onward

I've had the same sharpie marker on my desk for 7 years.

It's not terribly useful for my particular line of business but I keep it around for two particular purposes.  I use it to mark my file folders for projects that are finished and have been consigned to my forgetting-drawer and I use it to strike the days from my wall calendar.

Once upon a time I'd take the final moments of my Friday afternoon to strike through the entire weekend in the spirit of efficiency--FridaySaturdaySunday.  One less thing to take care of on Monday morning when, naturally I'd be back in the office because of-course-I'll-still-be-here-on-Monday-what-could-possibly-go-wrong-in-two-days-time?

Do I even need to say that I've changed my ways?  Does anyone who reads here take a single day/hour/minute/second for granted anymore?

My new world-view has imbued my sharpie with magical powers.  It is now the destroyer of time and instrument of doom.

****

We're rounding third on year five and proceeding to home plate.  For those of you with half a set of twins, you'll be familiar with the annual, double-penetration mind-fuck of the weeks leading up to your child's birthday.

I'm really not one to compare scars but, folks, their birthday (and its concomitant stew of joy, love, logistics, sadness, and regret) still makes me feel like I'm turning inside-out and transforming into a wild beast.  By the time C blows out the 7 candles on her cake (1 for R and 1 for good luck) I'll be ready to howl at the moon.

****

We took another road-trip to Kentucky to visit friends and family this year.  It wasn't the 2-week-long funeral/wedding extravaganza of 2011 but the trip wasn't completely devoid of drama.

On  the first leg of our trip we saw an overturned minivan and an abandoned car that burst into flames from the extreme heat.  As that insane, inland hurricane passed through West Virginia, we hurried off the elevated highway to take shelter in a Wendy's. Disasters small and large everywhere but we managed to emerge unscathed.

The night before our return trip, C and I went to bed early while T stayed up to talk with his mom.  I had a couple of books but C didn't want to read.  She wanted to talk about her birthday and how it was only 6 weeks away and all of the things she'd do once she turned 5 like chew gum and start kindergarten and all of the birthday party supplies that we could get once we got home from Kentucky.

Meanwhile, inside a nondescript, beige cubicle, deep in the bowels of a government office building in Philadelphia, an evil sharpie marker twitched to life.

I should probably be encouraged that, in spite of everything, C still trusts that the sun will rise and that the next few weeks will come off without a hitch but I have to admit that I slept very poorly that night.  I wasn't really crying but it was like my head was so filled with worry that it started to leak.  The tears caught in my hair as I stared at the ceiling and sent a silent warning to the fates, "Leave her alone.  She's just a kid.  She doesn't remember."

****

I'm just going to end this one by noting that my trusty macbook pro died at the end of May, precluding my participation in the 'right where i am' commenting bonanza.  I haven't even been able to maintain my normal schedule of spotty posting and delayed commenting and, rather than try to make up for lost time, I've decided to just cut bait.  Not that you're all sitting around waiting for me to eject nuggets of wisdom via blogger, but, I didn't tumble down the basement stairs to my untimely demise and I think I'm back to normal operations.

Now...on to August...

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.

I went to the woods...

...to set up my soapbox and spout off as if I know anything about anything.

That's right, y'all, I've emerged from my little cave and written a guest post at Glow in the Woods about how R's nothing became more like everything.

Now I will go and breathe into a paper bag until my terror subsides.

Lullabies

C has taken to singing "All the Pretty Horses" at night as she falls asleep. I lie next to her in bed and sing along in a funny voice to keep myself from melting into a puddle.

T must have taught it to her. I didn't even know this song before I she was born. It wasn't in my family's repertoire. I think of it as being somewhat more American than we are. I've imagined my forbears on westbound, oceangoing vessels and on foot, trudging through Ellis Island or walking to the mill, lunchpail in hand but, somehow, I've never pictured any of them atop or behind a horse. We're city folk. We don't sing about horses, pretty or otherwise.

...goooo to slee-eep little bay-bee...when you waaaake, you shall have, aaaaall the pretty, little, horse-ses...

Maybe it's because I picture T hearing this song as a little baby with his young, shell-shocked parents. Or maybe it's just just the way C sings it with such commitment in her warbly little voice. Whatever the reason, this song destroys me every time.

If this were an old-fashioned, pen-and-ink journal, you'd see little smeary teardrops all over this page.

I'm assuming that this song is actually about a baby who doesn't want to stop playing with toy horses ahead of naptime. And mom or dad is just doing the normal parent bargaining thing--you can play with them again after your nap, for Pete's sake! Or, hell, maybe it's real horses and a coach and six was a common household possession back in the day, like a pre-Industrial Revolution version of the SUV. I'm a little out of my depth here.

When I hear it, I picture dozens of horses frolicking alongside a sun-dappled pond and it feels so...aspirational. Less 'Mommy needs you to sleep so that she can fold the laundry' and more 'Great things await you, baby. Mommy is going to work on securing your marvelous future while you take a little nap.'

****

I want amazing things for C. I'd crawl across hot coals and broken glass and killer bees to get her those horses or anything she wants.

But mostly, I want her to keep waking up.

I want to believe that she will always wake up.

****

I've always been a little bit nuts. When I was 4, I did not want anyone else picking out my clothes (or my jewelry). I can't tolerate noisy chewing or gratuitous hugging. I eat my M&Ms in a very specific order and, yes, I will share, but, no, you cannot have any of the red ones. Much to T's (and C's) disappointment, I can't quite say "I love you" without tacking a sigh onto the end. You know, that sigh that transforms it into something more like, "I love you, ok? Please don't make me say it."

In short, there were so many other, better, old-fashioned ways I could have screwed my daughter(s) up. I can almost imagine an alternate future where C and R gripe about me in a late-night, wine-fueled bitch session or an even more distant future where they gather all of their own kids around and laugh about me and my strange ways.

I fantasize about them together, ganging up on me and bruising my feelings a bit. I can't believe it will never happen. That they will never know each other. That I couldn't keep them together.

I want my old, garden-variety failures back.

I want a bright future for C but I mostly want to erase the sad parts of her past.

****

She wants me to sing the song to her while I rock her like a baby. I do the best I can, breathing slowly, taking long pauses, and thinking about mundane tasks to avoid thinking about how it was when she actually was a baby.

Her legs stick out at a ridiculous angle and my knees ache from her weight. She's all sharp angles and muscles now.

"Where did I put my arms then?" she asks and I struggle to remember.

"Your arms were shorter. You were mostly greedy eyes and an open mouth. I could hold you in one hand."

She smiles and does her best to tuck her arms in and make her eyes wider. I remember willing her to grow, trying to imagine her one year, two years, three years older, believing that she'd be safe once she wasn't a baby anymore.

"Was I teeny as a crumb?"

"Teenier"

She smiles. She likes to hear me talk about how special she was. R doesn't really exist for her. I have to remember that. She has very limited ideas of before and a whole lot of after stretched out ahead of her.

"Keep singing."

I fight my way through but it's a lost cause.

"Mama, are you crying?"

"Just because I'm happy, boo-boo."

The Difference

I dream about them. My dad more so than R but, I've seen both of them.

Most of the time I just note them in passing. Duck-duck-duck-deceased family member-duck-duck--GOOSE!!

Maybe it's just because I tend to have elaborate, Busby Berkeley-type dreams. When you glimpse your dead father or daughter in a giant kickline composed of everyone you've ever met, it's hard to focus on gradations of bizarre.

Sometimes the dreams are slower and I have time to digest Dad or R's presence.

My recurrent dream is a house that looks ordinary from the outside but is full of wonders on the inside--secret, underground tunnels that lead to places I'd forgotten I loved, a private airport in the attic, a kitchen equipped with house elves. Sometimes I fly or breathe underwater. Once, I made out with Ira Glass. His giant glasses got all fogged up and he told me I was sooooo interesting. Yup...love me some Ira.

I think a lot of people probably dream about the unattainable (although I'm pretty sure I could have hit that if circumstance had brought me and Mr. Glass together at just the right time). And it feels amazing doesn't it? Not just the flying or deep sea exploration itself but, that inevitable moment of cognition when you think, "Holy shit! I can motherfucking fly!"

When I dream about Dad or R walking around whole and healthy it's indescribable. Yet, it's how I used to feel all of the time.

I've been running uphill for so long that I've forgotten what it feels like to coast along, believing that things will go according to plan, smiling in recognition at my fellow humans.

To be unencumbered.

To be free of the memory of beeping machines and disinfectant smells.

To not know what a doctor looks like when he or she is about to deliver the worst news possible.

To get riled up about money or academic achievement or anything other than disease and death.

To feel like I know something.

I listen to the news while I cook dinner and I hear people griping about government spending on entitlements and welfare abuse. I want some sort of magic mist to settle over America and make everyone feel lost and hopeless...together. How long would it take before we recognize that we have to lay aside judgment and find ways to help each other?

I wish I had some coherent solution but I just end up wanting to punch people in the face. Like, "Wake-up, asshole! You're not deserving. You're lucky." Like, "You didn't deserve that broken nose, did you? Well, there's a little taste of unlucky for you. Hope you have insurance. Hope some doctor who went to med school on the taxpayer dime is willing to help you." I wonder if I could get a grant for my little project...

I've known unlucky for almost 12 years now. And that's just a third of my life. And it's been mixed in with a healthy dose of lucky. Some people, too many people, start out unlucky and never manage to find the other side of it. I wonder what they dream about.

I can set Dad aside most of the time. Fifty-eight years of middle-class living. Hard work for sure but some results to go with it. If I could have a guarantee of 22 more years in my own home with my job and my family, I'd take it and count myself fortunate. But then I remember how he worked until he couldn't anymore because he was afraid of losing his insurance or losing access to his doctors if he went out on disability. On his last day at work he couldn't even climb the 4 stairs to get to his office. Two weeks later he was dead. He deserved better.

And R. What if she had survived NEC and open heart surgery? What if we were just wrapping up five years of oxygen tanks, feeding tubes, and 'round the clock medical care? How would we be able to work and take care of her? What would she deserve?

When I see them, whole and healthy in my dreams, it's like an out-of-body experience. Flying and breathing underwater and celebrity make-out sessions fade in the face of normal expectations fulfilled. Alive. Healthy. I am a world-killer.

I actually was a world-killer once. Maybe not the smartest or most beautiful or wealthiest but lucky enough that I didn't even recognize lucky. My world felt like something that would come when I whistled and would submit to my will. And, back then, I thought it was something that I had earned. Something that anyone could figure out if they just took the time or made the effort.

It's taken 12 years for me to realize that I was never that clever. Nobody is that clever.

So, now what?

What to Expect...

...When Nothing's Gone as Expected and You are Still Figuring It Out Over 4 Years Later: A Helpful Guide for Mothers of Children with Siblings Who Died in Infancy

Chapter 12 - Pre-K

You should expect to see more exclamation points than you ever thought possible in a paragraph about your dead child.

TO: Pre-K Teacher

FROM: TracyOC

Mrs. H,

I just wanted to give you a heads-up that C is bringing a picture of her sister, R, for show-and-tell tomorrow (for 'R' week). R was C's twin sister who died a couple of weeks after they were born. I'm not sure if she'll mention that part. I'm also not sure what picture she'll choose but I'll steer her towards one that has as little medical equipment in it as possible. At the very least, I can guarantee that R will be alive in the photo that C brings in.

I don't think you have to worry about C getting upset. She's pretty matter-of-fact about the whole thing--because there isn't really any other way to be about it, I suppose.

We tried to talk her out of this but, we didn't want to push too hard. We try to be as open about R's death as possible and let C guide our discussions. Every once in a while that means that R gets mentioned in an awkward situation.

My guess is that most of the kids won't even realize what's going on but I didn't want you to be blindsided.

Thanks,

T

TO: TracyOC

FROM: Pre-K Teacher

Thanks so much for the email. I LOVE how matter of fact children are about death! They are so truly accepting! I was aware that C had a twin sister that had lived for a short time at her birth,however, I did not know her name. I think it is so cute that she remembered R for R week! Don't worry -I am sure the other children will be just as accepting as C is. Thanks for the heads up though-in truth I can't wait to see a picture of R-It will be so neat to see how much they looked alike.

By the way- were C and R born early?(I just want to be sure we have the story right).

I am sure C will do a great job at it.

Mrs. H

I can't really form a coherent thought about this. It's funny and baffling--maybe even a little refreshing. I can't tell if I should be offended. I don't know. Just seemed worth sharing.

Sprung

There's a little crack of light along the horizon when I walk to the train in the mornings now and a mist of promise and intention clinging to the treetops. Each cool breeze has a hint of warmth at the back.

Spring is here. And just in time too. T's been down for the count with pneumonia and pleurisy for a couple of weeks. For an otherwise healthy 40-year-old man, pneumonia probably isn't something to get overly worried about but, I'm afraid I'll never be able to take a visit to the hospital lightly again. As I waited to hear the verdict on his chest x-rays and CT scans and a bone scan for a closer look at an area of increased bone density on his ribs I learned that I was wrong about something. Seems I haven't lost all of my ability to expect after all--I am still completely capable of expecting the worst.

Fortunately it looks like he's on his way to a full recovery and spring is coming.

Every year, just when I grow itchy with thoughts of hopelessness and tired of listening to my family eat soup, comes relief. The days grow longer and I resolve to stop plotting my escape from misery and slurping.

I feel anxious in spite of my four-and-a-half year old resolution not to get ahead of myself.

From here spring seems like the most unbelievable thing. Death and rebirth and it happens every single year. Incredible.

We should all be gawking in wonder at the annual miracle but we're still about our business. Even those of us who seemingly have more cause for wonder.

Circumstance dictates that I plod, one shovelful at a time, in a state of constant under-wonder until all of my piles have been dealt with. Laundry, meetings, errands, laundry. "Look up," says my inner optimist, "Look up and see the daffodils blooming." I look up from a sinkful of dishes and see a drainage problem in my back yard. And I remember to worry about what spring will mean for the overgrown shrub that's pushing against the power lines along the side of our house.

I don't plod because I lack the imagination to wonder. I plod because, if I think about any of it for too long, I'll exceed the limits of my envelope. The everything that my daughters showed me will expand to its full size and I'll come apart at my hinges. As I float away into the ether, the laundry basket will slip right through the spaces between my particles and T and C will be forced to wear dirty underwear for all eternity.

I want to lie facedown on the grass as it comes back to life. Sink my fingers down through the thatch, into the soil and let it ooze through the tiny space between nail and finger. Push my nose beneath the greening clover and inhale until spring has been applied directly to my brain and I've learned the trick of it.

Resurrection.

I wonder if C knows the trick.

Part of me thinks that I could drop her off in the woods and her fairy kin would come and claim her or that should stop forcing her to eat vegetables wrap her in gold cloth and flower garlands and build a shrine around her instead.

My logical brain reminds me that we've all had our near misses with wool socks on wooden stairs and daydreaming in traffic. Her 'almost' was closely observed and exhaustively documented but that doesn't make her survival any more unexpected than anyone else's.

And there's the other side of this thought too. If C is touched with magic, what's left for R? Was she less than magic or did some other kind of dark magic require a trade to keep C alive?

I try to tell myself that there's probably no trick to it at all. It's only a limited rebirth, after all.The lawn mowers will bring an end to this line of magical thought and remind me of the truth. All of these big doings, whether animal or vegetable, are stored inside vessels that are totally inadequate for the task. And when it's over, it's over.

Despite the plodding, I can never quite make it stick.

Last spring C and I took a walk around the neighborhood to enjoy the weather. As we approached our houe, the giant Linden tree at the end of the block flung its fruits at her. A cloud of potential in the guise of electric green bracts swirled around her tiny body as her hair floated up and she spun and giggled.

The hardworking, yardworking neighbors paused over their rakes and pruning shears to watch. "My tree just said hi to you, little girl," said the owner of the tree.

Angie's Bea says that dead sisters go into the trees. C says that they fly.

Spring is coming and I say, "Maybe."