Loosed Hatred

Yesterday 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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

I can't breathe.

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 Quote

Courage, it would seem, is nothing less than the power to overcome danger, misfortune, fear, injustice, while continuing to affirm inwardly that life with all its sorrows is good; that everything is meaningful even if in a sense beyond our understanding; and that there is always tomorrow.

--Dorothy Thompson

PTSD

I teach. And the lecture today was about some things about how the brain develops. There's some "chatter" about synapses and density and such and there is info about what age certain things happen in the brain. It's here when I hear myself say, "until about the mid-70s, unless there is a disease that may interfere with the healthy density of synapses and rapid firing of those synapses in the brain." Then I look down and hear myself speak, "and of course PTSD affects that too." And my brain takes a worm hole back to the past, when a year ago, I was struggling to spell words on the board as I lectured from this same spot in the room, and began stuttering as I struggled to stay focused and not feel so scared, and where I tried--desperately tried to think. During that acute grief, I simply could not think.

When we teach we typically use an anecdote to illustrate a point. It sticks when the students know the person whose telling the story. But, this anecdote of

When my daughter died, my brain stopped working well. I experienced Post Tramatic Stress Disorder. It was like slog. I couldn't remember anything. I couldn't spell. I couldn't speak. Numbers were gone from my memory; I even forgot the date of my anniversary. And the fear, the overwhelming fear.

Wasn't shared. I stared at the floor for what seemed like an eternity to me. While the slog returned, and finally lifted my heavy head, and asked with blank and tired eyes, "Any questions?" I begged in my head that no one would speak.

Remembering Her First Kick

I took this leave of absence from e-life to check in with real life. Part of the checking in was work-related. I attended a conference, a conference I attended with DH two years ago when I was pregnant with Caitlin. A conference which was also the time and the place where I first felt her kick. She didn't have a name then, but she made her presence known. It was bittersweet for me, because we had recently received the diagnosis that our child had DS (Down Syndrome).

I was a mother who had hoped for a "healthy child" and not a child with DS. Do you know the shame in that? My strength and my weakness is that I work to be honest with my feelings and look squarely at my thinking. I recognize that other parents had different reactions, and I won't invalidate those feelings, but I also will not invalidate my own feelings. I am not a bad person because I was overcome with fear--turns out I'm normal. What probably was less normal, was that I acknowledged how I was feeling. And I was incapable of hiding it. So, when others judged me, they did so with some evidence. It's a painful road.

When Caitlin was born, I was overwhelmed by loving. Not love as a noun, but love as a verb, the powerful act of loving. That un-named force that bursts out of you. I was still very frightened of DS, but this loving force made me believe that I could by sheer will fix anything, and protect against anything. Me and DH became focused on helping her be happy and keeping her healthy. But, that was not to be. She died.

The physical and emotional memory of Caitlin's first kick is another step forward in this grief journey. A step forward by pausing to ruminate over the past. I sat on benches and stared a trees and birds. I surrendered to the desire to return to the past, when she was alive and there was still hope. Hope for redemption for fearing her DS. Hope for watching her grow and celebrating her successes. And simply celebrating her. Hope for an active role as a mother. Hope for--as DH said so many times "to bring her home and find out who she is."

I opened my mind and my heart to revisiting the past, and making peace with my feelings. I was supposed to be reflecting on ways to improve my profession, but I was in this place where she kicked, and I felt

Joy

and

Sadness

One would probably prefer a romantic view, but every parent desires a healthy baby, and so joy and sadness were siblings in that first kick. One might imagine that any baby is enough, and I'm here to tell you that that is mostly true. It's also true that there is immense and seemingly insurmountable sadness that a parent feels as the dream of raising a child gives way to fear. Most parents experience grief with the birth of a child with special needs; grief for the life they hoped for their child to have, in effect, grief for the child they thought they were having. It's normal, but their family and friends are the last to hear of this expression of grief. Why? Because it's not acceptable. A parents' normal, expected grief, is misinterpreted as a lack of the ability to love. It's not true.

So, the parents suffer in silence with questions. Normal questions and reasonable fears. Will my child be able to take care of herself in adulthood? Will others treat her well? With love? With disdain? Will I be enough for my child? When you have a healthy child you will likely have the luxury of saying "goodbye" in death knowing you did the best you could. And you trust, that they will take with them what you took from your parents. You were OK, and so shall they be OK. When you have a child who is mentally retarded, you fear the unknown. You can trust in God, but there is plenty of evidence that others will mistreat or not know how to love your child. I can't go on. It's too painful. (If you are feeling the need to bible-verse me here, please refrain. It will hurt more than heal. Thank you.)

I breathed differently for several months, since the sensation of her first kick. With each inhale, I felt hope for the life I carried, and with each exhale, I felt hopelessness for the care for her life that I could not control. I regret those prenatal tests--the tests everyone spouts are so important. Tests that help parents make decisions for their children's future. I had no idea what few decisions I would have the privilege to make. She died.

The work conference was a time warp for me. I don't remember the words of wisdom shared by my peers in their presentations of research, because I was in this place where Caitlin was alive and not knowing how it would turn out. And I was wishing, desperately wising that I still didn't know how it would all turn out.

I miss you baby girl. I miss loving you in life. I am forever your mother, and I miss you. I'm sorry my old eggs gave you DS. If I could change it, I would, but I am powerless. And that is the worst truth ever, to know that as a parent, I could not fix it. I am powerless.

Grown Stronger and yet . . .

I have grown significantly stronger since Caitlin died. I've gained much on this journey, but I've noticed also that with that strength there are a few things I've lost. Yes, lost.

I've gained an ability to intellectualize more readily painful and challenging situations. Many times, I can actually see my emotions and discover where they germinate and then make a rational decision about how to proceed. Not all the time, but more frequently. With that intellectualism, I've lost some sense of emotional connection to Caitlin. In grief, tears and sadness felt like all I had with my daughter in death. These were real and tangible, reason---seems less real and, feels, sometimes cold.

I've gained strength in recognizing during casual conversation when talking about Caitlin fits. And I've lost the fear to talk about her most of the time in those casual conversations. I've lost the fear of making others uncomfortable. If the talk is about babies, I share what I know about my baby. If the talk is about special needs, I share what I know. I don't stay there, as with other "normal" conversations, I allow the conversation to morf into other topics. And I allow others to share whatever loss (though sometimes stretched "friend of a friend that I heard about") they have experienced. After all, everyone wants to connect in some way.

I've gained introspection, and lost some of the poetry that came so vividly in the acute stages of grief--when words tasted and came to my mind in images and combinations that I didn't know I had in me.

[ICLW friends, welcome. If you haven't been here before, you can read 25 Things about Me (Bereavement Version). That will catch you up!]

ICLW Reflection

First, welcome ICLW bloggers! This is my first time participating, and I'm a bit overwhelmed and humbled by the comments so many of you leave, thank you. You have lifted my spirits and validated many of my emotions. I'm also stunned with the variety of bloggers out there. After three days, I find that I can usually connect with anyone no matter their waypoint in their life journey. But, I have also encountered some fear so I thought I would pose a couple of questions and wonderings, and welcome your responses.

1. I wonder when I visit a mommy-to-be if she is made uneasy that I don't have a living child. I worry that pregnant mom of week 12, 20, or 36 doesn't want to read a comment from a bereaved mommy.

OK, turns out I have just that primary fear. It's just that I haven't been able to comment on some blogs, because I'm afraid to.

Peace.