And I saw this.
And these were poking through the fence from a neighboring yard so I left them for R and Georgina.
And I thought of this.
And for the first time in a long time I was thankful for random chance.
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Day 11 or 741
August 25, 2007
They bustle about the tiny room, moving the wires and tubes that now constitute her major biological functions and I feel my body dissolve into static.
There’s information, hushed tones, more information, paperwork, a surprisingly casual atmosphere.
I kiss her little forehead and give an empty assurance that she’ll be ok. She doesn’t turn toward my voice.
The driver stands-up slowly, stretches and yawns. I can't decide if I'm reassured or terrified.
Now they’re gone and I re-enter my body—jerked back to reality by a hand on my shoulder.
“Two years from now, when she’s running around just like any other toddler, you won’t even remember this,” the nurse says and smiles. I stare at her and try unsuccessfully to transport myself to this magical future.
****
August 25, 2009
I know that I went to work today. I know that I attended one scheduled meeting, two impromptu meetings, and one farewell lunch. I know that I sent out memos, scheduled future meetings, dialed the phone and answered the questions. I know only because my inbox and my calendar tell me so. I can't really remember any of it.
Most things don't even make a dent anymore.
Tomorrow I won't remember what we discussed in the meetings or how I answered the questions or what I agreed to do next. I might remember what I ate at lunch but I probably won't remember what I said.
I'll remember dancing around the living room to showtunes with C.
I'll remember exactly how the sunlight made R's eyelashes sparkle.
I'll remember reading this and thinking, “Maybe that's my problem.”
They bustle about the tiny room, moving the wires and tubes that now constitute her major biological functions and I feel my body dissolve into static.
There’s information, hushed tones, more information, paperwork, a surprisingly casual atmosphere.
I kiss her little forehead and give an empty assurance that she’ll be ok. She doesn’t turn toward my voice.
The driver stands-up slowly, stretches and yawns. I can't decide if I'm reassured or terrified.
Now they’re gone and I re-enter my body—jerked back to reality by a hand on my shoulder.
“Two years from now, when she’s running around just like any other toddler, you won’t even remember this,” the nurse says and smiles. I stare at her and try unsuccessfully to transport myself to this magical future.
****
August 25, 2009
I know that I went to work today. I know that I attended one scheduled meeting, two impromptu meetings, and one farewell lunch. I know that I sent out memos, scheduled future meetings, dialed the phone and answered the questions. I know only because my inbox and my calendar tell me so. I can't really remember any of it.
Most things don't even make a dent anymore.
Tomorrow I won't remember what we discussed in the meetings or how I answered the questions or what I agreed to do next. I might remember what I ate at lunch but I probably won't remember what I said.
I'll remember dancing around the living room to showtunes with C.
I'll remember exactly how the sunlight made R's eyelashes sparkle.
I'll remember reading this and thinking, “Maybe that's my problem.”
Friday, August 21, 2009
Looking Back
“I can't know what it's like to feel like my body failed me.”
It sounded so strange spoken right out in the open--opinion converted into fact. He didn't come up with this idea on his own. He was paraphrasing me. But, hearing the words come out of T's mouth, I suddenly realized that they aren't true. I don't feel like my body failed me.
I wish I could blame it on my body—on some physiological quirk beyond my control.
I feel like my judgment failed me.
So pleased was I with the valiant effort I had made to rescue my girls, I paused right in the middle of the tracks to admire my reward. C--feisty enough to defeat a malfunctioning umbilical cord. R--patient and strong—willing to suffer to save her sister. And the tiny diapers and pajamas—I guess the train that smacked into us wasn't as taken with them as I was.
I should have asked for another week. I should have stayed at her bedside for every minute of those twelve days. I should have held her when she took her final unassisted breath. I should have stopped them from cutting her open for that pointless surgery.
My body was perfectly capable.
I didn't think that it would go this way.
I didn't think it could happen to us.
I didn't think.
And now I can't forget.
It sounded so strange spoken right out in the open--opinion converted into fact. He didn't come up with this idea on his own. He was paraphrasing me. But, hearing the words come out of T's mouth, I suddenly realized that they aren't true. I don't feel like my body failed me.
I wish I could blame it on my body—on some physiological quirk beyond my control.
I feel like my judgment failed me.
So pleased was I with the valiant effort I had made to rescue my girls, I paused right in the middle of the tracks to admire my reward. C--feisty enough to defeat a malfunctioning umbilical cord. R--patient and strong—willing to suffer to save her sister. And the tiny diapers and pajamas—I guess the train that smacked into us wasn't as taken with them as I was.
I should have asked for another week. I should have stayed at her bedside for every minute of those twelve days. I should have held her when she took her final unassisted breath. I should have stopped them from cutting her open for that pointless surgery.
My body was perfectly capable.
I didn't think that it would go this way.
I didn't think it could happen to us.
I didn't think.
And now I can't forget.
Monday, August 17, 2009
Reminders
Looking at it now it's so obvious--the truth that we were too hopeful to see and that the doctors and nurses were to polite to share.
The instinct to test my mettle is irresistible--like putting weight on a sprained ankle or running your tongue over a sore tooth.
So it sits on my desk.
It kills me a little bit every time I look at it but it keeps her alive.
The instinct to test my mettle is irresistible--like putting weight on a sprained ankle or running your tongue over a sore tooth.
So it sits on my desk.
It kills me a little bit every time I look at it but it keeps her alive.
Friday, August 14, 2009
Happy Birthday(s)
I don't even have to look at the photo because the image is burned into the movie screen inside my head. The only picture of my girls together. Moments after birth, bundled up in their comically large hats in the OR, both of them looking a little less than healthy and a little less than happy but still alive by some miracle.
This image was in my head for the weeks I spent willing them to grow and thrive while they were still inside my body and I doubt it will ever leave me.
Today, on the 2nd anniversary of their birth I think of the two of them, linked forever in my mind and my heart.
Today marks two years since we charged up the hill together unaware of the sheer drop waiting at the top.
Today marks two years of trying to hold on and learning to let go.
Happy Birthdays to my precious girls.
This image was in my head for the weeks I spent willing them to grow and thrive while they were still inside my body and I doubt it will ever leave me.
Today, on the 2nd anniversary of their birth I think of the two of them, linked forever in my mind and my heart.
Today marks two years since we charged up the hill together unaware of the sheer drop waiting at the top.
Today marks two years of trying to hold on and learning to let go.
Happy Birthdays to my precious girls.
Monday, August 10, 2009
Disclaimer
I'm going to add this blog to the Glow in the Woods blogroll this week to commemorate C and R's second birthday. This means that someone else (other than me and my ever-supportive spouse) might actually read it...yikes!
A few notes for anyone who may be reading--
1) I'm a grammar disaster. I probably shouldn't even use the word 'grammar' to modify 'disaster' but there you have it. I fling commas and fragments around like confetti and can't figure out the difference between a dependent and independent clause. My inner thoughts and feelings spilled out in electronic form for all to see...no problem. My poor grasp of the English language--shameful. (yes, it is my native tongue)
2) It's been almost two years since R died. My condition, therefore, is downgraded from distraught madwoman to shower-crier. If I had attempted to write about any of the events surrounding C and R's birth in real-time it would have been a train-wreck--piles upon piles of rage and contempt--not helpful for anyone. I'm amazed by folks who have the presence of mind to write thoughtfully as the flames are licking at their heels--amazed.
3) I'm not really like Ms. Mommicked in my everyday life. I come here to vent the less-than-happy thoughts rolling around in my head. Remarkably I've gotten to a place where I think about things other than R's death and C's safety/welfare/mortality during the course of the day. Yesterday I injured my foot while dancing to this. Someday I may progress enough that I'll remember to warm up first.
So, what's a lousy writer with waning grief issues doing writing a blog?
We have to support each other.
I may not be the most eloquent writer. You may not agree with my opinions. At some point I'll run out of things to say and dust bunnies will collect in my corner of the internets. I may, however, have traveled the same path that you're on right now.
You're not alone--even if you're stuck with a blowhard who can't use a semi-colon properly and lets her precious, surviving child watch frenetic TV programs.
You're not alone.
A few notes for anyone who may be reading--
1) I'm a grammar disaster. I probably shouldn't even use the word 'grammar' to modify 'disaster' but there you have it. I fling commas and fragments around like confetti and can't figure out the difference between a dependent and independent clause. My inner thoughts and feelings spilled out in electronic form for all to see...no problem. My poor grasp of the English language--shameful. (yes, it is my native tongue)
2) It's been almost two years since R died. My condition, therefore, is downgraded from distraught madwoman to shower-crier. If I had attempted to write about any of the events surrounding C and R's birth in real-time it would have been a train-wreck--piles upon piles of rage and contempt--not helpful for anyone. I'm amazed by folks who have the presence of mind to write thoughtfully as the flames are licking at their heels--amazed.
3) I'm not really like Ms. Mommicked in my everyday life. I come here to vent the less-than-happy thoughts rolling around in my head. Remarkably I've gotten to a place where I think about things other than R's death and C's safety/welfare/mortality during the course of the day. Yesterday I injured my foot while dancing to this. Someday I may progress enough that I'll remember to warm up first.
So, what's a lousy writer with waning grief issues doing writing a blog?
We have to support each other.
I may not be the most eloquent writer. You may not agree with my opinions. At some point I'll run out of things to say and dust bunnies will collect in my corner of the internets. I may, however, have traveled the same path that you're on right now.
You're not alone--even if you're stuck with a blowhard who can't use a semi-colon properly and lets her precious, surviving child watch frenetic TV programs.
You're not alone.
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
Physics
She is a super-dense form of matter—a star burst from the center of my body.
I pick her up and toss her around amazed that I can lift something with such impressive gravity.
Her awesome mass bends time--a colicky night feels like a decade but two years pass in a blink.
Her screams and giggles set the planets in motion.
Entire galaxies explode into being on her every breath.
With the laws of physics reduced to rubble at her feet it seems like it would be nothing to reach into some other dimension and retrieve what was lost.
Everything starts as a handful of dust.
I pick her up and toss her around amazed that I can lift something with such impressive gravity.
Her awesome mass bends time--a colicky night feels like a decade but two years pass in a blink.
Her screams and giggles set the planets in motion.
Entire galaxies explode into being on her every breath.
With the laws of physics reduced to rubble at her feet it seems like it would be nothing to reach into some other dimension and retrieve what was lost.
Everything starts as a handful of dust.
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