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.

Schmeh: the holidays

I'm not sure when it happened, but over the years, I've come to feel nothing about the holidays. I don't care much for Thanksgiving. That American day of food and family was destroyed after my daughter's death. It's just not a time to blather about "what I'm thankful for."

And now, with the political climate, I see more clearly the oppression of the descendants of indigenous people that we (read American white settlers) destroyed so we could have what we have. I could likely make the four day weekend about family and friends and love, and sometimes I attempt it. Mostly, though, I'm apathetic. And most recently, it became the holiday I last saw my daughter's grandmother alive. So, yeah, Thanksgiving sucks.

And after the relief of going back to work, I continue to work pretty hard at just surviving the latest crazy. Like "Merry Christmas." A phrase that was nice for so so so many years. There was a time that if you wanted you could include the New Year with a "Happy Holidays."  I can't say either one of these phrases in public anymore without a store clerk or other stranger judging my political leanings despite the greeting I choose. I still say these greetings to people I know with sincerity, but out there in public, I say, "Thanks. and have a nice day."

Because that's how I really feel. That's the best I can hope for them and me. A nice day. A nice day that's not a holiday. Sometimes, I snark, "Enjoy whatever holiday you may or may not celebrate."

Perhaps, I should find a better phrase? Nope. Have a nice day is just fine.

I need to breathe in some joy. I'm empty.

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

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. 

Loosed Hatred

Yesterday was my daughter's death date. Yesterday as I tried to remain focused on my daughter. Honor her memory with my actions and words to others. Reflect in peace and gratitude for the grief that visits me to remind me of my brief role as a mother. Reflect on the complexity of love that both heals and hurts, I found an intrusion of unwelcome thoughts of fear.

I've been reeling from the election. We elected a narcissistic and racist individual. Someone who is a failed businessman, an accused child rapist, a person who brags about sexual assault, who openly praises P.utin and his leadership, who refuses to pay people for their work, who would like to abolish free speech, and who Politifact found tells the truth less than 10% of the time.

Several times throughout the day--as I tried to remain focused on her--my thoughts were rudely and violently yanked to a two second gif of our president-elect mocking a disabled person. I've been told that he didn't mean it. I saw it. I watched him mock a disabled person. It wasn't an edited clip; he sure as f$@k meant it.

I worried about how I would protect her from people like him. How would I make sure she knew she was loved? How would I shield her from hurtful bullying and cruel words and worse--cruel actions?

That f$cker has not one compassionate, caring bone in his body, and he has emboldened the cruel words and actions of many around the country. The very leader of the free world manipulates and mocks, and I feel helpless to protect children like my daughter from that model.

My teacher-friends and students in my area and around the country are witnesses to the loosed hatred and bullying. "Pretty soon you guys will all be slaves again," was a black student's story to a group. "Now I can grab you or any other chick by the pussy," was a tweet from one of my 20-something female college students. "Faggot" painted on a car of an acquaintance. "She can't talk because she's a filthy Muslim," from a fifth grader. "Our president is going to send your parents back to Mexico," from a third-grader at the lunch table. These are real, and he is silent. And no one is really expecting any words of condemnation from a bully.

I can't breathe.

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. 

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. 

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.

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.