Raindrops and Tiny Dresses

Loss will uncover things for you that you never knew were happening in the world.  For example, did you know there are people in the world, complete strangers, who sew tiny dresses for babies who die?  Well, there are those people.  They sew tiny white dresses with yellow smocking and leave them at the hospital for babies whose parents never had time to think that they might need a tiny white dress to put their tiny baby in while they hold her for the first and last time.  And then there are the people who crochet tiny blankets to wrap your tiny baby in.  Because you may have never thought about it, but a receiving blanket is much too large to wrap your tiny baby girl in.  I remember lying in my hospital bed holding my baby girl in her tiny white dress wrapped in her tiny crocheted blanket, astounded by the fact that a complete stranger would take the time to sew that tiny dress and crochet that tiny blanket.  Who was this stranger?  Was she old? Was she young?  Was she a mother?  Had she lost a baby too?  Surely she knew what it was to love a child.

And then there was the kindness of the man from the burial park whose job it was to call and tell you that she had been buried.  He could have just said that it was done.  But you could tell that he had chosen his words carefully and thoughtfully.  He said, “I wanted you to know that we have buried your daughter Jillian.  We buried her just as the rain began.”  I’m pretty sure that he also knew what it was to love a child.  And you are so grateful to this man who added in those few extra words, to give you a memory of your baby’s burial even though you weren’t brave enough to be there yourself.

The Little Girl at 1207

You took a trip home to 1207, to where you lived before.  To where you lived before the ups and downs of life unearthed you.  You see the home where you laughed and played and cried and lived as a little girl.  Where you were always surrounded by many yet more often than not felt all alone.  You see the window you peered through.  You remember the giant closet you hid away in for hours at a time, safely enclosed within the four walls and the dark.  You see the tree that was struck in the storm.  You see the field where streams would form if it rained hard enough.  And remember watching stick boats float away, out of sight.  You remember the giant stump in the back and the stone wall and the kittens.  So many kittens, and the walks and the Sno-cones, and the horses and the long bus rides on bumpy roads.  The pool is still there, where you learned how to swim, and the fence where the raspberries grew and the place where the garden was.  You drive past the corner where you sold cantaloupe with your brother.  And there is the sledding hill.  And you wonder which neighbors are still around, after all these years…?  You feel the November air and marvel at how the sunshine feels the same way it felt back then and the air feels like the same air.  

 And for so long, the memories of this place in your mind had you convinced that you were just a scared and lost and lonely little girl struggling to be noticed and find her way.  But then you go back now, knowing what you know, having started the uncovering of the covered up part of your heart.  And you realize that that little girl at 1207 was You all along.

Rise Up

This is for the ones who struggle,

but they still rise up.

This is for the ones who don’t have pretty new school clothes to wear,

but they wear the biggest smiles.

This is for the ones who come with nothing to eat,

but they show up eager to learn.

This is for the ones who never got put to bed,

but still they come and try their best.

This is for the little babies who get put on a bus without a hug or a kind word to send them off,

And still they come, and so happy to see us.

This is for the ones who may never learn the way they are “supposed to”,

and still they work and work and work, because they want to make us proud.

This is for all of those who struggle,

but somehow they find the strength and courage to rise up anyway.

This is from the teachers who cannot even begin to understand

or know where and what you are coming from,

But even so we know you and we watch you and we stand in awe of you

and we thank you for rising up. 

Each and every day you make us proud. 

You make us who we are.  

All you little ones who get off of that bus and you rise up anyway.

Follow-through

So you make all off the difficult decisions, but unfortunately now you have to see them through.  It is time for the open house where people want to express their condolences.  And of course you have to be there because it is you and your children they are coming to see.  You know your children want to be there but you also know they are not necessarily equipped to deal with what will be coming through those doors at any moment.  Because who would be?  So you strategically place them on a couch behind you, flanked by their cousins who act as very good distractors throughout the two-hour window.  They have their pretty mourning clothes on now, and so do you.  Ready to receive condolences.

And then the doors open and they start coming and it seems that they will never stop.  The line stretches down the hallway and around the corner, and you never do see the end of it.  Your children are sitting behind you and your dear friends stand behind you, like body guards, waiting for the onslaught of condolences.  You don’t have your shit together, not even in the slightest.  You are a blubbering mess and you are grateful for those friends and acquaintance who blubber with you.  And you are grateful for their kind words, for them telling you how sorry they are, and for the heartfelt hugs, because you have learned that it is much better to cry with somebody than to cry alone.  But every time you look up after one hug, you again see the line that extends into nowhere. 

Mixed up in the line of people you know and love are the people, the many, many people who were his patients.  And you don’t know any of them from Adam.  And they want to hug you and shake your hand and tell you what a good person he was.  And you smile and nod your head, but all you can think about is how much you hate him.  And for every person that tells you what a great person he was, you think to yourself, “Really?  Is this what great people do?”  You think you might suffocate on their words.  They are heavy and hurtful and cut you to the core.  You are so extremely grateful to your friends who smuggled in a water bottle full of vodka.  You take a swig and you think to yourself that if you have to nod and smile while one more stranger tells you what a great man your dead husband was you really might toss your cookies all over them.  And the line never ends.  They just keep coming.

As if this isn’t enough, on top of all the people you don’t even know, and the line that stretches out the door, there is the photo-video set to music that your mother-in-law put together that plays loudly on the TV at the other end of the room.  It plays pictures of you and him and your children and all of those moments in life that in a normal situation you would want to memorialize.  And it plays over and over again, so many times that it makes you dizzy.  And you try not to watch it because it is making you dizzy, but you happen to be facing it and cannot turn away.

Your friends keep trying to get you to sit down.  And even though they don’t come right out and say it, you are pretty sure that you must look like shit.  They bring a chair over and tell you to sit.  But you do not want to sit.  You want to get through this line, so this moment of your life can be over.  And then there is the woman who approaches, in tears.  You do not know her, but she is in tears and she gives you a hug.  She tells you, amidst her blubbering, that your husband saved her life.  That he caught her oral cancer before it was too late, and that because of him she went to the doctor and got the appropriate treatment and she is alive.  And she is very broken up about your husband’s death.  You feel sorry for her, that her hero is dead. 

Finally the two hours are up.  And your friend notices that you must go.  Now.  So she links her arm in yours and she pulls you through the crowds, without a word, past all of the people and into the parking lot.  Her husband pulls up the car.  But you don’t get in.  Not yet.  You finally break down and the blubbering turns into full-fledged sorrow.  And she holds you and lets you tell her how much you hate him.  She just holds you.  Without a word.  And after some time has passed you look up and notice a staff member from the mortuary watching you out of a side window.  You regard this with passing interest and wonder to yourself if someone in her line of work ever gets used to seeing people so very, very sad.

Decisions

There may come a time in your life when you are faced with some really tough decisions.  Decisions that you never really thought you would have to think about.  You are suddenly faced with decisions like what to do with your husband’s remains.  And you have to make phone calls to find out if you are even authorized to make this decision because you have been separated for a year and were nearly divorced.  And you are really, really sad and traumatized and angry right now and don’t quite have your wits about you, but nonetheless you have to make this decision.

Making this unthinkable decision becomes even more difficult when you have your in-laws trying to take this decision away from you and they are making phone calls to authorities behind your back because they want to take his body and do religious things to it and bury him the way their religion says you should.  And you understand that they are grieving and in shock too, but you know he hated their religion and that he would not want this.  And even though you hate him at this point, and the last thing you want to be doing right now is thinking about what he would want, still, you must.  And you have your children to think about as well, and of course you want what is best for them in this very, very horrible situation.  So you stand up to your in-laws and you do what needs to be done and make arrangements to have him cremated and his ashes buried in the cemetery next to where you buried your babies.

And this is not the only difficult decision you must make.  You must also decide what kind of service to have but you don’t think there is even an inkling of a chance that you could possibly survive sitting through a service listening to people talk about him.  And you know that Family would want to turn a service into a religious event, but he hated their religion, remember?  So you decide there will be no service but instead an open house at the funeral home where you and his family will receive people who want to express their condolences.

And then you must decide what his obituary will say.  And this is very, very hard indeed.  Because right now you cannot think of one single god-damned good thing to say about the man who made the choice to leave your three children fatherless.  So you keep it short and simple and luckily you can take up space by including his middle name and the date of his death.  And that will just have to do because you don’t have much more to say.

And you must also decide what you want him dressed in when your children will see him for the last time.  And it is terribly heartbreaking to even fathom the thought of taking them to do this.  But they want to see him again, one last time.  So you pick out his favorite flannel shirt and some jeans, because even though it is not what the mortician recommends, you know it would not seem right to your children for him to be wearing a suit.  And you let your children wear whatever the hell they want because you want them to be as comfortable as they can be when they say goodbye to their father.  And when you see that they have come downstairs ready to go in their T-shirts and sweat pants, you go put on your sweatpants, too.  Because you know that his family and your family will be dressed in their Sunday’s Finest, and you don’t want them to feel out of place in their sT-shirts and sweatpants, because all you really want is for them to be as comfortable as they can when they say goodbye to their father.

Be Still

I hurt my knee three weeks ago.  I was playing soccer and the goalie dove into my leg while it was fully extended.  The physical therapist says it will need at least six weeks to heal.  So once again I have been forced to reinvent myself.  To say I have been freaking out a little bit would be putting it mildly.  When your sanity up to this point relied wholly upon moving your body, and when you know you cannot live without your sanity because you have three young beings for whom you are Everything, you start to freak out a little.  Okay, maybe a lot.  

Up until this point, over the last several years, moving your body has been what has saved you time and time again from losing it completely:  your peace and strength and flexibility came from what you did on your yoga mat.  Your angst and competitiveness and anxiety you worked out with your sisters on the soccer field, and your solitude and clear-mindedness you found when you ran. 

So, what was supposed to be the summer of yoga and hiking and camping and running on the beautiful trails that surround your home, and the summer of yard work and learning how to plant a garden, in an instant turned into the summer of not even being able to walk around the block.  But after three weeks of pain and misery and crying and loneliness and self-pity, you finally start to see the light in your situation.  Because finally you are not just coerced, but forced to be still.  You are forced to be still and sit with the reality of your current situation.  You finally must stop running and doing as you have been since your life turned into Crazy Town, and simply be still.  And you see that it is much easier to keep on running so you don’t have to look the truth of it in the eye.  It is much easier to be busy.  But now you see that you must be still, and accept, and ponder and learn from the stillness.  And rest and accept and be still.  And you understand that finally taking the time to do these things will heal your heart in ways that running and moving could not.

And you sleep.  Finally sleep has come to you when it has eluded you for so long.  Real sleep.  Un-medicated sleep.  The kind of sleep you wake up from and marvel that you are finally able to sleep like that again.  And even your dreams seem to know you are sleeping real sleep again.  For they have become less frantic, less haunted, less anxious.  Steady, peaceful dreams of processing and figuring things out.

So instead of sitting around being angry at the goalie who dove into you, you find yourself seeing the light and embracing this time for what it is.  And even though not a day goes by where you don’t wish you could unroll your yoga mat or put on your running shoes, or take your kids out for a hike, or go out and pull the weeds that are taking over your garden, you fully appreciate the fact that after you clean up the breakfast dishes, you must go upstairs for your morning nap.

Ugly

Although this may not be pleasant writing, I feel that it is necessary writing.  Necessary for me to write, certainly, and maybe even crucial for you to read?  We tend too often to bottle up the ugly things for fear of looking weak, or fear of feeling ashamed, or fear of offending, or even for fear of simply feeling.  When so often what goes unsaid, or unwritten, or even unpainted, may just be the salve we need…

I do not pretend to be passively unaltered and untainted by my past.  I will be the first to admit that I am scarred.  And broken.  And I have to be okay with that.  Because it is what is.  So once again I bare a little part of my heart and soul to you, my reader, in this piece which I have titled, “Ugly”.

                                 Ugly 

If I could paint a picture of you it would be ugly.  

So very ugly.  

But I can only paint pretty things, and with not very much detail.  

I am not a highly trained artist who can paint small ugly details that come together as one giant mass of ugly, to which anyone could plainly see was you.  

I can only use hues that dance together and catch the light and please the eye.  

I can only paint things like trees and flowers and old proud barns, that notwithstanding the difficulties they encounter along the way turn into things of great beauty and light.  

My hand and eye are not gifted enough to paint the gnarly, twisted branches of a thorny tree that died an early death because it could never reach the light.  

Nor can I use colors that clash and hurt the eyes of the innocent, unsuspecting viewer, colors that were never meant to share a canvas.  

So, I think I will not even try to paint a picture of you.  

Because who wants to paint a picture that can only turn out ugly?

Just to Walk

Grief is heavy

and not in a figurative way;

It is literally heavy, heavy,

heavy.

So heavy, that in the first days and weeks

after your tragedy

it is even hard to walk.

Your body feels so heavy

you have to will your feet to walk.

You have to think hard to

even get them to move,

and when they do it is all they can do

to merely shuffle.

You can still remember that day,

that cold winter afternoon

When your friend took you out

for a walk

In the early days of your grief,

After your children lost their father…

When you couldn’t even notice

the crisp February air

Or the feel of sunshine on your face

Or see the bare tree branches

Because all you could think about was

how hard it was to walk.

When did the idea of lifting one foot

 and putting it in front of the other

over and over again

 become so foreign? 

Mesmerized by how something

you had been able to do

for almost your entire life

had become so very difficult..

So, very slowly, you put

one foot in front of the other

and you walk.

You carry that heavy, heavy weight

 that is your body

While you wonder how your body,

which only weeks before

 had been running and jumping

and laughing and playing…

How had it become

so very heavy?

Tragedy will do this to you.

Grief is heavy.

So very heavy.

Thirty-seven

I lost my husband and my brother in 2013.  An unlucky number.  An unlucky year.  They were both 37.  One took his own life.  The other tried so hard to get to stay.  One left three children fatherless.  The other left a legacy.  My children lost the two most influential male figures in their lives within 8 months of each other, seemingly in one fell swoop.  And even still, as their mother, I am reeling from it.

It is hard not to be angry.  At Life.  At the Universe.  At the one who made the choice to go, at the cancer who took the one who wanted to stay.  It is hard to understand any of it.  I won’t pretend that I do.  And I don’t believe that anybody really does.  And anbody that says that they do is probably selling something.  But that is okay.  I am okay with not understanding.  I really am okay not having the answers.  I am okay with feeling it and going with it and learning from it and leaning into it, at trying to find the peace in the pause, and going with that.  Because, really, what more can I do?

But what I do know is that you live, and you love, and you play and you laugh and you cry. You breathe and you soak it all in.  And you take risks and you love and you marvel at it all.  And you feel and you live and you love and you laugh and you cry some more.  Because you must.  That is how you carry on.  That is your purpose.  To live while you can.

Is there meaning in it?  I don’t know.  What I do know is that they were both 37.  And they are both gone, but never forgotten…

Morning Song

The pink sky of sunrise

beckons me into the morning,

Yes, you can.

Welcoming dew on the grass

wets my feet and reminds me,

Yes, you can.

Morning-scented air touched with

the faint chill of passing night enlivens me,

Yes, you can.

Bird-songs of hope and joy

fill the air and coax me,

Yes, you can.

Lush green life pulsating with

quiet energy surrounds me,

Yes, you can.

Another day.  Another chance.  Moment

upon moment waiting to be made.

Yes, you can.

And you must.

Chloe at Seven

I'm posting this for my friend who wants me to write about more cheerful things.  I wrote this for Chloe when she was three.  And even though she is fifteen now, it brings me back in an instant.

Chloe at Seven

Lumpy bear dangling;

tousled hair.

Soft round feet pad gently and

carry her uncertainly, drunken

with a full night’s rest until

she is at my bedside.

Sleepy eyes blinking;

china-doll cheeks.

I turn my head to see the clock, but

it will show what I already know—

seven.

Dimpled hands reaching;

a whispered hello.

Gathering her in

a sweet embrace

I breathe in her scent and sigh—

a beautiful day

already.

Everybody

Everybody needs a hero

The lost, the fallen, the lonely,

The one who has been left behind…

Although I can take care of myself.

Everybody needs a hero

The grieving, the hungry, the deserted,

The one with the broken heart…

You know I can take care of myself.

Everybody needs a hero

The frightened, the sad, the angry

The one who has lost all hope…

But I must take care of myself.

Everybody needs a hero

The fatherless, the motherless, the stranger,

The one who is trying to figure things out…

And I can take care of myself.

You may not think I need a hero

Because I can take care of myself…

But everybody needs a hero,

Sometimes…

Enough

There are many times as a single mother of three fatherless children that you feel like you are not enough.  You know that they deserve more.  And if you think about what you have on your hands in longer terms than simply day by day, you can become completely overwhelmed.  So it is best, really, to not think of things too far off, and just try to focus on one day, and then on to the next as it comes.  It is a lot to take on, three fatherless children, and it can overwhelm you if you let it.  It can be so overwhelming that at times you feel it will swallow you.  But then there are these small subtle rays of light that happen and give you hope and encouragement that everyone is doing okay.  And that they are going to be okay. 

For example, your middle son might lean in for a hug once in a while, instead of pulling a way.  And you can tell that he really needs it and wants it, even though he is a preteen boy and not supposed to be that into hugs from his mom.  He leans in and he takes it and he might even hug you back a little.  And there is also that thing he does where he sings things instead of saying them.  And you both try to keep a straight face when he does this, but neither of you can.  So you laugh together.

And then there is the way your daughter acts when she comes home from a long week away.  She is really genuinely happy to see all of you and each of you is equally as glad that she is back.  And you sit together in the living room and just soak each other in.  And there is also that thing she does, where even though she is very shy, she holds her head high and proud wherever she goes.   She may still be figuring things out, as many of us are, but still she holds her head high and proud as she goes.

And then there is that little ray of sunshine who is your youngest.  The one whom you have told every single day since he came into this world how lucky you are to be his mama.  And you thank him every single day for coming to you.  And even at four years old you see a quiet strength and resolve about him.  With his little freckled nose and a smile that lights up the room.  He tells you in his own quiet ways, that he too is okay.  When you drove past the city dump on Saturday, he noticed it.  And he reminded you from his seat behind you that he used to go there with his daddy.  But, he tells you, his daddy died, so he doesn’t go there anymore.  He says it very matter-of-factly, but you can tell as you look at him through the rear view mirror that he is really thinking hard about it. But then after a minute or two he is ready to talk about other things.  And you can see it in his face through the rear view mirror that he is okay.

So there are these little glimmers of light shining out from your kids:  the extra squeeze from your son, your daughter who is happy to be home, and a freckle-nosed smile...  And for a moment, or two, or three, your heart is a little less heavy.  And you lean into that feeling for as long as you can.  Because for one more day, you have been enough.

Not Yet

I miss you too much to write of you yet.  I need your love and your wisdom and your heart and your long tight hugs.  I need them every day and I just miss you so much.  I need you here, now, not to be writing of you here, now.  But I don’t want to sound ungrateful for the life you lived.  For the parts of it that you shared with me and with my children.  As far back as my memories go, you are there, too.  I don’t want to sound ungrateful, because I am so grateful.  It’s just so impossibly hard and so unbelievably unfair that you are gone.   And missed by so many.

You know who you are.  And I am sorry, but I cannot bear to write of you yet…

The People

I am continually amazed at the people that are put into my life.  And at the ridiculous synchronicity in the timing of when they are put there.  Out of all of the billions of people in the world, exactly the right ones just so happen to be placed right in my way, exactly when they are needed the most.  It really is a beautiful thing.  And every time it happens I marvel at it and think about how lucky I am.  Sometimes I don’t even notice the person right away.  Sometimes they hardly even seem noticeable.  And sometimes I really don’t even think I want them there in the first place.  Until that thing happens where they are needed and they are exactly in the right place and time for it, where I may not have even noticed them the day before. 

Going through difficult things, over and over again, has really changed the way I look at life and especially at my relationships with other people.  That human connection thing is so very important to me these days.  And I preach it to my kids.  My oldest child is a pensive teenager.  She thinks about things a lot.  And she has been through a lot.  So, being a teenager and a thinker, and having been through a lot, she wonders, as many of us do, what it’s all about.  And even though I do not have those answers for her, I tell her to focus on the people.  I tell her that people are put into our lives for a reason, and what we put into our interactions and relationships with other people really matters.  Because sometimes the people may be all that you have to carry you.  And that matters.  And chances are, that if you are reading this, you are, or may have been one of those people to me.  And that matters.  A whole lot.

Out of the Woodwork

One of the unexpected and amazing things about experiencing a major tragedy is the people who come through for you.  And the immense outpouring of love.  Think about it this way.  Think about all of the relationships you put effort into over time, and think of all of the love you give along the way.  Well, then one day something horrifically bad happens to you.  But in the incomprehensible darkness of it all is the magnificent outpouring of love, all of that love you have built up in relationships over the years comes right back at you in one giant fell swoop, so hard and fast that you barely know what hit you. 

People crawl out of the woodwork for you.  They crawl out of the woodwork for you and they care for you.  They hug you and they feed you, and they clean your house and do your laundry for you.  And they help you make funeral plans and go to the mortuary with you.  And they listen to you and they cry with you.  And they call people for you and they clean out his house for you.  And they hug you and feed you some more and they watch out for your children and they hug them and feed them too.  And they bring you coffee and take time off of work for you.  And they sit with you and they hold you.  And they stop their cancer treatment so they can be with you.  And they act as buffers for you and they stand guard for you and they put together photo albums for you.  And they ride buses across the state for you and they plant gardens for you.   And they re-pot your plants for you.  And they listen to you and cry with you some more.  And they hug you and feed you some more. 

Unfortunately I don’t know if there is any other way to experience love all coming back at you at once like this except through tragedy, but oh my God, it is such an amazing thing to experience.  To feel the love that people have for you, and to feel how much they care for you and especially for your kids, to feel all of that love and caring all at once.  I just can’t even put it into words.  But it is incredible.  Through that incomprehensible darkness comes the brightest light ever.

The Truth

Suicide is an ugly, ugly word.  And even more ugly than the word is the act itself.  And even uglier than the act itself is the cruel and nasty aftermath that suicide leaves in its wake.  Especially when children are involved. 

Especially when the children involved are your children and the nasty wake was left by their father.  And part of the nasty wake left by their father is that you have to tell them yourself that he chose to end his own life.  Because you know what they will think.  You know your own children and you know the horrible thoughts that will go through their heads when you have to explain to them that no, his death was not accidental.  You know they will think it could have been their fault.  You know they will wonder if only they had been better kids.  You know they will wonder, “If only I had texted him on Valentine’s Day.”  You know that they will wonder what they could have done and wish that they had done. 

And because you know this about your children your heart will break into a million little pieces just at the mere thought of having to present them with this news.  And once again, that job is left to you.  Because you are their mother.  It is your job to tell them that their father put a bag over his head.  He put a bag over his head and rubber band around it and a tube of nitrous oxide stuck up in there.  You, as their mother, have to tell them this.  Presenting them with this news is your job because you are their mother.  And once again, you find yourself wondering how in the world you can do such a thing as to tell your children such ugly, ugly news.  But you must.  Because even though you don’t think you can, the counselor tells you that they must know the truth.  And, of course, as their mother, your heart breaks into a million tiny pieces just at the thought of having to do so. 

And so you do.  And let me tell you.  It is never easy to watch your children’s hearts break into a million tiny pieces.  But of course they do.  Because wouldn’t your heart break too if your mother told you this?

The Shit

This is a short essay to all of those very bad women out there who have ever had the shit beat out of them by their husbands.  And even though you are intelligent women, and strong women, and educated, independent women, he might still be able to make you feel like it is completely your fault that he beat the shit out of you.  You might really truly believe that it is your fault.  And he is so sure that the beating was your fault that he may threaten to just up and leave in the morning, because you are such a bad person.  So then you apologize vehemently for whatever it was that you did that caused the beating because you just want things to be okay. 

And you probably won’t tell a single soul about it.  Because it is very embarrassing to you that you are such a bad person that you made your husband so upset that he beat the shit out of you.  And you might find it very curious that nobody mentions your black eye or the cut across your nose or the bruises on your arms and legs. And that makes it even more embarrassing because you can tell that they are embarrassed for you.  So even if it only happens once, or maybe even only twice over a number of years, you might want to take a look at things.  Things may not be okay.  And you may want to stop kidding yourself that they are.  And believe me, I know as well as you do that we all just want things to be okay.  And because we want things to be okay we may go way out of our way to make them seem like they are okay.  To ourselves and to everyone else as well. 

But I’m just saying, you may want to reevaluate things because this type of behavior should get your Spidey Senses tingling.  And you just may want to talk to a trusted friend about it.  Or find a counselor who will listen.  Because you listen to me all you smart, strong, kind, intelligent women.  It is not okay for anyone to ever beat the shit out of you.  Not even your husband.

Sarah Kate

There was a lot of light in the hospital on the very dark night that Sarah Kate was born. There was light in the nurses who quietly and respectfully cared for us.  There was light in the doctor who delivered her when he quietly but adamantly shooed away the medical students who crowded in through the door to witness the birth.  There was light in the friend who stayed by our side until she was born and acted as her nurse, and congratulated us on our beautiful baby girl as she placed her into my arms. There was light in the lullabies we sang to her.   There was light in my baby’s eyes as she looked at us knowingly. There was light in her tiny squeaky breath that sounded like the mews of a newborn kitten.  There was light in the blanket we wrapped around her that my mother had made for her.   There was light in the three hours of life she bravely gave to us.  There was light in the delivery nurse who brought a tub of water and soap and a sponge, and then quietly slipped out so I could bathe her privately after she passed. There was light in the love we felt for her and in her beauty and in her chubby fingers and toes and in her head covered in blond-tipped dark hair.  So much light that night.   I still stand in awe at the stark contrast of all the light on that very very dark night.

Lost and Found

Last night I dreamed that he was alive again.  He was alive again and I couldn’t get away from him.  And in my dream I had to pretend that I was okay with it all.  And that I was happy that he was back.  In my dream I was smiling and pretending and trying to feel happy that he was back. 

But I couldn’t speak.  Not to him. I could talk to our children but I could not talk to him.  So I just kept smiling and talking to our children and pretending I was okay with him being back.  But I could not use my voice at all.  And my writing was in my dream and I wanted to read it to him for his approval, because I knew that others really liked the words I had written.  But when I tried to read it the words would not come out.  And the words that did come out didn’t sound right.  And it was so strange to me that in my dream I knew that many people really liked my writing and that my writing was powerful and good and true, but I couldn’t read it to him.

 The brilliance of my subconscious never ceases to amaze me.  It is so smart.  It knows what is right and true.  It knows that I can speak now that he is gone.  And not that I would have ever have chosen for it to be this way, but my subconcious knows that I have found my voice again.  A voice that was lost for so long…

Love

I remember the moment distinctly when I made the decision to let my baby go.  And even though it was nearly eleven years ago, I can still feel it like it was yesterday.  You don’t easily forget the moments that change you completely; the moments in which you give up a chunk of yourself out of love for another.  I was drying my hair.  It had been 4 weeks since we learned our baby was very sick.  And three weeks after the initial diagnosis, we had learned from the doctor that not only was she very sick, but she was going to die.  And not only was she going to die, but she was fated to die a broken death.  Yes, that’s right:  death by broken bones.  The doctors told us she might survive gestation, but if and when she did, she would die shortly after birth.  But either way, she would die of broken bones. 

So sit with that out there.  All you mothers or lovers of others.  Sit with that one…  If you have ever loved a child I’m sure you can understand the ridiculous, unimaginable pain of this situation. You could see her little broken bones, even in the sonograms.  Her tiny little bones with breaks all over.  Tell me, mothers, how do you sit with that?  With knowing that every movement your child makes within you could mean another broken bone?  And the irony lies in the decision I had to make.  Because it broke me, too. 

Yes, I remember the moment distinctly.  I was drying my hair and crying and loving the baby girl who was living inside of me.  And it came to me in a single instant, that I would give her this gift.  That I could, as her mother, allow her suffering to end.  And that I would do that for her.  And so I did.

I wrote this letter to her on June 1, 2003:

To Jillian

Tomorrow we bury your tiny, frail, perfect body in a wooden box under the soil.  How cruel and unfair that I don’t get to keep you—for you are mine and will always be.  How can I give you up so soon when all that I know of you comes from the gentle and rhythmic thumps I felt from within.  When you were born I couldn’t stop looking at you—more perfect than I could have ever imagined.  And still, I reach for you.  I held you and held you and then I had to let them take you away—how could they when you are mine and I never even got to know your smell?  I love you, Jillian, and my heart aches for you and my body cries milk for you.  Carrying you wreaked havoc upon me as my body fought to give you all you needed until I didn’t think I could be sick anymore.  But I would do it all over again for you—to have that time with you again—as your mother.  I would do it all again.

 I had to let you go because I couldn’t bear to let you suffer.  How unfair that I had to worry about what people would think when, for you, I made a decision that killed me inside so that I will never be me again.  How unfair to have to worry about what people would think when letting you go was for me, the ultimate sacrifice—my gift to you.  Now you can be at peace, but still, and always, I am reaching for you. 

My Jillian.  My baby.

So, where is the Light in Between on this one, you might ask?  The light is in the love.  And in truly realizing and understanding the depth of love…

You

Let me tell you Girls something.  You have that little voice deep inside of you that tells you things.  And it might be really quiet right now if you haven’t listened to it in a while.  In fact, you might think it is gone completely.  But I bet you still hear it every now and then.  It might pipe in just when you least expect it and try, once again, to remind you that you are good enough.  And it might be really hard to hear it at this point because you have let all of the louder voices on the outside drown it out.  It might be really hard to hear because you have spent so many years listening to the other noises.  Like the noises that tell you over and over again that you are not good enough.  The noises that tell you that you are selfish and lazy and not very smart.  The noises that tell you that you are not doing enough.  Even though you feel like you are doing a lot.

And a lot of these noises might come from the men in your life.  And you may have been told your whole life long that all of the men in your life, they speak for God.  And so, I guess you think you should probably listen to all of the men in your life if they speak for God.  Because, well, wouldn’t God know what he’s talking about?  So you might find yourself listening to all of the men in your life, even though you still have this voice in your gut that really wants to tell you something else.  You have this voice trying to tell you that you are good enough.  But believe me I know how hard it is to listen to that voice, when all of the other noises are telling you that you are otherwise.

When you have been taught your whole life that you are a woman and these men they speak for God so you should Bow Your Head and Say Yes, it might be really hard to believe that little but persistent voice inside of you.  But girls, you listen to that voice.  Because that voice is You.  And you, of all people, know what you are talking about.  You know that you are good enough and you know that you are not selfish and you know that you are doing enough.  So girls, even if you are women now and should know better than to listen to all of the other voices, you listen to that voice inside of you.  Because it is right and it is true and it is you.  And You are the only one who really knows.

To the Man at the Baby Pool

This is a belated letter from the mother who sat quietly watching from the side of the baby pool that hot sunny day last summer.  You may not have noticed her watching, but she was.  She noticed the little boy glued to your side.  She watched quietly as over and over again he wanted to show you his tricks.  She listened as he talked to you; this little boy who just kept wanting to talk to you.  And she noticed that even though you already had your hands full with a newborn and a toddler of your own, you acted like you cared about this little boy who would not leave your side.  The mother sat by quietly noticing as you watched him, and you listened to him, and you smiled at him.  And you acted like you cared.

And I hope, that even though she didn’t come over and say it, because it is really hard to say it to a stranger at the pool, but I hope that you could see the thank you in that mother’s eyes.  I hope you could feel the gratitude in her heart.  I hope you could sense the good you were doing for the little boy you didn’t know at the baby pool who wanted to show you everything.  Because that little boy whom you watched and patiently listened to, and didn’t seem to mind that he was stuck to your side, that mother watching is his mother.  And he has no Daddy.  And there are many things that mother watching can do for her little boy.  But she cannot be a Daddy.

No Fairytales

I cannot finish the story of the Boy and the Girl; of You and Me.  For that would mean an ending.  My heart cannot bear another ending.  Not now, not if I can help it.  So for me, for my heart, and for now, I must leave the final chapter unwritten.

I would love to write my own ending, a happy, fairytale ending for us.  But we both know that fairytales are make-believe; that there are no happy endings.  That life is full of dark and light in-between.  Sometimes the dark is overwhelming and seeks to smother us until we think that it will.  Until at the very last moment, somehow, a tiny crack of light breaks through.  And somehow, sometimes, when you least expect it and don’t even really believe there is light anymore, a giant gush of light will burst through and smother the dark.  Surprising the Dark, even.  And then you can breathe again because you remember what it feels like to be bathed in light, in warmth, in love.

And sometimes you even smile, and that is when you remember who you really are.  You find your soul again and remark to yourself at how the dark has changed you, but that when mixed with the Light at the end you are pleased with the change, amazed at the strength you find, that neither the Dark nor the Light could have bred on its own.  You smile because you remember how it felt at the bottom, thinking you could never surface, but knowing that you had to, somehow.  You smile because you know how it feels to know that you are okay.  You smile because you know how it feels for your heart to bleed tears, and how deeply and truthfully you can feel pain.  You smile because you feel alive.  You know what it means to live.  The Dark and the Light have taught you this.  You have been this light for me.  So let that be our Ending…for now.

A Poem Kept Waiting

I wrote this poem twelve years ago.  It was a formula poem where I had to follow a pattern. It was an assignment for a teacher training.   I cannot remember what the pattern was, but I followed it precisely and this is what I made.  I would not have admitted to you, or even to myself at the time, that I was the girl in the poem.  But it is undeniably right there for anyone to see.  Who knew there was a little ole me in there?  “Wow,” is all I can say, when I read this now.  Because it is so True and so Me and so “Ten-Years-From- Now”.  And at the time I didn’t even know it…

                         Waiting

She sits in the silence of her own heart beating

In the shadow of herself cast by a solitary bulb

Silence lulled by the surety of the steady drip

of a faucet, reminder of a broken promise

never kept.  Still it leaks and resonates in time

With her heart and she remains waiting.

Counting on her fingers, time spent waiting

She taps out the rhythm, beating

minutes absentmindedly; a mourning song for time

When love warmed her more than the bulb

Overhead.  What is that again, a promise?

She is brought back to now by the drip drip

drip.  Fingers drum the table to the drip

drip, drip, her eyes intent on waiting,

glazed over by the cloud of promise

forgotten.  A still heart beating

in tempo: drip, tap, beat and a faintly swaying bulb.

She never meant to be captured by time

Blaming herself this time

She turns from the table, her pain, the drip

To see in the light of the naked bulb

The door knob, unturning, it seems to know she’s waiting

And teases her in the glare of stillness beating.

I will not turn again; to herself this promise

And she rises to a promise

of her own:  forgotten for the last time

aware of her own heart beating,

Racing, she walks toward the drip

and turns the faucet-in-waiting

to a steady flow of resilience dancing under a bulb.

Cool water splashes, hands wet by water, tears.  The bulb

overhead illuminates her face; a new promise.

Fresh hands dried on a towel kept waiting,

hers is the hand turning the knob this time,

door left open behind her and the sound of a drip

growing fainter, her feet carried by her new heart beating

She wonders when time took charge of their promise.

Chasing and beating her shadow lengthened by the bulb

on the street.  no more drip, no more waiting.

Guidebook

There is no guidebook on how to tell your children that their father is dead.  Nobody has written one.  Because you would not have time to read it, anyway.  That news comes to you in a cruel and bitter flash, from complete strangers, and then you are expected, as all good mothers are, to know how to tell it to your children.  And in your first moments of grief and desperation and agony and anger you cry and scream at all who are in the room (the complete strangers who brought you the news), “How can I tell my babies?!  How do I do this??  Please, NO!  I cannot tell them this.  How can I??” 

And just in case this happens to you, I will let you know in advance, that no one will tell you how.  They will stare at you blankly and shrug their shoulders slightly and look uncomfortably down at their shoes.  Because they don’t know, either.  And they, as parents and/or lovers of others themselves, cannot begin to fathom how it can be done.  You see the sorrow in their eyes and you know that even though they don’t know you, they understand.  And you can tell by their eyes that they wish they did not have to bring you that news.  They wish they did not have to ask you into the room and gently guide you into a chair.  They wish it wasn’t their job to convince you to sit.  And before you even have the chance to wonder why they are at your school and why they want you in a chair and how they already know your name, they start in on the news. 

And when they are done speaking they wish they did not have to watch the aftermath.  Because they are parents and lovers too and they don’t have any answers.  And you can see it in their eyes that they care but they are helpless, like you are, because nobody wrote a guidebook on how to tell your children that their father is dead.

Crack it Open

My heart and my subconscious tell me that it is Time to write.  But how can I listen?  How can I do this?  For that is too much to bear.  How do I open my heart onto this paper, for if I open it up, even just a crack, it may break and my life, my pain, my loss, my love, my light, may all come gushing out, flooding the paper, the room, the world with so much…so much of Everything.  But my dreams tell me it is time and my body tells me that I cannot hold it all in any longer.  

So here I sit.  To write.  And who will want to listen?  Who will want to read of loss and hurt and loss and pain and loss and hurt again, and again, and of all the love and light in-between?  Readers like to read of Springtime and of Love and of Walks on the Beach and Barefoot Babies who coo and laugh and smile.  And who wants to read of the baby who never got to laugh and of the mother who had to decide when this would be so?  Of the mother who laid herself upon a table and allowed the doctor to use the needle that would stop her baby girl’s beating heart?  And of the baby who came after her whom the mother allowed to live, until she too, also died, a sad and broken death.  Who wants to read of the same mother who held her children’s hands as they walked to say their last goodbyes to their father, who was already gone?  And of the story of the Brothers who are also already gone?  Who can bear to read of such things…?  Maybe the same who have also lived and know that there are always cracks of light in-between.  Maybe they are my readers…  

So, no, this is not a story of laughter and rainbows and sunny walks on the beach.  But, this is the story of the Light in-between.  So, if you think you are my reader, then I will write for you...