Her Sign

This summer I taught music teaching techniques as I have done for years. The first day of teaching, I walked into a classroom to get materials ready. On the piano was a book opened to "Close to You" by the Carpenters. it made me smile. I thought of Caitlin Anne and singing this song to her everyday along with the other lullabies I sang each visit.

This was her father's song that his mother sang to him as a lullaby, and because she sang it to him, I sang it to Caitlin. The next day and the next day, the book remained opened to that song. I didn't change it and neither did anyone else. We used the piano, but never closed the book or put it away. 

I didn't want to lose the opportunity to accept the invitation to sing the song, so on Friday of the first week, I sat down and played and sang it.  Uninterrupted, I plunked through the chords and added a bit of harmony and sang the melody softly. When I finished, I left the book open. 

Saturday, we received news that the lump they found in his mother's lung was cancer. The news knocked the air out of me. I don't think that song was a sign from Caitlin to me. It seems Caitlin sent a song to her grandmother through me. Belief makes things real. 

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

The song remained opened until the end of second week.I took a pictures of the book on the last day I taught, and shared them with Caitlin's grandmother in the hospital the following month. She smiled, and looked at her son. "That's our song." 

Music is the thread the drew that smile from her. 

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.

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.

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.

It Spins My Head

DH gave me  a pair of beautiful butterfly earrings in gold and semiprecious stones. He told me, he didn't know why he bought them for me, only that they seemed to reflect my spirit. They were a symbol of a new joyful period in my life. A period characterized by lightness, almost the feeling of weightlessness. I was grateful, I'd emerged from some crappy experiences, took some risks and found myself loved and appreciated by this wonderful man. Butterflies symbolized freedom to light upon love. Amazing.

Fast forward six years to the birth and death of our daughter, Caitlin. Eleven weeks after her death (the same amount of time she lived), I attended a group meeting for parents whose children had died. We sat in a circle, and passed around a stone. I listened with horror as each parent gripped the stone, releasing another death story. "This is my life," was my silent scream. I opened my hands and the stone landed heavy in my hands. It was etched with my symbol of lightness--butterflies. Once a symbol of freedom, butterflies now symbolized the irons of grief. 

I was helpless. I'd like to say I was courageous when I embraced grief, but, truthfully grief captured me, and, I surrendered. Eventually I did aim to "feel how this feels," to open my arms to the experience rather than steal myself from it. Grief became a friend; the one willing to remind me of Caitlin every day. Grief never forgot her name or that I was her mother.

Over the last four years, I also embraced the butterfly's new symbolism. Now, a symbol of my daughter entering new spaces in my life in ways never intended. A symbol of her short life parenting me, rather than the way it's supposed to be--my life spent parenting her.

In this sixth year, I've experienced some sense of comfort and engaged in life in some new ways, and reconnected with friends and family. Sadly during my efforts to reconnect, I discovered I'd lost long term memories of experiences or events with other people. "Remember when we . . . " continues to be frequently met with "No" or "I'm sure that did happen; I don't know." I wonder if the butterfly forgets its life on the ground or the wind the nearly blew its cocoon from a tenuous tether. 

But stasis isn't the nature of a butterfly, and a chance story brought the symbol through another transformation.

While in the library, in a period of productivity with work, I detoured and read some posts on a social networking site. There, a friend reminded me of a pair of butterfly earrings I gave to her daughter for being my flower girl on the happiest day of my life. I still don't remember that I gave that gift. I don't remember buying them and I don't remember giving them. But, it makes sense I would choose a symbol of what the day meant to me to give as a gift. Tears burst at the reminder of the lightness and joy I felt in those days. I gasped, then let them fall as I sat in stoic silence remembering her death. Then, Guilt landed on my heart like that awful stone. How could I be "comfortable"? Working? Experiencing a new kind of lightness? How? When my daughter is dead.

Eventually, I drug my hands back to the keyboard to work. And then, it happened--one of those odd coincidence's that communicates my daughter's presence to me, and sometimes communicates her parenting of me. I was working on an article about children's books, and I clicked on a link to a blog, and found these: 

Felt like a message. Perhaps, a reassuring message of, "It's OK to revisit yourself. To emerge independent. To experience some comfort. To allow the butterflies their flight."

I'm not sure I'm ready for this. I'm not sure I want this. Am I letting go of the grief? If grief doesn't visit, who will help me remember? Will I lose the only motherhood role left to me, that of a bereaved mother?  When people say, "do you have children" will I answer no? This isn't OK with me. But, Caitlin seems to be telling me, it's OK to reclaim some of who I was as "Oddrey" and it's OK to lovingly say "Bye, Bye, Butterflies!"

Odd, this symbol of transformation, transforming. It's spins my head.

Ah, the way we find meaning in this world, confusing.

The Moon

I sat in an orange chair in our sitting room when the full moon caught my spirit and compelled me to looked up at her through the skylight. She was breathtaking, bright, a reflection of the sunshine --- like my daughter as she lives within me now. Her life now reflected in my own. I call for her dad to come and see. We shut the lights out so that the only light that comes through is what shines from the moon. We squeeze into that orange chair together and watch her in silence. Dark clouds cover her and we see, not hear, the tumultuous wind fight to keep her covered. But she remains and when a break in the clouds appear, the light is bright and piecing and beautiful. We exhale together. "Miss you."

Making a List of Mother's Day

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Show & Tell

My first time joining Mel's Show & Tell. On a recent outing I discovered these coasters. I love the natural look of the butterflies and of course they make me think of Caitlin. It's a way of continuing to weave her into our lives.

My Personal Economic Stimulus Plan in Play Today

So, I have to go to the dentist today. I don't like it, so I decided that the rest of the afternoon will involve putting into play my personal economic stimulus plan--translation: I go shopping. I don't like shopping either, so I start with Starbucks (insert "Sound of Music" melody . . . a very good place to start . . .). Mmmmm $3+ coffee and one of those new turkey bacon sandwiches-that ought to help. I sit at a table and write some letters--yes letters that require stamps to help the post office succeed financially and stay open on Fridays. Then off to the shoe store, for the shopping. I wander the aisles, try on a few shoes, and then get irritated that I look the profile of the typical shoplifter (middle aged white female) because when the third extra-smiley employee interrupted my quest for shoes I don't need, I was certain that DSW would not benefit from my spending plan. But, alas, I did what was right and left with a pair black low-healed shoes. On, to the book store for more wealth spreading.

I go to the music rack and pick up "Classic Songs" a book of lyrics to songs. This irritates me too, because I'm so frustrated with this culture that doesn't have the music literacy to know a tune by just looking at lyrics, but I digress. I open the book and Caitlin sings this song to my heart:

Farewell, Mother Dear

Farewell! Mother dear, I go,
Where loved ones never can be parted.
We will meet again I know.
Be not weeping and downhearted.

Last night I dreamed of thee,
Saying pleasant things to me,
Still again those vigils keep,
While I lay me gently down to sleep.

Weep not mother dear for me,
When I'm laid underneath the willow
I'll keep guard upon thy soul,
Thou hast guarded over my pillow,
Far in a radiant land,
I will join a sister band,
They are singing a sweet refrain,
I am called, Farewell! We meet again.

I put the tiny book under my arm and find a chair to slump in and think, "thanks baby girl." I start to think that she misses me, too. Heaven may be nice, but her mama isn't there. So, she finds a way to nestle her head into my breast and sing a spirit song to my soul. I hear the lyrics again. I continued my shopping and find another book, "My Mother Gave me the Moon"

My mother gave me the moon.
My mother gave me the stars.
My mother gave me security.
My mother gave me warmth.

I'm unable to continue reading and I gently place the book back in it's place. Then as I walked out, I pick up a children's book about caterpillars and lovingly wandered through the pages until the last turn reveals ten beautiful butterflies.

I no longer question when I experience these signs or visits or memories or coincidences or whatever one chooses to label them occur. They are important ways of living for me and parenting the memory of my child as she parents my heart. Save a place in that sister band for me, daughter!

And that ends my personal stimulus plan day.

The Moon & a Single Star

When you are hosted in another country by a friend and grief seizes your heart, you have to bury it. At least, that's how I felt. These waves of grief are not as high or as sweeping as they once were, but I am still pulled in to warm tides of sadness. I couldn't very well bow out of the night's events. But the moon and a single star (probably a planet, maybe Venus?) greeted my eyes. And I remember staring at the first full moon after Caitlin died, and I remembered the crescent moon in the early evening sky when I discovered baby Dorothy's grave at the cemetery, and, well, I have no deep message, other than to note that the moon smiled at me and I was grateful for it's beauty. I thought of Caitlin and I took a picture--the one you see above.

I am so tired. I'm OK. But, I'm tired.

Snowflakes that Didn't Turn Out

I've haven't exactly ignored the holidays this season. I wrote the family Christmas letter and purchased two gifts for the names that were drawn. A tiny 2-foot tree is up with Caitlin's Angel (the one they placed on the remembrance tree at the NICU on the day she died), and I put lights up on the steps of our home. We attended the business Holiday party, but I wouldn't say I've engaged in the holiday spirit much. It all felt quite pedestrian. Then, I receive a gift that changed everything.

A friend stops by my work to talk with me and says, "I don't want to upset you but . . . . I want to give you something. My daughter was making paper snowflakes and she got pretty upset, because after cutting them out and coloring them she tells me, 'they didn't turn out right.' " "They don't look like snowflakes," the child says to her mom (my friend), "they look like butterflies." Her mother looks at the butterfly snowflakes and says, "Well, would it be OK if I give them to my friend because, I think that she would really like them. They might help her think about her daughter."

And so, that's how it happened, I now have two beautiful child cut and colored butterflies in my office, a gift that feels like a Christmas gift from Caitlin with the help of another child. I can't stop smiling. Caitlin found a way to give her mommy a Christmas gift from heaven. Thanks to Z, my friend's daughter, I'm smiling at Christmas.

"Even reality is no match for our love."

This last line of Vaughan Bell's on-line article about those who experience the presence of their loved one after death was most striking. Though, I didn't care for the title, "Ghost Stories: Visits from the Deceased," I did appreciate that the subject was treated with some sensitivity for those who have these experiences. Bell also gives a nod for understanding that our Western culture has a fear of acknowledging these experiences by rattling off a few cultural practices that embrace or find them quite normal. Parents I know who have experienced the presence of their children after death rarely share openly for fear of being labeled "crazy." I include myself in this arena.

But, despite the cultural norms and personal expectations, the last line speaks the truth that no matter the physical reality, our love for our children transcends it. It must, it's the only way to live.

Hanging the Moon

I went to visit Caitlin's grave tonight. I was relieved to see that her things were all there. The caretakers mow carefully and replace her things as best as can be expected. I was so grateful to squeeze her toy and listen to the sounds with her. I don't understand. I still don't understand how this happened. I know it happened. I mean, my mind knows how it happened, but my heart, my mother's heart, doesn't understand.

I wept. I left a kiss on her stone. The wetness of my tears and lips stayed as long as they could, but then, the evidence of my love evaporated into the air. The ground has grown up around her grave. It's settled in and grass has covered the scars from where they replaced the sod. I put my hands on that ground, wishing I could draw her from it. My mother's heart, the part that doesn't understand, sent a hope that I would feel her heart beat beneath the ground. That heart that saved mine.

I stayed for some time and watched the sky, but I saw no stars and no moon. The night sky--open, no clouds, barely a breeze, and as bleak as my soul. I placed a star at her stone to let her know that I was there. I stared at that star and came to understand it as a metaphor for my daughter. Unreachable and beautiful. I looked up and at last found a single star in the sky. And as is typical for a bereaved mother, I knew to keep staring, to watch carefully, to study the sky for more, and then I saw a shooting star in the early evening sky. It's light was still bright enough to shine through a not-yet-black night. I smiled. It's hard to refute a sign, even when I don't yet know if I believe in them.

The darkness finally surrounded us, me kneeling on sacred ground and my daughter shining from above hanging a sliver of a moon.