Tuesday, May 29, 2012

right where i am: 4 years, 9 months, 12 days

Update:  This post is part of Angie's project at still life with circles, right where i am 2012.  Here's my post from this same project in 2011.  Kept it short this year in hopes that I'd have plenty of time to get around and comment on all of the other posts.


I suppose some would say that I'm actually at 4 years and 9 months since R died on the 26th and it's the 26th.  But, honestly, I regret the circumstances of her short life just as much as I grieve her death--maybe more. So, 12 days it is.

I went back and read last year's post before writing this year's post and I've decided that I'm ridiculously predictable.  Would you believe that I've engaged in the same activities and circled around the same themes in my head over the course of an entire year?  Well, if you read this blog, you probably aren't surprised to hear that at all---yeah, yeah, infinite possibility, sorrow and joy, grouchy dog, left-wing politics.

When I search my closet today there will be some new stuff.  I went shopping last week and bought some clothes that are neither black nor grey.  Two of my new shirts have ruffles.  I still want that monastic robe but mostly to hide my middle-aged spread.  I smiled at the youthful stupidity of the returned college students who drove down my street this week towing a friend on a skateboard (with no helmet) rather than worrying about their soon-to-be bereft mothers and sisters.  C asked me how I know she isn't really R last week and I didn't worry about her psychological health.

I've turned a corner this year.

R is just my daughter.  Sure, she's dead but that's no longer the operative word.  She is my first born.  C's twin.  A full member of this family with all of the associated rights and privileges.

I want to lounge around and watch TV with her snuggled on my lap, poking her big kid elbows into my ribs.  I want her to hide a big-eyed unicorn toy behind the shower curtain to scare the bejeezus out of me.  I want to argue with her about green beans and the importance of wearing a hat in the sun.

I can't do any of those things with her.

But I don't do any of those things with most of the people I know and, someday, I won't do them with C either.  And it's alright.

It's alright.

I can love her just the same anyway.

29 comments:

  1. So, I wrote this on Saturday but forgot to publish. Hence the weird 3-day discrepancy. I do understand how calendars and time work

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  2. Calendars and time are sometimes a mystery...

    "R is just my daughter." Yes. Perhaps we turned similar corners this year.

    Thank you for sharing Right Where You Are.

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  3. I feel very much the same, Tracy.
    Thanks for sharing. xo

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  4. The end of your post bowled me right over - I probably should have expected it. You give such a clear sense of where you are - I think about you and your ruffled shirts and your conversations with C, and I smile. And tied up in this is how much R is a part of your life, how you love her, and the way you describe it is somehow perfect. Thank you for this.

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  5. C asked me how I know she isn't really R last week and I didn't worry about her psychological health. And, with that sentence, a whole new field of previously uncontemplated worry opens up before me.

    I am also ridiculously predictable. Something about time, something about love, something vaguely sappy and magical, still sad, still too many words. Taa daa! Enjoy folks! Because it's not like you've never read it before is it?!

    However, I LOVE reading your posts and, to me, they are all different. PLEASE don't stop writing them.

    And what I wouldn't give for one poke of her elbow. Or one fight about beans. Or even one scary unicorn lurking behind the shower curtain. Given that she's dead, I'll even settle for that.

    But yes, these things, they pass. They pass and they slip through our fingers. The babies, the children, the teenagers, the young women. But it's alright. Because the love doesn't change. Dead doesn't trump absolutely everything. Well, not always anyway. See. Time. Love. Even in my comments.

    Thank you Tracy x

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    1. Time. Love. I hope you don't stop writing either.

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  6. I hope I can get to a place where I can say that my Florence was my daughter, not my dead daughter. I think I will, and posts like this give me hope.Thank you. x

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  7. Thanks for reading and taking the time to comment, everybody.

    This post feels a little out of the ordinary for me. Usually I blather on a bit and tell at least one seemingly unrelated story but, I just wanted to give it straight up this year. I got to a point where it felt like I was holding R'd death against her somehow or making her my excuse to not doing things I ought to be doing. It just felt like time to focus on everything else about her.

    @catherine - don't worry too much about the identity thing. once C realized that we'd have to change out all of her books and toys labeled with her name, she dropped it. I expect we'll have many spells of pretending to be R over the years that will end similarly.

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  8. That identity thing is a twin thing. I still think about whether I am really Angie or Kelly, or if we have a lost triplet. I used to ask my mom incessantly about it. We were convinced there is one more of us. If you look close enough, all my writing is about identity. It is somewhat of an obsession, as it is with most twins I know. I related to this post up and down, I am even purchasing clothes that are not black or gray too, though robes would be best. I could take each line and relate to it, but just thank you. For writing it, for being my friend, for talking about this. xo

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    1. I've been thinking that C will probably have to sit down with you and your sister some day to get the low down on twin-ness.

      Thank you for the opportunity to write about this stuff and for being my friend and everything else.

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  9. "I can just love her the same anyway".
    Well that's just it, isn't it? I feel like I've been fumbling around in this community for nearly four years and boom... this is exactly what I've been wanting to say!
    xo

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  10. This post gives me so much hope... I hope that one day I will think of Aidan as my son, not my dead son.
    Thinking of you and both your daughters.

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  11. I love how you think of her as just your daughter. I hope I can think the same of Charlotte someday. You are in such a good place, a firm place of acceptance and comfort with the grief. I hope to be here someday.

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  12. Argh. I'm up to you in the list, commenting as I go, and realising more and more that I thought I was in this community and I'm not. I haven't, for reasons I don't understand, partaken of the help and support that was here. Here you are, with people I know commenting and saying ah ha! Yes! And this is my first visit.

    Dammit.

    Clearly I should have been reading you. You love her anyway. It's so flipping obvious. Yes :) thank you :)

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  13. I'm going to batch up this next reply.

    First, for those of you I haven't met before, I'm so sorry that your baby(ies) died. I wish that they were still here with you.

    If I could boil all of this down to one statement about grief and acceptance, I'd say that it's not anything like I thought it would be. OK, it needs two statements--there's no right way to do it.

    For me, it's taken a lot of confusion and hurt and anger just to come around to a place where I can feel just love for R.

    Now I'm going to step out on thin ice and mention my surviving daughter. A lot of this has to do with C. I used to think that C made me happy and R made me sad. But, C doesn't make me 100% happy 100% of the time. The time she bit her cousin and drew blood, I was not happy. I wish she hadn't inherited my extreme type-A personality. These are small disappointments compared to death but they've helped me understand all of the facets of acceptance. They are my children and it's my job to love them no matter what (although we did fix that biting problem). I think I would have arrived at the same spot if they'd both died but it would have a different flavor.

    I'll be around to comment on all of these 'right where i am' posts soon.

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  14. Tracy, you have such a gift for nailing it. Every. Time.

    "R is just my daughter. Sure, she's dead but that's no longer the operative word. She is my first born. C's twin. A full member of this family with all of the associated rights and privileges."

    Yes. Calla is my only girl. She's part of our family. She is what she is, and she ain't what she ain't. Very existential.

    Love to you, friend.
    xo

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  15. It sucks. It always sucks. It will never not suck. I'm so sorry R is not with you. C sounds like a beautiful little girl. And I know she has an awesome mommy. Hugs to you, friend.

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  16. I just read through your comments. You are very thought-provoking in your writing. Thank you for sharing. Thank you for giving me something to think about.

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  17. "I can love her just the same anyway." This is what I want other people to understand. Thanks for sharing - I've been reading here for a few months and you always give me something to think about.

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  18. Such a beautiful post... I know what you mean when you say "I want to lounge around and watch TV with her snuggled on my lap, poking her big kid elbows into my ribs"... I wish that I could do that with Gabrielle too. You're right... our little ones are a precious member of our family and our love for them will always be there. Thank you for stopping by my blog and thinking of you xoxo

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  19. My daughter lost her identical sister as well and we are four years out as well. I am in a similar place, used to my grief, I guess and comfortable with the fact that my daughter was here and I don't have to prove her life to anyone and remembering her and loving her is enough.

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  20. thank you for participating in this project and sharing where you are....

    still waiting, hoping, to turn the corner you describe. I can barely think about purchasing (or wearing) clothes that aren't gray or black (or darkish olive green).

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  21. So very sorry for your loss. I have three babies in Heaven, one being my rainbow babies twin. While my loss was earlier in the pregnancy (and a fraternal twin) I still feel connected to other blms that have lost a twin too. I agree with your last line...though my Cameron is not here with Logan I can still love him/her the same as well as loving my other two angels. Grief is hard, I pray your journey brings you as much as peace as is possible. Thank you for sharing right where you are <3

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  22. You absolutely can, and I love that you are. Beautiful post!

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  23. I love how you love her just the same. I love Eva just the same. Even if some idiot tells me to stop talking about her I love her just the same. Thank you.
    Em

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  24. I've turned a corner this year.

    I was trying, in my post, to say the same thing - you said it so perfectly and beautifully. Loving them just the same anyway. YES. YES. That's it.

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  25. You have turned an amazing corner- and this line says it all so perfectly "
    R is just my daughter. Sure, she's dead but that's no longer the operative word. She is my first born. C's twin. A full member of this family with all of the associated rights and privileges."
    Thank you for all of you r kind comments on my blog.. sending love and light right back to you!

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  26. Never thought of being able to turn that corner and now have some hope that one day I will. Thank you for that. Loved this post, so glad you share with all of us.

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