Saturday, June 20, 2009

I am strong in his hands.

We have spent six months grieving the death of our daughter.

You could tell me it has been six years. I would believe you. I feel like I have been grieving for so long. I don't really remember what it was like to imagine Lucy alive. And yet most days, I have to remind myself. "I can't believe she is dead," I think. Everyday. So cliche. It is like my lizard brain wakes up ready to care for my egg. Hasn't it been long enough for my neural pathways to reprogram itself into the "she died" part of my brain? I am fighting the reality, mainly because this previous idea of myself--a healthy, strong, connected person, who comes from Catholic working class breeding stock--and the person I have become--the scurvied woman incapable of giving life--seem so fundamentally different, so disparate. At six months, i am starting to see myself as the former again...maybe time has partially taken away that particularly cruel version of myself.

Winter solstice. Summer solstice. The longest night. The longest day. Are these days opposites or conjunctive? One leads to the other. I try hard not to think of the dates, after all there is a 21st and 22nd every month, and everyone has a day...but six months. Half a year. It seems important to honor it, this first half year of the rest of my life. I won't go to the place where I imagine what she would be doing. I don't stand in line and look at babies and imagine my Lucia. I just miss her. I never got to see her open her eyes. I think about that some days. How I never got to see her open her eyes, or her mouth, and do little baby things, but she is always stuck right there in newborn vision.

For Lucy, tomorrow, the only thing we have planned is lighting our firepit at dark and drinking wine. Our Lucia. Our light. I want a ritual for tomorrow, something I can do to stave off the pain...a sort of spiritual busy work.

:::

Tomorrow, though, isn't just this death anniversary; it is also Father's Day. We do have some things planned in conjunction with that. Sam requested I cook sausage. I haven't made meat in my home since I don't know when. I stopped eating meat a while ago. I couldn't bear the death. But Sam wants sausage. It will be harder for him tomorrow. It is his first Father's Day without one of our daughters, and the first Father's Day since his father died. He died three weeks before Lucy. I miss him. Sometimes I am caught in my swirl of Lucia grieving, Sam will cry for Harry, and I forget how much he is dealing with...how this year has been particularly cruel to my beautiful husband.

Can I tell you a bit about my husband? He is working tonight, so he won't peek over my shoulder. He picked up an extra shift because they were short-handed at the hospital. He is a pediatric nurse anesthetist. He cares for babies who are sick, abused, hurt, suffering...he has held babies the same age as Lucia would be, and cared for them. Babies whose parents didn't put them in car seats, whose caregivers shook them when they cried too loudly, babies born sick...and sometimes he just helps kids who get a little under the weather, or fell off the couch. He is true to his feelings. That rare combination of man who builds furniture and hunts and cries, who is stronger because he can be vulnerable. He looks at his list of patients some days, calls me and cries, sometimes in front of his co-workers, and then pulls it together and does his job. Very well. He dedicates himself. He is passionate. He becomes an advocate, a beautiful piece of the puzzle that saves lives. That man, he is my hero. So brave and true and righteous and so damn noble. He is the most noble man I have met. And funny as hell. Sometimes I want to have a blog just dedicated to things he says. Like when we were pouting and pissed at each other, and Pink Floyd's Welcome to the Machine came on the radio, and he said, "That's what they call me, Ang."
"What, husband?"
"La Machina."

:::

I am strong in his hands.

My heart breaks because my husband is grieving our daughter, his father, our future. Every day for the last six months, I have seen him grieve. I have seen him struggle, just like me. I have seen him hold our Beatrice tighter, more passionately, appreciating being a father, waiting patiently as I sob. I have seen him at his most impatient. I have seen him at his most unraveled. I have seen him at his most compassionate, and kind. I have seen him lift me up and hold me and be strong. He is an extraordinary father and husband. From what I write of him, I hope you know that already. And so, on this Father's Day, I can't give him what he wants most, but I give him my love, my beautiful husband. My appreciation and love at his strength. I am thankful everyday for him. "My Sam"

When I hear this song, I think of my husband.

16 comments:

  1. Oh Angie, your Sam sounds so wonderful. He does the same thing as my Simon (as you know) and I marvel at each of them. I have no idea how they both do it - I know I couldn't.
    I'll be thinking of you all tomorrow xo

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  2. Angie,

    Sam truly does carry a lot of weight now. Grief from both sides of the equation of life. His ancestor and his descendant. It has got to be overwhelming.

    I suppose in many ways Sam has had to either put his grief aside because of his job or face it even more head-on because of his job. I'm hoping it's the latter, sort of his own personal grief workshop if you will.

    I know when I was diagnosed with cancer, it put my grief work on hold and I was angry about that. I wanted to focus on E, not cancer. I'm hoping it's the opposite for Sam. I'm hoping he finds ways to work through his grief while still helping others in their own moments of pain versus allowing others' pain to take center stage.

    Peace, my friend.

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  3. Sam is a wonderful man indeed, who has a most wonderful wife; you are a beautiful pair.

    Thinking of you, of Sam, and so much of Lucia tomorrow. xoxo

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  4. what a beautiful post about a beautiful person....i am thinking of you and sam today, i love you both. so much.

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  5. I hope he does read it. You have painted such a compassionate picture of your Sam.
    I hope you guys find peace today and I hope he enjoys his sausage and you, your wine and light.
    Sending love your way..
    Lindsay

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  6. What a stunning post Angie. Sending love and peace to your dear husband Sam today.

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  7. Angie, what a beautiful tribute to Sam. He is an incredible father and man, it's easy to see. Hoping today is full of love and some slivers of light. xo

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  8. Angie, your beautiful words touch my heart. Sam sounds like a wonderful daddy to both your girls, and a hero to all those sick and abused babies! happy father's day to him and all the other amazing daddies out there! :)

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  9. Much love to Sam today and always and thinking of you both on the solstice. How I wish it were different for us all. Much love.

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  10. Your love is an amazing gift for your amazing husband. Blessings on your home.

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  11. so beautiful angie. thinking of you so much today, this summer solstice and lucy's 6 months.i think about the fact that i never saw lev's eyes opened too, how awful.

    i love your tribute to sam. he is a very special beautiful man, husband, son and father.

    xo

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  12. ps...

    and an amazing pediatric nurse...

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  13. What an amazing man. Happy Fathers Day to him.

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  14. Sam sounds like a kind, wonderful human being. I am sorry he has to deal with the death of his father at the same time as your grief for Lucy. It seems like too much for any one person to handle.

    And, like you, I always wonder about Hannah's eyes. I had a dream once about her and in it she actually opened her eyes. They were a deep blue color in my dream.

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  15. what a wonderful man you have in Sam...it takes such an exceptional man, husband and father to be strong in this horrible journey. thank you for sharing him with us.

    thinking about you and Lucy today and sending you much love.

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  16. that was so beautiful. i can't believe how long its been since i read your blog. i am sorry. though i know you understand the blog breaks that sometimes need to be taken.

    i hope to meet you and sam one day. we'll make it happen. have an east coast babylost convention or something.

    love to you xo

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