I Looked Up

I look up, Weeping into the sunshine
Goldfinch flit past my eyes
Flashing bits of brilliant sunlight within my reach
Gentle breezes caress my bare arms
Drying my wet and heavy tears
Coaxing me
enjoy this Day
Coldness from the rock where I am still
Seeps into me
Spreads throughout me
I take my sorrow and go inside to wait for Night
where Darkness always receives me
preventing any distractions from Grief

I look up
Turning my face to the darkness
Waiting for a familiar coldness to overtake me
I Listen for my sobs
But, I am not overcome
I marvel instead at the near moon
Light surrounded by blackness
A white curved glow piercing the expansive nothing
A hope quickens within, and a thought forms
If the moon in it's passivity can conquer the night
I can in my patience conquer this death that eats me

Today I wept in the sunshine
Tomorrow I will smile, remembering the moon

A Problem with Emissions

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Yes, there's a problem with emissions. I suppose I need to have some work done.

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.

Dear Pregnant Women

Dear pregnant women who are friends of friends,

Ladies, I barely know you in real life, so please stop friending me on FaceBook just so you can increase the number of people who know that you are pregnant. I'm happy for you, but a bereaved mother is not the person who needs an update on your heartburn and other pregnancy troubles. I wish you a healthy pregnancy and a live baby. And now I must unfriend you. Peace.

Wrestling with A Shadow

It's what we do, wrestle with a shadow. Our first shadow match is death. Death takes our child, and we wrestle it with the hope and intent of bring our baby back to life. It's not a crazy endeavor; it's real. Have you truly listened to the prayers and needs of bereaved parents. They mean it. Whatever it would take to bring their child back to life---they would do. Only they lose the match to Death, but get to know Death and come to know that to be connected to their beloved child, they must embrace Death.

Now after two years my next shadow match is in play. Wrestling with Sadness. Sadness is more aloof and less remorseful for the role she plays in my life. She's not really sure why she's here. After all, "others have more than you, how dare you be sad." And others have learned to "move on," or "understand it's God's plan," and your child is "in a better place," so she's family now.

Death will sit with me and talk about Caitlin and remember with me and recognize that love couldn't but should've saved my daughter. Sadness merely sits on me, weighing me down and wishing to be anywhere but with me. And Sadness has no holds, I can't grab on and wrestle her into submission. She's a sponge and she's soaked my living into her porous purposeless mesh.

Sadness has settled. It's odd, because I've written extensively about my emotions since my daughter's death, and Sadness seemed too small to mention. Sadness was miniscule to do this pain justice. But, Sadness has settled, and she isn't small. She's quite powerful and I don't like her. Not one bit. Sadness is like novacaine; I can't feel anything that I do.

And, I'm pissed about that . . . ah perhaps I've found a hold . . . because if I'm pissed then I'm feeling something. Right?

Moment Among Light bulbs & Plungers

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

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

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

"Good, thanks."

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

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

They have pink and blue ones.

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

Take Care of Yourself

I've been meaning to write about this for a bit. I joined a weight loss group and lost 35 pounds. Big whoop really. Well, no, it was a "big whoop" and I am and was truly happy about my efforts and my seeming success at taking care of myself. I recently took a quiz to check my "habit profile." And my score sheet says that I need to work on "taking care of myself." The second item that was "revealed" was that I need to "manage my feelings."

Ha! You think! @#$%

I don't really want to take care of myself sometimes. I don't want to know what my feelings are sometimes. I just want to anesthetize with food and drink. But, at some point, I have to keep going don't I?

I hear this statement frequently, "If that happened to me, I could never survive."

It does encourage me to know that my efforts are recognized. That some growth and healing and strength in carrying this grief is acknowledged by others. I suppose I'm surviving, but I don't really have a choice do I? Though, sometimes, I think, "Ah, so here I am surviving something that others couldn't. This something must really suck." And it does. As I said, it can be nice that they seem to want to recognize my "strength"? My "courage"? My "what" exactly, though? The world keeps turning, the clock keeps ticking, and death goes on with my life in tow. I feel frustrated that there is this comparison resulting in me "winning" the survival game. UGH. Who wants to win anyway? It doesn't help to feel more courageous than another. She's still dead. It doesn't help to feel stronger than another. She's still dead.

If it happened to you, you would survive. I don't know how I know. I don't know, really. I do believe it, though.

Blogging has been a help in "managing my feelings," but now it's time to get to the "taking care of myself."

Well, to that end all I can muster is a "Gone with the Wind" Scarlett sigh, "I'll think about it another day."

I Will Tell You What I Know

It never goes away. This aching painful broken feeling never goes away.
but, you will smile broader than ever before, because you will know how fleeting a moment worth a smile is.

That's it. That's all I got.

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.

Three Random Pics: Three Random Thoughts

This is another pic of one of the frogs who comes to visit us on our deck. When I catch 'em on my porch, I am compelled to take pictures. There is such interest in their faces. And recently I learned that the two snakes who took residence in a pile of bricks close to our house, eat these very kinds of frogs!



The summer has been a time of getting things cleaned out. We shredded hundreds of documents and took lots of clothes and shoes to the St. Vincent DePaul bin. I included a bag of my pregnancy clothes. Plenty of tears during this event. I couldn't help but note the irony in seeing that I had purchased three polo prego shirts with butterflies on them---a symbol now of Caitlin's spirit in this world, now transformed, but beautiful.

And this, is proof to me that I still have joy in my heart. This was captured while I was teaching my pre.scho.ol music group. And my smile surprised me, I barely recognized myself.

Death Certificate Arrives

We received her death certificate in the mail. It's printed on dark blue parchment paper with the official watermark. When you hold the heavy paper to the light, the watermark brings pink, salmon, and even red colors to the paper. I didn't realize that even the look and feel of the paper would reflect the finality of her death and frailness of her life.

I read every bit of information as though I might discover something new about my daughter. I didn't. With her full name spelled correctly, the document of vital records confirmed each diagnosis from her Trisomy 21 and heart defect to the bowel perforation and sepsis that caused her death. Also documented is the exact number of days she lived, the number of hours it took for her die from the perforation, and the exact time of death.

Wishing I would weep, I folded the document carefully into it's neat trifold and placed it back in the envelope. I sat quietly waiting to fold with grief the way I did each moment, then hour, then day, month, and year after she died. The pain wasn't there this moment, only a dull acceptance. I sigh. I wish it were different, but her Certificate of Vital Records confirms that it is not. My heart bears the watermark of her life. If you could unfold me and hold me up to the light you would see the evidence of Caitlin's presence. She shines through in pink, salmon, and red hues.

I need only wait, and the wave of grief will crush me when it arrives, but that will not happen today.

Moment of "All's Right with the World" But, Not

I walk along the sidewalk with my new purchase in hand. The air is perfect, warm without humidity and just the slightest of breeze, and I have this sense that "all's right with the world." But, rather than feel comfort from this psychological sensation, I am suddenly very uncomfortable. "All is not right!" I hear my own voice scream inside my head. But, I continue to walk with a spring in my step, because it is right. I am as healthy as possible. DH and I are right on track. Family is sensitive and loving and all, but my soul screams, "NO, All is not right!"

I give in to the conflict within me and sit on a white bench on the boardwalk, and watch the other beach goers happy (or not) about their business. And, I recognize that once again in the wake of a dead child, when the feeling that "all is well" comes about it will not be readily accepted. I will not be so easily swayed into a false--or is it real?---sense that everything is OK?! I sit on the bench and sigh, and try to get at the heart of what I'm feeling.

Once again, it's not that easy. It's not either-or, but, and-both. My challenge is to accept that both the feeling that all is right and the feeling that nothing is right must coexist. And that I must figure out how to make that happen, if I am to get off the bench and make it back to the house in time for dinner.

Perhaps, tomorrow, all will be well. But, I'm not counting on it.

Just so Tired Sometimes . . .

I'm just so tired of trying sometimes.

That's not to say that I won't, only that I get so exhausted from trying to give a shit about the little things. And by little things, I meant paychecks, and house payments, and nice things to say to friends and family, I am just so tired. That's not to say I don't love, it's just that I'm tired and I'm pretty sure I'm going to fail at a good lot of what I'm supposed to do in the very near future.

'Cause I'm sucking at regular life right now, you know, the life where you're living a dream life with living children and not at dead child. This sucks. I AM SO GDamn TIRED.

This is one of those nights where I feel I have nothing left. But then the AM will come without my calling and I will rise again, and do the mundane as I always do. But I hate it more and more each day. But will do it none the less.

Times when . . .

I just don't want to try any longer. I don't want to figure it out, make sense, or make meaning. I'm just done.


Peace.

Back from RealLife

Welcome ICLWeS! I'm back and happy to report some success in my endeavors to pay attention to real life! During my hiatus from e-life, I did have to go off and do a bit of work. But on my drive home, I took a few detours---into Wine country.
In celebration of engaging and enjoying real life, I visited three wineries. I tasted a few (make that several) wines and bought a couple of bottles. Who knew that Virginia is 5th in the nation for wine production? Well, now I know, thanks to a lovely lady who poured a Chambourcin for my tasting at Cave Ridge Vineyard.


I think I enjoyed veering off my path the most. There is something quite liberating in letting the schedule be and just go. I drove into the Virginia country side. I waved back at the people who waved to me as I passed by, as though they knew me. I drove slowly and stopped to take pictures and talk to strangers about grapes, vines, and whether chocolate or cheese would go best with a wine made from Norton grapes! And all the while, I'm intimately aware that this is evidence that I am a survivor, and that it's possible to engage, and yes, even enjoy, life after the death of my precious daughter. And, that it's OK to live again---it's OK.

There is Little More to Do

That's how I feel,that there is little more to do. The date is past and now Caitlin has been dead for a year, and I'm here wishing that there was more to do. I've tried to write, but I am wordless. I've tried to think about calling those people who sincerely say, "if you ever need to talk, call me" but I am listless and mute. I've thought about listening to the "Caitlin & Mom" playlist on the iPod, but I am deaf. So, there is little more to do, but be here, I guess. Wait, perhaps there are images to come to me? No, it's all a foggy, blurry, nothingness.

Just Don't Get on The Elevator

We knew she was dying. We had vainly tried to go to our hospital room and rest, but we knew she was dying. Instead of resting we stayed up and talked about what we had hoped for; her recovery and finding out who she was at home--at home with her mom and dad. They called and said, "It's time." We put our shoes on and walked out the room and down the hall and pressed the elevator button. I thought, "Just don't get on the elevator." Hope was gone so I went to desperation and hope for magic, that if I just didn't get on the elevator to the CICU floor where she was dying, then none of this would be so and she would live. If we took the stairs, maybe we could take her home.

I'm Crumbling

That's what I think, that today I am crumbling. My facade of getting things done is becoming dust. My can-do make-it-happen attitude is tattered. My smile, fading to fake again. I know that emotions are transient, and that this feeling of crumbling should pass. Yet, this feeling of being overwhelmed and being under pressure, so much so that parts of me are dropping off, is pervasive. And each day more falls away.

What concerns me most is that my caring is crumbling. (Yeah, I know that makes no sense.) I held this idea that the big stuff matters most and the little stuff matters just as much. So, meeting deadlines and saying "hello" and answering questions and emails and phone calls and such is little stuff that matters. But, I can't seem to care about it. I can't seem to muster the energy, no I don't even try to muster. It's like I'm watching from my shell that houses some core of me and protects it from all else, and I'm removed from it all and the rest of me is crumbling. It doesn't feel like a wave of grief. It feels like giving up and crumbling.

Wishes for Fat with Live Baby

Here's the thing, I've lost 25 pounds. It feels amazing, but I'm struggling. How I wish to be fat and unhappy with a silly thing like weight and have the hard-won joy of raising my live baby--Caitlin. When my daughter died I lost a good deal of weight because I couldn't remember to eat, then I couldn't stop trying to fill myself up. I knew it was happening and helpless to stop it. I just wanted my baby back and I couldn't think about food, I could just eat it. Well, as I grew stronger, I decided that I was ready to pay attention. My goal was only to be mindful of what I ate and try to continue to give attention to my grief. That was 14 weeks ago, and with paying attention and being mindful I've lost 25 pounds.

But I have this voice, "This success cannot make you happy." And you know, that's true. Though, weight has always been a struggle, it's not been a source of happiness. I want to feel happy about this though, I'm having trouble allowing myself to enjoy it. Just doesn't feel right. It's another example of bargaining too. If only, I could trade this success for the life of my child. I conclude: Feeding myself did not fill the hole and losing weight provides barely a bridge over that hole. And I continue to struggle to make myself whole again.