Thursday, June 30, 2011
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
somewhere else
There is a 4"x6" index card with a list of my lists, so I don't lose one along the way. There is a list for what to pack, what to buy, what we need, what we are supposed to do before we go, what we are supposed to do the day we go. There is a list for each person even though two of them can't read. There is a list of things to take care of that actually says, "Wax eyebrows" underneath "Suspend mail service." It still feels disorganized. Maybe I should color-code something. Then I can colorize it. Can I colorize a black and white list?
"What? Why are you laughing?"
"Because you are writing comfort lists. Look at you." Index cards are strewn across the kitchen table. A stack of printed out lists of things to pack from websites of people who are equally anal. (One site suggested I make a list for myself for when I get home that reads, "Turn on the AC." It's hotter than a two dollar whore on the Fourth of July. I don't think I will forget to do that.) A half empty (nothing is half full right now) can of Diet Coke and I hate Diet Coke. (It burns me throat, but I need the caffeine.) My pen furiously bulleting lists of lists.
"I need to be prepared. How many pairs of shoes are you taking?"
"You are listing and not doing."
I stare at my amused, calm husband. "The sign of intelligence is less doing and more planning. Haven't you ever heard that, Georgia?"
"No."
"You know, you spend the majority of your time making a sound plan and only have to DO once. Geesh."
"You are cute when you are nervous."
"Oh, shut up."
We are leaving on vacation. On Saturday. To Alabama. Or an island off the coast of Alabama. For a week. We are meeting all of Sam's siblings and their families and his mother and aunt. Someone sent an email to my husband with directions to the Wa.lMa.rt, you know, so we can go grocery shopping.
Sam inevitably utters the words that make me go bat shit crazy. And those words are, "Relax, honey, it always comes together."
It's not magic. It doesn't just "come together". It isn't the great cosmic zipper of life that "comes together" seamlessly to pack a family of four and prepare for a week away. No. It is me, forcing the weight of the universe into three 22" x 14" x 9" carry-on bags, preparing for every emergency, freak travel nightmare because of brute force and unholy pacts with the Sky Gods.
I love being a stay at home mother, but vacation is not reallllllly a vacation. It should not be called vacation. It is exactly what I do all day except without the stuff that makes my job easy, like toys, high chairs, cribs, noise machines, knowing exactly where everything is and all the little tricks you develop throughout the years, like coloring stations, craft bins. It should be renamed Perhaps Dismaycation. Or Flaycation. Or simply Going Somewhere Else. I remember when I was a kid everyone just said, "I can't play tomorrow. We are going away." Where are you going? Away. What did you do this weekend? We went away. Where? Away.
Away. Away to the land of nothing easy, but much prettier.
:::
I started a poll on Facebook about whether or not I should pack my Omega Juicer. I think it is worth it, the 25 bucks for an extra piece of checked-in luggage if I get to maintain one regular, daily routine. Every morning I juice celery, romaine lettuce, ginger, lemon and apple. Sometimes I juice for lunch too. That might involve beets, apples, perhaps a lemon. I need the vitamins, no? I need the comfort more. It would be my only moment to focus on my joy. My friend who is a constant traveler saw me yesterday and first thing she said, before "Hello", or "What up, Dawg?" was "You can't take your fucking juicer on vacation."
:::
I wear black every day.
I have dusky feet.
You could probably fry an egg on my hair in the summer.
I don't like to be in a swimsuit in polite society.
I read an article that we can't eat the seafood.
My boobs are too big.
There was just a giant oil spill in the Gulf of Mexico, right?
Babies and beaches are like a nightmare. Seriously. Sand gets in places where you just can't get it out. Have you ever seen that? It's terrible.
It is hot in Alabama, like the inside of someone's mouth hot, except that it is hotter than 98.6 most days, so like the inside of a feverish man's mouth.
I don't really have any good shorts.
I am not really designed for a vacation to an island in the Gulf of Mexico. Every day I come up with a list of reasons why this might not be a good idea. Except that I really want my kids to know their aunts and uncles and cousins and MomMom. Two-thirds of which they haven't seen, well, ever (in the case of Thor) and in three point two years (in the case of Beezus.) My husband misses his brothers, sister, mama and aunt very much. And so I am a brown girl, willingly flying to Alabama on my only vacation in two years because that is all that matters. Even though I bitch a lot, I also have a soul. And I love my husband. And actually, I really adore my in-laws, especially psyched that my sisters in law agreed to read a book together. (Ann Patchett's new one, hollah!)
Is it okay to admit that I will be pretending its Iceland?
"What? Why are you laughing?"
"Because you are writing comfort lists. Look at you." Index cards are strewn across the kitchen table. A stack of printed out lists of things to pack from websites of people who are equally anal. (One site suggested I make a list for myself for when I get home that reads, "Turn on the AC." It's hotter than a two dollar whore on the Fourth of July. I don't think I will forget to do that.) A half empty (nothing is half full right now) can of Diet Coke and I hate Diet Coke. (It burns me throat, but I need the caffeine.) My pen furiously bulleting lists of lists.
"I need to be prepared. How many pairs of shoes are you taking?"
"You are listing and not doing."
I stare at my amused, calm husband. "The sign of intelligence is less doing and more planning. Haven't you ever heard that, Georgia?"
"No."
"You know, you spend the majority of your time making a sound plan and only have to DO once. Geesh."
"You are cute when you are nervous."
"Oh, shut up."
We are leaving on vacation. On Saturday. To Alabama. Or an island off the coast of Alabama. For a week. We are meeting all of Sam's siblings and their families and his mother and aunt. Someone sent an email to my husband with directions to the Wa.lMa.rt, you know, so we can go grocery shopping.
Sam inevitably utters the words that make me go bat shit crazy. And those words are, "Relax, honey, it always comes together."
It's not magic. It doesn't just "come together". It isn't the great cosmic zipper of life that "comes together" seamlessly to pack a family of four and prepare for a week away. No. It is me, forcing the weight of the universe into three 22" x 14" x 9" carry-on bags, preparing for every emergency, freak travel nightmare because of brute force and unholy pacts with the Sky Gods.
I love being a stay at home mother, but vacation is not reallllllly a vacation. It should not be called vacation. It is exactly what I do all day except without the stuff that makes my job easy, like toys, high chairs, cribs, noise machines, knowing exactly where everything is and all the little tricks you develop throughout the years, like coloring stations, craft bins. It should be renamed Perhaps Dismaycation. Or Flaycation. Or simply Going Somewhere Else. I remember when I was a kid everyone just said, "I can't play tomorrow. We are going away." Where are you going? Away. What did you do this weekend? We went away. Where? Away.
Away. Away to the land of nothing easy, but much prettier.
:::
I started a poll on Facebook about whether or not I should pack my Omega Juicer. I think it is worth it, the 25 bucks for an extra piece of checked-in luggage if I get to maintain one regular, daily routine. Every morning I juice celery, romaine lettuce, ginger, lemon and apple. Sometimes I juice for lunch too. That might involve beets, apples, perhaps a lemon. I need the vitamins, no? I need the comfort more. It would be my only moment to focus on my joy. My friend who is a constant traveler saw me yesterday and first thing she said, before "Hello", or "What up, Dawg?" was "You can't take your fucking juicer on vacation."
:::
I wear black every day.
I have dusky feet.
You could probably fry an egg on my hair in the summer.
I don't like to be in a swimsuit in polite society.
I read an article that we can't eat the seafood.
My boobs are too big.
There was just a giant oil spill in the Gulf of Mexico, right?
Babies and beaches are like a nightmare. Seriously. Sand gets in places where you just can't get it out. Have you ever seen that? It's terrible.
It is hot in Alabama, like the inside of someone's mouth hot, except that it is hotter than 98.6 most days, so like the inside of a feverish man's mouth.
I don't really have any good shorts.
I am not really designed for a vacation to an island in the Gulf of Mexico. Every day I come up with a list of reasons why this might not be a good idea. Except that I really want my kids to know their aunts and uncles and cousins and MomMom. Two-thirds of which they haven't seen, well, ever (in the case of Thor) and in three point two years (in the case of Beezus.) My husband misses his brothers, sister, mama and aunt very much. And so I am a brown girl, willingly flying to Alabama on my only vacation in two years because that is all that matters. Even though I bitch a lot, I also have a soul. And I love my husband. And actually, I really adore my in-laws, especially psyched that my sisters in law agreed to read a book together. (Ann Patchett's new one, hollah!)
Is it okay to admit that I will be pretending its Iceland?
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
wild thing
Restlessness overtakes me. I watch Intervention. Twice. Then Hoarders. Then pace a bit. Sometimes I feel like a wild thing, a creature of the moon.
I never saw a wild thing sorry for itself.
Why aren't I sleepy? Is it because of the moon or the earth? What am I worried about? Nothing. I am a wild thing. Wild and unattached. An animal. I told my daughter the difference between monkeys and apes. "Monkeys have tails, love. Apes do not. Humans are apes. We are apes." She laughed at me. "We aren't monkeys, Mama. We aren't animals." But we are, my love. We are hairless apes. We are wild things. We are a shrewdness of apes. An army. A tribe. We cling together so no one will steal our food and our women.
I am a wild thing, but am I sorry for myself? I peer out the window. It is midnight. Everyone is sleeping. I am not sleeping. I am not feeling sorry for myself because of it. I am the night watchman. I wait for movement. There is nothing. The baby is no longer in our bed. He is in his crib, and I should stretch out, hold my husband again. I shut my eyes and think of nothing. My eyes open again. Still awake. I trudge down the stairs, still not sorry for myself. I watch stories of people with survival issues, because my issues are thrivival in nature.
I am like the tide, in and out, here and there. Last week's the full moon was the Strawberry Moon. It sounded so benign, but it kicked off a strange bout of exhaustive awake-ness. One day, the old Algonquin names of the moons will be second nature to me. I look them up every month when I can't sleep, and crosscheck them with the Traditional English names. They are poetry and earth and salt and haiku. They make sense. The moons are like a creature, a wild goddess, demanding worship.The Strawberry Moon, however, seems to want nothing but joy. And I cannot muster joy.
I am sleepless because the solstice approaches. I am lost and have lost. But I have and continue to get.
My stomach cramps and makes me wonder if I am matched up again with the cycles of the moon. Except that since Thor came into the world, my cycles are unpredictable, sparse, unvisiting, mostly. Sometimes I believe that Thor was the last of my cycles because he was the last of my cycles. I flirt with the idea of another child in my sleeplessness. I had three babies once. I want to hold three babies. But I will always do this, I realize, I will always want one more. I think there is one missing, because there is one missing.
So simple a concept to still not get.
Last week, after I returned from the retreat, I got on my computer, did some work, walked away. Do we always remember the absolutely ordinariness of the moment before the moment it all changed? The next morning, she wouldn't start up. I tried not to panic, but I was panicking. I took it into the Geek Squad immediately. The geek was rude to me. I half-expected him to eat my hard drive. Isn't that what geeks do? I wondered if I trusted him with my work. I fought the impulse and left my hulking desktop on the counter with a little sticker with my name on it. One little sticker is what identifies all that work as me. I handed it over and it wasn't until I got into the car that I realized that I was crying. My novel. My memoirs. All my unpublished works in progress. Pictures of all three of my children's births. All the photographs of my artwork. My being.
A small bird will drop frozen dead from a bough without ever having felt sorry for itself.
I cannot drop from a bough frozen. I am not a wild thing. I am a domesticated, organized thing. I am tame and emotionally delicate thing. I am a lapdog with anxiety issues and a penchant for dog ice cream. And in the most un-Buddhist way, I can say I am attached to everything. I am attached to the picture of a possum I downloaded a year ago. I am attached to the movies I made of my paintings. I am attached to my folders of still life 365 work. I am attached to my ideas. I am attached to my writing. I am attached to the pictures of the things and people I love. I am attached.
I found my flash drive with backups of my writing work. After days of prayers to St. Anthony, and a candle to the Strawberry Moon Goddess, it was there in an envelope in the drawer I was sure I put it in. Of course, it wasn't backed up recently. The last back up was December. When I can't write, I edit. When I can't edit, I tweak. When I can't tweak, I write sentences and save them for later longer pieces. When I have nothing to write, I write letters to people. When I can't write letters to people, I write letters to institutions. "Dear Marriage..." I don't even remember which pieces in what folders I worked on in the last six months. In the last six months of sobriety. (Did you catch that? I lost all my sober work.)
I wait to hear if they can save my work. The geek asked me which files I want to recover.
"All of them," I say.
"But do you remember which ones?"
"Please, just save them all. If you can't save them all, then save the ones you can."
He is frustrated, eats my pen, spits ink at me. He's not that kind of geek. I am lying because the idea of losing my work makes me a wild thing. Wild things lie when they feel threatened.
I breathe deep and write down the names of each folder I want saved. My Documents. "Is that too vague? I need everything in the folder 'My Documents'?"
"No, that is a root folder. That is totally cool. Don't worry."
It is summer solstice. Two years and six months since she died. I lose things. I lost her. Sometimes I cry about something I can't hold, because it reminds me of all the other wild things I cannot hold. It reminds me of when I fell frozen from a bough having never felt sorry for myself.
I never saw a wild thing sorry for itself.
Why aren't I sleepy? Is it because of the moon or the earth? What am I worried about? Nothing. I am a wild thing. Wild and unattached. An animal. I told my daughter the difference between monkeys and apes. "Monkeys have tails, love. Apes do not. Humans are apes. We are apes." She laughed at me. "We aren't monkeys, Mama. We aren't animals." But we are, my love. We are hairless apes. We are wild things. We are a shrewdness of apes. An army. A tribe. We cling together so no one will steal our food and our women.
I am a wild thing, but am I sorry for myself? I peer out the window. It is midnight. Everyone is sleeping. I am not sleeping. I am not feeling sorry for myself because of it. I am the night watchman. I wait for movement. There is nothing. The baby is no longer in our bed. He is in his crib, and I should stretch out, hold my husband again. I shut my eyes and think of nothing. My eyes open again. Still awake. I trudge down the stairs, still not sorry for myself. I watch stories of people with survival issues, because my issues are thrivival in nature.
I am like the tide, in and out, here and there. Last week's the full moon was the Strawberry Moon. It sounded so benign, but it kicked off a strange bout of exhaustive awake-ness. One day, the old Algonquin names of the moons will be second nature to me. I look them up every month when I can't sleep, and crosscheck them with the Traditional English names. They are poetry and earth and salt and haiku. They make sense. The moons are like a creature, a wild goddess, demanding worship.The Strawberry Moon, however, seems to want nothing but joy. And I cannot muster joy.
I am sleepless because the solstice approaches. I am lost and have lost. But I have and continue to get.
My stomach cramps and makes me wonder if I am matched up again with the cycles of the moon. Except that since Thor came into the world, my cycles are unpredictable, sparse, unvisiting, mostly. Sometimes I believe that Thor was the last of my cycles because he was the last of my cycles. I flirt with the idea of another child in my sleeplessness. I had three babies once. I want to hold three babies. But I will always do this, I realize, I will always want one more. I think there is one missing, because there is one missing.
So simple a concept to still not get.
Last week, after I returned from the retreat, I got on my computer, did some work, walked away. Do we always remember the absolutely ordinariness of the moment before the moment it all changed? The next morning, she wouldn't start up. I tried not to panic, but I was panicking. I took it into the Geek Squad immediately. The geek was rude to me. I half-expected him to eat my hard drive. Isn't that what geeks do? I wondered if I trusted him with my work. I fought the impulse and left my hulking desktop on the counter with a little sticker with my name on it. One little sticker is what identifies all that work as me. I handed it over and it wasn't until I got into the car that I realized that I was crying. My novel. My memoirs. All my unpublished works in progress. Pictures of all three of my children's births. All the photographs of my artwork. My being.
A small bird will drop frozen dead from a bough without ever having felt sorry for itself.
I cannot drop from a bough frozen. I am not a wild thing. I am a domesticated, organized thing. I am tame and emotionally delicate thing. I am a lapdog with anxiety issues and a penchant for dog ice cream. And in the most un-Buddhist way, I can say I am attached to everything. I am attached to the picture of a possum I downloaded a year ago. I am attached to the movies I made of my paintings. I am attached to my folders of still life 365 work. I am attached to my ideas. I am attached to my writing. I am attached to the pictures of the things and people I love. I am attached.
I found my flash drive with backups of my writing work. After days of prayers to St. Anthony, and a candle to the Strawberry Moon Goddess, it was there in an envelope in the drawer I was sure I put it in. Of course, it wasn't backed up recently. The last back up was December. When I can't write, I edit. When I can't edit, I tweak. When I can't tweak, I write sentences and save them for later longer pieces. When I have nothing to write, I write letters to people. When I can't write letters to people, I write letters to institutions. "Dear Marriage..." I don't even remember which pieces in what folders I worked on in the last six months. In the last six months of sobriety. (Did you catch that? I lost all my sober work.)
I wait to hear if they can save my work. The geek asked me which files I want to recover.
"All of them," I say.
"But do you remember which ones?"
"Please, just save them all. If you can't save them all, then save the ones you can."
He is frustrated, eats my pen, spits ink at me. He's not that kind of geek. I am lying because the idea of losing my work makes me a wild thing. Wild things lie when they feel threatened.
I breathe deep and write down the names of each folder I want saved. My Documents. "Is that too vague? I need everything in the folder 'My Documents'?"
"No, that is a root folder. That is totally cool. Don't worry."
It is summer solstice. Two years and six months since she died. I lose things. I lost her. Sometimes I cry about something I can't hold, because it reminds me of all the other wild things I cannot hold. It reminds me of when I fell frozen from a bough having never felt sorry for myself.
Monday, June 13, 2011
retreat
I turned off the street from the city. It is one long street that starts at the zoo, and goes on and on, through the ghetto, the burbs, passed a few universities. And then it keeps going to the farms and the Amish and another country really. If you keep driving long enough, I guess every street takes you somewhere else. The convent is a left, a right, a right, a left, turn at the Virgin Mary, take the curves, back in the trees. So close to the city, but it feels far. As the crow flies, it is nineteen miles from my house. As the traffic sits, it took me two hours. God lives back here. You can tell by the number of seminaries, convents, retreat houses. Maybe he lives in that ranch house with the stable out back, and the stone wall. He definitely has a stone wall. No, he has to live in one of Frank Lloyd Wright's usonian houses. Wouldn't that be cool? There is one around here, right? That thought gets me into the convent.
I pull in. There are women sitting out front smoking. I wonder if any of them are nuns. Do nuns smoke? I just want to be cloistered. I just want to be a smoking, cloistered nun. I miss smoking some days. The ritual of a cigarette. I sit near smokers when they are around, just to remember. I have been running for four days to prepare for 36 hours on a women's spiritual retreat. I shop. Fill up my husband's car with gas. I do all the laundry. Prepare the extra room. I mop, sweep, dust. I answer emails. I make lists. I make lists of my lists. Somehow, in my haste, I forget to fill up my own car with gas, as I sit in traffic, I wonder if a quarter of a tank can last nineteen miles or two hours, whichever comes first. It occurs to me in traffic that I forgot my toothpaste, my Zyrtek and Tylenol and my thyroid medication. When I get there, I realize that even my registration got lost in the mail. After all my planning, the most basic parts of this weekend are gone--health, lodging, food...I never checked that my check cleared.
Nothing, absolutely nothing, happens in God's world by accident.
What if God speaks through other people? What if God is sending me signs? Maybe God wants me to be itchy and bloated and in pain.God seems to be telling me to go home. I ignore him. Rather I plead with him.
Help me, God. I am ready. I want salvation. I came here despite all the adversity you sent me. Did you want me to stop or keep going? I want to let you in. I am here to feel your breath on my neck, to open the door to you. I am here to be in meditation and prayer and give you my will. God, please show me how to give you my will. Show me how to let go and let God. I have been in control so long that the reins have rubbed my hands raw. They have grown into my skin. I open my palms and they still sit in the grooves, darkened with dried blood. I have been controlled for so long and fucked up so much, I don't even know if I am letting go or holding on tighter.
Maybe God is telling me that none of that really matters if I am right where I am supposed to be. Maybe God is teaching me about control and how little of it I have. Maybe God is throwing me off my game because He thinks it is fucking hilarious when I stammer and geek-out. I have the exact amount of money in my wallet that I owe for a new registration. Well, plus an extra four bucks for a bottle of water and a little nun-made gift for Beezus. I run into a friend at the registration desk where I am flustered and upset and she tells me that she has extra thyroid medication for tomorrow. It is my exact prescription. It is uncanny.
Perhaps nothing, absolutely nothing, happens in God's world on purpose.
I wanted to be a nun once. When I was girl, I came home from catechism class and told my father. He shook his head in disappointment. He grew up in Catholic school with Catholic guilt and Catholic shame. Not me. I grew up admiring the people of the cloth. Their reasonableness, their education, their sensible shoes. Priests and nuns were the only people before university I'd ever encountered who wanted to discuss God intelligently. There was a mystery, levity and serenity in the habit of God. I didn't think I would fit into convent. I liked bawdy jokes and nun wind-up toys. When I discovered sex, I realized I didn't want to fit into convent. If being a nun was my calling, sex wouldn't feel so damned good.
When my first husband and I split, I thought again that I should join an order. We didn't marry through the church. Maybe I was still eligible? My passion is social justice. That is what I told myself. Maybe I belong with women who believe in social justice, not social life. The monastic life appeals to me, after all. Celibacy. Abstinence. Sobriety. Self-flagellation. Self-discipline. All that sounded good. Like the opposite of everything I ended up doing, and what I ended up doing made me miserable. The end justifies the means especially if the end is caring for the meek, the poor, the weak, the hungry, the diseased. If I become a nun, maybe I will do some good in the world. Even if I don't know what I believe, I can still be a good person. Fake it til you make it, honey. I prayed for a sign. Direct me to my calling, God. But nothing came. Just bourbon and brown girls with guitars. I heeded their call instead.
It is all or nothing with me. I am either a drunk or a monk. That is the kind of person I am. If I can't get behind it, I get in front of it. Black or white. But then I remember I am brown and white and honey and grey and sometimes slightly greenish.
The retreat house looked like a nunnery. Can I call it a nunnery? Not a Hamlet-type nunnery, but a nunnery-type nunnery. One that makes nuns. The rooms were sparse but perfect. A single bed, a rocking chair, a desk, an oscillating fan. It was a spiritual retreat led by a Dominican nun from Yonkers. It was my first night away from Thor. Meditation. Prayer. Coffee. Discussion. Lettuce and water. Meditation. Prayer. Coffee. Discussion. Lettuce and water.
I could get used to this life.
It was fine. I slept fine. I felt fine. I needed the alone space. No one touched me. No one grabbed at my boob, or my hair. Not one person pulled off my glasses and cackled. There were other women after all, looking to strengthen their relationship with God too. When I had a moment, I painted. I attended all the sessions and smiled at the other women and made chitchat. By Saturday afternoon, my breast was engorged, and I was in physical discomfort. I thought I prepared to wean him. He only eats before bed. And I am done with breastfeeding--emotionally and physically done. I thought the sore, tight breast part would skip me. But I found myself clutching at my breast and crying.
I miss her. I miss Lucy.
Engorgement reminds me that she died. Engorgement reminds me that no one suckled once.
:::
What do you do?
Oh, here we go.
I am a writer and artist. I mean, I stay home with my kids. No, wait, I guess I'm a writer.
What do you write? Are you like a real writer?
Is anyone a real writer anymore? She is smiling. She seems warm. Maybe she is genuinely interested in how real of a writer I am. Does she mean real as do I make money, or am I authentic? Do I write with my heart? I write with my heart, but I make no money. I am a drunk. I write about my broken heart. I make no money. I don't want to talk to people, and also need to talk to people, especially adult women people. But I don't know how to talk adult women people anymore.
I think I am a real writer. I write and people read it, but I don't usually get paid. So, no, I'm not a real writer.
There is laughter. Laughter is good. I made someone laugh.
You are young. You can do it all. How many children do you have?
I'm not young at all. I feel old. My bones are old. My hips are creaky. I have grey hairs, lots of them, even grey pubic hair, if you want to know. My soul is used up.
I am not as young as you think. I have three children.
Oh my goodness, how old are they?
Four and one.
(blink.) I don't know how to answer these questions. Can I disappear now? I just want to touch grace. I just want to be whole.
My second daughter died. I mean, she was stillborn at 38 weeks of pregnancy.
Oh, I am sorry. I can't imagine.
Thanks. I never know how to answer that question. It is so complicated.
Is it? Is it complicated? Why is it complicated? Why do I need to qualify every answer? Just answer her. You can't take motherhood from someone. She was my child. She lived in me. She grew. She died. She lived life. Why does this still feel hard to say? Why, when I finally get comfortable saying this, does it become uncomfortable again? When will she speak again?
How old are your children again?
Four and one. A girl and a boy.
They are so young.
Yes, they are.
You really need this retreat.
Yes, I do.
Are you away for the first time?
Yes.
What kinds of things do you write?
Oh, fuck, I have no idea. She doesn't want to hear about how now I write about the grief. I sound like a horn with one note. Griiiiiiiiiieffffffffffffffff in g flat.
Essays, I guess. I wrote a novel, but I haven't looked at it in a while. I write poetry sometimes too. What do you do?
I'm a nurse.
I love nurses.
I pull in. There are women sitting out front smoking. I wonder if any of them are nuns. Do nuns smoke? I just want to be cloistered. I just want to be a smoking, cloistered nun. I miss smoking some days. The ritual of a cigarette. I sit near smokers when they are around, just to remember. I have been running for four days to prepare for 36 hours on a women's spiritual retreat. I shop. Fill up my husband's car with gas. I do all the laundry. Prepare the extra room. I mop, sweep, dust. I answer emails. I make lists. I make lists of my lists. Somehow, in my haste, I forget to fill up my own car with gas, as I sit in traffic, I wonder if a quarter of a tank can last nineteen miles or two hours, whichever comes first. It occurs to me in traffic that I forgot my toothpaste, my Zyrtek and Tylenol and my thyroid medication. When I get there, I realize that even my registration got lost in the mail. After all my planning, the most basic parts of this weekend are gone--health, lodging, food...I never checked that my check cleared.
Nothing, absolutely nothing, happens in God's world by accident.
What if God speaks through other people? What if God is sending me signs? Maybe God wants me to be itchy and bloated and in pain.God seems to be telling me to go home. I ignore him. Rather I plead with him.
Help me, God. I am ready. I want salvation. I came here despite all the adversity you sent me. Did you want me to stop or keep going? I want to let you in. I am here to feel your breath on my neck, to open the door to you. I am here to be in meditation and prayer and give you my will. God, please show me how to give you my will. Show me how to let go and let God. I have been in control so long that the reins have rubbed my hands raw. They have grown into my skin. I open my palms and they still sit in the grooves, darkened with dried blood. I have been controlled for so long and fucked up so much, I don't even know if I am letting go or holding on tighter.
Maybe God is telling me that none of that really matters if I am right where I am supposed to be. Maybe God is teaching me about control and how little of it I have. Maybe God is throwing me off my game because He thinks it is fucking hilarious when I stammer and geek-out. I have the exact amount of money in my wallet that I owe for a new registration. Well, plus an extra four bucks for a bottle of water and a little nun-made gift for Beezus. I run into a friend at the registration desk where I am flustered and upset and she tells me that she has extra thyroid medication for tomorrow. It is my exact prescription. It is uncanny.
Perhaps nothing, absolutely nothing, happens in God's world on purpose.
I wanted to be a nun once. When I was girl, I came home from catechism class and told my father. He shook his head in disappointment. He grew up in Catholic school with Catholic guilt and Catholic shame. Not me. I grew up admiring the people of the cloth. Their reasonableness, their education, their sensible shoes. Priests and nuns were the only people before university I'd ever encountered who wanted to discuss God intelligently. There was a mystery, levity and serenity in the habit of God. I didn't think I would fit into convent. I liked bawdy jokes and nun wind-up toys. When I discovered sex, I realized I didn't want to fit into convent. If being a nun was my calling, sex wouldn't feel so damned good.
When my first husband and I split, I thought again that I should join an order. We didn't marry through the church. Maybe I was still eligible? My passion is social justice. That is what I told myself. Maybe I belong with women who believe in social justice, not social life. The monastic life appeals to me, after all. Celibacy. Abstinence. Sobriety. Self-flagellation. Self-discipline. All that sounded good. Like the opposite of everything I ended up doing, and what I ended up doing made me miserable. The end justifies the means especially if the end is caring for the meek, the poor, the weak, the hungry, the diseased. If I become a nun, maybe I will do some good in the world. Even if I don't know what I believe, I can still be a good person. Fake it til you make it, honey. I prayed for a sign. Direct me to my calling, God. But nothing came. Just bourbon and brown girls with guitars. I heeded their call instead.
It is all or nothing with me. I am either a drunk or a monk. That is the kind of person I am. If I can't get behind it, I get in front of it. Black or white. But then I remember I am brown and white and honey and grey and sometimes slightly greenish.
The retreat house looked like a nunnery. Can I call it a nunnery? Not a Hamlet-type nunnery, but a nunnery-type nunnery. One that makes nuns. The rooms were sparse but perfect. A single bed, a rocking chair, a desk, an oscillating fan. It was a spiritual retreat led by a Dominican nun from Yonkers. It was my first night away from Thor. Meditation. Prayer. Coffee. Discussion. Lettuce and water. Meditation. Prayer. Coffee. Discussion. Lettuce and water.
I could get used to this life.
It was fine. I slept fine. I felt fine. I needed the alone space. No one touched me. No one grabbed at my boob, or my hair. Not one person pulled off my glasses and cackled. There were other women after all, looking to strengthen their relationship with God too. When I had a moment, I painted. I attended all the sessions and smiled at the other women and made chitchat. By Saturday afternoon, my breast was engorged, and I was in physical discomfort. I thought I prepared to wean him. He only eats before bed. And I am done with breastfeeding--emotionally and physically done. I thought the sore, tight breast part would skip me. But I found myself clutching at my breast and crying.
I miss her. I miss Lucy.
Engorgement reminds me that she died. Engorgement reminds me that no one suckled once.
:::
What do you do?
Oh, here we go.
I am a writer and artist. I mean, I stay home with my kids. No, wait, I guess I'm a writer.
What do you write? Are you like a real writer?
Is anyone a real writer anymore? She is smiling. She seems warm. Maybe she is genuinely interested in how real of a writer I am. Does she mean real as do I make money, or am I authentic? Do I write with my heart? I write with my heart, but I make no money. I am a drunk. I write about my broken heart. I make no money. I don't want to talk to people, and also need to talk to people, especially adult women people. But I don't know how to talk adult women people anymore.
I think I am a real writer. I write and people read it, but I don't usually get paid. So, no, I'm not a real writer.
There is laughter. Laughter is good. I made someone laugh.
You are young. You can do it all. How many children do you have?
I'm not young at all. I feel old. My bones are old. My hips are creaky. I have grey hairs, lots of them, even grey pubic hair, if you want to know. My soul is used up.
I am not as young as you think. I have three children.
Oh my goodness, how old are they?
Four and one.
(blink.) I don't know how to answer these questions. Can I disappear now? I just want to touch grace. I just want to be whole.
My second daughter died. I mean, she was stillborn at 38 weeks of pregnancy.
Oh, I am sorry. I can't imagine.
Thanks. I never know how to answer that question. It is so complicated.
Is it? Is it complicated? Why is it complicated? Why do I need to qualify every answer? Just answer her. You can't take motherhood from someone. She was my child. She lived in me. She grew. She died. She lived life. Why does this still feel hard to say? Why, when I finally get comfortable saying this, does it become uncomfortable again? When will she speak again?
How old are your children again?
Four and one. A girl and a boy.
They are so young.
Yes, they are.
You really need this retreat.
Yes, I do.
Are you away for the first time?
Yes.
What kinds of things do you write?
Oh, fuck, I have no idea. She doesn't want to hear about how now I write about the grief. I sound like a horn with one note. Griiiiiiiiiieffffffffffffffff in g flat.
Essays, I guess. I wrote a novel, but I haven't looked at it in a while. I write poetry sometimes too. What do you do?
I'm a nurse.
I love nurses.
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
Randomness and another project?
My totally unscientific observation about Facebook:
It isn't until you lose your child that you realize that a large percentage, perhaps even the majority, of Facebook status updates and posts are about pregnancy (complaining or otherwise), babies (complaining or otherwise) and kids (complaining or otherwise). It isn't until you quit drinking that you realize that the majority of the now minority of posts is about wine, beer, booze or getting loaded, preparing to get loaded, or in the process of getting loaded. It isn't until you stop eating gluten, wheat, sugar or anything interesting in your diet that you realize that the rest of the posts are about food.
I guess in the morning, replace the booze with coffee, except for in only the most extreme cases. Funnily, the posts about things I can't do right now don't bother nearly as much as my unscientific survey leads one to believe. I think it is more of a case of being the fool who points out that the emperor has no clothes. I actually like naked people, so carry on, people.
I am still blown away by the response on the Right Where I Am project. I guess everyone realized that the right in right where I am marks both a place in time and space, and right as in whatever you feel right now is okay and true and right. I fell in love with this community a long time ago, because being forgiving to you in your grief helped me be forgiving to me in my grief. You loved me until I could love myself again. That is the beauty of this community. My seemingly ugly, dark, nasty little thought that I tucked up into the vault of never-to-be-uttered-in-polite-society-because-it-would-horrify-people is echoed on a blog of a woman I love, or a man I read here and there, or some random post I run across and I realize that it is not so horrifying, or dark, or impolite. It is just grief. And perhaps by default, I am not so horrifying, dark, impolite. Ironically, I felt like a terrible person when Lucy first died, like a diseased, warped, pessimistic, anxiety-ridden troll. As time has passed, I have confronted a lot of my demons on this space. I owned a lot of my darkness. I resided in my abyss. I had no choice. I came out the other side. And on the other side, I am much more forgiving to myself. I am less harsh and cruel to me. I lost everything to gain some modicum of self-respect.
I could talk longer about that, but truth is most of you probably get this, I think.
Last week, I trained to be a MISS Foundation HOPE Mentor. It feels good to be at a place in my grief where I can abide and listen in a way that I couldn't in the beginning. My dear friend Kara, aka Mother Henna, has long been associated with the MISS Foundation, and the MISS Foundation founder Dr. Joanne Cacciatore have been incredibly powerful, compassionate forces in my grief. If you haven't checked out the resources there, please go. There are forums, local support groups. It is a space that creates love and support.
AND I am putting out feelers for a fall babylost event in the Philadelphia area. Probably the first week of October, maybe September. Next week, I am checking out a space to rent for a kind of babylost arts festival--poetry readings, essay readings, a display of the still life 365 travel journal, art, a collective arts project, connecting with other babylost mamas and papas, food, grog, and other ideas I haven't yet thought up. So, what do you think? Would you come to the Philadelphia area for an event like that? (Actually, it would probably be in Collingswood, NJ, where I live, since there is a great space, which is on the train line, and lots of parking.) So, here are my questions to you: what types of things would you like to experience at that type of get together? Would you come? Would you like to read your poetry or an essay (even a blog post)? What else...this is just an idea in the stewing...so I'd appreciate any feedback you can offer. I did put together a weekend long babylost retreat a few years ago that was awesome. I was thinking this is more of a day/evening event that would be like experiencing the on-line community of babylost in person.
It isn't until you lose your child that you realize that a large percentage, perhaps even the majority, of Facebook status updates and posts are about pregnancy (complaining or otherwise), babies (complaining or otherwise) and kids (complaining or otherwise). It isn't until you quit drinking that you realize that the majority of the now minority of posts is about wine, beer, booze or getting loaded, preparing to get loaded, or in the process of getting loaded. It isn't until you stop eating gluten, wheat, sugar or anything interesting in your diet that you realize that the rest of the posts are about food.
I guess in the morning, replace the booze with coffee, except for in only the most extreme cases. Funnily, the posts about things I can't do right now don't bother nearly as much as my unscientific survey leads one to believe. I think it is more of a case of being the fool who points out that the emperor has no clothes. I actually like naked people, so carry on, people.
I am still blown away by the response on the Right Where I Am project. I guess everyone realized that the right in right where I am marks both a place in time and space, and right as in whatever you feel right now is okay and true and right. I fell in love with this community a long time ago, because being forgiving to you in your grief helped me be forgiving to me in my grief. You loved me until I could love myself again. That is the beauty of this community. My seemingly ugly, dark, nasty little thought that I tucked up into the vault of never-to-be-uttered-in-polite-society-because-it-would-horrify-people is echoed on a blog of a woman I love, or a man I read here and there, or some random post I run across and I realize that it is not so horrifying, or dark, or impolite. It is just grief. And perhaps by default, I am not so horrifying, dark, impolite. Ironically, I felt like a terrible person when Lucy first died, like a diseased, warped, pessimistic, anxiety-ridden troll. As time has passed, I have confronted a lot of my demons on this space. I owned a lot of my darkness. I resided in my abyss. I had no choice. I came out the other side. And on the other side, I am much more forgiving to myself. I am less harsh and cruel to me. I lost everything to gain some modicum of self-respect.
I could talk longer about that, but truth is most of you probably get this, I think.
Last week, I trained to be a MISS Foundation HOPE Mentor. It feels good to be at a place in my grief where I can abide and listen in a way that I couldn't in the beginning. My dear friend Kara, aka Mother Henna, has long been associated with the MISS Foundation, and the MISS Foundation founder Dr. Joanne Cacciatore have been incredibly powerful, compassionate forces in my grief. If you haven't checked out the resources there, please go. There are forums, local support groups. It is a space that creates love and support.
AND I am putting out feelers for a fall babylost event in the Philadelphia area. Probably the first week of October, maybe September. Next week, I am checking out a space to rent for a kind of babylost arts festival--poetry readings, essay readings, a display of the still life 365 travel journal, art, a collective arts project, connecting with other babylost mamas and papas, food, grog, and other ideas I haven't yet thought up. So, what do you think? Would you come to the Philadelphia area for an event like that? (Actually, it would probably be in Collingswood, NJ, where I live, since there is a great space, which is on the train line, and lots of parking.) So, here are my questions to you: what types of things would you like to experience at that type of get together? Would you come? Would you like to read your poetry or an essay (even a blog post)? What else...this is just an idea in the stewing...so I'd appreciate any feedback you can offer. I did put together a weekend long babylost retreat a few years ago that was awesome. I was thinking this is more of a day/evening event that would be like experiencing the on-line community of babylost in person.
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
Guest post: Right Where I Am: 2 Years, 6 Months, 28 Days & 1 Year, 4 Months, 5 Days
It is my great honor to welcome my first guest post on still life with circles. Very early in my grief, Danielle and I began exchanging emails. She was and still is a frequent commenter on my blog and several others in the community. Her insights, wit, compassion and kindness instantly drew me, and many of my friends, to her. Her first son Kai died a month and a half before Lucia, and we quickly began writing long emails to each other about where we were in our grief. There is a respect and love between us that makes it easy to be friends even in the hardest of times. And there have been hard times. Danielle lost her second son a year and two months later. Sometimes, in our friendship, when those moments get too hard and things are too sucky, we just read a book together, and that helps me more than anything I could imagine. I feel privileged to call her my friend.
Despite many of our urgings, Danielle does not have a blog. I definitely understand her reasons for needing that privacy. On more than one occasion, I have extended my blog to her to write about where she is and to process things. But she never bit. This week, however, she emailed me with her contribution to the Right Where I Am project. Her insights into grief and her journey in particular are touching, hard and important. So, I thank her from the bottom of my heart for sharing right where she is with us all.
I am on an airplane with my husband. In my carry-on are two books, a candy bar, the work I will not do, alcohol wipes, a syringe, and medication wrapped in an ice pack. In a minute, I will have to wake up the sleeping guy with the headphones so I can go to the bathroom and inject myself in the leg. I can’t quite believe I am doing this again, doing this still. Though I am pretty adept at the whole shot thing, I don’t quite trust my aim if there’s turbulence.
It’s been over three years since our first appointment with the reproductive endocrinologist, followed two weeks later by the minor surgery that I thought of then as the hardest thing I would ever have to do for us to become a family. In total I was under anesthesia six times in two years, landing in the emergency room or reeling dizzily for weeks afterwards each time. Counting acupuncture, blood draws, and the four rounds of DIY injections at home, I have been stuck with hundreds of needles. We have spent close to a college tuition for the child we do not have on fertility treatments, herbal supplements, therapy for me, therapy for Alan, therapy for us. We have conceived, lost, and mourned two sons. We are still not a family.
Right after we lost Kai, the fact that the world kept going while my own life had gone off the cliff was more than I could get my head around. I developed an intense, personal hatred of people carrying coffee cups from Starbucks, because they were FUCKING DRINKING COFFEE while I was standing next to them, shredded, on the subway platform. I stopped answering the phone, because questions like “How are you?” and “What’s new?” were impossible for me to answer except through the lens of grief. I developed a one-shouldered shrug, which I used to respond to any question about what I wanted to eat, do, talk about. I screamed and cried myself hoarse in the shower. And on the day we were told that we would never know what happened to Kai- that there was no answer except “likely sublinical infection” (read: black magic)- I wanted to die.
I could tell you the story of how it slowly got better, because it did. I could tell you that while I was in the very hardest and ugliest phase of my grief, I also went to work every day, formed new friendships, went on vacation. I could tell you how possibility came back, a little at a time, and carried us through a whole new set of fertility issues and straight through to IVF. But then I would also have to tell you the story of Chip. He brought light and hope back into our home from the day we knew he was coming until the day we knew he wasn’t. Chip was diagnosed with trisomy 13- a 100% fatal genetic disorder. We said goodbye at 13 weeks, and I went immediately from numbness and shock to white-hot anger. I am married to an extraordinarily kind and patient man. If I weren’t, that anger would have burned our marriage to the ground.
Some days the grief about our children and the grief about our infertility are one and the same. Some days I miss them separately and specifically, for different reasons- our two sons, and the embryo we fell in love with too soon who never turned into our daughter. Some days that missing feels like rage, or fear, or disgust with myself. Sometimes it feels like compassion for Alan, who didn’t get to be the wonderful father he was made to be, or for my mother, who keeps Kai’s ultrasound photo in a frame at her bedside. But mostly I just wish they were here, and I am sad to realize as I write this that I have no real idea what my life would be like if they were.
There are other things now, things that are not grief and anger. There is gratitude- for health insurance, for extraordinary women from different parts of my life who have offered to serve as egg donors or gestational surrogates, for friends who actually seem to like me this way. There is wonder- at big things like waterfalls and small things like figuring out the trick in the Sunday Times crossword. There is wistfulness- for once-cherished friendships that didn’t make it, for the part of me that used to care passionately about supporting Latino playwrights and visiting my grandmother, for a time when I truly felt like a part of this community in a way that I no longer do. There is release- in near-hysterical laughter, in dancing, in the love of my husband. But there are no children. There is no family.
I am OK most of the time. I care about people other than myself again. There are things I want to do, and when I don’t do them it’s because I don’t have enough time or enough money, and not because they don’t matter. If you had asked me at any point along the way, I would have said that I could never feel this OK again. I was wrong. That said, OK is not happy, and I don’t think I will ever be truly happy without a living child. I hope I’m wrong about that, too. I hope I don’t have to find out.
--Danielle
Monday, May 30, 2011
wild is the wind.
Today I am over at Glow in the Woods. I felt inspired by Nina Simone's song Wild is the Wind, and feeling wild and windy and sad and loving and everything in between. Maybe it is like grief jazz.
Here is the song if you are interested.
Here is the song if you are interested.
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
Right Where I Am Project: Two Years, Five Months.
ATTENTION: Reader Readers, the post includes the project I mentioned a few months ago, the one where you talk about right where you are in your grief and what it is like now, so new people can get an idea of the experience of grief further down the road, and so people further down the road can reflect on how far they have come in their grief.
"I want to write about Lucy, but I feel lost in all that I have said in the last two and half years. Haven't I said it all already? She died. I grieve. I don't know. What do you think I should write about?"
My sister looks down at her tea and back up again. "Don't ask me. I think you should write about dragons."
"Dragons?"
"Yeah, dragons."
"Grieving dragons?"
"No. Angry ones. That breath fire and whose eggs are magic."
"You are a thirty-seven year old woman."
"I still like reading fantasy stuff. Why did you ask me?"
"I don't know."
Sometimes I want to write about her, there is a longing to connect with her, but I just don't know what to say. I feel like I have written everything one can write about a little baby that lived for 38 weeks, in my belly, and then died.
And so, today, longing to write about her and my grief, I impulsively decided that today is the day where we should share about our grief, right where we are, right now. I mentioned this a few months ago. That maybe we should write about what it is like on the road of grief--from the earliest stages to the ones further down the road. So, here it is. I don't want it to be a bunch of posts where people say, "It gets better. Just wait." But rather posts where you just talk about where you are right now in your grief, and the daily ways in which grief rears its head, the things you can do now that seemed impossible, the obstacles you are facing. There is a Mr. Linky at the bottom to connect here. Please title your blogpost: Right Where I am: (Insert the Time Since Your Child's Death). Look at mine above. You can use the comment section of this post if you don't have a blog yourself. And please comment here to let me know if you are participating. I hope you decide to join in.
:::
After two years and five months, I still feel sad about Lucy's death. It is heartbreaking. I imagine I will always be sad. It sometimes comes out of left field, and sweeps me up in a moment. I cry and then get back to whatever I was doing. It comes in pockets of suck rather than a glue leisure suit of suck that sticks to my form for days until the sweat and tears loosen it. It still comes when I think of what we have been through in that remarkably short amount of time, or see another two point four year old child with dark hair and blue eyes, or I see sisters just 20 months apart in age playing together or just when I push that particular hurt because I want to mother her and I don't know any other way to mother her than to paint and cry.I guess my point is that it doesn't knock me out all day. It is just a moment in my day.
I have integrated her death and life into our lives. My daughter talks about her, and I answer without crying. We have Lucy rituals and certain things that were Lucy's in our every day life, like a towel I bought for her that she never used. We still call it Lucy's towel, and Beezus asks to use Lucy's towel and it is fine. It is more than fine. I like that Lucy can lend something to Beezus. That makes me feel comforted rather than creeped out. I couldn't have imagined that two years ago. This paragraph might have been the creepiest paragraph I could think of two point four years ago.
Yesterday at the market, the cashier remarked on how much Thomas looks like me. Almost as much as Beatrice doesn't. Genetics are funny, huh? We all laughed. And I thought about what Lucy might look like with her brother and sister. Who would she look most like? What kind of remarks would she get? Maybe she would have been the dark-haired, blue-eyed middle ground. I fell into the 100-yard stare and didn't mention that there was one in the middle. It didn't seem right to drop the dead baby bomb in middle of some small talk. It was awkward whether I mentioned Lucy or not, because I fell into a trance, staring in the middle space between focusing and not focusing, right above the head of the cashier, remembering her nose, her hair and everything that was as impermanent as her. My eyes might have welled up a bit, but I didn't weep. She would have turned into a baby that looked nothing like the picture I have of her, and yet, her face is permanent now, fixed, in a newborn state. My eyes moved my head from one to the other. Where does Lucy fit? Where do I fit? Not even in the most benign of conversations, or situations. I still don't fit back into the life I once had. That is okay, though, because I created a new life that I love.And so that is it. I fit into this life. It isn't the same. And somewhere in the past two years and five months, I abandoned that idea of my old life, and the new one, or what things should be like. This is the way things are. And truthfully, I made a good life despite Lucy's death, not because of it.
That is what grief is like for me now. My life is good. It is beautiful. Lucy gave me many gifts. I can say that now. I can feel gratitude for her and the way she taught me about love. My life is also completely different than two years, five months ago. I write about grief and parenting. I paint most days, or create something crafty and/or artsy. I light candles on an altar of babyloss that I have. I have a whole new set of people I go to when I am sad or happy, even. They also lost babies. Who I am on the blog is pretty much exactly who I am in my daily life, in the same way that talking to a therapist is pretty much exactly like I am in my daily life. I don't go around wearing my heart on my sleeve, but I am honest. Most of my friends from before don't email me anymore, or call. I am okay with that. They did what they needed to do, and me too. I am not bitter about it anymore. Or about much anymore. There are certain hurts, but mostly, I take life right where it is right now. I don't expect people to be there for me anymore, and in that way, they never let me down. That sounds depressing, but it is very liberating.
When I was in the market, I felt like someone recognized me. Not from another life, but from this one, the on-line one. She pointed and whispered and smiled, but said nothing. And I wondered if she knew me because her child died. It was a strange feeling, not unpleasant, but strange. Another moment when I remembered that Lucy died and that things are different, but again, that moment didn't floor me.
I feel lost with the people in my every day life. When I interact with this loving, supportive, compassionate community, and the other one I developed in the last few months, I am finding it hard to deal with the cattiness and weirdness of interpersonal dynamics among people who haven't walked through hell. I guess I have been thinking a lot about blogging and what drew me to put my private life out there so publicly, particularly the grieving, vulnerable part. I felt like reading about other people grieving and processing in the early days, it saved my life. Maybe precisely because I am not that emotive in real life. I hug. I express gratitude. but I don't express my vulnerability well. I can't ask for help comfortably. Being a crying, grieving wreck was a particular kind of hell, like a condemnation of some Greek God of emotion, or something, but it was also good. I learned to ask for help, be vulnerable, know my limitations. Some events I still cannot go to, and I forgive myself about that. I became disciplined with my writing, and my life. Writing here was a way to be emotive without sitting with someone's pity. I can't stand pity. I realize now that at times in the last two years I confused pity with compassion.
I did the best I could at the time.
That is something I can say is a huge sea change. I wanted to be the best griever in the beginning. Appearing strong, brave, resilient, but then I crumbled onto myself, and beat myself up. I don't beat myself up nearly as much as I used to. I really did the best I could, even at my worst moments. At two years since her death, I don't need this space as much to process my emotions, but I still need it. I love talking to grieving women. Lucy's death brought all these amazing women into my life. And when they came into my life, I learned what it is to have a community of people like me. I stopped being Latina, or fat, or athletic, or itchy. I was just this set of emotions on a screen, and that felt/feels authentic and right. I feel normal here, and weird out there. Because the shell of me is not me. Lately, I have felt gawky and outsiderly in my day-to-day life. Maybe because I am not drinking, and I am a stay-at-home mom, and I am a writer who observes people and I don't know anyone else like that in my neighborhood. I have been cut out of my neighborhood activities lately. I see the posts on FB, but then I'm not included. I feel soul sad about it, because my neighbors have always included us. I can't, for the life of me, figure out what we did. I don't know why, but I find myself responding in the same way I responded in seventh grade--to cry, feel bad about myself, and demand that we move away from this place as soon as possible. Then it occurred to me that people in my real life might be reading my blog without telling me. I have talked about a lot of heavy, hard shit in the last five months. Stuff that might keep people from asking me to parties.
I have read about this happening to other people. I remember from my early days reading about it with people years out. When their real life peeps into their online diary, and then have things held against them. They went private or password protected or went anonymous with a new blog name. I don't know how to deal with it, because I never thought I would care or not be able to just ask someone if they were reading my blog. I don't want to ask now and draw attention to my blog, and on the other hand, it feels like a violation if someone is reading about my emotions on a day to day basis. And that is just it. In the beginning, I didn't care if people read because I knew that grief was trumping everything. Now that people expect me to be normal again, I can't quite figure out why I ever thought telling anyone about my blog was like a good idea. And yet, I have come to rely on this space. So, that is the awkward grief place I am at now. I don't mind if people in my day to day life comment, or let me know they are reading, it is the awkward place of me not knowing what everyone knows. If they read here, they know way more about me and my weird hiccups in life than I know about theirs. It feel unsafe sometimes. It makes it sound like I dwell in grief, but this is the place I process that part of my life. And it is so important, I can't give it up. Blogging is strange, because the temporary feelings become permanent, and little dalliances with the annoying take on the gravitas of epic angers. Nothing is ever permanent with emotions. Nothing, except people can pull up a specific blog post and say, "But you feel like this."
I have had a subsequent baby since Lucy died, and think about another here and there. I think I romanticize the pregnancy of my "before time," not Thomas' pregnancy, which was insanely difficult for me emotionally. And sometimes I think that more time between Lucy's death and another baby will make it easier, but then I know myself too well. So probably not another baby, but sometimes I entertain the thought.
All in all, I have a good life now. I miss Lucy every moment of every day. It has become part of my being, the missing, but my writing and art involves her and connects me to grief which connects me to her and that feels right and good. I love hearing from babylost mothers just coming into this community and those who have been around for a long time. Quite often, someone will comment on my blog in the first weeks/days after their loss, and I try to respond, and get a no-reply email. Then, they like never comment again. I am sure it seems like I don't care, but I do. I did the same thing in the beginning of my blogging experience, just because I didn't really understand all the ins and outs. And I thought I was too new to talk with if someone was years out. But on this end of things, I can only say that I just miss comments sometimes, and am not terrific on follow-up if it isn't easy, but I want to talk to everyone directly. I pull something from each comment that comes in. I don't email directly with very many people, and I love emailing and keeping in touch that way, so hit me up, if you want. I also am on Facebook a lot, and Twitter here and there. I am on google chat and am available on skype. Email me and we can chat. I don't mind talking on the phone anymore. Just know that you are not alone. Lots of times in the early days I felt so lonely I thought I would burst. I thought that I would like to die from the pain, though I wasn't suicidal exactly. I just wanted it to end. I don't feel like that ever anymore. If you want an email back, leave either your email, or comment with a respondable email, or email me directly at uberangie(at)gmail(dot)com. I read lots of blogs and love to add new ones, so leave yours for me. I'll add it to my reader.
:::
Now, it's your turn. Where are you in your grief? Emotionally. Physically. Psychically. Title your post, "Right Where I Am:(Time since your child's death)". then come back here and link your blog post on the Mr. Linky. Click other participants and read about right where they are. Comment if you can. Just a thank you for telling me about right where you are. If you don't want to write a full post, why not just comment here and tell me the time since your loss(es) and anything else you want to share. Spread the word around the community by linking back to this post, so people can find out what grief is like on all stops on the road.
"I want to write about Lucy, but I feel lost in all that I have said in the last two and half years. Haven't I said it all already? She died. I grieve. I don't know. What do you think I should write about?"
My sister looks down at her tea and back up again. "Don't ask me. I think you should write about dragons."
"Dragons?"
"Yeah, dragons."
"Grieving dragons?"
"No. Angry ones. That breath fire and whose eggs are magic."
"You are a thirty-seven year old woman."
"I still like reading fantasy stuff. Why did you ask me?"
"I don't know."
Sometimes I want to write about her, there is a longing to connect with her, but I just don't know what to say. I feel like I have written everything one can write about a little baby that lived for 38 weeks, in my belly, and then died.
And so, today, longing to write about her and my grief, I impulsively decided that today is the day where we should share about our grief, right where we are, right now. I mentioned this a few months ago. That maybe we should write about what it is like on the road of grief--from the earliest stages to the ones further down the road. So, here it is. I don't want it to be a bunch of posts where people say, "It gets better. Just wait." But rather posts where you just talk about where you are right now in your grief, and the daily ways in which grief rears its head, the things you can do now that seemed impossible, the obstacles you are facing. There is a Mr. Linky at the bottom to connect here. Please title your blogpost: Right Where I am: (Insert the Time Since Your Child's Death). Look at mine above. You can use the comment section of this post if you don't have a blog yourself. And please comment here to let me know if you are participating. I hope you decide to join in.
:::
After two years and five months, I still feel sad about Lucy's death. It is heartbreaking. I imagine I will always be sad. It sometimes comes out of left field, and sweeps me up in a moment. I cry and then get back to whatever I was doing. It comes in pockets of suck rather than a glue leisure suit of suck that sticks to my form for days until the sweat and tears loosen it. It still comes when I think of what we have been through in that remarkably short amount of time, or see another two point four year old child with dark hair and blue eyes, or I see sisters just 20 months apart in age playing together or just when I push that particular hurt because I want to mother her and I don't know any other way to mother her than to paint and cry.I guess my point is that it doesn't knock me out all day. It is just a moment in my day.
I have integrated her death and life into our lives. My daughter talks about her, and I answer without crying. We have Lucy rituals and certain things that were Lucy's in our every day life, like a towel I bought for her that she never used. We still call it Lucy's towel, and Beezus asks to use Lucy's towel and it is fine. It is more than fine. I like that Lucy can lend something to Beezus. That makes me feel comforted rather than creeped out. I couldn't have imagined that two years ago. This paragraph might have been the creepiest paragraph I could think of two point four years ago.
Yesterday at the market, the cashier remarked on how much Thomas looks like me. Almost as much as Beatrice doesn't. Genetics are funny, huh? We all laughed. And I thought about what Lucy might look like with her brother and sister. Who would she look most like? What kind of remarks would she get? Maybe she would have been the dark-haired, blue-eyed middle ground. I fell into the 100-yard stare and didn't mention that there was one in the middle. It didn't seem right to drop the dead baby bomb in middle of some small talk. It was awkward whether I mentioned Lucy or not, because I fell into a trance, staring in the middle space between focusing and not focusing, right above the head of the cashier, remembering her nose, her hair and everything that was as impermanent as her. My eyes might have welled up a bit, but I didn't weep. She would have turned into a baby that looked nothing like the picture I have of her, and yet, her face is permanent now, fixed, in a newborn state. My eyes moved my head from one to the other. Where does Lucy fit? Where do I fit? Not even in the most benign of conversations, or situations. I still don't fit back into the life I once had. That is okay, though, because I created a new life that I love.And so that is it. I fit into this life. It isn't the same. And somewhere in the past two years and five months, I abandoned that idea of my old life, and the new one, or what things should be like. This is the way things are. And truthfully, I made a good life despite Lucy's death, not because of it.
That is what grief is like for me now. My life is good. It is beautiful. Lucy gave me many gifts. I can say that now. I can feel gratitude for her and the way she taught me about love. My life is also completely different than two years, five months ago. I write about grief and parenting. I paint most days, or create something crafty and/or artsy. I light candles on an altar of babyloss that I have. I have a whole new set of people I go to when I am sad or happy, even. They also lost babies. Who I am on the blog is pretty much exactly who I am in my daily life, in the same way that talking to a therapist is pretty much exactly like I am in my daily life. I don't go around wearing my heart on my sleeve, but I am honest. Most of my friends from before don't email me anymore, or call. I am okay with that. They did what they needed to do, and me too. I am not bitter about it anymore. Or about much anymore. There are certain hurts, but mostly, I take life right where it is right now. I don't expect people to be there for me anymore, and in that way, they never let me down. That sounds depressing, but it is very liberating.
When I was in the market, I felt like someone recognized me. Not from another life, but from this one, the on-line one. She pointed and whispered and smiled, but said nothing. And I wondered if she knew me because her child died. It was a strange feeling, not unpleasant, but strange. Another moment when I remembered that Lucy died and that things are different, but again, that moment didn't floor me.
I feel lost with the people in my every day life. When I interact with this loving, supportive, compassionate community, and the other one I developed in the last few months, I am finding it hard to deal with the cattiness and weirdness of interpersonal dynamics among people who haven't walked through hell. I guess I have been thinking a lot about blogging and what drew me to put my private life out there so publicly, particularly the grieving, vulnerable part. I felt like reading about other people grieving and processing in the early days, it saved my life. Maybe precisely because I am not that emotive in real life. I hug. I express gratitude. but I don't express my vulnerability well. I can't ask for help comfortably. Being a crying, grieving wreck was a particular kind of hell, like a condemnation of some Greek God of emotion, or something, but it was also good. I learned to ask for help, be vulnerable, know my limitations. Some events I still cannot go to, and I forgive myself about that. I became disciplined with my writing, and my life. Writing here was a way to be emotive without sitting with someone's pity. I can't stand pity. I realize now that at times in the last two years I confused pity with compassion.
I did the best I could at the time.
That is something I can say is a huge sea change. I wanted to be the best griever in the beginning. Appearing strong, brave, resilient, but then I crumbled onto myself, and beat myself up. I don't beat myself up nearly as much as I used to. I really did the best I could, even at my worst moments. At two years since her death, I don't need this space as much to process my emotions, but I still need it. I love talking to grieving women. Lucy's death brought all these amazing women into my life. And when they came into my life, I learned what it is to have a community of people like me. I stopped being Latina, or fat, or athletic, or itchy. I was just this set of emotions on a screen, and that felt/feels authentic and right. I feel normal here, and weird out there. Because the shell of me is not me. Lately, I have felt gawky and outsiderly in my day-to-day life. Maybe because I am not drinking, and I am a stay-at-home mom, and I am a writer who observes people and I don't know anyone else like that in my neighborhood. I have been cut out of my neighborhood activities lately. I see the posts on FB, but then I'm not included. I feel soul sad about it, because my neighbors have always included us. I can't, for the life of me, figure out what we did. I don't know why, but I find myself responding in the same way I responded in seventh grade--to cry, feel bad about myself, and demand that we move away from this place as soon as possible. Then it occurred to me that people in my real life might be reading my blog without telling me. I have talked about a lot of heavy, hard shit in the last five months. Stuff that might keep people from asking me to parties.
I have read about this happening to other people. I remember from my early days reading about it with people years out. When their real life peeps into their online diary, and then have things held against them. They went private or password protected or went anonymous with a new blog name. I don't know how to deal with it, because I never thought I would care or not be able to just ask someone if they were reading my blog. I don't want to ask now and draw attention to my blog, and on the other hand, it feels like a violation if someone is reading about my emotions on a day to day basis. And that is just it. In the beginning, I didn't care if people read because I knew that grief was trumping everything. Now that people expect me to be normal again, I can't quite figure out why I ever thought telling anyone about my blog was like a good idea. And yet, I have come to rely on this space. So, that is the awkward grief place I am at now. I don't mind if people in my day to day life comment, or let me know they are reading, it is the awkward place of me not knowing what everyone knows. If they read here, they know way more about me and my weird hiccups in life than I know about theirs. It feel unsafe sometimes. It makes it sound like I dwell in grief, but this is the place I process that part of my life. And it is so important, I can't give it up. Blogging is strange, because the temporary feelings become permanent, and little dalliances with the annoying take on the gravitas of epic angers. Nothing is ever permanent with emotions. Nothing, except people can pull up a specific blog post and say, "But you feel like this."
I have had a subsequent baby since Lucy died, and think about another here and there. I think I romanticize the pregnancy of my "before time," not Thomas' pregnancy, which was insanely difficult for me emotionally. And sometimes I think that more time between Lucy's death and another baby will make it easier, but then I know myself too well. So probably not another baby, but sometimes I entertain the thought.
All in all, I have a good life now. I miss Lucy every moment of every day. It has become part of my being, the missing, but my writing and art involves her and connects me to grief which connects me to her and that feels right and good. I love hearing from babylost mothers just coming into this community and those who have been around for a long time. Quite often, someone will comment on my blog in the first weeks/days after their loss, and I try to respond, and get a no-reply email. Then, they like never comment again. I am sure it seems like I don't care, but I do. I did the same thing in the beginning of my blogging experience, just because I didn't really understand all the ins and outs. And I thought I was too new to talk with if someone was years out. But on this end of things, I can only say that I just miss comments sometimes, and am not terrific on follow-up if it isn't easy, but I want to talk to everyone directly. I pull something from each comment that comes in. I don't email directly with very many people, and I love emailing and keeping in touch that way, so hit me up, if you want. I also am on Facebook a lot, and Twitter here and there. I am on google chat and am available on skype. Email me and we can chat. I don't mind talking on the phone anymore. Just know that you are not alone. Lots of times in the early days I felt so lonely I thought I would burst. I thought that I would like to die from the pain, though I wasn't suicidal exactly. I just wanted it to end. I don't feel like that ever anymore. If you want an email back, leave either your email, or comment with a respondable email, or email me directly at uberangie(at)gmail(dot)com. I read lots of blogs and love to add new ones, so leave yours for me. I'll add it to my reader.
:::
Now, it's your turn. Where are you in your grief? Emotionally. Physically. Psychically. Title your post, "Right Where I Am:(Time since your child's death)". then come back here and link your blog post on the Mr. Linky. Click other participants and read about right where they are. Comment if you can. Just a thank you for telling me about right where you are. If you don't want to write a full post, why not just comment here and tell me the time since your loss(es) and anything else you want to share. Spread the word around the community by linking back to this post, so people can find out what grief is like on all stops on the road.
Monday, May 23, 2011
slamming doors
SLAM!
“Please let me in, Thomas Harry.” The door opens three inches before the boy slams it again, and I hear her voice break. “I just want to be with my family. Please.”
I’m on the toilet in this scene. The boy pushed his way in the bathroom and is sitting in such a way that he can slam the door and peek out of it when it is cracked open three inches. He has recently discovered the simple pleasure of slamming doors—fridge doors, bathroom doors, shirt drawers, kitchen cabinets—he is an equal opportunity hooligan. He just likes to bang. Slam. Smash. Wrestle. The girl is gentle in her way. “We don’t slam doors, Thomas Harry.”
SLAM!
“Thomas Harry, please let me see Mama.” He peeks out at her and smiles, then slams the door. She is being pushed beyond her limit of patient, so she tattles. A lot. There is a particular aching to her pleadings that I recognize:
Please I just want to be with my family.
Recently, it occurred to me that I hadn’t called Thomas Harry Thor in a while. When he was first born, he wore his birth certificate name like it was a 42 Long man’s suit. Too bulky, long and cumbersome for his little body. He was still Thor for many many months, and I frequently toiled about our name decision. Sam would muse, “We can change it, if you’d like.” And I would think, “Well, that is just impossible.” It seemed impossible. Or rather, impossibly fussy. I didn’t think he was going to stay when he was in my belly, and so names, well, names seemed secondary, so I picked something easy, familiar, comfortable, because that is what I wanted everything to be--easy, familiar and comfortable. But then he did stay. And it fits him, this long man name.
He is still here. He walks across the floor like a mini-drunken orangutan, arms above his head, giggling. He just stood and walked one day, smiling the whole way. He figured it out. I watch in amazement of how much I cannot control about their babyhood. I stood him for weeks, trying to hold his arms to walk with me, and he always slumped against my legs to crawl away. He just wanted nothing to do with being a bipedal. And so, I thought, eh, I don't care if he walks, really. He gets around. He is happy. I'm not pushing this. And then one day, his legs in kung fu horse position, he balanced himself up and walked to the truck he left across the room.
I don’t know how to write this without sounding melodramatic: Sometimes life just hurts. It is just suffering, an ache deep in your soul that can't be touched by a bath or a cup of herbal tea. I don't mean the kind of suffering that Lucy's death brought. That was acute, exacting, justifiable, and excruciating. I am just talking about the every day existence suffering. It hurts to be self-conscious. It hurts to not be included. It hurts to try to be included and fail. It hurts to be human.
I feel so fucking human these days.
It’s not that anything is terribly bad right now, truthfully. I feel like a deep soul happy with my kids and my husband. We are more peaceful and comforted than we have been in a long time. But when I leave the confines of my house, I feel unsettled by the uncertainty of other people. I guess I am just learning the same lessons over and over again. I have no control. None. I don't even have the illusion of control. I can't control who likes me. I can't control who doesn't like me. I can't control other people doing the right thing. I can't control who sends me anonymous packages and letters, even if they are great. I can't control who reads my blog and doesn't tell me. I can't control when someone gets exasperated behind me in traffic because I drive like an old lady. I can't control people's thoughtless comments. I can't control, well, anything but my behavior. I should feel liberated by that realization, but it feels groundless and unsettling.Vulnerable and exposing.
Thomas Harry woke in the middle of the night with a 103 temperature. Or rather, I woke him because he was moaning in his sleep and extremely hot to the touch. I walked downstairs to the large bathroom and I could still feel the heat of him on my hand. We gave him medicine and put him in a cool bath, and he thought it was awesome. He really had a good time at half-past midnight, playing in the bath by himself. And so the fever didn't worry me logically, but the thoughts still popped into my brain that I couldn't control--he's going to die. Tonight, he is going to die. I felt so far away from the reality of the situation. I felt myself sliding back into myself, like the lack of control over anything was slamming the door in my face, locking me outside.
He is fine, by the way. Thomas Harry. He stands like a little Hotei Buddha, smiling at me as a write, hands over his head. He is pure love, that boy. But as the hours ticked back last night, me listening to the cadence of his breathing, feeling his face and hands in the dark to check his temperature, I could feel the wall between me and the comfort of the night.
Please, Fear, just let me in. I just want to be with my family.
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
brave
She is strong. She is brave. She can do anything she waaaaaaaaaaants to do. She is strong. She is brave. She can do anything she waaaaaaaants to do. She is…
What are you singing, Bumble Bea?
A song I made up.
I like it very much.
Me too. She is strong. She is brave. She can do anything she waaaaants to do.
I want to bottle her up. The song catches me at the oddest times—walking into a meeting, waiting endlessly at a jewelry counter, in the middle of the night.
She is strong. She is brave.
She runs now, all gangly legs and pumping arms. Up and down the house, jumping over the dog, under the table, singing her song. She laughs with her whole body.
She can do anything she wants to do.
I fix myself on her. She is magic. I am convinced. If I stare at her long enough, she might not disappear. If I keep her under my wing, tuck her behind my leg, tell her stories about princesses and ladybugs, brush her hair gently, touch her nose, smell her neck, maybe she will stay. Maybe she won’t trust the person she shouldn’t trust. If I just watch her chest rise and fall while she sleeps, if I study every crease on the bottoms of her feet, she won’t leave and never come back. The other one disappeared, and never came home. It seems a strange habit to try to control the passage of time by sheer will. I tattoo each moment on the sand of my neural pathways, only to watch them wash away with the tide. There she goes--my baby turns into a girl. My girl turns into a woman.
Ironically, the only permanent thing I know in my life is that Lucy is dead. Everything else I can hold in my arms is a lesson in impermanence and that scares the shit out of me. It humbles me, rather. Fear is something I am trying to let go of, though I am a house of cards built on fears. Time blows through the room. And suddenly, Beatrice is eating her sushi with chopsticks, and telling me jokes, and washing her own toes, and her brother’s too.
This morning, Beezus and I headed to the pediatrician for her four year well-visit. Just the two of us. We sit together and read books waiting. We are the first appointment of the day, and we are there for the long haul. Hearing. Vision. All of it. She follows the rules. To a tee. And she gets upset if others don’t as well. I am exactly the same way, so we sit together quietly nodding at the others waiting. We keep to ourselves. She is precocious in that way, and sometimes I forget that four is still so damn little. She pulled out her yoga mat before the appointment to stretch and then meditate. She never admitted she was afraid, just that she wanted to be calm before the doctor. I couldn't help but wonder when she became a little woman. She wore a bright yellow dress and a little bright pink sweater and bright pink maryjanes. She dressed up for the doctor she said, because she is a big girl now.
For a week she has asked me if she is getting shots, and I didn’t know. I really didn’t. But I didn’t make a big deal out of it. I don’t know, love. Maybe?
Oh, okay. I’m just wondering.
Are you scared of shots?
No. I just want to know.
Four shots. The nurse gave her the option of taking two this year and two when she turned five, or all of them today, and she opted for all of them today. I just stood by her. I explained the choices again and nodded as she made her decision. The nurse asked me to put her on my lap, and she sat absolutely still for each shot. She didn’t cry, or flinch. She just remained still. And the nurse remarked on how good she was at following the rules. She remained staid, like a soldier almost. She is getting too big too fast.
She is strong. She is brave. She can do anything she wants to do.
And then the nurse looked in her face and saw something I couldn’t see with her back towards me. “Oh, Beatrice, it’s okay to cry.”
And she let it go.
Her face broke in a huge cry just as the nurse walked out of the room. The cry of my newborn, my one year old, my grieving sister, my little baby...What made Beezus think she couldn't cry? What made her wait for permission to be afraid? I don’t know. But when she started crying everything she held in for the hour and a half, maybe for the week before, came pouring out in torrents. She is still a baby. So delicate and little and I’m the mommy that wipes away tears and explains what bravery is—to be afraid and still do something. The song snuck into my head.
She is strong. She is brave. She can do anything she wants to do.
Indeed.
What are you singing, Bumble Bea?
A song I made up.
I like it very much.
Me too. She is strong. She is brave. She can do anything she waaaaants to do.
I want to bottle her up. The song catches me at the oddest times—walking into a meeting, waiting endlessly at a jewelry counter, in the middle of the night.
She is strong. She is brave.
She runs now, all gangly legs and pumping arms. Up and down the house, jumping over the dog, under the table, singing her song. She laughs with her whole body.
She can do anything she wants to do.
I fix myself on her. She is magic. I am convinced. If I stare at her long enough, she might not disappear. If I keep her under my wing, tuck her behind my leg, tell her stories about princesses and ladybugs, brush her hair gently, touch her nose, smell her neck, maybe she will stay. Maybe she won’t trust the person she shouldn’t trust. If I just watch her chest rise and fall while she sleeps, if I study every crease on the bottoms of her feet, she won’t leave and never come back. The other one disappeared, and never came home. It seems a strange habit to try to control the passage of time by sheer will. I tattoo each moment on the sand of my neural pathways, only to watch them wash away with the tide. There she goes--my baby turns into a girl. My girl turns into a woman.
Ironically, the only permanent thing I know in my life is that Lucy is dead. Everything else I can hold in my arms is a lesson in impermanence and that scares the shit out of me. It humbles me, rather. Fear is something I am trying to let go of, though I am a house of cards built on fears. Time blows through the room. And suddenly, Beatrice is eating her sushi with chopsticks, and telling me jokes, and washing her own toes, and her brother’s too.
This morning, Beezus and I headed to the pediatrician for her four year well-visit. Just the two of us. We sit together and read books waiting. We are the first appointment of the day, and we are there for the long haul. Hearing. Vision. All of it. She follows the rules. To a tee. And she gets upset if others don’t as well. I am exactly the same way, so we sit together quietly nodding at the others waiting. We keep to ourselves. She is precocious in that way, and sometimes I forget that four is still so damn little. She pulled out her yoga mat before the appointment to stretch and then meditate. She never admitted she was afraid, just that she wanted to be calm before the doctor. I couldn't help but wonder when she became a little woman. She wore a bright yellow dress and a little bright pink sweater and bright pink maryjanes. She dressed up for the doctor she said, because she is a big girl now.
For a week she has asked me if she is getting shots, and I didn’t know. I really didn’t. But I didn’t make a big deal out of it. I don’t know, love. Maybe?
Oh, okay. I’m just wondering.
Are you scared of shots?
No. I just want to know.
Four shots. The nurse gave her the option of taking two this year and two when she turned five, or all of them today, and she opted for all of them today. I just stood by her. I explained the choices again and nodded as she made her decision. The nurse asked me to put her on my lap, and she sat absolutely still for each shot. She didn’t cry, or flinch. She just remained still. And the nurse remarked on how good she was at following the rules. She remained staid, like a soldier almost. She is getting too big too fast.
She is strong. She is brave. She can do anything she wants to do.
And then the nurse looked in her face and saw something I couldn’t see with her back towards me. “Oh, Beatrice, it’s okay to cry.”
And she let it go.
Her face broke in a huge cry just as the nurse walked out of the room. The cry of my newborn, my one year old, my grieving sister, my little baby...What made Beezus think she couldn't cry? What made her wait for permission to be afraid? I don’t know. But when she started crying everything she held in for the hour and a half, maybe for the week before, came pouring out in torrents. She is still a baby. So delicate and little and I’m the mommy that wipes away tears and explains what bravery is—to be afraid and still do something. The song snuck into my head.
She is strong. She is brave. She can do anything she wants to do.
Indeed.
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