day, even if it makes me cry some more.
2010. New year, new decade, new life for me. I started 2000 pregnant and on a quest to figure out how to be a mother for the first time. I guess I'm starting 2010 with a quest to figure out how to be what I am supposed to be from now on.
I find that I am surprised, almost continually, by the ways the world has not changed. The bus still arrives promptly at 6:45 every morning to take Daisy Mae to school. It snowed this morning, which meant that traffic was backed up and it took me nearly two hours to get to work. Don't ask me why I was convinced that I would be exempt from this ordeal. There are times you want to say to the world, "Sorry, excuse me; the little love of my life is gone. My baby is dead. Can't you see that I'm just not equipped to handle frustrations like lake effect snow? Can you please teleport me to work now?" Unfortunately, there is no one with whom I can register this complaint. God, I have found, is not inclined to bend to my requests of late; his having so recently re-assigned my Bug to a new job title on a different plane of existence.
So I am left to find creative ways to cope with the reality of a world that has not stopped and is increasingly expecting me to come along for the ride:
1) I find that I absolutely must cry, as hard as I can, every morning. Otherwise, my emotions, not being sufficiently exhausted, will sneak up and whack me in the back of the head while driving in snow traffic, or in the middle of budget meetings. I usually do this while walking the dogs in the woods. This works on several levels: I am alone and outside and the day is new and my mind can go where I will it. The dogs do not care that I am crying. And I get to take a shower afterward, so I'm not a ragged mess. I simply take out a memory that is particularly happy, or sad, or painful -- one that really, it would be a lot easier to bury -- and ponder on it for awhile. S has likened it to the mental equivalent to picking a scab. Anyway, I can take fifteen minutes and cry like a baby while the dogs investigate what critters have invaded the woods overnight. Most of the time, I can then keep it together for the rest of the day. Most of the time. Mileage varies.
2) I always keep a funny story about Kes at the ready for when friends call and sob on the phone to me, or co-workers appear in my doorway with tears in their eyes. The exchange goes like this:
"It's good to see you back."
"Thanks; wish I could say it's good to be back, but seriously, I want to go back to bed."
Now the crying starts. "God, I just don't have any words for you...it's so sad."
"Hey. Did I ever tell you about the time when the Bug ... (insets clever story here)"
3) I always, always, always carry tissues, mascara and lipstick.
4) I do yoga stretches several times a day. It helps me re-center and breathe. I must be careful while wearing tight pants, however. I already had to get my emergency sewing kit out once.
5) I write. I write some things here. I write the really gnarly stuff in a private journal. But I write every day, even if it makes me cry some more.
2010. New year, new decade, new life for me. I started 2000 pregnant and on a quest to figure out how to be a mother for the first time. I guess I'm starting 2010 with a quest to figure out how to be what I am supposed to be from now on.
Friday, January 01, 2010
The New Year
2009 started as one of the best years of our lives and ended with the worst tragedy of our lives. But we have learned the measure of the friendships we hold and despite our heartache, we know we are blessed. May 2010 hold peace, love and prosperity for each of you.
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
Heaven's Amusement Park
Kiersten grabbed my hand and dragged me along the white hallway to where the roller coaster was loading up. "Hurry up!" She climbed into the only seat. "Watch me, Mama!"
I watched, smiling, as she went around the short track three, then four times. She laughed, her dark hair flying out behind her. As she got out of the car and ran around to re-enter the non-existent line, she yelled, "Come on with me this time!" I climbed in with her, then noticed she was not sitting in the seat, but floating next to me. She was in some sort of water slide, whooshing along on her back. Laughing, she grabbed my hand again. I felt so happy. Then I remembered.
"You're not real, are you?"
She looked at me briefly, "No Mama. I'm just in your dream."
"So you haven't come back?"
"No, Mama. But we can play for now."
"So I'll wake up and you won't be here."
She nodded. "Uh-huh."
Then she hugged me. I could feel her arms around me, could smell her hair. I felt her in my arms, whole and solid. My joy was transcendent.
"If I know it's a dream, why am I still here? Don't you have to go? Am I awake?"
"Not yet. Let's ride another ride."
Then my alarm went off.
I watched, smiling, as she went around the short track three, then four times. She laughed, her dark hair flying out behind her. As she got out of the car and ran around to re-enter the non-existent line, she yelled, "Come on with me this time!" I climbed in with her, then noticed she was not sitting in the seat, but floating next to me. She was in some sort of water slide, whooshing along on her back. Laughing, she grabbed my hand again. I felt so happy. Then I remembered.
"You're not real, are you?"
She looked at me briefly, "No Mama. I'm just in your dream."
"So you haven't come back?"
"No, Mama. But we can play for now."
"So I'll wake up and you won't be here."
She nodded. "Uh-huh."
Then she hugged me. I could feel her arms around me, could smell her hair. I felt her in my arms, whole and solid. My joy was transcendent.
"If I know it's a dream, why am I still here? Don't you have to go? Am I awake?"
"Not yet. Let's ride another ride."
Then my alarm went off.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)