Her Sign

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.

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. 

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. 

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. 

We have become witnesses again to a family member's journey home. 

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." 

Music is the thread the drew that smile from her. 

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.

I am Not Blessed

I know that I am not blessed. I was not blessed with meeting my 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. 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.

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 your blessings." That makes me cringe too. Because what they are really doing is "shoulding" on me. They assume, and wrongly so, that I am not grateful for what is good in my life. I love my husband. I love my work. I love my family. I love that Caitlin made me a mom. I'm grateful that I am loved when I least deserve it.

But, I won't "count my blessings." Why? Because when I'm told that I "should count my blessings, that means that I should be grateful that I have some things that others do not have---and therein lies the problem. I don't like the use of blessings to mean a favor of something that others do not receive. I reject the notion that finding "blessings" that someone else was not "worthy" to receive, should make me feel better. I can be grateful for what I have without feeling happy that others are less fortunate. And by the same token, I need not aspire to having what others claim are their blessings. I reject the comparisons. Once I sever that thought that someone's fortunes--someone's blessings--have meaning for me, then I am liberated from needing to be blessed. I am not blessed--I am happy, I love, and I am loved.

I will not be uplifted by the misfortunes of others, and I will not be diminished by the fortunes of others.

Note for Family and Friends Who Read

Dear Family and Friends in Real Life,

If you've discovered and read my blog then you might be wondering, "Hey, is that woman the one I know?" or "Why is she so angry?" or "Why does she write such personal thoughts to strangers?""Will she ever get over it?"

And if you're thinking you should treat me differently or ask me about this or talk it out with someone else without me there  . . . . it's OK, go ahead. I mean that with no sarcasm or snarky insincerity. Your life and how you may or may not respond to this space and my words belong to you as does my response and rumination of my grief experiences belong to me.

Remember that I love you. Remember that anger ebbs and flows--as do all other emotions. Know that I sometimes don't want to burden family and friends of real life with "such personal thoughts," because I know some might be offended, or hurt, or feel obligated to try to make it better, or try to get me to be happy. And well, I am happy, though it's a complicated life happy.

 

And this space allows me to express the positive and the negative and that helps keep me in some kind of equilibrium.


AND so if you are reading, feel free to comment or not. It's OK. I love you.

Peace.

May Our Children be Remembered this Holiday Season

When our children die, what we have is their memory and their name. We know no words can help us through difficult holiday times, but those who share their memories of our children and let us know that they remember our children are of great comfort. Hearing and seeing our child's name is also of some comfort. If tears flow, one need not feel bad, as they are natural and the result of love for our child, not a result of others saying "I'm sorry." Including their names in Christmas cards and seasonal family update letters helps us weave their death into our lives.  When someone is comfortable sitting with us in our pain, we feel held. And we feel held when others pause, however briefly to remember our children.

May each of my fellow-bereaved parents feel held this holiday season. I'll be hanging my angel ornaments and ornaments with Caitlin's name on our tree this year, and lighting a candle for all those children gone too soon.

Peace.

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.

All Saint's Day

I went to visit Caitlin's grave yesterday, and thought a lot about All Souls Day coming up, and celebration of All Saint's Day today. According to my religion, I need not pray for Caitlin's soul to be purified in purgatory, as she entered the kingdom of heaven with no sins to purge. I supposed I am to be comforted by that, but I wish that she were here and could be well on her way to racking up some "sins." She deserved to live here on earth with her mama and daddy. At the same time, it is comforting to think of her in paradise with the saints.

I played some of her songs on my ipod as I sat at her grave. All her angels and other items I've brought were still there, which always makes me relieved and grateful. The frog toy still makes noise, but the smiley face one has succumbed to elements and no longer makes the bird and squeaky noises it used to.

Today has more special meaning, as it's Caitlin's grandfather's birthday. So, I'm remembering him holding her and remembering the hope I felt in those days of her life. Perhaps she has already whispered a gentle "happy birthday, Papa J" with her angel voice on the wind. If not, I'll relay the message soon.

Survived by His Parents

A ten-year-old boy succumbs to H1N1, and a family member has died. Another mother and father have lost a child. I read this distant relative's obituary and paused at "survived by his parents." A quiet sadness overtook me. Death is final, but I consider these phrases "survived by his children" with "survived by his parents." If only the former could have been this boy's obituary. If only . . . The death of a child feels like the death of hope. I slump with heaviness to know that when the parents die, their obituaries will read "preceded in death by their child."

I am so very sorry for their loss. So very sorry.

A Thousand Times a Thousand Times

I recognize that look. The glassy eyes and a knowing that bad things happen, and a disbelief that everyone around you is engaged in what they are doing and interested in what they are saying and you think, "DON'T you know he's dead."

I'm speaking of course of the young adult whose brother died. We talked after I watched him go through the motions in a class. "I keep thinking I can just go home and see him." I remember that too. That every cell in your body has to be told that your loved one is dead. You tell your story a thousand times a thousand times.

You say it in words, the long version, the short version, the gentle story and raw shocking one. You write it in poetry you never knew you had in you, in essay, and letters, and emails, and forums. You tell the story in images of color and symbol, in nature of trees and birds and butterflies. You tell the story in actions through weeping, hugging, collapsing, and through fervent prayer, ritual, releasing balloons, and lighting a candle. Your entire being is immersed in this death story, this grief, this missing.

And those of us who see you looking glassy eyed and frightened must help you tell your story.

"How have you been since your brother died?"
"What did you do for Bs birthday?"
"I thought of B and you today when I was followed by a butterfly."

And then our role is to listen, not to fix, not advise, not to distract, but to be a loving receptacle of the story for the bereaved to lay another bit of their loved one gently to rest. And know the honor in that. And say, "I'm sorry."

What I Wanted to Say

"Come talk to me anytime, if you need to."

UGH. Yuck. And I sucked. . . .

at comforting a young adult who recently lost his brother. I was doing fine up and until my last statement. I said the dead child's name. I didn't wait until there was a "private" moment. The bereaved don't want the death of someone they love to be swept under the rug. They want them remembered and named. It's their new normal; they live with absence.

But after we talked, I said a sentence that was troublesome for me. "Call me if you need anything." What I meant to say was . . .

Know that when I ask you, "How are you?" I mean "How are you since your brother died?" Know that I understand that when you need to talk you are probably so deep in sorrow that you don't have the energy or the cognizance to ask for help or know that you need to release that sorrow. So, I will invite you to tell me about your brother. I will call or send a message. I will not be hurt if you say "no thanks," 'cause I'll know that you need to fold inward. But, I'll wait patiently outside to offer my arms and my ears when you emerge from your dark place. I won't wait until you call me to ask for help; it shall be my burden to offer my help.

That's what I wanted to say.

Real Life, Not E-life

Today, I sat at the kitchen table with DH and was distracted, by a bright red cardinal perched on a branch protruding from one of the many pine trees that surround our neighborhood. The pine trees are full of green patches of moss and so the red seemed more stark than perhaps it was. We watched the bird for moments. Only moments and it was such a fulfilling spectacle, though short. We talked about the world around us coming life as spring prepares a way for summer. This preparation that the frogs sing out for us every evening. They croak an almost deafening sound when we are still enough to listen.

And so I'm thinking, I need a little more real-life and a little less e-life. So, like so many bloggers, I find it necessary to write about taking a break from the net, the forums, the blogs, email, and go offline into real life for a few days. (Besides, it's DH's B-day today and I have a few things to do!)

I mean the net has lots to offer, but a red cardinal in the mossy green woods---Can't beat that. And yes, that's one of our frogs (or is it a toad?) hangin' out with us on the deck. I think he thought the pine needle on his back was a nice disguise. Heh heh.

I've left the comments open so if you visit when I'm not "in," you can let me know you stopped by, talk amongst yourselves, or leave a message for the frog! S/he needs a name!

Peace.

Making a List of Mother's Day

Here's the thing about lists, they give us a sense of control. When I make a list, I feel like, "Hey, this is doable" and "Now, it makes sense." Well, as many can imagine Mother's Day for me feels out of control. How can I make it doable? How can I make it make sense? I've made a list.

1.) We sent my mother flowers and she got them from me, DH, and Angel Caitlin
2.) I cried in church today because:

• The readings talked about asking God for what you desire and if you keep His commandment (belief in Jesus), then you shall receive--well we all know that doesn't apply to bringing a dead baby back to life after over a year
• We sang an anthem to Mary. One my mother sang to me, and now I imagine Caitlin might be singing
• A walking toddler in pink walks up the aisle and stops to stare and babble at me before she toddles off 

3.) I got hugged by a couple of women today, because they knew how hard it was for me. "Not my favorite day," I say. And their reply was not that platitude "in the plan" stuff, but a sincere hug and a "I'm thinking about you." 

4.) My DH greeted me this morning with "Happy Mother's Day" and then we hugged for a long time. 

5.) DH and I commence our routine of watching "Sunday Morning" on CBS. We skipped the tribute to and story of moms--I'd had enough. 

6.) I listened to my messages on my cell phone--My mother will send me a Mother's Day Card---that made me tear/smile up. 

7.) I didn't sleep last night. I listened to the frogs, took a picture of the moon, watched the White House Press Core speeches, and wondered is there anyway I would write this all away? Write grief all out of me, so I could be done with it. 

8.) No, it's forever. Fitting that this is list item number 8. 

Put Your Head on My Shoulder

Go In Peace

I received this recording of my sister singing "Go in Peace" for a Mass on All Souls Day. The choir included a powerpoint with text for the parish and pictures of those loved ones who had passed. That my sister sang for Caitlin and she was part of this remembrance was comforting for me. Remembering and and the outward signs of those remembrances matter.

[I added a few pics to fit the music for this medium.]

Make video montages at www.OneTrueMedia.com

All Saints Day

Only one thought, that Caitlin has joined the saints and on this day, she is sending angel kisses to her Papa Jack, as this most special day belongs to him. Happy Birthday, Papa Jack.