don't cry

Alone. I said I feel alone in my last post, and then I spent the rest of the afternoon feeling guilty, because when I say alone, I mean, us. We feel alone.

Which isn't really alone. I know.

I try not to take Sam and Beatrice for granted, and yet I must. I said it after all. I adore my little family. I experience the enormity of this life with them. We travel those vast rolling hills of grief together--its ugly shadowed valleys, its sunny moments of peace amidst chaos. I almost compared to grief to Sisyphus, but it isn't like that at all. It is not up and down endlessly. Then the lows, well, I would know when they were coming. It is more like I have some vengeful bully following me around, kicking my rock back down the hill indiscriminately. And he mocks me at the same time, throws questions at me about why Lucy died, telling me stories about other children who weren't wanted who survive. Sometimes the bully goes away, and I can roll my stone up the hill, and then, suddenly, it rolls down on its own accord. Not even gravity can account for falling in love with a dead daughter and all the heartbreak that comes with it.

Last night, I began reading the Children's Mythology book to Bea for sleeping time again. We read the story of Diana and Actaeon. The mortal hunter Actaeon unwittingly happens upon the goddess Diana bathing. She turns him into a stag deer, his hunted, and his dogs rip him apart. The story ends in this anthology with a sentence something like, "And this story shows how the goddess Diana could be harsh and cruel in her punishments." You think?

And when we headed to our room, I said to Sam, "Sometimes this is what I think happened to Lucia. Without proof of any other reason. It is like some bitchy, vengeful God, mad at me for seeing his beautiful naked body, took my baby." And I sort of see it that way in my mind's eye. A large hand and a pinch of the forefinger and thumb over my belly. Outten the light, as they say in my neck of the woods. But maybe in my own Greek myth, it was because when I was pregnant with Lucy, I was so happy. I felt everything fall into its rightful place. I touched the bliss and happiness of the gods. And Hades snuffed her, as I desperately tried to feed her pomegranate seeds. The Myth of Angelica.

:::

Yesterday, we saw our friends who also have been grieving. My friend is 34 weeks pregnant and she is grieving the death of her sister at age 39. So young. So tragic. It makes me shudder, and feel such sadness. After I found out she died, I was fairly inconsolable. I paced and sobbed, and punched things. I was only two months out from losing Lucy. The world is so fucking cruel. I couldn't conceive of how we were supposed to survive these losses. Yesterday, our grief was less raw, but no less present. I think it beautiful the way that women relate. We cry and laugh together seamlessly. Though our losses are very different, there is an ease simply by understanding the multi-layered ways in which grief affects us. One minute is very different than the next. It is comforting to be with someone who understands that.

I imagine most of my friends have no idea what life is like for me. What I am like grieving. If they read this blog, they must think it is all insights, and being felled by harsh words from strangers and friends. And it is true. I do have insights. I do write poetry, and appreciate every nook and cranny of what I have. I do cry when someone says an insensitive remark. But also this part of me that I don't like has shown up. The short-tempered one. The impatient one. The nagging one. The anxious one. Yesterday, all of my sides were out, like raw nerves poking out of every bend in me. Sam and Beatrice sat on a skateboard and rode down a Mt. Airy sloping sidewalk. I barely could handle it. I tried to make nice-nice in front of our friends. I turned around, and walked in the other direction. "He is her father. He can make decisions." They had no helmets. No pads. And I could only see catastrophe.

I licked my finger and wiped the blood off her scraped knee. "I need boo-boo sticker, mama."

I seethe sometimes.

And then, they wanted to go to the pool. More children die in pool accidents than gun incidents. And then the men wanted to play tennis. And I would have to take her in the pool, as I trembled in the only suit I own, maternity togs. I felt like the entire visit would be me saying "No." No running. No jumping. No. No. No. No, Mama cannot go in the pool right now. No fun. I am not proud of who I have become, but I keep imagining that this will change. It is a small time of trembling and fear. My anxiety will lessen. I will stop seeing death in every corner. Bea, bless her cranky internal nap clock, was melting down at every turn, and I could opt out easily. And yet, I couldn't stop this nagging feeling of being so freakish, so different...I hate the reflection I see in other people's eyes sometime.

:::

I got home and ran in the afternoon heat. I just wanted to run away. Keep going. Keep running and not look back. When I did get back, I felt better, more whole. I was nicer to Sam. We watched Pema Chodron's This Lousy World, which always makes me smile. We did a sage smudge and cleansed our house. Something we hadn't done since Lucy died. We lit her candle for the first time in weeks. We ate Panamanian food, and listened to salsa music. I painted a picture after dinner.