1. When you saw the theme of trees for the month of September, what immediately came to your mind?
Honestly my thought was something along the lines of, "Ooooo, oooo, I have a lot of things to say about trees."
2. What kinds of words do you associate with trees?
Enduring, tough, adaptable
3. Of these words, do you associate any with yourself?
I don't necessarily think of myself as particularly tough or enduring by nature (perhaps by circumstance). I suppose I'm adaptable but, really, who isn't?
4. Have you been an outdoorsy person throughout your life?
In a former life, many years ago, I was an outdoor experiential educator. I spent a lot of time in the woods, teaching kids about biology, ecology, and our relationship with trees and plants. In fact, I built an entire curriculum on traditional medicinal uses and various edible wild plants. Now I spend most of my time indoors staring at a computer screen wondering if I could somehow get back to that former life.
5. How has your relationship with nature changed since your loss(es)?
On the one hand, I feel a certain kinship toward critters and the sorts of indignities they endure, e.g., storm-blown baby birds and squirrels, street trees with their bark scraped off by lawnmowers and car doors. I feel like we're all sort of trapped by fate and just getting by as best we can. On the other hand, I've actually been sort of pissed at a mother goose carelessly letting her 6(!) babies cross a busy road--doesn't she care about them?!
Overall, I feel like reflecting on the great variety of life on this planet and the very peculiar and amazing adaptations plants and animals exhibit is a good way to feel both inspired and humbled.
6. Did you plant a tree or bush in honor of your child?
Since R is actually named after a plant that grows relatively well in our neck of the woods, we've planted several little shrubs in her honor...mostly to good effect. My brother has had multiple fatalities of the same plant. He finally gave up because it was starting to creep him out.
Last year I found a tiny, volunteer red maple growing under the playground equipment we donated in R's honor. At the moment it's still in a temporary home at my Mom's house but I think we'll move it into our yard in the spring. I'm pretty nervous about moving it--what if it doesn't survive?
7. If you have planted a tree for your child, in what ways do you incorporate the tree into your life? If you haven't, what natural images do you associate with your loss? (Do you tend to it? Do you meditate or reflect under it? Do you places flowers by it?)
At the moment I just sort of fret about its safety and survival...sigh. But I have big plans for it.
8. Trees have also been used to represent families. Talk a bit about your own family tree.
I've been thinking a lot about my family tree lately and wondering how many of my foremothers endured babyloss or fertility issues. We don't exactly have a huge family and there are several childless great-aunts in the mix.
I grew up hearing about my great-uncle who died shortly after birth and how my great-grandmother knew he was going to die when she saw an owl outside the kitchen window and how my great-grandfather lied and said that the baby had been baptized so that he could be buried in the family plot. This story is a fairly good illustrative example of some key family characteristics. A tiny part of my brain is also confident that R is in good hands with my superstitious Grandmom and my white-lying Grandpop.
9. What are your feelings now about family trees and exploring your own lineage?
I can't say it's something I'm all that interested in. I like getting information in bits and pieces from various relatives at family gatherings.
10. The rings of trees fascinate me. I remember learning that in hard years, the rings were smaller, or darker than in years of good water. Describe the rings of your tree.
Over the last decade we've been on a 2-year cycle for death and mayhem. During the more mayhemish years I always remember a friend of mine who liked to say, "When it rains, it fuckin' pours." So, I guess we have alternating skinny and fat rings. But I'm hoping for a drought.
Sidenote: There is a spectacular sunrise at the moment and the dog is insisting that we go for a closer look. No time to edit or correct anything...hope I did ok.
Side-sidenote: After letting this sit for a while I realized that I sound like an ignoramus when saying that I'm not interested in learning more about my family tree. Of course I'm interested. I think I mean that I prefer the casual/serendipitous approach rather than the formal research and interviewing. There's nothing quite like finding out that you're related to the Amazing Kreskin at a random family gathering. I'm sure no one in the family would have owned up to this fact if they thought I was recording it.
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Monday, September 13, 2010
Infinite Possibility...Part 2
So last week I was chatting with the New Guy at Work (NGaW) and he mentions that someone was arrested back in April while poking around the dumpster outside the Large Hadron Collider (LHC) and that he CLAIMED TO BE FROM THE FUTURE and subsequently DISAPPEARED from his room at the mental health facility where he was detained.
I found this whole thing surprising for several reasons:
1) I was unaware that something so bizarre had happened for almost 5 months
2) NGaW is also nerdy enough to read up on the LHC
3) People apparently still wear tweed in the future rather than head-to-toe silver lame (imagine the accent mark, folks)
Do you ever feel like you have a choice to make? You could go on with your skeptical views, you can listen to the teacher and assume that some things are just not possible...or you could exit the herd, leave the other sheeple behind, and open your eyes to the possibility that ripples out there along the edges.
Kit-kats for everyone in a communist chocolate hellhole!?! I wonder if it means what we understand it to mean or if language has just evolved.
****
Imagine a sunny day at the beach with ginormous, hurricane waves, an opinionated 3-year-old, and a whole bunch of people who can't see how desperately you want to be alone. Imagine a long walk down the beach and a wrestling match in the public restroom (with said 3-year-old), a large cup of french fries and a threatening horde of gulls tracking your every move. Struggle to think only happy thoughts about this precious child--the antidote to every rotten feeling you've had over the past 3 years.
Feel your nerves stretch under the strain. Pluck one. It's a high C.
Finish the fries, hand the kid a bucket and shovel, sit down on the chair that you lugged all the way here and haven't used once. Don't cave in. Take a break. She can get over it.
Look up for no particular reason. See a lone butterfly fighting the wind. Watch it beat a drunken path across the dunes. Smile as it approaches and smacks your grouchy daughter right in the face. Try not to cry when she laughs. Wave good-bye as it flies away.
Watch it disappear into the rippling edge.
Feel better.
I found this whole thing surprising for several reasons:
1) I was unaware that something so bizarre had happened for almost 5 months
2) NGaW is also nerdy enough to read up on the LHC
3) People apparently still wear tweed in the future rather than head-to-toe silver lame (imagine the accent mark, folks)
Do you ever feel like you have a choice to make? You could go on with your skeptical views, you can listen to the teacher and assume that some things are just not possible...or you could exit the herd, leave the other sheeple behind, and open your eyes to the possibility that ripples out there along the edges.
Kit-kats for everyone in a communist chocolate hellhole!?! I wonder if it means what we understand it to mean or if language has just evolved.
****
Imagine a sunny day at the beach with ginormous, hurricane waves, an opinionated 3-year-old, and a whole bunch of people who can't see how desperately you want to be alone. Imagine a long walk down the beach and a wrestling match in the public restroom (with said 3-year-old), a large cup of french fries and a threatening horde of gulls tracking your every move. Struggle to think only happy thoughts about this precious child--the antidote to every rotten feeling you've had over the past 3 years.
Feel your nerves stretch under the strain. Pluck one. It's a high C.
Finish the fries, hand the kid a bucket and shovel, sit down on the chair that you lugged all the way here and haven't used once. Don't cave in. Take a break. She can get over it.
Look up for no particular reason. See a lone butterfly fighting the wind. Watch it beat a drunken path across the dunes. Smile as it approaches and smacks your grouchy daughter right in the face. Try not to cry when she laughs. Wave good-bye as it flies away.
Watch it disappear into the rippling edge.
Feel better.
Monday, August 30, 2010
Wishing Time Away
Summer just zipped by this year. Or maybe I zipped by summer.
It seems to happen that way now that I'm old enough to be unquestionably grown-up. In June I start off with an ambitious list of free concerts and farmers markets--my imagination mistakes me for a woman of leisure once the temperature inches above 70 degrees F.
June is a frenzy of summer--picnics, baseball, splashing in the kiddie pool. July never fails to be overtaken by events. August is a parade of housekeeping feats of strength punctuated by bouts of emotional distress.
By the end of it my brain is paddling around inside my head like the baby bunnies the dog used to chase into the backyard pool. Only one more week to luxuriate on the beach! You should rent a kayak or something! Make some iced-tea and sit in a lounge chair! Why didn't you tie-dye anything this summer?
Normally Fall would come along in a few weeks and scoop me up into the safety of short days and limited possibilities. This year, however, we're shifting into phase 2 of our parent lifestyle--preschool.
C has a new backpack and a set of jumpers handcrafted by her Grammy hanging neatly in the closet. We're practicing bathroom skills and reminding her that her classmates and teacher will not want to hear about butt cheeks during the school day. She dutifully takes in this information and then spends her evenings pretending to be a baby.
I didn't realize I was dreading the transition until I found myself staring at the ceiling this morning around 3AM while my mind concocted all sorts of misery. What if she gets bullied or excluded? I think she'd have an easier time if she turns out to be a mean girl. Oh my god! I'm hoping that my daughter turns into a mean girl!
There's no shortage of things that need to happen around here. The laundry's backed up. I can't concentrate on the meeting agenda I'm supposed to be developing. I have no plan for dinner for tonight...or any night this week to tell the truth. All I can think about is C's clean, little self-perception getting tromped all over by a bunch of strangers.
I've already marked the last day of the school year on my calendar--next June. I'll skip work that day. We'll get ice cream at a local dairy that we haven't visited yet and go to a free concert. We'll make a bunch of plans for things that we probably won't do.
Now that summer's over, summer just can't come soon enough.
It seems to happen that way now that I'm old enough to be unquestionably grown-up. In June I start off with an ambitious list of free concerts and farmers markets--my imagination mistakes me for a woman of leisure once the temperature inches above 70 degrees F.
June is a frenzy of summer--picnics, baseball, splashing in the kiddie pool. July never fails to be overtaken by events. August is a parade of housekeeping feats of strength punctuated by bouts of emotional distress.
By the end of it my brain is paddling around inside my head like the baby bunnies the dog used to chase into the backyard pool. Only one more week to luxuriate on the beach! You should rent a kayak or something! Make some iced-tea and sit in a lounge chair! Why didn't you tie-dye anything this summer?
Normally Fall would come along in a few weeks and scoop me up into the safety of short days and limited possibilities. This year, however, we're shifting into phase 2 of our parent lifestyle--preschool.
C has a new backpack and a set of jumpers handcrafted by her Grammy hanging neatly in the closet. We're practicing bathroom skills and reminding her that her classmates and teacher will not want to hear about butt cheeks during the school day. She dutifully takes in this information and then spends her evenings pretending to be a baby.
I didn't realize I was dreading the transition until I found myself staring at the ceiling this morning around 3AM while my mind concocted all sorts of misery. What if she gets bullied or excluded? I think she'd have an easier time if she turns out to be a mean girl. Oh my god! I'm hoping that my daughter turns into a mean girl!
There's no shortage of things that need to happen around here. The laundry's backed up. I can't concentrate on the meeting agenda I'm supposed to be developing. I have no plan for dinner for tonight...or any night this week to tell the truth. All I can think about is C's clean, little self-perception getting tromped all over by a bunch of strangers.
I've already marked the last day of the school year on my calendar--next June. I'll skip work that day. We'll get ice cream at a local dairy that we haven't visited yet and go to a free concert. We'll make a bunch of plans for things that we probably won't do.
Now that summer's over, summer just can't come soon enough.
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Sunday, August 22, 2010
Lifeboat
Can you scoot over a little bit? I'm getting a crick in my neck. Better yet, why don't you hop out and swim alongside? I'm feeling a little self-absorbed this week and I need to stretch my legs.
In my real life I don't talk about R very frequently. I may throw in a cautious self-deprecating remark about my less-than-ideal experience with pregnancy or a veiled comment about the 'hard year or 2' after C was born but even those are few and far between. It's not that I don't want to talk about her or can't--I don't want to hear what other people think about R or her birth or her death or my reaction to it.
On the few forays I've made into the world of public grieving (i.e., expressing sorrow in front of people without dead babies) I've been advised to 'find something that will help me turn that negative energy into a positive result' or to 'stop worrying because it won't bring her back.' My former boss suggested I use the time freed up by trauma-induced insomnia to get more work done. I've also been ignored because, as we all know, if you want something to go away, you should ignore it.
The birthday has passed. We are now in our 3rd grief season (it may actually be the 4th given the circumstances leading up to their birth). This year's theme is apparently “Self-indulgent Prick.”
T pointed out that I cannot get annoyed by family members and friends who behave as though R never existed if I'm the one leading them in this direction. It seems I have made myself a tiny little bed with room enough for only me and a 3 lb. 12-day-old baby and I now have to lie in it.
In my mind I'm trying to spare everyone. The monumental R-shaped hole inside my heart isn't really fit for company. If I lay it out in full view it is both impossible to ignore and hideous beyond imagining. It will mock your kid's asthma* and kick you right in your arthritic knee. It wants you to know what it feels like to kiss your dead baby's forehead in the back room of the funeral home. And, goddamn it, if you don't stop talking about your Tar.get boycott, it's going to rip your head off and shove it up your ass.
In preparation for the kickass birthday party we had planned for C, I did the mannerly thing and wrestled Old Ugly into submission. After all, this was the first time all of these folks would be gathered together since I married T back in 2002 and I wanted it to go smoothly.
My family did not appreciate the effort. In fact, they didn't even notice. So, in a fit of pique I cracked open my laptop and executed the blogging equivalent of kicking the dog after a hard day at work. There I was, Monday morning, lounging with my feet in some undeserving person's face, complaining that the lifeboat lacks luxury appointments. But, you're all too decent and supportive to point that out and I can't tell you how much I appreciate it.
I think of myself as a fortunate person. I've always been healthy, capable, free of any crippling mental, physical, or emotional handicaps. For most of my life I've 'had it to give' or at least felt like I didn't need to take anything from anyone. Then my Dad died and then I became a mom and then one of my daughters died and I've been struggling to reconcile my former carefree self with this new baggage-laden version ever since.
Sympathy has never come easy for me. Like most fortunate people I always thought that I had earned a life that ran smoothly. People with problems could just work their way out of them or not but, that had nothing to do with me.
You'd think that I'd be a font of sympathy now that I know the truth about suffering but it's really not that simple. My well of caring is miles deep but only an inch or two wide. If it doesn't have to do with death or imminent death of a young human, I really can't get too stirred up. (OK, maybe I can get a little weepy thinking about the polar bears drowning for want of pack ice but mostly because it reminds me that children living in low-lying areas of Bangladesh could be swept away by rising seas.)
Everyday I get up, take a shower, head to the train and somehow manage to walk the walk of a conscientious, upright citizen but it feels like such a sham. I weigh everything against R's death. At the slightest provocation I find myself back in the family room of the NICU watching T hold her out so that the doctor can listen for a heartbeat and call the time of death. Sometime right around 4pm on Sunday, August 26, 2007, the universe collapsed into a pinpoint and everything other than R and C and T ceased to exist.
Over time, the pinpoint widened to let in other families struggling to recover from babyloss but there's still nowhere near enough room for mundane complaints of the non-grieving, non-fatal variety.
On Wednesday it will be three years since R took her last breath, Thursday will be three years since she died. I'm not sure how I thought I would feel after three years.
Last year I was completely adrift on August 26. I had just started reaching out to other folks via the blog. I was living in my mom's house and wondering if we'd ever manage to get pregnant again. I walked down to R's playground and looked for some type of sign that R still existed somewhere. And I suppose I found it.
This year I feel less alone and more settled. On Friday morning I got a card from Awesome Angie (R's first and only birthday card). Several of you sent messages of support here or through email or on FB. We're in our own house. At some point last fall we decided that we really don't want more kids which is great because I don't think we can produce anymore anyway. T recently started a new job that suits him perfectly.
We are where we want to be...except that R isn't here with us. These days, missing her is just a part of daily life--easy as taking a breath. Truthfully, it's probably easier than it would have been to parent her if she had survived.
On Thursday, C and I will drive down to the beach for a reunion with some of my grad school classmates who are now mostly happily married with (100% living) children. I'm sure that we'll get caught up on life since graduation--the choices we've made, the opportunities we've missed. I will endeavor to stay focused on the conversation but my mind will likely be off and wandering, trying to figure out how I could have failed my daughter so miserably and how I can go on growing my career, making decisions about our future without her.
Whenever I talk to other parents about topics other than parenting I always wonder if they've also demoted everything else. If it comes easily, if they can crank out living babies with no trouble at all, do they sit at their desks some days wondering how the hell they got there? Do they ever feel like jumping up from the desk, running back home and never leaving the house again? Do they ever spend an entire day mulling over the power random chance has over our lives?
Do they ever dig up a puny little tree and replant it in the yard because it might be a sign from the universe that we're all part of something too great to comprehend?
Do they realize that you can learn everything you need to know in 12 days?
*NOTE: After I published this I had instant remorse about that asthma comment. I know that asthma can be fatal and is terrifying for parent and child alike. I thought about deleting and replacing it with something less horrible but I left it in because a) I already pointed out that I'm feeling lousy about being a prick b) it highlights exactly how unreasonable I can be when feeling sorry for myself.
In my real life I don't talk about R very frequently. I may throw in a cautious self-deprecating remark about my less-than-ideal experience with pregnancy or a veiled comment about the 'hard year or 2' after C was born but even those are few and far between. It's not that I don't want to talk about her or can't--I don't want to hear what other people think about R or her birth or her death or my reaction to it.
On the few forays I've made into the world of public grieving (i.e., expressing sorrow in front of people without dead babies) I've been advised to 'find something that will help me turn that negative energy into a positive result' or to 'stop worrying because it won't bring her back.' My former boss suggested I use the time freed up by trauma-induced insomnia to get more work done. I've also been ignored because, as we all know, if you want something to go away, you should ignore it.
The birthday has passed. We are now in our 3rd grief season (it may actually be the 4th given the circumstances leading up to their birth). This year's theme is apparently “Self-indulgent Prick.”
T pointed out that I cannot get annoyed by family members and friends who behave as though R never existed if I'm the one leading them in this direction. It seems I have made myself a tiny little bed with room enough for only me and a 3 lb. 12-day-old baby and I now have to lie in it.
In my mind I'm trying to spare everyone. The monumental R-shaped hole inside my heart isn't really fit for company. If I lay it out in full view it is both impossible to ignore and hideous beyond imagining. It will mock your kid's asthma* and kick you right in your arthritic knee. It wants you to know what it feels like to kiss your dead baby's forehead in the back room of the funeral home. And, goddamn it, if you don't stop talking about your Tar.get boycott, it's going to rip your head off and shove it up your ass.
In preparation for the kickass birthday party we had planned for C, I did the mannerly thing and wrestled Old Ugly into submission. After all, this was the first time all of these folks would be gathered together since I married T back in 2002 and I wanted it to go smoothly.
My family did not appreciate the effort. In fact, they didn't even notice. So, in a fit of pique I cracked open my laptop and executed the blogging equivalent of kicking the dog after a hard day at work. There I was, Monday morning, lounging with my feet in some undeserving person's face, complaining that the lifeboat lacks luxury appointments. But, you're all too decent and supportive to point that out and I can't tell you how much I appreciate it.
I think of myself as a fortunate person. I've always been healthy, capable, free of any crippling mental, physical, or emotional handicaps. For most of my life I've 'had it to give' or at least felt like I didn't need to take anything from anyone. Then my Dad died and then I became a mom and then one of my daughters died and I've been struggling to reconcile my former carefree self with this new baggage-laden version ever since.
Sympathy has never come easy for me. Like most fortunate people I always thought that I had earned a life that ran smoothly. People with problems could just work their way out of them or not but, that had nothing to do with me.
You'd think that I'd be a font of sympathy now that I know the truth about suffering but it's really not that simple. My well of caring is miles deep but only an inch or two wide. If it doesn't have to do with death or imminent death of a young human, I really can't get too stirred up. (OK, maybe I can get a little weepy thinking about the polar bears drowning for want of pack ice but mostly because it reminds me that children living in low-lying areas of Bangladesh could be swept away by rising seas.)
Everyday I get up, take a shower, head to the train and somehow manage to walk the walk of a conscientious, upright citizen but it feels like such a sham. I weigh everything against R's death. At the slightest provocation I find myself back in the family room of the NICU watching T hold her out so that the doctor can listen for a heartbeat and call the time of death. Sometime right around 4pm on Sunday, August 26, 2007, the universe collapsed into a pinpoint and everything other than R and C and T ceased to exist.
Over time, the pinpoint widened to let in other families struggling to recover from babyloss but there's still nowhere near enough room for mundane complaints of the non-grieving, non-fatal variety.
On Wednesday it will be three years since R took her last breath, Thursday will be three years since she died. I'm not sure how I thought I would feel after three years.
Last year I was completely adrift on August 26. I had just started reaching out to other folks via the blog. I was living in my mom's house and wondering if we'd ever manage to get pregnant again. I walked down to R's playground and looked for some type of sign that R still existed somewhere. And I suppose I found it.
This year I feel less alone and more settled. On Friday morning I got a card from Awesome Angie (R's first and only birthday card). Several of you sent messages of support here or through email or on FB. We're in our own house. At some point last fall we decided that we really don't want more kids which is great because I don't think we can produce anymore anyway. T recently started a new job that suits him perfectly.
We are where we want to be...except that R isn't here with us. These days, missing her is just a part of daily life--easy as taking a breath. Truthfully, it's probably easier than it would have been to parent her if she had survived.
On Thursday, C and I will drive down to the beach for a reunion with some of my grad school classmates who are now mostly happily married with (100% living) children. I'm sure that we'll get caught up on life since graduation--the choices we've made, the opportunities we've missed. I will endeavor to stay focused on the conversation but my mind will likely be off and wandering, trying to figure out how I could have failed my daughter so miserably and how I can go on growing my career, making decisions about our future without her.
Whenever I talk to other parents about topics other than parenting I always wonder if they've also demoted everything else. If it comes easily, if they can crank out living babies with no trouble at all, do they sit at their desks some days wondering how the hell they got there? Do they ever feel like jumping up from the desk, running back home and never leaving the house again? Do they ever spend an entire day mulling over the power random chance has over our lives?
Do they ever dig up a puny little tree and replant it in the yard because it might be a sign from the universe that we're all part of something too great to comprehend?
Do they realize that you can learn everything you need to know in 12 days?
*NOTE: After I published this I had instant remorse about that asthma comment. I know that asthma can be fatal and is terrifying for parent and child alike. I thought about deleting and replacing it with something less horrible but I left it in because a) I already pointed out that I'm feeling lousy about being a prick b) it highlights exactly how unreasonable I can be when feeling sorry for myself.
Monday, August 16, 2010
Birthday
I can't figure out how to be around other people.
I recognize that I'm not like them any more. Even the ones with some sort of personal tragedy generally have something less bizarre.
I know they have questions. I know they have feelings. I know that they want to share these things with me.
I am a clenched fist.
A birthday celebration, bouncy castles and bubble machines in my yard--I dash from one thing to another, reluctant to get pinned down and examined.
They watch me flutter around, spinning the plates and keeping the balls aloft. They are impressed/troubled/relieved.
I watch C jostle across the yard amidst a cloud of pink dresses and hair bows. I see a second set of bouncing honey-blond pigtails and I know I'm not the only one. Their collective will can almost conjure another freshly minted three-year-old. But they still can't understand.
I'm not the self-appointed keeper of misery, never have been. I'm an easy one, a good listener. It was touch and go for a while there. The old complainers braced themselves for the arrival of a new sheriff in town but I collapsed halfway through the campaign. My scars are not up for a vote.
They wait patiently to see if I want a turn and then, in the absence of any airing of my troubles, they bound into the void with their discomforts, disorders, disappointing diagnoses. I nod and express sympathy. I wish I could take a pill to fix my problem. I want to tell them that I would endure everything they have described to have R back but I know they wouldn't believe me because they can't understand.
And I'm glad they can't understand because I love all of them and nobody should ever have to feel like this.
So I leave them to draw their own conclusions and quietly take my place in the family lore.
C falls asleep on the couch all dirty feet and sweat-plastered hair. The guests exit, smiling. The party is a success. I am satisfied.
But in the quiet solitude of our room, T and I hold hands and shed tears for our other birthday girl, wherever she may be. And my heart breaks all over again because next to C and R, T is the one I love the most and he is the only other one who understands.
I recognize that I'm not like them any more. Even the ones with some sort of personal tragedy generally have something less bizarre.
I know they have questions. I know they have feelings. I know that they want to share these things with me.
I am a clenched fist.
A birthday celebration, bouncy castles and bubble machines in my yard--I dash from one thing to another, reluctant to get pinned down and examined.
They watch me flutter around, spinning the plates and keeping the balls aloft. They are impressed/troubled/relieved.
I watch C jostle across the yard amidst a cloud of pink dresses and hair bows. I see a second set of bouncing honey-blond pigtails and I know I'm not the only one. Their collective will can almost conjure another freshly minted three-year-old. But they still can't understand.
I'm not the self-appointed keeper of misery, never have been. I'm an easy one, a good listener. It was touch and go for a while there. The old complainers braced themselves for the arrival of a new sheriff in town but I collapsed halfway through the campaign. My scars are not up for a vote.
They wait patiently to see if I want a turn and then, in the absence of any airing of my troubles, they bound into the void with their discomforts, disorders, disappointing diagnoses. I nod and express sympathy. I wish I could take a pill to fix my problem. I want to tell them that I would endure everything they have described to have R back but I know they wouldn't believe me because they can't understand.
And I'm glad they can't understand because I love all of them and nobody should ever have to feel like this.
So I leave them to draw their own conclusions and quietly take my place in the family lore.
C falls asleep on the couch all dirty feet and sweat-plastered hair. The guests exit, smiling. The party is a success. I am satisfied.
But in the quiet solitude of our room, T and I hold hands and shed tears for our other birthday girl, wherever she may be. And my heart breaks all over again because next to C and R, T is the one I love the most and he is the only other one who understands.
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
Rosebud
Last Wednesday evening T called to tell me that our car was on fire. He was getting ready to call for a tow and needed me to pick him up.
My immediate response to this news was rage which then softened into something between sadness and anxiety. As an avowed walker and devoted user of mass transit it feels strange to admit it but, I love my car.
The car was our first major purchase as a married couple. The day it arrived from Germany we picked it up and drove through the night from NC to surprise my parents with a visit. The diesel engine means that it can travel ridiculous distances on one tank of gas. When the “shit goes down” we can run it on fry-o-lator grease and flip the seats down to sleep in the back. If you aren't convinced yet, I should also tell you that the financing was set up by a six-fingered man...with a manicure.
I think its purchase may be the only decision that T and I have ever agreed on 100%. Our little silver station wagon embodies us at our best.
I hate our other car. Faced with a shortening cervix that curtailed the walking portion of my commute and a job change that required T to drive, we were forced to buy a second vehicle. In a fit of optimism we went with the mini-van figuring that we'd need something that could easily fit 2 babies and a dog. The guy who sold it to us was young and slick and had no evidence of polydactyly. It felt wrong from the minute we bought it.
There are people who will tell you that you can jinx yourself with a surfeit of optimism. There are people who believe that pessimism and negativity attract bad things into your life. All of these people are assholes.
The mini-van didn't kill my daughter. It didn't generate a toxic haze of doubt that poisoned her and it didn't draw the attention of the Fates and inspire them to put me back in my place. As cars go, it even performs most tasks quite admirably but I hate it all the same.
Most parents loathe their mini-van, a.k.a. swagger wagon, because it hammered the final nail into the coffin for their hipness. I celebrate Groundhog's Day with a haiku contest every year--I was never in danger of being hip. To me, it is the vehicle of a family that has arrived at the desired destination. It feeds the illusion that we have everything we want. The cargo room, the extra row of seating, the plethora of cup holders—they're all just reminders of the plenty that I'd gladly sacrifice for just one more day with R. I wonder if I look like I'm getting my swagger on when I roll up to Big Box Retail in my shiny van with my spritely daughter in tow.
The station wagon is the path we chose. The van is the path that was forced on us.
Buying a car that can double as EarthshipOC in some Mad Max-esque future seems so naïve now but I like having a physical reminder that I once made decisions with the unwavering belief that my opinion mattered. When I drive it I feel young and capable.
The van makes me feel like a failure. I never drive it unless I absolutely have to. Anyone who sits in the captain's chair behind the driver is automatically transformed into “not R.” I never tell these unfortunate passengers that they're sitting in my dead daughter's seat. I feel like an ass for even thinking it. Sometimes I'm tempted to pull to the side of the road and pitch R's seat into the woods so that I don't have to deal with all of the cognitive dissonance anymore.
Luckily the mechanic was able to make the necessary repair and the wagon is back in action but, for those couple days when we thought we might have to replace it, I was really a little beside myself. Guess I'm not as alright as I think I am.
My immediate response to this news was rage which then softened into something between sadness and anxiety. As an avowed walker and devoted user of mass transit it feels strange to admit it but, I love my car.
The car was our first major purchase as a married couple. The day it arrived from Germany we picked it up and drove through the night from NC to surprise my parents with a visit. The diesel engine means that it can travel ridiculous distances on one tank of gas. When the “shit goes down” we can run it on fry-o-lator grease and flip the seats down to sleep in the back. If you aren't convinced yet, I should also tell you that the financing was set up by a six-fingered man...with a manicure.
I think its purchase may be the only decision that T and I have ever agreed on 100%. Our little silver station wagon embodies us at our best.
I hate our other car. Faced with a shortening cervix that curtailed the walking portion of my commute and a job change that required T to drive, we were forced to buy a second vehicle. In a fit of optimism we went with the mini-van figuring that we'd need something that could easily fit 2 babies and a dog. The guy who sold it to us was young and slick and had no evidence of polydactyly. It felt wrong from the minute we bought it.
There are people who will tell you that you can jinx yourself with a surfeit of optimism. There are people who believe that pessimism and negativity attract bad things into your life. All of these people are assholes.
The mini-van didn't kill my daughter. It didn't generate a toxic haze of doubt that poisoned her and it didn't draw the attention of the Fates and inspire them to put me back in my place. As cars go, it even performs most tasks quite admirably but I hate it all the same.
Most parents loathe their mini-van, a.k.a. swagger wagon, because it hammered the final nail into the coffin for their hipness. I celebrate Groundhog's Day with a haiku contest every year--I was never in danger of being hip. To me, it is the vehicle of a family that has arrived at the desired destination. It feeds the illusion that we have everything we want. The cargo room, the extra row of seating, the plethora of cup holders—they're all just reminders of the plenty that I'd gladly sacrifice for just one more day with R. I wonder if I look like I'm getting my swagger on when I roll up to Big Box Retail in my shiny van with my spritely daughter in tow.
The station wagon is the path we chose. The van is the path that was forced on us.
Buying a car that can double as EarthshipOC in some Mad Max-esque future seems so naïve now but I like having a physical reminder that I once made decisions with the unwavering belief that my opinion mattered. When I drive it I feel young and capable.
The van makes me feel like a failure. I never drive it unless I absolutely have to. Anyone who sits in the captain's chair behind the driver is automatically transformed into “not R.” I never tell these unfortunate passengers that they're sitting in my dead daughter's seat. I feel like an ass for even thinking it. Sometimes I'm tempted to pull to the side of the road and pitch R's seat into the woods so that I don't have to deal with all of the cognitive dissonance anymore.
Luckily the mechanic was able to make the necessary repair and the wagon is back in action but, for those couple days when we thought we might have to replace it, I was really a little beside myself. Guess I'm not as alright as I think I am.
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