Thursday, December 31, 2009

Joy Possible

Caitlin was remembered by her Grammy and Godmother this season. It was so nice. Many people avoid saying anything about the children who have died; it's too sad perhaps for the season. As a bereaved mother, acknowledging the sadness in the beginning makes way for the joy that's possible during this season. Our family remembered Caitlin and we hung her ornaments on the tree. My camera didn't capture her name and the tiny angel that hangs from pink hearts, but my heart did.
Thanks family. Love you.

Tuesday, December 22, 2009

Before the Snow Covers

After leaving the only holiday party she had the courage to attend, and enduring the traditional tunes with "I'll be home for Christmas" and "I'll have a blue Christmas without you," she realizes that the impending Noreaster threatens more than a safe ride home. It threatens to cover her daughter's stone and may prevent the opportunity to visit before celebrations and travels commence. So before the snow covers it, she drives to the cemetery, well aware that this behavior falls squarely under the heading of "crazy bereaved mother." And owning this label, she drives into the dark cemetery, kneels and whispers, "I'm sorry sweet baby girl. I miss you. I love you." She kisses her daughter's stone and allows a feeling of relief to sweep over her, knowing she made it before the snow covers and hides where her daughter is buried with its white blanket.

"My daughter is buried here," she explains to the police officer who prevents her incident-free exit. "I know I'm not supposed to be here after dark, and I'm on my way out, but I just had to visit before the snow covers." "OK, then, have a good night," he replies and drives on. Her tears fell in equaled furry to the snow.

Friday, December 18, 2009

She Holds My Fragile Heart

During a visit to the cemetery, I take a walk through the stones of the loved ones of others. And I see this statue. I didn't interpret it the way others might perhaps, that the angels hold the souls of our loved ones who leave their bodies for what is unknown to the living. I saw instead my child holding my heart with care.

I am so very tired.

Monday, December 7, 2009

I Can't Use This Here.

So, I get this comment recently, and I have no idea what the commenter meant by it. So I didn't publish it with the post of which it was related. I didn't recognize the name from those who frequently offer their comments and contribute and help to make meaning from this loss and share in the work of grief. The name has no link, so I left it where it was in a holding pattern in the moderation space. I left it there as I tried to figure out the purpose of the comment, "Everything comes to man if he will only wait. . . ."

My first thought was, "I can't use this. I can't use this here, in A Fifth Season."

I can't use this statment in my place of pause to reflect and parent my child's memory, because I'm her mother. I am a woman. That matters. I don't accept that "man" is inclusive of all humankind, especially when my gender is a beautiful and important facet of my relationship with my daughter as she was in life. How I experienced her death is also highly influenced by my gender. I can't use "man" and "he" in this space. It carries little meaning. Perhaps the message was for someone else?

I take a mental walk away, and begin click to "reject," but that's not my way. I'm hooked on rumination. I look within and I look without, because I think it's important that I understand to the best of my reasoning--and that is the purpose of this Fifth Season.

I consider "Everything comes," and smile. "Ha," everything is already here. What I have is what I have in this moment. Sometimes, I feel sadness, and more frequently of late my emotions are quite stable and when I laugh, it's quite hearty. I know how luscious a laugh is, and when it comes, I welcome it. When sorrow and tears come, I embrace them as well--truthfully I can't say that I welcome them, but I can say I honor the experience, and in that sense sorrow is welcome as well.

Perhaps the most, frankly, irritating word of the phrase is "wait," because it suggests wanting or needing something that one doesn't have. I shall now commence to kneading and stretching this word through a range of possible meanings. No, I don't have energy for that. I realize that "wait" is pivotal. The obvious question seems to be "wait for what?"

"Nothing." I have nothing to wait for. I have what I have and love those who are here and not here (my sweet baby, Caitlin), so I am back to "I can't use this here." I reject the comment. Perhaps, the commenter will share again, only next time express what he or she truly means to share. As John Mayer sings, "Say what you mean to say." But, no matter, I know what it means for me. I can't use this, here. Peace.

Saturday, December 5, 2009

Moment Among Light bulbs & Plungers

I walk through the store, getting groceries. We've been living on take out and bagels and coffee and Dun.kin donuts, and so I must buy milk. I see a child, likely older than the four-feet might suggest who pushes a cart with Daddy beside and mom behind. And the child has DS and I can't stop staring and I realize that Dad has caught me and has misunderstood. People don't like to see others stare at their children who have special needs, and he gave me a look that I would describe as "protective."

"Hello," I say and smile with the tears waiting in the wings, and I pause and make eye contact.

He softened and and replied, "Hahwah---ya." That's the way they say it here in this part of New England.

"Good, thanks."

I pass the mother and smile at her as though she knows me and she returns the expression.

Turning into the very next aisle the tears make their entrance and I'm so pissed and jealous and sad and can't afford to lose it in the grocery store, not after two years. I'm supposed to be stronger now. Healed. Carrying the load. I stand there thankful that others don't need the light bulbs on the left or the plungers on the right of the aisle; they all are buying milk. I can have my grief moment staring the nightlight size bulbs.

They have pink and blue ones.

I struggle to cry without sobbing sounds, but I hear a squeak behind me. I release my hand from holding my now sweating forehead and turn away from fake study of the light bulbs and push the cart, though here they say it like this "carriage," and that feels more crappy.