tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-39479702587381809982024-03-13T18:19:49.382-04:00A Fifth SeasonA Fifth Season is a place of pause to grieve the death of my first and only child. A season characterized by reflection on the big stuff and the little stuff that this mom encounters as I parent the memory of my child, and my child, in loving return, parents my heart.caitsmomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12526920268165723942noreply@blogger.comBlogger309125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3947970258738180998.post-39325333876976003942023-06-10T08:39:00.000-04:002023-06-10T08:39:37.241-04:00Losing FaithI wrote this in 2008. I revisited it in 2019, and here I am again prompted by incessant unquestioned righteous value of faith. It doesn't seem as angry to me now as I remember feeling when I first wrote it in 2008. <div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2x7DY5S5nVuzRpZxirX4Obn2evHQXQgGJ_uP_Sxu43poMminwcUxiuNsoWPvjSe3nRk1nYcrhBSgIlZ90hEe66-RH-yoEFrqVWAV7En5-TOEplCsRO41HbT7e6BVdWLJYczTry5JmdB3fc3j7zceHHnT6QNryzEWYuvgYzUrEpQXKGyOsvC_fDew1/s490/Untitled.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="404" data-original-width="490" height="264" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2x7DY5S5nVuzRpZxirX4Obn2evHQXQgGJ_uP_Sxu43poMminwcUxiuNsoWPvjSe3nRk1nYcrhBSgIlZ90hEe66-RH-yoEFrqVWAV7En5-TOEplCsRO41HbT7e6BVdWLJYczTry5JmdB3fc3j7zceHHnT6QNryzEWYuvgYzUrEpQXKGyOsvC_fDew1/s320/Untitled.png" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div><br />
<br />
I've been wondering about a commonly repeated statement, "But even though I suffered, I never lost my faith." And I wonder, what comfort does that provide? I don't understand how it makes someone feel better or how it helps to heal them, and I don't understand why people praise others for "keeping their faith."<br />
<br />
But first, let me veer a little in the direction of bargaining. I must be blunt, if I had the option, I would lose my faith for my child to live a good and happy life with a mother and father who would have loved her to eternity. What am I saying?--as it is we love her now to eternity. In the religion I was raised, I would choose damnation if it meant that my child would live. There I said it, and I'm glad. Let me restate, "I would choose eternal damnation for the life of my child." I would not be obedient to the god that Abraham heard to kill his son, only to have him saved by an angel. I would fail the test; I would first fail in god's eyes and choose my child's life.<br />
<br />
Oh, who am I kidding, I would probably be just as weak. If the burning bush boomed at me "do this" and "be obedient above all," I'd likely be a typical human and cave. I am after all the product of a patriarchal society, and it's unlikely I could resist my upbringing. Unlikely.<br />
<br />
(Yes, I know the burning bush is Moses and not Abraham. I am purposefully borrowing where I wish. It's a blog, not an academic paper for cripe's sake.)<br />
<br />
Crazy thoughts? To choose loss of faith for the life of my child? No, I don't think so, I've listened to the fervent and desperate prayers of mothers begging for their children to live and I'm intimately aware of my own pleas. When we say we would have done anything to save our children, I believe us. Eternal damnation does not seem like too high a price. But, we don't know, because, frankly, I don't believe we ever get to make that choice. The offer is never made.<br />
<br />
Which brings me to wonder about this need to profess continued faith while living a life parenting a dead child? If I would have given my soul to save my child's life, then how could hanging onto religious faith comfort me in my sorrow? I suspect that I suffer the pain of my child's death, with or without faith. So, I question, is faith and grief truly related? Is grieving the loss of a child a mark or sign that one isn't faithful enough? "Jesus Wept" and well, wait, why does faith default to Christianity? What about other faiths and beliefs? I don't intimately know the grief response of other monotheisist or polytheisist religions. Moreover, I wonder about the so-called "faithless" agnostic who professes a belief that humans have a biological predisposition to be compassionate and loving toward others. And a bereaved parent who professes no belief in god. There are moms who profess no religious faith; they suffer as much as I and they heal as well as I. I will not be so self-righteous or delusional to believe they suffer more. That would be arrogant and wrong. <br />
<br />
I respect that religious faith gives many comfort. In fact, the traditions of my faith were and continue to be of great comfort to me with wonderful prayers and rituals to honor my child and grieve her death and help me feel a sense of hope. But, I just wonder why the need to profess not wavering? Is it the sense of control of something, when we couldn't save our child? Or when we realized that our faith had no power to save our child? "I lost my child, but <span style="font-style: italic;">at least</span> I didn't lose my faith. <span style="font-style: italic;">That</span> I have the <span style="font-style: italic;">power to keep.</span>"<br />
<br />
What are the implications for those who DO "lose their faith" or whose faith wavers? I can't help but hear the clear comparison of "I'm better than those who wavered or lost their faith." And well, that's just not particularly loving or charitable, now is it? More importantly, it doesn't truly comfort the one who professes with those words. That sentiment is mere fragments. It's a blanket with superior[ity] holes, and it won't warm or protect. And when I hear it said or see it written, I shrink with sadness.<br />
<br />
Finally, why do some bereaved parents use the death of their children to propagate their particular faith? "My child died, but I still trust in God, and you should too," they say. One statement I've heard that simply stuns me is this "He has shown himself in this. God is great. No God, but God." I honestly don't understand how that is related to the horror of losing a child. It tells me, "I can still praise God, even though my child died." Well, I must say, and this may be shocking, but I don't see how it's related. In tandem, I don't understand the sentiment that the death of a child is a test from God of an parent's faith in him. Really? God caused my child to die to test my faith? That cannot possibly be the same God who blessed me with my child to show his love? I'm sorry. No, I'm not sorry. I don't want anymore of this. Oh, then I get told that I can't be angry with god for taking my child, because he blessed me with her. Really, I'm not angry with God, I'm angry with those who assume I have some anger at God, when what I believe is that God was and is helpless to change the world God put in motion and that God weeps WITH me. I can reason it no other way.<br />
<br />
Now, this could go on and on and on with a fencing battle for me to own my grief and honor my love for my child by allowing myself to feel the emotions that arise from her death and those who need me to keep my faith above all else. I've felt attacked with statements meant to guilt, "remember that God gave his only son," suggesting that I should not feel as horrible as I feel because, God felt worse? OK, brace yourself, because for the traditionalist, this will sound like blasphemy, but it's irrelevant. God knows how bad this feels, then God knows that I need to feel how bad this feels and learn to heal. And if we're going to go literal on the bible here, God's son was dead for three days, then he went home. God got his wish, his child lives with him again. It is Mary that wailed with bereavement until her own ascension to heaven. <br />
<br />
Now, I just wish there were a safe place to pose this volatile query. But, I'll get skewed for sure and prayed over and pitied for not understanding and bible-versed at and well, I don't have the energy for all that. Nor, do I desire to make others uncomfortable or feel a challenge to their beliefs. So, I'll just keep this to myself. Or not. Maybe I and others should think about this loss of faith "thing." Maybe a careful look is deserved.<br />
<br />
My final thought . . . from my own religious tradition,<br />
"But the greatest of these is LOVE."</div>caitsmomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12526920268165723942noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3947970258738180998.post-67656748562111267592019-04-13T22:52:00.000-04:002019-04-13T22:52:21.285-04:00A Year and Then SomeNearly two years it has been since I've written. We moved. I'm farther away from Caitlin's grave. It's odd. I'm fine.<br />
<br />
Really.<br />
<br />
Thoughts in no particular order, but not random . . .<br />
<br />
The show "This is Us" needs to study the child death traumatic death experience. They get it wrong on so many levels. AND seriously do not use the NICU as a place where moms casually drink coffee around their premi babies and . . . oh, screw it. They don't care; ratings are up when you dramatize moms whose babies might die.<br />
<br />
People with children who know you had a living child should well . . . . just never complain to you about their mom struggles. Really. Find someone with a living child; I would die to have your problems.<br />
<br />
Fuck Cancer. I'm done with it killing my family and friends. FU Cancer.<br />
<br />
Should I consider it progress, if I remember and ruminate over regrets and happenings from before she died? Does that mean that I'm "returning to normal"? It feels as crappy as it did then. So, no. Not progress; regression.<br />
<br />
Still fine. I think that's the best I can hope for.<br />
<br />
Peace.caitsmomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12526920268165723942noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3947970258738180998.post-58670571630143465212017-12-16T17:43:00.000-05:002017-12-16T17:43:19.021-05:00Schmeh: the holidays<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgewNgVDn_0smmPuk8jKcAVZyFmfcQocQb6AyDWWkOuf2Wzj33nNc5QvJNnppwyri9ASL-jLbZ7TVQhfL3lW4w7YLdGVQ8PMHqBTMa5nTgc-vXtCM6Tqfmw49mszylMvrl_qMWnxhVZAUg/s1600/IMG_4005.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgewNgVDn_0smmPuk8jKcAVZyFmfcQocQb6AyDWWkOuf2Wzj33nNc5QvJNnppwyri9ASL-jLbZ7TVQhfL3lW4w7YLdGVQ8PMHqBTMa5nTgc-vXtCM6Tqfmw49mszylMvrl_qMWnxhVZAUg/s320/IMG_4005.JPG" width="240" /></a>I'm not sure when it happened, but over the years, I've come to feel nothing about the holidays. I don't care much for Thanksgiving. That American day of food and family was destroyed after my daughter's death. It's just not a time to blather about "what I'm thankful for."<br />
<br />
And now, with the political climate, I see more clearly the oppression of the descendants of indigenous people that we (read American white settlers) destroyed so we could have what we have. I could likely make the four day weekend about family and friends and love, and sometimes I attempt it. Mostly, though, I'm apathetic. And most recently, it became the holiday I last saw my daughter's grandmother alive. So, yeah, Thanksgiving sucks.<br />
<br />
And after the relief of going back to work, I continue to work pretty hard at just surviving the latest crazy. Like "Merry Christmas." A phrase that was nice for so so so many years. There was a time that if you wanted you could include the New Year with a "Happy Holidays." I can't say either one of these phrases in public anymore without a store clerk or other stranger judging my political leanings despite the greeting I choose. I still say these greetings to people I know with sincerity, but out there in public, I say, "Thanks. and have a nice day."<br />
<br />
Because that's how I really feel. That's the best I can hope for them and me. A nice day. A nice day that's not a holiday. Sometimes, I snark, "Enjoy whatever holiday you may or may not celebrate."<br />
<br />
Perhaps, I should find a better phrase? Nope. Have a nice day is just fine.<br />
<br />
I need to breathe in some joy. I'm empty.caitsmomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12526920268165723942noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3947970258738180998.post-33315030663543807312017-07-19T08:09:00.000-04:002017-07-19T08:09:11.842-04:00I Looked UpI look up, Weeping into the sunshine <br />
Goldfinch flit past my eyes<br />
Flashing bits of brilliant sunlight within my reach<br />
Gentle breezes caress my bare arms<br />
Drying my wet and heavy tears<br />
Coaxing me<br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">enjoy this Day</span><br />
Coldness from the rock where I am still<br />
Seeps into me<br />
Spreads throughout me<br />
I take my sorrow and go inside to wait for Night<br />
where Darkness always receives me<br />
preventing any distractions from Grief<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_mt1KL3sBuBG8R8pIzipiEA3syPZBC4aT2CSUmFIUrRDrHgmDheIlrf8RcsPP4jQ2vifxhNOuZLrCq63xzeiAa39lkFVS_Qj_q7QS2G1-s_yYHt0J48SS433HwC-J_kgTUqL4TKVSkF8/s1600-h/IMG_2561_2.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5344350214987163266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_mt1KL3sBuBG8R8pIzipiEA3syPZBC4aT2CSUmFIUrRDrHgmDheIlrf8RcsPP4jQ2vifxhNOuZLrCq63xzeiAa39lkFVS_Qj_q7QS2G1-s_yYHt0J48SS433HwC-J_kgTUqL4TKVSkF8/s400/IMG_2561_2.JPG" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; float: right; height: 300px; margin: 0 0 10px 10px; width: 400px;" /></a>I look up <br />
Turning my face to the darkness<br />
Waiting for a familiar coldness to overtake me<br />
I Listen for my sobs<br />
But, I am not overcome<br />
I marvel instead at the near moon<br />
Light surrounded by blackness<br />
A white curved glow piercing the expansive nothing<br />
A hope quickens within, and a thought forms <br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">If the moon in it's passivity can conquer the night<br />I can in my patience conquer this death that eats me</span><br />
<br />
Today I wept in the sunshine<br />
Tomorrow I will smile, remembering the mooncaitsmomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12526920268165723942noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3947970258738180998.post-73478987609078371212017-07-18T10:20:00.000-04:002017-07-18T10:20:10.638-04:00Her Sign<div style="border: 0px; color: #3e3733; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin-top: 1em; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAxJS_U67fHaUBh-FJGnK-FC6Pkzl6b_H3nvDhL-8ttiLWGgXNHQeagKit93-hhD5WvOmNV_HJtunWP8Yyj3p0OXS4Rf6ejnypA_B1Z8BOT5yDIOFsCkhK1-iJ-1qmkR3cNOlzhGdKapE/s1600/IMG_0676.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAxJS_U67fHaUBh-FJGnK-FC6Pkzl6b_H3nvDhL-8ttiLWGgXNHQeagKit93-hhD5WvOmNV_HJtunWP8Yyj3p0OXS4Rf6ejnypA_B1Z8BOT5yDIOFsCkhK1-iJ-1qmkR3cNOlzhGdKapE/s320/IMG_0676.JPG" width="240" /></a>This summer I taught music teaching techniques as I have done for years. The first day of teaching, I walked into a classroom to get materials ready. On the piano was a book opened to "Close to You" by the Carpenters. it made me smile. I thought of Caitlin Anne and singing this song to her everyday along with the other lullabies I sang each visit.</div>
<div style="border: 0px; color: #3e3733; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin-top: 1em; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">
This was her father's song that his mother sang to him as a lullaby, and because she sang it to him, I sang it to Caitlin. The next day and the next day, the book remained opened to that song. I didn't change it and neither did anyone else. We used the piano, but never closed the book or put it away. </div>
<div style="border: 0px; color: #3e3733; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin-top: 1em; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">
I didn't want to lose the opportunity to accept the invitation to sing the song, so on Friday of the first week, I sat down and played and sang it. Uninterrupted, I plunked through the chords and added a bit of harmony and sang the melody softly. When I finished, I left the book open. </div>
<div style="border: 0px; color: #3e3733; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin-top: 1em; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">
Saturday, we received news that the lump they found in his mother's lung was cancer. The news knocked the air out of me. I don't think that song was a sign from Caitlin to me. It seems Caitlin sent a song to her grandmother through me. Belief makes things real. </div>
<div style="border: 0px; color: #3e3733; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin-top: 1em; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAPerqndvWGspN3HbYQE4U1gYdRsb_v7FAHTx5xykiAZwun_UE-CGNB1Op9XPer8cD-GWqfyy25NLZg_X7dUBAoOkp4FK75Ts-kvEJAcuHa8BjuRH34-Z7n9m2JWB5nupKgZvIpXr3vm8/s1600/IMG_0674.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAPerqndvWGspN3HbYQE4U1gYdRsb_v7FAHTx5xykiAZwun_UE-CGNB1Op9XPer8cD-GWqfyy25NLZg_X7dUBAoOkp4FK75Ts-kvEJAcuHa8BjuRH34-Z7n9m2JWB5nupKgZvIpXr3vm8/s320/IMG_0674.JPG" width="320" /></a>We have become witnesses again to a family member's journey home. </div>
<div style="border: 0px; color: #3e3733; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin-top: 1em; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">
The song remained opened until the end of second week.I took a pictures of the book on the last day I taught, and shared them with Caitlin's grandmother in the hospital the following month. She smiled, and looked at her son. "That's our song." </div>
<div style="border: 0px; color: #3e3733; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin-top: 1em; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">
Music is the thread the drew that smile from her. </div>
caitsmomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12526920268165723942noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3947970258738180998.post-17815077718534088752016-11-17T21:15:00.001-05:002016-11-17T21:15:11.761-05:00Loosed HatredYesterday was my daughter's death date. Yesterday as I tried to remain focused on my daughter. Honor her memory with my actions and words to others. Reflect in peace and gratitude for the grief that visits me to remind me of my brief role as a mother. Reflect on the complexity of love that both heals and hurts, I found an intrusion of unwelcome thoughts of fear.<br />
<br />
I've been reeling from the election. We elected a narcissistic and racist individual. Someone who is a failed businessman, an accused child rapist, a person who brags about sexual assault, who openly praises P.utin and his leadership, who refuses to pay people for their work, who would like to abolish free speech, and who Politifact found tells the truth less than 10% of the time.<br />
<br />
Several times throughout the day--as I tried to remain focused on her--my thoughts were rudely and violently yanked to a two second gif of our president-elect mocking a disabled person. I've been told that he didn't mean it. I saw it. I watched him mock a disabled person. It wasn't an edited clip; he sure as f$@k meant it.<br />
<br />
I worried about how I would protect her from people like him. How would I make sure she knew she was loved? How would I shield her from hurtful bullying and cruel words and worse--cruel actions?<br />
<br />
That f$cker has not one compassionate, caring bone in his body, and he has emboldened the cruel words and actions of many around the country. The very leader of the free world manipulates and mocks, and I feel helpless to protect children like my daughter from that model.<br />
<br />
My teacher-friends and students in my area and around the country are witnesses to the loosed hatred and bullying. "Pretty soon you guys will all be slaves again," was a black student's story to a group. "Now I can grab you or any other chick by the pussy," was a tweet from one of my 20-something female college students. "Faggot" painted on a car of an acquaintance. "She can't talk because she's a filthy Muslim," from a fifth grader. "Our president is going to send your parents back to Mexico," from a third-grader at the lunch table. These are real, and he is silent. And no one is really expecting any words of condemnation from a bully.<br />
<br />
I can't breathe.<br />
<br />
<br />caitsmomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12526920268165723942noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3947970258738180998.post-80851157273076401342016-09-08T21:04:00.000-04:002016-09-08T21:04:28.061-04:00Narcissism & GriefLet's see if I can make this story short . . .<br />
<br />
I'm convinced one of my colleague's is a narcissist. This person is focused on self to a degree that has destroyed past and present friendships and work relationships. I probably shouldn't write about this. But I will.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdFr9KK5sgFIuAiQOZf6UKSxYHIEbJ_0OWyQFkv1YbZi91vowduR2ACWSxlMFHyUhLtFVtRFk01HK17-8M65_diAoD-w3zjHQLFQ-CET1ztDTLdM8QbHh__YE40KAMxqwazi3Dl8AZa2E/s1600/IMG_6793.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="119" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdFr9KK5sgFIuAiQOZf6UKSxYHIEbJ_0OWyQFkv1YbZi91vowduR2ACWSxlMFHyUhLtFVtRFk01HK17-8M65_diAoD-w3zjHQLFQ-CET1ztDTLdM8QbHh__YE40KAMxqwazi3Dl8AZa2E/s320/IMG_6793.jpg" width="320" /></a>I have a few things to "say" that I can't say to this person directly. Any attempt to reason or engage in adult conversation will likely "feed the tornado." I did my homework. The psychologist's advice for working for a narcissist is - - - leave. Recently, this person was unsuccessful in winning a bid for administrative control at my workplace. I was blamed for that outcome. Here's my "silent" responses:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<ol>
<li>I voted my conscience. </li>
<li>I made the voices of those without power heard.</li>
<li>No threats or promises to destroy my credibility, reputation, or affection of others will deter me from continuing in a manner that honors who I believe I am and who I aspire to be.</li>
<li>You may be successful in "dimming" my light from others, but that's not happening with my permission or without my push-back. </li>
<li>Success in actually destroying my credibility, reputation, or affection of others may hurt me, but my life experiences assure me that nothing will ever destroy me after surviving and learning to thrive in this life after the death of my child excepting my own death. In which case that stuff won't matter anymore.</li>
<li>I am the boss of my emotions and you have no power over me.</li>
<li>I continue to be grateful for the kindnesses you showed to me in the past. Although, I suspect they may have had selfish motivations, my gratitude for the deeds stand.</li>
<li>I will be kind, but I won't be manipulated or a become a complacent receptacle for your anger.</li>
<li>I wish you didn't believe that hurting others would make your grief lessen. </li>
<li>I wish you peace and release from the sorrows you bear. </li>
</ol>
caitsmomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12526920268165723942noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3947970258738180998.post-86817043439072223712016-09-03T09:52:00.000-04:002016-09-03T09:54:08.913-04:00Cemetery Visit: Year Nine<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimiQPI6_q3BqDY0lBnEZaHnxUigWDzGa9pH1UZAvhC_BmWdxQSOUInMUDxDj_XEi9ATBYgE-drLNQnbMUAcD1ZNZJoM6QUBMBGcxtAUzcBw-AcL1R4AlX8NyxFiZwOa2H0DBKEpHNFp1w/s1600/Visit+2016.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimiQPI6_q3BqDY0lBnEZaHnxUigWDzGa9pH1UZAvhC_BmWdxQSOUInMUDxDj_XEi9ATBYgE-drLNQnbMUAcD1ZNZJoM6QUBMBGcxtAUzcBw-AcL1R4AlX8NyxFiZwOa2H0DBKEpHNFp1w/s400/Visit+2016.jpg" width="300" /></a>I made it to the cemetery yesterday. I went without anything. I used to have items in the trunk of my car, so that if I went I was never empty-handed. I have a new car, and the stuff from the old one didn't make it into the trunk. So, I was relieved and comforted, that one of the butterflies was still there from a year ago. And that some human angel(s) left some items there. A comfort. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
I dusted off the grass as there was a recent mowing, and I laid some empty canvas bags on her grave and sat and read John O'Donahue's "Blessings." It was a sunny, yet comfortable day. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
I spent about an hour there. Then went off to a visitation for the former student I had that died tragically. Sat beside another bereaved mom, and we both had a weight only we could see. </div>
<br />caitsmomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12526920268165723942noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3947970258738180998.post-32316935570323940892016-09-02T19:40:00.000-04:002016-09-02T19:58:49.772-04:00Wish She Were Here<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2OI7kVd8rL5ZSv9IcdRwYrGpGQbgk-9nv445tbvJRxPQLIC3V4envoeFhF6tlppax1G2oFVnix8jm1YL72RWvEAg6YSCnHYQJiIRr0VKTKlFrg3Dy5eCBz8TM5L9R4ax-BIgw06hR2-M/s1600/IMG_6741.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="443" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2OI7kVd8rL5ZSv9IcdRwYrGpGQbgk-9nv445tbvJRxPQLIC3V4envoeFhF6tlppax1G2oFVnix8jm1YL72RWvEAg6YSCnHYQJiIRr0VKTKlFrg3Dy5eCBz8TM5L9R4ax-BIgw06hR2-M/s640/IMG_6741.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I was taking this picture of the sunrise on the beach. It was peaceful and beautiful. When I uploaded the photos I noticed that a little girl who looked about the age Caitlin Anne should be today had run into my shot. I suppose I could say it was a sign. It's not. It's a sad and lovely moment where I am reminded that I should be taking pictures of my daughter at the beach, rather than catching a glimpse of what life should be. I'm glad she ran into the shot. There's so much joy, motion, and life. I'm missing what I do know.<br />
<br />
Happy Birthday, Caitlin Anne.caitsmomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12526920268165723942noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3947970258738180998.post-60834375163391597032016-08-31T18:41:00.002-04:002016-08-31T18:47:38.160-04:00It's Been Some TimeIt's been some time. Some time since I've needed this space. Since I've been unable to focus on anything but my grief. With singular attention on wishing things were different. Experiencing inertia, with some far-off voice of mine begging me to "get up."<br />
<br />
Someone's only son was killed a couple days ago. His mother was interviewed. She said, squinting through her swollen eye lids with cheeks still wet, "I'm not prepared to bury a child."<br />
<br />
"How is she even talking?" I thought. But, I knew how. What else can she do?<br />
<br />
I liked her son. I was hopeful for him. He was kind and gentle. A stable force for his girlfriend. I hoped to have him in my classes again. I was certain he was pulling it together.<br />
<br />
<br />
"Get up. Get YOUR shit together." to myself again. I know I have limited time to get my tasks completed. Big deal things with deadlines. But all I can do is search for photos. Agonize over poetry and music that may comfort friends, family, me.<br />
<br />
I'm ignoring my pleas to get something done. Time is precious. But I remain in the fog. Well, not really. There is clarity of purpose where I am--remembering the dead. But the living, that's all a heavy fog.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjposXEqIBdwN-MMexWwm1M2V_a4FGK53pKQxWKRzs8SYsCbC3ZqyVVEXS-ok2B4itzKWAN7-X2qYi3kximFyNaXRTdWUmZeB80J-zlAcMto9iTtrgeaPwGOivYMsVfRxziF5NcV7HBOvM/s1600/IMG_6418.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="259" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjposXEqIBdwN-MMexWwm1M2V_a4FGK53pKQxWKRzs8SYsCbC3ZqyVVEXS-ok2B4itzKWAN7-X2qYi3kximFyNaXRTdWUmZeB80J-zlAcMto9iTtrgeaPwGOivYMsVfRxziF5NcV7HBOvM/s320/IMG_6418.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
Earlier this summer a young mom lost her baby before it was born. She didn't know if it was a boy or girl. We sat and talked for hours. I tried to focus on her story. I did pretty well, but after she left I couldn't breath. The air was thick.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
In two days it will be Caitlin's birthday. I hope to make it to the cemetery. I haven't been there is so long. Maybe if I go, I will be able to breath again.<br />
<br />caitsmomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12526920268165723942noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3947970258738180998.post-86964817569556004302015-02-02T19:06:00.000-05:002015-02-02T19:07:17.682-05:00The Market and DeathIn short: The Super Bowl is known for cool ads--ads that make us laugh; ads that are irreverent; ads that stick; and ads that we'll talk about and share.<br />
<br />
This super bowl ad season did not disappoint. Well not the advertisers anyway--they got the attention they wanted. But it did disappoint this bereaved mom. In particular the ad that used child death to sell it's product to get people to link to it's pages and to remember it's name. I'm not linking the ad and I'm not naming it. You can figure it out if you desire. But I am sharing my thoughts about it, because many in my community are conflicted about it.<br />
<br />
The ad shows a boy who is unable to do what all the other children are doing. Then after a few examples he explains that he's dead. And then the company shows images of preventable, but all to common household accidents that result in a child's death.<br />
<br />
And, I've been thinking about this one. Some liked it because finally someone was talking about child death. But, I didn't like it. Not because it reminded me my child is dead--like I ever forget she's gone.<br />
Not because it was an inappropriate venue to discuss child death--for me everything's on the table for discussion. I'm not afraid to talk death.<br />
<br />
It's because they didn't start with "we care about your kids." Instead they drew folks in with light music, heartwarming images, and manipulated the expectations of the market. The market--you know--us. And the market research told them that this approach would ge a strong emotional reaction and the stronger the emotional reaction, the more likely consumers (again us) will remember the brand. They used the element of surprise like a M. Night Shyamalan movie, and this I believe, was purposeful. I suspect the company knew there would be outrage and controversy because that very outrage translates to free social media marketing. I don't believe for an instant that they aimed to diminish the viewer's shock and horror at realizing that they were staring at a dead child. Rather, that emotion was their aim. And they succeeded.<br />
<br />
Nope, I didn't like it. I didn't like what I perceived as a "sucker punch" to parents of living children, hopeful parents to be, and bereaved parents with or without living children.<br />
<br />
I am sorry children die. I'm sorry my child died. I'm not afraid to include my child in casual or formal conversations. I'm no longer so fragile to avoid or be destroyed for days after viewing a storyline about children dying.<br />
<br />
The "mad men" succeeded in starting a conversation as they claimed was their goal, but I can't award any kudos for their efforts. They'll get those in website hits and $$$.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />caitsmomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12526920268165723942noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3947970258738180998.post-45266013952745641932014-11-16T11:06:00.000-05:002014-11-16T11:19:41.385-05:00Every Year<div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT9LmRGuEVD0tnfzlLTgdpuCnmyQJ_d0UFu0uRAio0zQVvifF4nzHWfSq3qB_mCKWECKROHPfpWA5Q102GRwuVm0EBpc3Ik06Yb1loiM4TK5xJr8YcRseHoV6iJEqD8lLG90mAcjqQXj8/s1600/IMG_5568.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT9LmRGuEVD0tnfzlLTgdpuCnmyQJ_d0UFu0uRAio0zQVvifF4nzHWfSq3qB_mCKWECKROHPfpWA5Q102GRwuVm0EBpc3Ik06Yb1loiM4TK5xJr8YcRseHoV6iJEqD8lLG90mAcjqQXj8/s1600/IMG_5568.jpg" height="200" width="149" /></a></div>
Remembering my daughter, Caitlin Anne, today on her death date--the first day of the meaning of forever.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgd7bOAg7cE8mH5c1iOtil9naSlpVGkLSzKLCZmVlg5kAU96y7zpxz6r3pNdPaEMF_YGoB24uoG3WMib_4X963yzG1rxDhkPSViodxPAkTVmVKR5SpQ3hxzdGDaH5tCcCxyHyzY0d_3Y8E/s1600/IMG_5565.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgd7bOAg7cE8mH5c1iOtil9naSlpVGkLSzKLCZmVlg5kAU96y7zpxz6r3pNdPaEMF_YGoB24uoG3WMib_4X963yzG1rxDhkPSViodxPAkTVmVKR5SpQ3hxzdGDaH5tCcCxyHyzY0d_3Y8E/s1600/IMG_5565.jpg" height="320" width="239" /></a></div>
<div>
Every year in July, I write my daughter's name in the sand at the beach. I pick up a stick or shell, and trace the letters of her first and middle name in quick cursive. Stepping back with my bare feet firmly on shore, I study it--the lines, curves, and dot above the i in her name. In this ritual of devotion and observance of her life, I once again enter the realm of magical thinking--my hope that the ocean won't wash her away. And every year, the wave does what it does--and once again shares with me what forever means.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
</div>
caitsmomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12526920268165723942noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3947970258738180998.post-56759822392816977512014-10-11T14:33:00.000-04:002014-10-11T14:33:51.351-04:00I am not Blessed<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_rMYm_jaj_FLpmezNyatZAAKOMuvNaWo36SlQis4ohpubQZx5XjJixkfTXfAGwrfLM1vL1YGKjuvZFCj3uxJ_dqLxrO3ny1a-Z1arqIw7yZRmQOXiJT4Xvn_awJN0BrZleBEM3or8HaE/s1600/IMG_0145_2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_rMYm_jaj_FLpmezNyatZAAKOMuvNaWo36SlQis4ohpubQZx5XjJixkfTXfAGwrfLM1vL1YGKjuvZFCj3uxJ_dqLxrO3ny1a-Z1arqIw7yZRmQOXiJT4Xvn_awJN0BrZleBEM3or8HaE/s1600/IMG_0145_2.jpg" height="200" width="181" /></a>When people describe their blessings as bestowed by God, I cringe. Because, I know that I am not blessed. I was not blessed with meeting the perfect husband in my child-bearing years. I was not blessed with a healthy baby who now is everything I live for. I was not blessed with a birth family who picked us to parent their child. If these are the blessings that some attribute to God, then I am not blessed.<br />
<br />
Blessings, you see are relative. One knows to call something a blessing when one knows the antithesis. I live the antithesis so that others know what to call their blessings. <br />
<br />
People generally, don't like it when one self-describes herself as "not blessed." When I articulate my reasoning, people say to me, "ah, but you should count <i>your</i> blessings." That makes me cringe too. Because what they are really doing is "should-ing" on me. They assume, and wrongly so, that I am not grateful for what is good in my life. I love the husband I married. I love my work. I love my family. I love that Caitlin made me a mom. I'm aware that I am loved when I least deserve it. <br />
<br />
But, I won't "count my blessings." Why? Because when I'm told that I "should count <i>my</i> blessings, that means that I should be grateful that I have some things that others do not have---and therein lies the problem. I reject the notion that by finding "blessings" that someone else was not "worthy" to receive, that that should make me feel better. I can be grateful for what I have without feeling happy that others are less fortunate. <br />
<br />
I will not be uplifted by the misfortunes of others, and I will not be diminished by the fortunes of others. I am grateful, thought not blessed.caitsmomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12526920268165723942noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3947970258738180998.post-59929524912343409532014-09-25T20:47:00.000-04:002014-09-25T21:07:27.404-04:00Fuck You, CancerAh, $h!it . . . I reached a new hope that life would settle a bit. My new/old job and return to my music family and friends and then cancer strikes again . . . I know, I know, <a href="http://afifthseason.blogspot.com/2012/09/not-about-me.html" target="_blank">it's not about me </a>and I'm grateful I'm home this time to support my friend through the end of remission, and through her second round of Chemo, and on to the second remission.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3vbKJVv0ILkB35IkynBhGMREPCzcwiynH1GwSMKMAcB5SHC2jFazdMTBqOUDbK3y3mva5FP1FKG92Ef238pIgS1B82l5at_0mSUvDzuijIRwWidlYTv9obCcZF-BfYgTSYV9L2KGwvPI/s1600/IMG_0139.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3vbKJVv0ILkB35IkynBhGMREPCzcwiynH1GwSMKMAcB5SHC2jFazdMTBqOUDbK3y3mva5FP1FKG92Ef238pIgS1B82l5at_0mSUvDzuijIRwWidlYTv9obCcZF-BfYgTSYV9L2KGwvPI/s1600/IMG_0139.JPG" height="196" width="320" /></a></div>
But let's be honest, I struggle with knowing the if she dies, I am going to take it personally. HOW DARE God/Universe/ALLAH/and the like take another beautiful person with no regard for what the world needs. How dare it. There is no prayer that can soothe this anger. But it's my anger not her's, so once again I'll do my best to choose joy when she's around, but when she's not, I will seethe. I will curse. And I will weep.<br />
<br />
Fuck you cancer. And fuck you industry, commercialism, and corporations that have successfully created an environment that enables, and yes, even causes this disease.<br />
<br />caitsmomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12526920268165723942noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3947970258738180998.post-16478258477614345312014-04-06T21:08:00.000-04:002014-04-06T21:08:58.783-04:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcGwR_91YdZ-Xhavqsw00SFVLp5J3ttov63xdGBgesZ2d3mD8M8VJGNGhpVRFump7CtJMF6vz_an5RO_uLvHyiVrVU-jszJS0EzA8ZblZUUiCrKWiUmVwTcH2wnK2-9Zh5zHSZYEacjP0/s1600/IMG_8305.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcGwR_91YdZ-Xhavqsw00SFVLp5J3ttov63xdGBgesZ2d3mD8M8VJGNGhpVRFump7CtJMF6vz_an5RO_uLvHyiVrVU-jszJS0EzA8ZblZUUiCrKWiUmVwTcH2wnK2-9Zh5zHSZYEacjP0/s1600/IMG_8305.jpg" height="200" width="149" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_uUeTvnrbcXz7ccj91L7e0RbtNgb_D_tnupPrKQlYrLbGUSTdPHpA4PxfJUi4k1Xt-un1mIZ5CTsjOmI2vtVaGQj1gXBj5S29Kl5mzlF40Q1lliJ4NWBDjo6tpyqKWeA3VF_yphEO0f8/s1600/IMG_8309+-+Version+2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_uUeTvnrbcXz7ccj91L7e0RbtNgb_D_tnupPrKQlYrLbGUSTdPHpA4PxfJUi4k1Xt-un1mIZ5CTsjOmI2vtVaGQj1gXBj5S29Kl5mzlF40Q1lliJ4NWBDjo6tpyqKWeA3VF_yphEO0f8/s1600/IMG_8309+-+Version+2.JPG" height="239" width="320" /></a></div>
Though, it's been several months, for Caitlin's death date, her dad and I released balloons at her grave site. As I looked up and watched the balloons fade into the the brilliantly blue winter sky, DH snapped a family portrait. Parents at their only child's grave site. It is what it is. We must acknowledge the family we have. caitsmomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12526920268165723942noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3947970258738180998.post-8434034563839275952013-01-19T15:14:00.000-05:002013-01-19T15:15:26.805-05:00What's Your "Anything"? <style>
<!--
/* Font Definitions */
@font-face
{font-family:Cambria;
panose-1:2 4 5 3 5 4 6 3 2 4;
mso-font-charset:0;
mso-generic-font-family:auto;
mso-font-pitch:variable;
mso-font-signature:3 0 0 0 1 0;}
/* Style Definitions */
p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal
{mso-style-parent:"";
margin:0in;
margin-bottom:.0001pt;
mso-pagination:widow-orphan;
font-size:12.0pt;
font-family:"Times New Roman";
mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria;
mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin;
mso-fareast-font-family:Cambria;
mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-latin;
mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria;
mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;
mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman";
mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;}
a:link, span.MsoHyperlink
{mso-style-noshow:yes;
color:blue;
text-decoration:underline;
text-underline:single;}
a:visited, span.MsoHyperlinkFollowed
{mso-style-noshow:yes;
color:purple;
text-decoration:underline;
text-underline:single;}
@page Section1
{size:8.5in 11.0in;
margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in;
mso-header-margin:.5in;
mso-footer-margin:.5in;
mso-paper-source:0;}
div.Section1
{page:Section1;}
</style>
-->
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I would have done anything to save her.” When parents of
dead children make this declamation; they mean it. Unfortunately, the
“anything” was not available. For me, my daughter’s heart didn’t develop
correctly, ‘nor did her GI system, which we didn’t know until her bowel
perforated and she died. With prayers flowing and medical science using up all
its options and me making one-sided deals with the great beyond, I held Caitlin
as she took her last breath. And when her breath escaped, I wanted to go with
her. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I would have done anything to save her.” I meant it, and I still do. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Like many bereaved parents, I’ve come to see that now my
child parents my heart. I am still her mother, and I continue to strive to be
the mother she deserved. Which brings me to Sandy Hook, and why I will continue
to invite others to consider supporting the “anything” that may save a child’s
life. The “anything” that is only an option in prevention and not an option
after the last breath escapes a child’s body. Knowing that prevention is too often
dismissed and unappreciated—usually because observation of the results of
preventive actions is difficult—I persist. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Why? Because Caitlin deserves the kind of mother who will
risk the judgment and ridicule of others for what should have been her
daughter’s freedom to be in a school without fear for her life. She deserves a
mother who will aim to use respectful and factual pleas, rather than hurtful
name-calling. She deserves a mother that will push-back against the natural
proclivity of those not directly affected to end their empathetic mourning
within about 5 weeks and return to hoping it won’t happen to them. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It will happen to someone, and rather than silently hoping,
I’m asking that others consider acting as if they knew it would be their children.
Is that cruel to name a parent’s worst fear? Or unfair and manipulative of
parents’ love for their children? I’ll risk that condemnation, because I would
have done anything to save my child. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What is the “anything” you can support? One of the proposed
gun violence laws? Changes to mental health guidelines? Training for teachers
and health workers to identify depression and prevent <a href="http://www.apa.org/helpcenter/bullying.aspx" target="_blank">bullying</a>? Suicide
prevention programs? Gun safety education? And how will you support this “anything”? <a href="http://m.house.gov/representatives/" target="_blank">Letters to lawmakers</a>? Reach out to individuals? Report that “off comment” to a
child protection agency? Practice the <a href="http://www.ehow.com/how_2048620_develop-emergency-lockdown-procedures-school.html" target="_blank">lock-down procedure</a> at your school, place
of work, home? Take a <a href="http://www.nssf.org/safety/basics/" target="_blank">gun safety</a> class? Join a community watch group? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
With so many ways to engage in something, it's tempting to throw up one's hands overwhelmed and defeated that "nothing will fix it completely." Consider the bereaved parents and community members of Sandy Hook and their response to creating safe communities. They
launched the <a href="http://www.sandyhookpromise.org/" target="_blank">Sandy Hook Promise</a> that highlights the bereaveds’ impassioned
plea:
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I
promise to honor the 26 lives lost at Sandy Hook Elementary School. </i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I
promise to do everything I can to encourage and support common sense solutions
that make my community and our country safer from similar acts of violence. </i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Prayer, hugging our children tighter, lighting a candle, and
sending condolences address the first part of the promise. I’m inviting those
for whom this promise resonates to consider how they might address the second
part of the promise. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
caitsmomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12526920268165723942noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3947970258738180998.post-65984660065609707582013-01-12T17:39:00.000-05:002013-01-12T17:39:10.727-05:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAxEY9WNthMDiINUUQ14oWWvp8ti-Cq9bImulyjPOlTpHt5ENjYhd8M7OjCfaY5eWfZk8moZW0eTg1JgPA_wF85S5wjb5YssPZDqGKGkAvJ9MsbDsooK6gYcNtlStGkkmyUZ6wEY0rjNQ/s1600/IMG_4126.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAxEY9WNthMDiINUUQ14oWWvp8ti-Cq9bImulyjPOlTpHt5ENjYhd8M7OjCfaY5eWfZk8moZW0eTg1JgPA_wF85S5wjb5YssPZDqGKGkAvJ9MsbDsooK6gYcNtlStGkkmyUZ6wEY0rjNQ/s1600/IMG_4126.jpg" height="640" width="390" /></a></div>
<br />caitsmomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12526920268165723942noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3947970258738180998.post-54594119382928583332013-01-08T13:35:00.000-05:002013-01-08T13:36:17.707-05:00"Dirt"<span style="font-family: arial, verdana, helvetica;"><b>Dirt </b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: arial, verdana, helvetica;"><b> </b>
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: arial, verdana, helvetica;">
Its arrogance will break your heart.
Two weeks ago <br />
we had to coax it<br />
into taking her body.<br />
Today,<br />
after a light rain,<br />
I see it hasn’t bothered<br />
to conceal its seams. </span><br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: arial, verdana, helvetica;">~<a href="http://www.jomcdougall.net/dirt.html" target="_blank">Jo McDougall</a></span><br />
<span style="font-family: arial, verdana, helvetica;"> <span style="background-color: #783f04;"><br /></span></span><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="background-color: #783f04;"> </span></div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: arial, verdana, helvetica;"><i>I remember the anger I had at the seams in the ground where Caitlin's coffin was buried. A small rectangle of sunken earth with scars where they cut the sod to lay her in. It took a couple of seasons for the growth of grass and work of bugs to mask those scars. But sometimes, when the weather is severe, they can still be discerned. </i></span><br />
<span style="background-color: #274e13;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="background-color: #274e13;"> </span></div>
caitsmomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12526920268165723942noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3947970258738180998.post-85890699760077416302013-01-06T15:31:00.000-05:002013-01-07T11:59:44.582-05:00Going Public . . . not yet ActivistCaitlin's death cracked me open. Her tragic death and my response to the event destroyed the compartmentalization of my public and private lives. The professor, family member, friend, and citizen became indiscernible to me, and I shared my early writings publicly and invited people from public and private spheres to read on a different site. Eventually, as the grief work progressed, I managed to build new distinctions of the roles I embody. I reclaimed some barriers, and I began this blog to continue the writing.<br />
<br />
But I no longer wished to invite all to read. Since I began writing here, I experienced some anxiety and considered going private and limiting the readership to only my fellow bereaved parents. Later, I thought about shutting the blog down completely only to slink back because I needed to write. I needed a place for the continued life as a bereaved parent. And, the blog remains public . . . though I don't invite friends and family or students or acquaintances to read. I know some have found me, but that's OK.<br />
<br />
Two events have pushed me to consider going more public in a way that may seem activist. The first is the DSM-V and it's success in making grief a mental illness. The second the NRA's insistence that arming more people--specifically teachers--would make our children safer.<br />
<br />
The DSM-V provides guidelines for medical professionals to label and thus provide care via health care plans. This on the surface sounds good, essential, and necessary. However, APA threw out the grief provision for determining severe depression, and they made it possible for those experiencing symptoms beyond 2-weeks to be labeled mentally ill as severely depressed. TWO WEEKS! And a common approach to treating this mental illness is prescribing anti-depressants. Wow, what a market for big-pharma. How wonderful for them. They found a way to make these drugs needed by nearly every person, because everyone loses someone they love dearly at some time in their lives. And everyone experiences the "symptoms" of grief (which are normal loving responses, and to my mind should be honored and valued--yes, valued--as such) for long past two weeks. The bereaved and health care professionals know that there is no timeline for grief, each person grieves in their own way and at their own pace. However, professionals also know that virtually no-one who loves is "done" with feelings of sadness and sleeplessness at two weeks. Therefore, the DSM-V opened a door for misdiagnosis and drugs prescribed inappropriately.<br />
<br />
Then the Newtown deaths--and my mind raced through so many emotions and topics of why, how, and what can we do. One of the nagging thoughts was who will tell these parents of 20 dead children that after two weeks they don't have to feel this way anymore? Who will tell them that their extreme sadness is pathological and they are mentally ill? How many of these bereaved parents who have just laid their children in the ground or spread their ashes in places of meaning will pick up a prescription during week three? I have no answers only fear for the health of the newly bereaved. <br />
<br />
The attention regarding mental health centered on the poor care for the perpetrators of these gun-violence massacres. Here, I agree. We should be better at providing care for our mentally ill; we should better attend to the early warning signs. There was silence about the mental health of the bereaved. I suppose it seems unrelated, but I struggle to trust a mental health industry to offer help and guidance when they made love a pathology by dumping the bereavement exclusion. <br />
<br />
Since Columbine, our public response has been shock, sadness, and some action. Now with Newtown and just days ago another shooting in a NY movie theater, it seems our response continues with shock, sadness, and some action. Some of the actions are words, sending cards, toys, and money, increased security measures, improved lock-down procedures, and . . . prayer, hugging our children tighter, and throwing up our hands with "there's nothing else to do but hope it doesn't happen again."<br />
<br />
In addition to the returned discussion regarding improving the mental health system, the public eye took another critical look at gun laws. And the NRA took it's usual methodical approach 1) tell us our response was inappropriate and only prayers should be said, 2) remain silent until the public outrage subsides, and 3) make a statement to protect profits by keeping the gun market healthy through a restatement of the ideology of preventing tyranny. When the NRA broke it's silence, some gun-lovers broke theirs as well with Facebook memes to save guns and protect gun-owner rights. Their anger made me sad. Their name-calling disturbed me. And I struggled with my conclusion that many were dismissing yet another massacre to fight for guns. GUNS, NOT CHILDREN. Jesus Christ. <br />
<br />
I believe, that the assumption that more guns makes children safer is untenable. I believe that the prevention of tyranny through more gun ownership is fictitious. I'm of the mind that there are reasonable restrictions and sensible approaches to consider and enact. I'm convinced that a pragmatic discussion, rather than an ideological one may save a few more lives.<br />
<br />
Not yet an activist, but going public on these issues in this space have become part of the fabric of my journey mourning my daughter's death. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />caitsmomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12526920268165723942noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3947970258738180998.post-58765739577443801592012-12-16T13:26:00.000-05:002012-12-16T14:02:06.252-05:00I don't understand . . . rather I don't agreeThe senseless death of 20 children and 6 adults in Connecticut this month has me reeling. Reflecting on my personal experience of a parent's worst fear realized. The physical sensation and memory of that wail that comes from a primal place---before evolution brought our reasoning to manage our emotions. I sat in silence for a long time. It hurt trying to send love to parents and family and strangers in some telepathic crazed intention. Knowing there was nothing I could really do. <br />
<br />
Then, I waited for anger. And that didn't come, either, only this intense sadness that others still value un-regulated gun ownership over the lives of children. That somehow a child's death must be tolerated for the sake of the second amendment.<br />
<br />
Then questions came in droves, and all answered with "I don't understand."<br />
<br />
Why is it easier to buy a gun than it is to get mental health coverage?<br />
Why are we not supposed to talk about gun control in the wake of dead children?<br />
Why should teachers be demonized as greedy pension seekers, rather than those who give their lives protecting them?<br />
How can arming more people, actually de-escalate gun violence?<br />
Why do teachers submit to rigorous criminal background checks, and gun owners do not?<br />
Why do we require training for operating machinery, including a variety of vehicles, and don't insist on training for gun ownership?<br />
How does lax regulation make everyone more free?<br />
<br />
Truth is, I do understand the "other side's" answers to these questions. I've read and considered their answers, and the bottom line for me is that I don't agree with their rationalizations.<br />
<br />
In particular, I find it troubling that some suggest we should arm school personnel. I don't want a society that expects me to educate teachers in proper gun handling techniques. Teachers and administrators should not add a police cap and holster to the materials they need in educating children. I'm coming to see the NRA as similar to big pharma. They exploit these events to suggest a need for a product. They are developing the market for more members, more gun owners, more more more death . . .<br />
<br />
When I entered this profession, it didn't occur to me that I was entering law enforcement or that I was entering combat training. It feels hopeless, what profession is safe? What profession can we focus on serving others? I don't know.<br />
<br />
Post Script<br />
<br />
Just donated to the Brady Campaign, a group that works for sensible gun laws.<br />
<br />
http://www.bradycampaign.org/ <br />
<br />
<br />caitsmomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12526920268165723942noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3947970258738180998.post-56327368479866736092012-11-16T13:54:00.002-05:002012-11-16T13:56:48.138-05:00It's Caitlin's death date today.<br />
<br />
No words. She's still dead. It still sucks. And yet . . . I still go on. 'Cause what else is there to do. <br />
<br />
<br />caitsmomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12526920268165723942noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3947970258738180998.post-26324980552021612052012-09-30T05:10:00.003-04:002012-09-30T05:11:43.008-04:00Not About MeIt's hard to think that it's not about me. Her cancer that is. My dear and best friend's cancer. It's her's. The road, the journey, the chemo, the fear, and the hope, and yet, it's hard not to focus on what I might lose, again. Another close, soul-mate kind of friend who gets the struggles and the joys that make me me is walking a path that serendipitously intersects with my own. The times we've walked together we've shared in big and small life revelations. I suppose it's no different than how it was before, only now the wonder of where her steps may take her is laced with fear. It's about her, supporting and staying positive, making phone calls, sending a meal, a card, a text, a hug, and avoiding the "you shoulds," the "whys," the "god's plan" and the like. It's about her, but it feels like it's about me. She's decided to "choose joy," and has asked me to do the same. I'll try. Though, I feel like defeat, not joy, has chosen me. caitsmomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12526920268165723942noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3947970258738180998.post-24831741852713281132012-09-07T23:00:00.002-04:002012-09-07T23:01:22.047-04:00A Problem with Emissions<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiD8SutN8HVoDGFfa7_pnsxpWCZGBWnUV7MdwUfzyrDP5xDcCKA_t2BftxR9Bdmcc-87OxnrXDDvx7_zABvPyxkr9rfzfPf_5KoXwNOTiCf6sjG4PJhKrl4BcTpzWESchUC0CT2T3lMovM/s1600/IMG_5847.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiD8SutN8HVoDGFfa7_pnsxpWCZGBWnUV7MdwUfzyrDP5xDcCKA_t2BftxR9Bdmcc-87OxnrXDDvx7_zABvPyxkr9rfzfPf_5KoXwNOTiCf6sjG4PJhKrl4BcTpzWESchUC0CT2T3lMovM/s200/IMG_5847.jpg" width="149" /></a>It began with noting that Caitlin's tree has no flower buds. The tree had a growth spurt and the trunk it thick and strong, but the flower buds should be there and opening this fall and I see no buds for those flowers. It's been disconcerting.<br />
<br />
In reflection, I avoided the cemetery this past summer. Each time I thought I should go, I couldn't make myself. I knew it meant something, but wasn't willing to look inside to find out what. Sometimes coping means avoiding. When it was right, I knew I would go.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSYoufHrjsMN-L2SuSY0DT7hUK-qdjzhDOrXyM5MynQscEDZZkzwfuMWKcDl4afe3gNwR_RfE5IVTMkp1om40VCNNED_QzfblE0ctYHLEgOEdYTqQNsg43pm2IKJT6tMK6Kzq_pzVQIYw/s1600/IMG_5859.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSYoufHrjsMN-L2SuSY0DT7hUK-qdjzhDOrXyM5MynQscEDZZkzwfuMWKcDl4afe3gNwR_RfE5IVTMkp1om40VCNNED_QzfblE0ctYHLEgOEdYTqQNsg43pm2IKJT6tMK6Kzq_pzVQIYw/s200/IMG_5859.jpg" width="149" /></a>I went. Today. I wept as I remembered the day her father and I walked towards the hospital elevator after the "It's time to come" call. I thought that if I didn't get in the elevator at the hospital she wouldn't die. And today I hoped when stopped at the red light that if I didn't see her grave, she wouldn't be dead. <br />
<br />
I worried that the angels and frog toys I left at her stone would be gone. Anxious that new dead babies would be there. I arrived and parked. All the baby graves seemed to be swallowed by grass--only the crosses, plastic flowers, and angle statues whispered that beloved children lay in rest there. It seemed a metaphor for my summer absence. I tried to exhale, but choked on my tears. <br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt9jW4kIpagLJfjnnVylGD0Rfu9RDlEctBuuGxLoU_B-xeZnbZNZszu68Kxq2u2ychYusBRichb-4zCfOQ-35n5Gt-awDtuVYFkc-VG_4CyNhdlRVWFPJ0kUV1kO1mI7drN0rSISbQ4Yk/s1600/IMG_5883.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt9jW4kIpagLJfjnnVylGD0Rfu9RDlEctBuuGxLoU_B-xeZnbZNZszu68Kxq2u2ychYusBRichb-4zCfOQ-35n5Gt-awDtuVYFkc-VG_4CyNhdlRVWFPJ0kUV1kO1mI7drN0rSISbQ4Yk/s320/IMG_5883.jpg" width="239" /></a>I sat staring at her stone and absent mindedly picked the grass away blade by blade. I listened to a few of Caitlin's songs on my phone and cleaned the stone from the dirt kicked up by my grass pulling.<br />
<br />
Hugging my knees, I sat and rocked myself to the music and closed my eyes trying to recall holding her during her life. The sun burned through my eyelids with a frightening red glow until I relented and opened them for relief. The breeze refused to cool my hot cheeks and burning tears. And walkers strolled by just feet away seeming oblivious to the grieving mother rocking above the earth, as they ranted their day's troubles. I longed to transform from body to the fine grain of sands the ants had successfully unearthed from the thick grasses. If I were sand, I wouldn't hear thoughtless chatter, and I could sprinkle myself about the sacred rectangle. <br />
<br />
I went to the trunk, where I keep several toy frogs and other items to leave at her grave, so that I am prepared for any visit. I attached a new frog toy that makes sounds when you squeeze it--a similar toy she loved when she was alive. That helped. I stood for a while. At last I kissed her stone, and whispered my love. <br />
<br />
Then I got in my car and turned the key. Nothing. Then every warning light went flashing, and the car tried to start. Seemed to start. I think it started. With lights flashing I put it into gear, thinking that I was just crazed from the emotionally charged visit. I traveled just a few feet. The emergency brake light was on. But the break wasn't pulled. Every square of the gas gauge was gone, but I'd left with three squares. The lights continued to flash, and I left my foot on the gas until the car refused to move. I shifted to park and sat at the exit of the cemetery, unable to leave.<br />
<br />
I waited until the crazy thoughts subsided, and finally called DH. "I'm at the cemetery. The car died. And I can't leave." He arrived 40 minutes later with a couple of gallons of gas. We turned the key. A clean start. The tank was half-full. One indicator light glowed faintly--"So I didn't imagine it," I thought. The light signifying a problem with emissions remained on as I drove cautiously home.<br />
<br />
Yes, there's a problem with emissions. I suppose I need to have some work done. caitsmomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12526920268165723942noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3947970258738180998.post-22839976219558312582012-09-03T14:20:00.000-04:002012-09-03T14:20:46.680-04:00Grief Invited In<span class="userContent">I wrote this yesterday for Caitlin's birthday. </span><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4WPnDtX6cv7Yr_3CNYOYpIjwlWhQYAwCOWGsMkTwoKbI9bCDXogIkP7rjw0TMMfNsben4c6VibtSaG57HNYf92FG5OC-JpUbG4M4cIvXOx18q8k-UlKdjVG2MrSyFyBYSkVh2yIhOtKs/s1600/IMG_5572.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4WPnDtX6cv7Yr_3CNYOYpIjwlWhQYAwCOWGsMkTwoKbI9bCDXogIkP7rjw0TMMfNsben4c6VibtSaG57HNYf92FG5OC-JpUbG4M4cIvXOx18q8k-UlKdjVG2MrSyFyBYSkVh2yIhOtKs/s320/IMG_5572.jpg" width="320" /></a><i><span class="userContent" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Our daughter, Caitlin Anne, would be 5 today.
Absence makes Herself present again with memories of what should
be--Sending off an excited 5-year-old ready for numbers, songs, and ABCs
to Day 1 Kindergarten fortified with Mama's hugs and kisses, and pink
backpack with juice box and Crayola box of 8. </span></i><br />
<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<i><span class="userContent">Today's a day of
reflection, of a bereaved mother's imaginings of an alternative universe
where her child lives. </span></i></div>
<br />
<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<i><span class="userContent">Those who love us wish to take the sorrow away,
but Grief is best invited in and Absence best honored with Love's tears.</span></i></div>
<br />
<span class="userContent">I spent the day crying, texting and talking with family, and writing an article about nursery rhymes. I experienced another of those common sad, yet comforting ironies.While looking for a particular source, I encountered another scholar who had accessed the source I was looking for. The access date was Caitlin's death date. I interpreted it as a hug from <i>beyond</i>, her way of letting me know she's with me in all I do. </span><br />
<span class="userContent"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyFpTZx6SCDFOG4LCmMju1Wctj4Dr3PYpzat70iHnYrxV0oUYc-OSgUVtkZCFzatBEYuX70f4KYBEfRA5T3UVrz4QSUZDMZXV9yXWBBKgmvSER_bUnVFYKdvDMzaLY5-47WzorScMZ4yQ/s1600/Screen+shot+2012-09-03+at+10.32.38+AM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="42" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyFpTZx6SCDFOG4LCmMju1Wctj4Dr3PYpzat70iHnYrxV0oUYc-OSgUVtkZCFzatBEYuX70f4KYBEfRA5T3UVrz4QSUZDMZXV9yXWBBKgmvSER_bUnVFYKdvDMzaLY5-47WzorScMZ4yQ/s320/Screen+shot+2012-09-03+at+10.32.38+AM.png" width="320" /></a></div>
<span class="userContent"><br /></span>caitsmomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12526920268165723942noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3947970258738180998.post-60383838452895187492012-08-14T19:16:00.000-04:002012-08-14T19:17:21.242-04:00Milestones BlurAt some point in time, I check in with myself. Some milestones blur, you see, and without reflection you can miss them.<br />
<br />
This past week, I sang everyday. Drank wine everyday. Walked, swam, and laughed everyday. I listened and told stories everyday.<br />
<br />
Unplugged from every technology that requires a plug or battery including my camera, I aimed to be present rather than documenting presence. I participated in life everyday. Woven within this participation of thoughts, words, music, and experiences was my daughter's presence.<br />
<br />
My Caitlin, with me always.<br />
<br />
In the sound of twigs giving way to my footfalls and calls of loons on the lake, in the trance as my arms roll over each other in the water, in casual and deep conversations, in the peaks of the musical phrases, and in the quiet reflection during fatigue from a hard and glorious day--just before a restful sleep. <br />
<br />
And <i>that </i>is a milestone. <br />
<br />
<br />caitsmomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12526920268165723942noreply@blogger.com6