I Didn't Know Her

Dear friends of mine recently lost their daughter. She died, she was about my age, and she died.

I saw her mother, an empty shell. I could see where death had ripped her daughter from her body. I saw her father, and saw him play the organ and conduct the choir for his daughter. I didn't wonder "how could he do it?" It made perfect sense; he wouldn't leave the music for someone else to do. That's his daughter, she deserved music selected and made by him. And it's unlikely he did it to "keep busy" as some explained to me. I believe it was to attend to his daughter more deeply. Saying goodbye to your child deserves all your attention. And when he received communion he walked right past me, and I saw where death had broken his shoulders.

I went to the funeral and sat beside her friend, and my friend, and felt her hurt. I tried to connect, but I didn't know what to say to help. In the pew, we sat together and held hands and sang the hymns and said goodbye to her friend and their daughter--this woman my age who died. I didn't know her, but I felt her absence.

Who I've Become . . . so far

My last post brought loving and thoughtful comments. Thank you, friends. And one tacked a question onto an observation, "You say that others don't like who you've become. Do You?"

Wow, that was brilliant. Brought me to a halt. Do I? At first I didn't know. I've been caught up in the struggle, with periods of solace and comfort with storms of sorrow and pools of sadness, that I hadn't thought about whether I did like who I've become.

"Do you?"

No. I mean I don't particularly like this life of mine. It's sad. Lonely. And at times seems hopeless. People don't connect with me so much. I see it in their faces as they bite their tongue and thought bubbles of "odd" seem to appear above their heads. Perhaps who I've become is bad. It's strange to feel that I don't fit in anywhere--that wasn't difficult for the "old me."

"Do you?"

Yes. I mean, I'm relieved that I've become more honest about my emotions. I'm satisfied, when I stick up for a principle I believe in. I'm fed, when a "thank you for you help" sweetens a sour stranger or when considering the other point of view when I've been harmed provides release from hurt. I'm pleased when I refrain from sarcastic comments that injure. I'm grateful for who I've become . . . so far.

"Do you?"

I don't know. What I do know is I'm tired. I'm not done struggling, and I know I'll be fine. Especially, when I visit my own wry "pearls of wisdom" upon myself--"The trick is to enjoy it." Yay, life is difficult and I'm in it!

Works every time.

Reflection

I'm spent. Four plus years of this death, of this fight to survive and dare to thrive in the aftermath. What remains is the natural human wish that it were different. Acceptance is a myth, integration is my hope. Still struggling to become the mother Caitlin deserved, but I sense others don't like who I'm becoming. Still judging the decisions I make and silently condemning my attempts to expose an open heart and articulate a reasoned mind. It's isolating and lonely being the mother of a dead child, with lessons learned only from experiencing the beginning and end of parenting within one's own life span. I don't recommend this path to insight. Ah, I wish I could have folded her into myself, and kept her there forever, and protected her from her life of tubes and saved her from death. I'm spent.

Leaving the Table

Around the table, we sit, a bunch of professionals chatting between presentations with our coffees, donuts, and the red-herring-orange slices. And the talk steers at it always does to a "safe" topic--children. I'm pretty good at this and for the most part I'm genuinely interested and sometimes even, I contribute. Yup, me, dead-baby-only mama, I do have some things to say. Sweet 20-something begins by asking each person at the table, "And how many children do you have?" Innocent and naive to assume that each of us has children and that we enjoy the opportunity to count them. So kind of her not to leave anyone out. She began with the 40+ woman on my left, then the seasoned father, and when it came to her, she told us how many children she would have. I was relieved, after all it opened the supportive comments to her about how "it would happen" and "it's OK to wait," and "enjoy your freedom now" followed by chuckles. I thought that we would move on, because I assumed her needs were met. I was wrong. She was still interested in everyone else, belying her generation. She continued around the circle methodically, "And you?" When the older gentleman to my right began his proud personal family census, I found myself quietly leaving the table. 

God, this is never going to stop sucking. Never. Make peace. Grow. And Still, the pain of it prompts me to exclude myself. The awkward never fitting in to anywhere is making me nuts. The impossibility of having some aspect of my life not colored black by death, is distressing.

Hello, Lion. Saw you in the street and was glad for your iron sculpture stationary nature. Happy you aren't chasing me up a mountain, or ARE you?!?!!

Creme de la Creme for 2011

December is another kind of season for the blogger in the land of adoption, infant loss, and infertility. Tis the season of "Creme de la Creme" from Stirrup Queens.  Melissa Ford, author and blogger and all around good person, each year requests bloggers in the "Land of IF, cities in-between, and points beyond," to reread and choose their best blog post, and then submit it for the list.

Melissa, then reads each blog, writes a description and gives back to our community by posting a list with her annotations. And that list is the "Creme de Creme." It provides us with months of reading posts and meeting and connecting to new bloggers or rekindling our e-friendships.

If you'd like to participate go here:


The Best of the Adoption/Loss/Infertility Blogs of 2011

Of the six years of "Creme de la Creme," I've participated in three:

Creme de la Creme 2008 Click here for the post: The Refining Fire
Creme de la Creme 2009 Click here for the post: "Mildly Retarded" is Not a Punchline
Creme de la Creme 2010 Click here for the post: The Moon

And soon a fourth . . . Looking forward to e-meet'n'greet that is Creme de la Creme!!!

Word Portrait

She's

Transparent, perhaps

Sincere, certainly

Tentative, likely

Unique, maybe

Constant, clearly

She's

Clearly transparent

Perhaps sincere

Certainly tentative

Likely unique

Maybe constant

Clearly . . .

A Mountain, A Hut, and a Lion

I have always been a lucid dreamer. From the time I was a child, I had nightmares and storymares and such. I remember that the nightmares sometimes sent me flying to my parents' room for comfort. And I remember that one of those nights, after my father sent me back to bed, I went back to sleep, and the nightmare continued. And I knew within the dream that I'd have to take care of myself. A feat of gargantuan effort for a four or five year old, I managed to perceive during the nightmare that I was dreaming. I didn't like the way the story ended. Then, I "re-wound" the gruesome story and changed the outcome. Over the years, I developed many ways to navigate the dark and terrifying creations of my mind. I became an active player in my stories. I learned to "run," a special fly-like-deer-running that I created especially for dreams that helped me successfully escape from what ever was chasing me. And I learned to step out of the action like taking a seat at a theatre. And from my seat I watched my mind-movie.

And sometimes these mind movies come in sequels, the latest of which was "A Mountain, A Hut, and a Lion," the sequel to "A Tree, a Door, and a Lion." The first Lion-flick I saw was during the first year after Caitlin died. It was a surprising dream because it contrasted the emotionally draining and soul-trembling creations I was experiencing at that time. In the opening scene, I exited a doorway and was startled to see a lion. This enormous lion with a full main, a healthy shining orange coat and rippling powerful muscles made eye-contact with me. Instead of charging, as I feared, it made pierced my heart with its gaze and blinked like a yaw--only with eyelids. And with a slow nod it remained under the tree. And I remained an active player in my dream, and stood there in the grass with a transfixed on the lion. I perceived that it was content, that it welcomed me to its green space, and experienced its intended shared tranquility. Eventually, I walked on, the scene faded, and I was plummeted into another dream that took more rigorous work. I woke up exhausted, but with the memory of the lion's shared tranquility. Odd.

Two nights ago, the sequel. I am hiking a mountain. The trail is steep and it's getting dark. Others tried to keep up with me, but could not, and I would not slow down. Far above the treeline, I reached the hut and threw myself inside. It was small like a closet with hard dark wood walls. Grandparents of grandparents made this place from old trees; I knew this because the wood planks were wide. The wind howled and progressed to wild gales. But I learned quickly that sounds I heard wasn't only wind. I heard the lion. He was ragged and angry. His rage toward me had fueled his pursuit of me up the steep and rocky trail. Our eyes locked briefly through a thick dingy window at the top of the heavy door. From my seat, I saw my eyes fly open in fearful recognition. I was terrified. He dropped from the window and broke through the wall behind me slamming his massive body against the wall I was hugging. I rolled slightly to avoid being pinned.

This event threw me out of my passive role as an audience member of my personal mind-movie, and into my self-preservation role. I became an active player in a dream state of fight or flight. Fly-running wasn't an option inside a hut on top of a mountain with a dangerous tawny lion inside. I was too alarmed to rewind, after all there was no where else to go. No haven, no fortress, only an ancient hut atop a mountain. I squeezed myself out of the door, as the lion lunged, slamming it closed. I fled up--or was it down?-- the same rocky trail that led us there.

What does it mean? I don't know. I only hope that this is a trilogy. Because, our heroine is lost and directionless, and there's a lion on the loose.

A Second Wave

The second wave of grief threatens to overcome me. I can feel the sand move beneath my feet. As it shifts, I become more fixed in place. I am watching the water move farther and farther away from me and in the distance I can see a tidal wave forming. It will come crashing down upon me. I'd like to move to higher ground, but my feet have sunk into the sand so deep that I cannot lift them. I am helpless. Only able to stare and wait for the second wave to come while gulls shriek above me.

It's the holidays, I suppose, that pulls the water out to sea. Or the increasing isolation, as I become the only mother of only dead children I know. The pain of having no new stories is exhausting. Remembering has comforted me for four years and making meaning has aided as well. Reflection brings numbness now, rather than enlightenment. My feet sink deeper. The wave grows higher. The sky darker.

I want to talk and write about Caitlin and I don't. I'm stuck. Perhaps I should welcome this wave. It may take me out to sea. It may toss me toward new horizons.

My Show is On

What's the point?
This "life thing." I'm not being facetious or provocative.
No dark humor here--There are days, I truly don't get the intended point.

Driving across the DE bridge, I see the signs, "If you are in distress call."
But, I've been in distress for several years and wonder:
What call?
Call who?
Why call?
So they can save me?

I can't call, I'm supposed to pull myself up by my bootstraps.
You know: 1) dig deep, 2) have faith, 3) count my blessings 4) Accept that the Fault lies with me.
Always  . . . only unto the evil thereof.
You know, I deserve what I get an' such, and I've done nothing that deserves anything better.

Such tunnel vision . . . as if it were only about me.
What happened only affects me and was only prompted by me and can only be corrected by me.

More like funnel vision.

Eh, this line of thought . . .

Dull.
Overrated.
Selfish.

That brief moment of free flight, is but an illusion of liberation, a mere hope of eternity, an unanswerable question of significance.

Perhaps, seeking the answer is worth it?
If one knew that Chaos would end with an eternal caesura. Ah, but would Bliss follow?

And, what poses these questions?
It is the longing
the wishing
the hoping
the desire
for
peace
for stasis.

What's the intended point?
I need sleep.
A drink.
Or some effective anti-depressents
But, above all . . .
eh
what's the intended point?
I know better than to look somewhere without for meaning.

And . . . sorry to say, the God doesn't aid in meaning-making.
I'm better off speaking with Him personally than waiting for the unknowable answer. Or listening to others tell me what God means.


And my faith tells me that if he is a He, then questioning is a problem.
If we are to stick to the Patriarch then merely asking the question is problematic.
Silence from the original sinner is expected. So, best to forget about it, and Just Obey, right?

I am expected to have no thought. I am expected to be comforted with no explanation. I am expected to wait until death to discover the reason. And be assured that that reason will, in fact, provide the comfort I seek. "Wait till I'm ready to tell you," all the while I praise for keeping me in the dark.

Perhaps in the free fall the waiting ceases, or ---  the Bluff is called.

I'm done. My show is on. I'll think on this another day.