Narcissism & Grief

Let's see if I can make this story short . . .

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.

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:

1. I voted my conscience. 
2. I made the voices of those without power heard.
3. 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.
4. You may be successful in "dimming" my light from others, but that's not happening with my permission or without my push-back. 
5. 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.
6. I am the boss of my emotions and you have no power over me.
7. 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.
8. I will be kind, but I won't be manipulated or a become a complacent receptacle for your anger.
9. I wish you didn't believe that hurting others would make your grief lessen. 
10. I wish you peace and release from the sorrows you bear. 

Wish She Were Here

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.

Happy Birthday, Caitlin Anne.

I am not Blessed

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.

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 "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.

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 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.

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.

My Blogoversary

And now for something completely self-serving. It's my blogoversary . . . well let me tell it as it played out in my living room.

"It's my blogoversary."

"Your what?" DH asks barely listening.

"Blogoversary, you know like Julie from "Julie and Julia." She blogged for a year and then had a blogoversary and left the pound of butter beneath Julia Child's picture."

"Butter? Your what?"

"Blogging. I've been blogging for a year."

"Oh, that's great, dear."

OK, that's not exactly what happened, but close. Ha!


It's been a year, and I've been reflecting about what the blogging activity has done for me and my goal of becoming the kind of mother Caitlin should have. She saved my heart, you know. She transformed me when she came 7 weeks early and gave me the gift of motherhood. And I was afraid. I doubted my ability to parent her and protect her and help her grow in a cruel world that isn't particularly friendly to children with Down syndrome. And I was afraid that she would see in my eyes, that I had wished for her to be something other than what she was.



Caitlin was very sick when she was born. She had a heart defect and she slept most of the time I parented her in the hospital. I cherish the times she opened her eyes and looked into mine. And, I know she only saw that I loved her. "I'm sorry," I told her one day,"you don't have a perfect mother, but I love you perfectly." DH would say, "I can't wait until we can bring her home and find out who she is." On the eve of her heart surgery, her bowel perforated and she died in my arms to my singing. I was torn open.


I was (and am) well-supported by family and friends, but grief overwhelms takes control, and commands attention. I surrendered. I tasted words, and wrote poetry. I saw images, and longed for skills to bring them to canvas. I created montages of pictures of her and music that I sang to her. I wrote my grief in short stories, as I remembered every detail of a conversation or an experience at the cemetery. I worried that family and friends would grow weary of my grief and my DH was taking care of me postponing his grief. Outwardly he grieved in different ways than me and I was afraid he wouldn't know where to find me when I was in deep mourning.

I found the MISS Foundation and other bereavement forums and I posted and read and read and posted. I had found another place for my anguish to go. MISS Foundation remains a source of great comfort for me. I also discovered the blogging community of bereaved parents, mostly mothers who showed me that this e-life was different than the frivolous, the mean-spirited, the commercial, the everyday, and the academic blogs. Bloggers in this community sent e-hugs, but you could feel them "for reals." They revealed their hearts without fear; the deaths of their children destroyed any fear that remained. I learned that you have to be willing to be vulnerable if you wish to be held.

I needed a place to put my longer posts and the ones that were personal and exploratory. And that's when I started this blog. I can't say that on this blogoversary that I'm celebrating, rather I'm grateful. That when my precious child, Caitlin died and I couldn't seem to find enough fuel for the raging grief fires that ravaged my heart, mind, body, and soul, there was another place for it to burn. This e-space offered something real life couldn't deliver, a place of pause. A Fifth Season where the world could and did stop turning while I ruminated and made meaning of Caitlin's life and death.

A Gift From Kay

I saw the ocean first when I was very young, that was pretty cool, as I was a landlocked child. My shoes got washed away with the Pacific tide. That was cool, except the part where I didn't have any shoes to go home with. The next time I remember seeing the ocean, I was an adult. And the first thing I did was write my name in the sand and watch the waves wash it away. Each time thereafter, whether I visited the Atlantic or Pacific (Those were my two choices.), I found a stick and wrote messages and drew flowers and such. Sometimes I would add a stone or leave the stick to help me out.

Though, I must admit, the writing didn't hold a great bit of meaning for me, other than it's what you do when you see undisturbed sand of any size that begs to bear a message. And now that simple activity of writing in the sand has become a sacred ritual of sorts for me and many other bereaved parents.

After Caitlin died, I was struck by how profound it was to write her name and know that that seeing her name in print was tangible evidence that she was here. If felt like that's all I had left of her. I saw her name in stone where her body lays, and I was overwhelmed.

I wrote her name in the sand on a visit out west; at the family beach week on the east coast; on a beach on the Cape, the town beaches that are close to my home, when there wasn't/isn't a beach I write it by arranging stones, or I draw her name in the snow. When I discovered Carly's site and requested Caitlin's name to be written on a beach in Australia. I wrote her name again and captured the tide as it came to wash the letters back into the Atlantic. Most recently, Kay at "Eternal Names by the Sea" sent me these photos of Caitlin's name on a white sand beach in Australia.

Thank you Kay, for your kind gesture. I'm always comforted to see her name. I'm grateful.

More Comfort from Ann Hood

I wrote about attending a group meeting of bereaved parents shortly after Caitlin died. I attended too early after her death, but there was a special guest speaker, Ann Hood. I thought I would hear words of encouragement and see parents who survived and were thriving despite the death of their children. I left talking to myself, repeating the words "unacceptable" over and over. I found myself in a room of pain and received no "comfort" from Ann Hood.

Of course since then, I've grown a great deal and I understand that the grief group is likely the only place many parents can grieve openly, and that what I saw was not my future for everyday of my life. I'm still irritated that I get selling emails from Ann to sell her books, because it reminds of that most awful day. So, how did I receive more comfort from Ann this time?

A hug, "I'm sorry," and a look of sincere understanding.

I had not intended to attend a dedication ceremony at my place of employment, but when I happened upon the event as I was leaving the library, one of my students showed me the program. I glanced at the list of a series of speakers, and a name caught my eye--Ann Hood. I stayed, not to hear the dedication, but to hear Ann's speech. I wanted to hear that she could deliver an uplifting speech and I wanted to stop being angry with a stranger--one who has written beautiful books of which I have read one.

As I sat listening to the speeches of gratitude, and the listing of accomplishments, I stared down at my hands and felt that familiar horrible longing for being somewhere else. Somewhere where I was not a professional women, but a mom at home complaining about not being fulfilled. I see a little hand wrap her hand over mine. I feel my daughter's hand upon mine and I close my eyes. She leans her head against my shoulder and pushes it into my chest--that snuggling mothers cherish. And I rest there with my dream--or was it an angel visit--it felt real and I didn't seem to be actively imagining it--rather the images, the physical sensations came to me. I hear her tell me through love that "it's OK, I'm here." I exhale and open my eyes and wait for Ann's speech.

It was short and lovely--about books and libraries. There was sincerity in her words and she was smiling and I saw a bereaved mother who was surviving and finding a way to thrive. I had my computer and camera for later work and I snapped a pic, because it seemed to be a part of my grief journey. I thought about introducing myself to her, but was sure there wouldn't be an opportunity. While everyone was moving past the jazz combo, working their way toward the refreshments, I took the quickest way out. And it happened that Ann came down the podium steps at that time.

I walked up and introduced myself. "You don't know me, but I was at the parents' bereavement group meeting about a year ago, and I wanted to thank you for what you've been doing for bereaved parents." She smiled and let me hold her hand. "My daughter had only been dead 11 weeks so it wasn't a good thing for me at the time, but thank you." "Oh, I'm so sorry," she responds, and gives me a big hug. "Well, I know you aren't here for this, but I wanted to say 'thanks.'"

I was afraid she'd think I was a crazy person, but I shouldn't have worried. I think bereaved parents know that at any time you will feel grief and you will encounter others on a similar journey. And there is comfort in that.

An interesting side note: I had an appointment in a nearby city that evening and missed the exit I needed. In winding my way to my destination, I found myself in slow moving traffic on side city streets. At one point I come to a complete stop, and I look around--and see the congregational church where that bereavement group meeting was held.

"Whoops" A Story from the DMV

"When was it due?" the clerk at the DMV asks me.

"The registration renewal was due January of 2008," I state plainly.

"Whoops," she replies and does this smacking sound that makes her lips go one way and her eyes go the other.


I started to speak, "Well, my daughter died just a bit over a month prior, and I was grieving. I could barely get out of bed and put clothes on, much less take care of my registration renewal. I couldn't remember the date of our wedding anniversary, much less the date the paperwork was due. In January, I spent my time painfully studying the fresh ground around her grave and noting the dates other angel babies graced their parents with life, so I didn't notice the "grace" period had passed."

But I didn't say any of it. In fact, I didn't speak at all. I had no energy to return sarcasm for sarcasm, and no reason to offer an explanation. After all, I still had to get that renewal completed, and I didn't need her to know my grief, and frankly, she wasn't responsible for my error. And saying nothing, I carefully handed her a copy of my temporary license with a picture of me from when I first moved to the state. I felt defeated. "That's my face long before I was pregnant. Long before Caitlin was born. Long before she died," I thought. I half wished that they would take another picture, I'd be several years older, with my gray showing, but then it would be a picture of Caitlin's mother and a picture of me. And I would have liked that. I would have liked that.

All I could hear was the click of her fingers on the keyboard and a request for $39.00. OK, that made me smirk on the inside and jerked me from my silent grief back to my mundane task."What an insignificant amount," I thought. I wrote the check and waited for the paperwork. She handed me my manilla card with a new renewal date, 2010.

What significant events will occur between now and then? I wonder.

"Make sure you get your inspection completed within 5 days" she looks at me with what I thought were kinder eyes.

I don't know why, but I could have sworn that she had softened, and her sarcasm over my super-late renewal was replaced by a smile. I suppose my face was an open book, as usual, and I must have appeared to be quite shaken. Though she likely concluded that it was because I upset about being so late with my renewal. She couldn't have known that the reason for my silence was that I wasn't there at the DMV, I was in grief.

None-the-less I was grateful for her change of demeanor and for the gentle smile she gave me as I left.

Vulnerability

You must be open to the possibility of being hurt, betrayed, gossiped about, and prayed over
If you wish to receive help
For you cannot be aided in the trials of life
Without leaving your heart-door unlocked and your soul-windows open

Without the cry of "I am weak"
You will get no scaffolding
Without the confession of "I have nothing left"
You will get no match from another who will also bring the candle
of hope to light in your home
Without the wail of "I am imperfect"
You will get no one to sit with you in your failings
making you whole

You must be open to the possibility of being judged and condemned by another
equally malformed human spirit-body
If you wish to be healed of your wounds and
guided to more loving ways of being human
Without truthful disclosure of what you think, feel, wonder, reason and pray
Without willing vulnerability
You cannot be loved

You are Not Alone

Alone
The bathroom wall
Holding her up
scratching at the plaster
to get away

Alone
Curled in a ball
on the top of the bed
snotting the pillows

Alone
Folded upon herself
Creating a grief box
A lightless and doorless cube
Begging for nothingness
Not life and not death


I was thinking about grief, and the nature of how we experience it--alone much of the time. And yet the support groups say, "you are not alone." I was thinking about the parents who need to express their grief and need others to listen, to ask, to be with them as they tell their story repeatedly and as they continue to describe changes in how they feel with wonder, puzzlement, anger, guilt, and so often, fear. And I was thinking about how fortunate I've been in this journey, as friends, family, and even strangers have sat with me in silence, held my head as I wept, laughed at my desperate humor, asked me questions, and were comfortable with being, well---not comfortable. I'm grateful for those who felt the fear of being in the presence of my acute grief and found a way to remain.

Sometimes alone is where the bereaved need to be, but if we are to survive, then we need someone to take the place of that bathroom wall and hold us; we need someone to curl around us without worry of the sanitary conditions of that pillow; and we need someone to bore a hole in our grief place and come in and sit or wait patiently outside with a cup of love for when we emerge.

Things Matter: Words Matter

When your child dies, things matter. It's a misleading statement, I know, because what truly matters is the emotions and compassion reflected by those things. What truly matters is our relationships with others and our ability to care for others.

But, I must express my gratitude for those who take what matters, love and care for others, and translate it into words and things. The things I've received since Caitlin's death have mattered to me, because in them is embodied the love and compassion others have given to me and my husband to help us weather this most tragic life without our child. I am not so superficial to suggest that these things are necessary and that those who don't give things or send a card or say "I'm sorry," are not loving and compassionate. But, I do mean to say that when words of sympathy are shared, and plants and plaques and angel statues are given, they do touch our hearts and help to hold us up, just a bit longer and often just at the time when our personal strength is expended.

To our friends, family, fellow bereaved parents and strangers who leave your thoughful words with us--Thank you.

A Letter to Heaven

My Dear Daughter, 

     I struggle to find words to tell you how much you are loved and missed here. Though, I know you see my heart and can read the words inside me, I wish to find the profound prose to mark your first birthday, a birthday you will celebrate in heaven. But, language falls short, and there is no place in a letter for the song of my soul. I smile to know that you made it that day, you lived and I truly believe that you meant to stay here with us. 

     I promised you the day you left us, that I would treasure all of the motherhood you gave me--successes and failures. I have not forgotten our spiritual conversation that day. I continue to strive to be the kind of mother you deserve, and I thank you for inspiring that purpose within me. Seems that later in life is when a parent might observe how her own child has shaped, changed, and formed her as an individual. Makes sense that the realization that the child, in turn, raises the parent should occur in response to a mother reflecting on how she raised her child. But, you and I have had to progress to that stage before it is natural to do so. 

     I work everyday to accept the role of parenting your memory, as you parent my heart. Life is hard without you here. Instead of fading with time, I miss you more each day. There is some healing, sweet baby girl, and I am getting stronger and more able to carry this grief. But, I would trade any of this growth of character for the opportunity to experience more of our mother-daughter life journey together. I would allow the wisdom of this wound to wash away for the privilege of being a mother with earthly tasks, the joys and the challenges. Love in real time, real hugs and real kisses, and songs sung while watching your sweet face, would be preferable to any lesson learned along this sorrowful journey. 

     Watch over me from heaven angel daughter, I'll need your help with each step forward and your presence when I stop to rest. 

With Eternal Love, 

Your Mother