Losing Faith

I 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. 

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."

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.

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.

(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.)

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.

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.

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 at least I didn't lose my faith. That I have the power to keep."

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.

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.

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.

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.

My final thought . . . from my own religious tradition,
"But the greatest of these is LOVE."

A Year and Then Some

Nearly 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.

Really.

Thoughts in no particular order, but not random . . .

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.

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.

Fuck Cancer. I'm done with it killing my family and friends. FU Cancer.

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.

Still fine. I think that's the best I can hope for.

Peace.

Cemetery Visit: Year Nine

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. 

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. 

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. 

It's Been Some Time

It'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."

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."

"How is she even talking?" I thought. But, I knew how. What else can she do?

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.


"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.

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.

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.




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.

The Market and Death

In 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.

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.

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.

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.
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.

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.

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.

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.

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 $$$.

Every Year

Remembering my daughter, Caitlin Anne, today on her death date--the first day of the meaning of forever.

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.

What's Your "Anything"?

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“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.

“I would have done anything to save her.” I meant it, and I still do.

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.

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.

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.

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 bullying? Suicide prevention programs? Gun safety education? And how will you support this “anything”? Letters to lawmakers? Reach out to individuals? Report that “off comment” to a child protection agency? Practice the lock-down procedure at your school, place of work, home? Take a gun safety class? Join a community watch group? 

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 Sandy Hook Promise that highlights the bereaveds’ impassioned plea:

I promise to honor the 26 lives lost at Sandy Hook Elementary School.

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.

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.

Going Public . . . not yet Activist

Caitlin'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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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."

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.

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.

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.

It's Caitlin's death date today.

No words. She's still dead. It still sucks. And yet . . . I still go on. 'Cause what else is there to do.

Grief Invited In

I wrote this yesterday for Caitlin's birthday. 

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. 

Today's a day of reflection, of a bereaved mother's imaginings of an alternative universe where her child lives. 

Those who love us wish to take the sorrow away, but Grief is best invited in and Absence best honored with Love's tears.

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 beyond, her way of letting me know she's with me in all I do.

I Didn't Know Her

Dear friends of mine recently lost their daughter. She died, she was about my age, and she died.

I saw her mother, an empty shell. I could see where death had ripped her daughter from her body. I saw her father, and saw him play the organ and conduct the choir for his daughter. I didn't wonder "how could he do it?" It made perfect sense; he wouldn't leave the music for someone else to do. That's his daughter, she deserved music selected and made by him. And it's unlikely he did it to "keep busy" as some explained to me. I believe it was to attend to his daughter more deeply. Saying goodbye to your child deserves all your attention. And when he received communion he walked right past me, and I saw where death had broken his shoulders.

I went to the funeral and sat beside her friend, and my friend, and felt her hurt. I tried to connect, but I didn't know what to say to help. In the pew, we sat together and held hands and sang the hymns and said goodbye to her friend and their daughter--this woman my age who died. I didn't know her, but I felt her absence.

Who I've Become . . . so far

My last post brought loving and thoughtful comments. Thank you, friends. And one tacked a question onto an observation, "You say that others don't like who you've become. Do You?"

Wow, that was brilliant. Brought me to a halt. Do I? At first I didn't know. I've been caught up in the struggle, with periods of solace and comfort with storms of sorrow and pools of sadness, that I hadn't thought about whether I did like who I've become.

"Do you?"

No. I mean I don't particularly like this life of mine. It's sad. Lonely. And at times seems hopeless. People don't connect with me so much. I see it in their faces as they bite their tongue and thought bubbles of "odd" seem to appear above their heads. Perhaps who I've become is bad. It's strange to feel that I don't fit in anywhere--that wasn't difficult for the "old me."

"Do you?"

Yes. I mean, I'm relieved that I've become more honest about my emotions. I'm satisfied, when I stick up for a principle I believe in. I'm fed, when a "thank you for you help" sweetens a sour stranger or when considering the other point of view when I've been harmed provides release from hurt. I'm pleased when I refrain from sarcastic comments that injure. I'm grateful for who I've become . . . so far.

"Do you?"

I don't know. What I do know is I'm tired. I'm not done struggling, and I know I'll be fine. Especially, when I visit my own wry "pearls of wisdom" upon myself--"The trick is to enjoy it." Yay, life is difficult and I'm in it!

Works every time.

Reflection

I'm spent. Four plus years of this death, of this fight to survive and dare to thrive in the aftermath. What remains is the natural human wish that it were different. Acceptance is a myth, integration is my hope. Still struggling to become the mother Caitlin deserved, but I sense others don't like who I'm becoming. Still judging the decisions I make and silently condemning my attempts to expose an open heart and articulate a reasoned mind. It's isolating and lonely being the mother of a dead child, with lessons learned only from experiencing the beginning and end of parenting within one's own life span. I don't recommend this path to insight. Ah, I wish I could have folded her into myself, and kept her there forever, and protected her from her life of tubes and saved her from death. I'm spent.

"Hello" hello . . . hello . . .

That's me calling out to the blogosphere to see if anyone is still out there, and by anyone, I mean me! It's been a long hiatus from writing and sharing this grief journey with those who choose or stumble upon this place of pause for reflection, story telling, and sharing.

It's October and I'm still in the season of my daughter's life. And during this period of 11 weeks of remembering her gift of motherhood to me, I've reflected upon where I am on this journey. I've come to a place in this grief, that I think most "normals" (those who have not experienced the tragic death of their children) would expect comes at about 2 to 6 weeks out from the death of Caitlin. I work with vigor and focus. I laugh easily and I "fit in" in social gatherings. Each moment is no longer filled with the presence of acute grief. The desire to be not dead, but not here has dissipated. And the ever-present and overwhelming sadness that engulfed me subsides for long periods of time.

For me, this is how long it took--about three years.

Let me be clear though. I'm not back to my old self. I am quite different. I took some of the old me and threw it out, some was kept, and some of it I'm still working with--molding and shaping to be the kind of mother Caitlin deserves. Though, she' not here on this earth, I honor our relationship of mother and child. Caitlin's life and death catapulted me to new places, literally with a new job and figuratively with new and refined insights, beliefs, and understandings, as well as new and refined behaviors.

I'll speak to one I noticed most recently. With my new work, I'm meeting many new people. When they talk about their children, I listen and sometimes find occasion to respond with "I know what you mean." They might look at me "longways", but I don't notice if they do anymore, 'cause I'm a mom and sometimes, I do know what they mean. I rarely skip a beat with saying my daughter's name. "Yes, when I held Caitlin, I felt . . ." and skip even less time to respond with "and we, sadly, experienced the tragedy of her death." When people say, "you are just like my mom," I say, "thanks, that means a lot, especially since my daughter is no longer here. It feels good to be recognized as a mom." I believe Caitlin should as easily be part of my casual conversations as she is a part of my deeply personal and profound discussions.

I tend to be fearless of possible shocked, saddened, or uncomfortable reactions. I no longer try to save others from emotions that might be painful. This response is not out of some desire that others should hurt as I have hurt, but out of understanding that sorrow lives with joy. I do no one a favor by sweeping pain under the rug. I live as an example that one can experience and survive and yes, thrive, even after the tragic death of my daughter. And I strive to be unafraid to LIVE that. When someone experiences an empathetic response to our story, that's a good thing. If Caitlin's story is part of fostering empathy in others--then that's a good thing. If Caitlin's story prompts an emotional response for someone else, an emotional response of sadness that is all too often considered wrong or bad in this culture of "life's too short to be anything but happy" then we will be participate.

On a related note, I understand that parents of living children do not expect that they should not celebrate their children's birthday each year, and so I expect that others should "get over" me celebrating my daughter's birthday each year--even though she is dead. I don't expect that any mom should get over the birth of their living children, and so I operate on a principle of reciprocal acknowledgment. If parents wish to sign the average holiday card with their children's names, then I may do so as well if I wish.

BTW, I have no complaints of my friends and family. I hit the jackpot there. Sadly, I'm one of the luck few. ((((hugs))) to fellow bereaved moms who must educate each year that their child still matters!

Tired

That's all. Sometimes that's all I got. Today is one of those sometimes.

Folk Song of "Farmer's Curst Wife"

So, I've been perusing through folk songs from long ago. One in particular I found amusing and particularly at the final verse, I found my self silently nodding, . The opening verse is:

There was an old man at the foot of the hill, 
If he ain't moved away he's livin' there still, 
Sing heigh, diddlei, diddlei fie!
Diddlei diddlei day!

As I sing through the verses and the story goes
Devil shows up.
Farmer fears Devil will take his son. 
But, the Devil wants his wife.
Wife goes to hell and fights back so much that the Devil brings her back.

The final verse made me nod my head.

There's one advantage women have over men: 
They can go to Hell and come back again. 

Sometimes that's just what it feels like we do. We get drug to hell by agents out of our control, but somehow through shear force we fight our way back. I don't know how, but somehow it happens.

Words Come More Easily

The doorbell rings and I quickly answer it, hoping it's Keith to clean our gutters. Trees have been growing in the troughs again, and neither DH nor I have a love of ladders. It's not Keith, it's college undergrad selling children's "educational" materials.

"Hello, I'm here to talk with folks who have children."

"Ah, sorry, we don't have children." I step back to close the door with a smile.

"Well, then," he offers me an elbow, "congrats you escaped that."

"Oh, no," I keep my elbows to myself, "We had a child, but she died. We don't have any children living in our home."

He drops his elbow and stares at me, and stammers.

"Oh, oh, I'm sorry. I . . . "

"Thank you. How can I help?"

There's some part of me that tries to save the individual who's drowning in his/her own assumptions that if you have children--whoo hoo, and if you don't--whoo hoo. No one expects someone to merely explain that they have a dead child. But, you know what, I'm not silent anymore. Screw you, public. Live in your own sterile world. Mine is not sterile and I won't participate anymore. Words come more easily now. Caitlin has been gone nearly 3 years, but she's firmly entrenched in my life.

"Well, I'm a college intern, selling these children's educational books. Could you help me with which of your neighbors have children." He shows me a map of my neighborhood.

I predict he will be fine, if not highly successful, in his business endeavors. After all, he just learned to ask the dead baby mama about all the other parents with living children in the neighborhood. I comply.

"Neighbor next door is single (just suffered a divorce). Across the street and behind us are two widows (both who lost their husbands tragically after our daughter died). The neighbors next to them moved away because they lost their house in the flood, but the house next to theirs, the one that's for sale---they have loads of kids (that mom, dad, and in-laws yell at constantly, and the youngest screams daily at the top of his lungs)."

"Ah, thanks. . . I don't mean to be a pain, but we didn't bring any water with us. Do you have a bottle of water?"

I give him a bottle of water and send him on his way. Next time I answer the bell, I hope it's the college interns who offered deck washing and staining---oh, and powerwashing for siding.

The Question Changed

After Caitlin died, I didn't cut my hair or get those gray-hiding highlights. Not for any reason other than, all I was capable of doing was grieving. Crying, writing, reading, visiting her grave, pouring over condolence cards, holding her blanket, her cloths, and pictures. Grief work.

About a year later, the first visit to the hair dresser brought with it, unfortunately, fodder for more grief work. Sitting next to 8-month pregnant new mom, I tried to avoid hearing the conversation. I could avoid her answers, but I remember hearing the questions. "What is it?" "Is this your first?" "Did you pick out a name?"

My hairdresser, absent minded, though understandably so, asks me, "Do you have any children?" I told her yes, but that my daughter died shortly after birth. "I'm sorry" was followed by more questions, that I'm sure new mom was desperately trying not to hear. I left emotionally beaten--with an external look that no longer matched insides--a great cut with beautiful blond highlights.

Nearly every haircut since is accompanied by the question, "Do you have any children?" I always answer the same and then listen like an academic to how they react, what they say or ask or advise. Gratefully, everyone of them responded with a sincere "I'm sorry." Some will automatically recount someone they know or who knows someone who has lost a child . . . or lost something like a house or a pet. Some brush it off with suggestions that I "just have another" or "get a dog" or "you can always adopt"--they have no idea how difficult adoption can be.  Some gently ask what happened. They ask for her name. They ask how I'm doing.

Two days ago, I walked into a salon and sat down to get my haircut. But, this time the question changed. "So, how many children do you have?" "How odd," I think, "how could she possibly know that I was a mom? No one recognizes motherhood in a mom whose only child is dead." I give my usual answer and then settle into my academia. She was mortified and the "Oh, I'm sorry" nearly made her choke. I felt bad about that, but reason that empathy is good for people and helping people avoid a natural and appropriate response by lying and saying that I don't have children is bad for the human race. What I mean is, it's OK for her to feel. In short she recovered with "Are you going to have more? You can always adopt. Or get pets." While I wish that these statements could make me feel better. But until a hairdresser can bring my child back to life, I will forever endure their need to reach their own equilibrium upset by the knowledge that they now know someone whose baby died. I endure it because they need me to hear their efforts, it relieves that rock in their throat. I don't mind--anymore. I gently respond to each question, with silence. It's the best I can do. I'm at last successful with releasing both of us from the conversation with "Well, when you experience a tragedy like this, you learn to let life be as it is."

Then I leave the chair with a great haircut and smiling. Why smiling? Because someone assumed that I was a mom. She may have done this as a result of my non-highlighted hair--translation--because I'm old. But, "belief makes things real" and I'd like to believe that the assumption was a result of seeing that I carry Caitlin with me where ever I go.

No More New Beginnings

Been thinking about how life changes and perhaps this is because of my age, but I'm inclined to think that it's more connected to my life experience of losing my daughter. You see in the wake of changes in work and other life events, nothing seems like a new beginning anymore. Just seems like a continuation of what is since her death. Everything gets measured by what life was like before and now what life is like after. Ah, so there are no new beginnings---just more steps on the journey.

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.