A friend of mine used to work as an accountant in state government. She had a colleague who'd grown up in the circus. His parents were acrobats and, naturally, expected him to follow in their footsteps. But, alas, he heard a different siren song. He trained and performed until he reached adulthood and then ran away to join the bureaucracy.
Other people are a mystery.
Today is my ninth wedding anniversary (true to form, T had to remind me). Sometimes I still wake up in the morning and look over at T and wonder how this stranger got into my house and my life. Eleven years ago I didn't even know him and now we make all of our decisions together and there's a tiny, female copy of him getting under foot while I wash their dishes and underwear.
How much do you have to know about someone else before you can say that you know him or her?
****
I'm still working my way through all of the "Right Where I Am" posts from Angie's project last week. In between my despairing Scarlett-O'Hara-at-the-train-depot moments, I feel like I'm wrapped up in something greater than the sum of its parts, an extended Aha! moment shared amongst a bunch of strangers.
But these bloggers are still strangers. They're still mysteries.
For all I know, they kick puppies or refuse to give up seats to old ladies on the subway or cheer for the Mets between posts.
But somehow, I feel like the darkest, most desolate corner of another person is all you really need to know anyway.
****
Last week Jennifer Boylan came and spoke at my workplace as part of our LGBT special emphasis program. You can follow the link there to learn more about her story. The short version is that she's a transgendered woman who started out life as a man. That sentence may have been redundant. I probably could have said transsexual and gotten the point across. Anyway, she spoke for about an hour on the general topic of gender identity and issues of unity and civil rights for the transgendered community.
While I didn't grow up as a member of an actively bigoted family, I've never really gone out of my way to learn about transgendered folks. How many times have I tossed off a joke about transgendered people over the course of my life without even thinking about it? As the wife of a self-described hillbilly, I understand that we are more accepting of jokes about some segments of society than others. Yokels and women trapped in male bodies are probably somewhere on the edge of the political correctness frontier.
As she spoke, my mind wandered toward my own experience as a social misfit. When I first started looking for other people who had experienced babyloss I had a bit of a hang-up about my circumstances. Even though my newborn daughter had died, I was still wandering around with her identical twin. I was one of those women who made the 100% babylost duck down the aisle at the grocery store or turn and walk in the other direction. I looked...clueless...lucky...normal.
Perhaps I'm all of those things. I'm willing to concede on the 'clueless' part--I mean, we're all clueless about some things. And I've already been over the 'lucky' part. Normal is where I get stuck.
If I were normal I'd probably have more than one kid. I wouldn't cringe when I see my dead daughter's name in print at the grocery store. I'd laugh at jokes about long-lost twins or people who seem to have been separated at birth.
Then again, I suppose it's normal to have something that sets you slightly apart from everyone else, a sore spot that gets casually prodded by friends, co-workers, TV commentators day in and day out.
When R died I turned inward. I dismissed other peoples' problems. I stopped caring. It's taken a long time but I feel like I've turned things around. Instead of fixating on my internal monologue, I wonder about the hidden pain and grief carried by others and how I contribute to it, how I can help.
In terms of LGBT issues, I feel like I'm on the right side of things. Consenting adults should be able to marry each other and share benefits regardless of the numbers of X's and Y's in the equation. But there's a gap between being accepting of something in theory and being actively aware of it in fact.
This wasn't a huge 'come to Jesus' moment for me. It was more like sanding a rough edge. I will be more thoughtful. I will be more considerate. I won't take cheap shots at something that I don't understand.
As part of her spiel, Ms. Boylan read an essay about a conversation with her son, a teenager entering his final year of high school. In the episode she describes, they're talking about his future and his post-college plan to move to Australia and develop anti-venom for some type of snake that I can't remember.
The story included a repeating punchline about a mother's theoretical reaction to the death of a child.
Ms. Boylan is a very witty and charming storyteller and the line got a huge laugh out of the audience. Well, most of the audience.
Presumably the take-home message was something about letting people be themselves and live their dreams. I, however, came away with the new knowledge that I can now share space with a transsexual and still feel like the oddest person in the room.
But I promise that that will be my last joke about transsexuals.
Wednesday, June 22, 2011
Thursday, May 26, 2011
Right Where I Am: 3 years, 9 months, 12 days
Normally I wouldn’t bother with the days. Honestly, I had to do math on my fingers to come up with the months, but, it just happens to be the 26th. R died on the 26th and she lived for 12 days. So…
In the days immediately after R’s death, T vowed to make time every 26th to remember her. Implicit in this plan was his predicted inability to ever be happy on the 26th day of any month ever again. Judging from his grateful smile as I sent him off to work with a travel mug full of hot coffee, the plan didn’t take. I never bought into the plan, mostly because I couldn’t imagine any greater degree of sadness than I was feeling every minute of every day already. R was gone. C was in the NICU. Everything felt fragile and uncertain.
It still feels this way for a few minutes each day. My thoughts of R are like background noise or wallpaper. They’re always present but I don’t actively monitor them. After all, some things stay exactly where you left them. But, the memories still fly into the foreground at least once a day, unbidden, a freak wave splashing over the bow, leaving me shocked and spluttering, questioning the certainty of anything in my life.
Here are some of those moments from the past 24 hours along with other thoughts I had while contemplating ‘right where I am’.
While Peering Hopelessly into my Closet
It’s hot and sticky here in the mid-Atlantic. I’m finding that my wrinkle-proof, working-mom wear is making me a little too sweaty on my daily walk to the commuter train but I can’t figure out what else I should wear. The new girl at work, who speaks of fabulousness as a glorious island nation that I too could inhabit if I’d just use the right navigational equipment, mentioned that she’d purchased her chic linen pants (size 2) on sale at Banana Republic. I’d check it out but I prefer the “Frumpy Barista” collection at Penney’s for the elastic hidden in the waistband of most pants.
Stores are full of sparkly, flowy, brightly-colored clothes for summer and I can’t imagine wearing any of them. I don’t feel sparkly anymore and flowy is terrible on the playground. I can’t see the point of smart, sporty clothes that can go from office to rooftop happy hour.
I need something that says I’m no longer a frivolous person who uses precious brain cells on wardrobe development. A cloak or a monastic robe might work but, it needs to be stain resistant and have a skort built-in for the playground. The statement would probably be undermined by lollipops and princess stickers adhering to the hem anyway.
Looks like it’s going to be mom-slacks and cardigans for another few months.
While Driving
I dropped C off at daycare earlier today and almost smashed into a carful of teenagers making an ill-advised left turn. 21 years and a few months ago my brother was almost killed in a similar situation at the same intersection.
Luckily he escaped with a concussion and a neck sprain. A few months later, we sat the kitchen table and I helped him turn the incident into a compelling essay for his college applications. I’m not sure that a 6’2” varsity football player and home run derby champion needs to write a slam bang essay to get into college but it’s certainly a better ending to the story than what could have been. How would my life have been different if my brother had died or become an invalid that night? He was riding in a car with 2 other boys who only had one sibling. I was friendly with all of them. What would that have been like if we’d all become instant only children?
We had a tearful night last night. C’s cousins (the ones who wouldn’t exist if my brother had died) stopped by just long enough to set up an elaborate game of house/school/doctor. The 8-year-old had just prepped C for surgery and the 6-year-old was setting up the post-operative tea party when my SIL announced that they had to go home for baths and bedtime. It was hard to catch all of the words during C’s ensuing meltdown (C inherited my tendency to hyper-ventilate when crying) but I made out that she’s lonely and jealous that her cousins get to go everywhere together.
As we sat and tried to calm her down, T shot me a look over her head. You know the look I’m talking about. Well, maybe those of you who conceive easily don’t. It was the look that says hey-we-can-skip-the-Barry White-because-you-seem-to-be-infertile-now-but-maybe-we-should-discuss-our-other-options---sexily. I answered with the look that says, “Nope.”
I’m happy with our life right now. At least I feel like everything we have going on is manageable. I can see all of the ways that another child would be earth-shatteringly awesome and I can see all of the ways it could be heartbreaking. The awesome just doesn’t outweigh the heartbreak…yet…maybe not ever.
But, it does hover there in the back of my mind. What would it be like if we added a brother or sister for C?
Or, as I skidded toward a carful of oblivious children this morning, what would it be like if that new sister or brother died in some horrible manner?
While Playing with C
I can talk about R without getting even remotely teary or emotional now. This area has a nice, thick callus and I feel good about that callus. I remember sitting and rocking for hours with infant C and wondering how she would stand growing up with this hollow shell that called itself ‘mommy.’ I didn’t resolve to get over it or be strong for C’s sake. I figured that I’d always be sad and C would have a great career as a memoirist after she grew up and escaped.
But that’s not really how it’s turning out. We function just like any other family with one child and two parents who work full-time outside the home. C and I sit on the floor coloring together in the evenings while I assuage my guilt about spending so much time apart and the laundry piles up and the bacteria colonizing my bathroom threaten to devour the entire house.
Maybe I’d be more super-mom-ish if I didn’t grant myself the space to enjoy these small pleasures with my surviving daughter but that seems like the road to ruin for any mom. I can almost allow myself to think that grief has improved me in some ways. Of course, I probably would have improved in some ways as the mother to twin girls as well.
C recently started drawing more recognizable objects during our coloring sessions. First it was faces and stick figures. Then she started adding yellow hair and blue eyes to make them look like her. Yesterday she drew herself and then a copy of herself. She asked if I could draw some strawberries and a pear for R.
“R likes strawberries and pears, just like I do,” she explained and then she started telling crayon-R about all of the other things they could do together if they both lived here with mommy and daddy.
And it occurred to me that we may never be fully present, never completely right where we are. For me and C and T there will always be a little piece missing from this place and time and all of our future places and times. We’ll always face the past every so often and wonder what it would be like if R had survived.
In the days immediately after R’s death, T vowed to make time every 26th to remember her. Implicit in this plan was his predicted inability to ever be happy on the 26th day of any month ever again. Judging from his grateful smile as I sent him off to work with a travel mug full of hot coffee, the plan didn’t take. I never bought into the plan, mostly because I couldn’t imagine any greater degree of sadness than I was feeling every minute of every day already. R was gone. C was in the NICU. Everything felt fragile and uncertain.
It still feels this way for a few minutes each day. My thoughts of R are like background noise or wallpaper. They’re always present but I don’t actively monitor them. After all, some things stay exactly where you left them. But, the memories still fly into the foreground at least once a day, unbidden, a freak wave splashing over the bow, leaving me shocked and spluttering, questioning the certainty of anything in my life.
Here are some of those moments from the past 24 hours along with other thoughts I had while contemplating ‘right where I am’.
While Peering Hopelessly into my Closet
It’s hot and sticky here in the mid-Atlantic. I’m finding that my wrinkle-proof, working-mom wear is making me a little too sweaty on my daily walk to the commuter train but I can’t figure out what else I should wear. The new girl at work, who speaks of fabulousness as a glorious island nation that I too could inhabit if I’d just use the right navigational equipment, mentioned that she’d purchased her chic linen pants (size 2) on sale at Banana Republic. I’d check it out but I prefer the “Frumpy Barista” collection at Penney’s for the elastic hidden in the waistband of most pants.
Stores are full of sparkly, flowy, brightly-colored clothes for summer and I can’t imagine wearing any of them. I don’t feel sparkly anymore and flowy is terrible on the playground. I can’t see the point of smart, sporty clothes that can go from office to rooftop happy hour.
I need something that says I’m no longer a frivolous person who uses precious brain cells on wardrobe development. A cloak or a monastic robe might work but, it needs to be stain resistant and have a skort built-in for the playground. The statement would probably be undermined by lollipops and princess stickers adhering to the hem anyway.
Looks like it’s going to be mom-slacks and cardigans for another few months.
While Driving
I dropped C off at daycare earlier today and almost smashed into a carful of teenagers making an ill-advised left turn. 21 years and a few months ago my brother was almost killed in a similar situation at the same intersection.
Luckily he escaped with a concussion and a neck sprain. A few months later, we sat the kitchen table and I helped him turn the incident into a compelling essay for his college applications. I’m not sure that a 6’2” varsity football player and home run derby champion needs to write a slam bang essay to get into college but it’s certainly a better ending to the story than what could have been. How would my life have been different if my brother had died or become an invalid that night? He was riding in a car with 2 other boys who only had one sibling. I was friendly with all of them. What would that have been like if we’d all become instant only children?
We had a tearful night last night. C’s cousins (the ones who wouldn’t exist if my brother had died) stopped by just long enough to set up an elaborate game of house/school/doctor. The 8-year-old had just prepped C for surgery and the 6-year-old was setting up the post-operative tea party when my SIL announced that they had to go home for baths and bedtime. It was hard to catch all of the words during C’s ensuing meltdown (C inherited my tendency to hyper-ventilate when crying) but I made out that she’s lonely and jealous that her cousins get to go everywhere together.
As we sat and tried to calm her down, T shot me a look over her head. You know the look I’m talking about. Well, maybe those of you who conceive easily don’t. It was the look that says hey-we-can-skip-the-Barry White-because-you-seem-to-be-infertile-now-but-maybe-we-should-discuss-our-other-options---sexily. I answered with the look that says, “Nope.”
I’m happy with our life right now. At least I feel like everything we have going on is manageable. I can see all of the ways that another child would be earth-shatteringly awesome and I can see all of the ways it could be heartbreaking. The awesome just doesn’t outweigh the heartbreak…yet…maybe not ever.
But, it does hover there in the back of my mind. What would it be like if we added a brother or sister for C?
Or, as I skidded toward a carful of oblivious children this morning, what would it be like if that new sister or brother died in some horrible manner?
While Playing with C
I can talk about R without getting even remotely teary or emotional now. This area has a nice, thick callus and I feel good about that callus. I remember sitting and rocking for hours with infant C and wondering how she would stand growing up with this hollow shell that called itself ‘mommy.’ I didn’t resolve to get over it or be strong for C’s sake. I figured that I’d always be sad and C would have a great career as a memoirist after she grew up and escaped.
But that’s not really how it’s turning out. We function just like any other family with one child and two parents who work full-time outside the home. C and I sit on the floor coloring together in the evenings while I assuage my guilt about spending so much time apart and the laundry piles up and the bacteria colonizing my bathroom threaten to devour the entire house.
Maybe I’d be more super-mom-ish if I didn’t grant myself the space to enjoy these small pleasures with my surviving daughter but that seems like the road to ruin for any mom. I can almost allow myself to think that grief has improved me in some ways. Of course, I probably would have improved in some ways as the mother to twin girls as well.
C recently started drawing more recognizable objects during our coloring sessions. First it was faces and stick figures. Then she started adding yellow hair and blue eyes to make them look like her. Yesterday she drew herself and then a copy of herself. She asked if I could draw some strawberries and a pear for R.
“R likes strawberries and pears, just like I do,” she explained and then she started telling crayon-R about all of the other things they could do together if they both lived here with mommy and daddy.
And it occurred to me that we may never be fully present, never completely right where we are. For me and C and T there will always be a little piece missing from this place and time and all of our future places and times. We’ll always face the past every so often and wonder what it would be like if R had survived.
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
Pip
We moved R's tree to our yard in time for Mother's Day. Technically we did it in time for the other Mother's Day...the one I didn't bother mentioning to anyone. That wasn't the intent anyway. This just happens to be a good time of year for moving deciduous trees.
T commented that he would like something ornamental better--something with showy blooms to breakup the monotony in our yard. That wasn't my intent either.
This is an intention-free zone.
Left to my own notions, I never would have purposely planted anything as a memorial to my daughter. I'm not opposed to the practice. I just dread dead memorial plants. And I'm tired of dread.
But this tree was already dead when I found it, burning through its limited resources, waiting for a taxpayer-purchased weed-whacker to come and finish the job. It turns out that I'm more tired of death than I am of dread.
So, I threw caution to the wind, dug the little tree up with a random stick, and planted it in a vacant spot alongside my mom's garage where it stayed until we could plant at the new house.
****
At my 6-week post-partum visit, the OB ran through the list of questions that mark the route for his daily parade of interchangeable lady parts.
"Are you sad?"
"Uh, yeah."
"I mean, are you sadder than you would expect?"
I swear there was an audible click as the doorway that stood open between me and the ordinary world closed...forever. I may have laughed a little.
What did I expect? A first time mother to almost died and almost lived. I felt like the entire universe had been crammed into the space between my ears and there was no room left for expectations of any kind.
Going on four years since pregnancy/birth/death, aside from the eternal ache of missing R and my white-hot obsession with C, this is the most lasting effect--I lost my expectations.
I can need and hope and want. I just can't expect.
I think this may actually be an improvement.
****
R's tree started out like any other red maple. The seed landed, down went the roots, up went the cotyledon. When the resources supplied by the seed were gone, leaves sprouted and photosynthesis kicked in...as expected.
It had a lot of siblings, this tree. In the r-selected world of plant propagation, it's all about the numbers. Because, if it can expect anything at all, a tree probably expects dead babies.
Survival is for the seeds that land in a wooded area with the best soil and a little break in the canopy to let in the sunlight. If conditions are right, a red maple can expect to live for close to one hundred years. It's a relatively short lifespan for a tree but, still.
Pressed up against the post of a playground structure (even one as well-meant as this one) with the maintenance crew breathing down its neck, this tree couldn't expect much more than a couple of weeks.
But, you know, fuck expectations.
T commented that he would like something ornamental better--something with showy blooms to breakup the monotony in our yard. That wasn't my intent either.
This is an intention-free zone.
Left to my own notions, I never would have purposely planted anything as a memorial to my daughter. I'm not opposed to the practice. I just dread dead memorial plants. And I'm tired of dread.
But this tree was already dead when I found it, burning through its limited resources, waiting for a taxpayer-purchased weed-whacker to come and finish the job. It turns out that I'm more tired of death than I am of dread.
So, I threw caution to the wind, dug the little tree up with a random stick, and planted it in a vacant spot alongside my mom's garage where it stayed until we could plant at the new house.
****
At my 6-week post-partum visit, the OB ran through the list of questions that mark the route for his daily parade of interchangeable lady parts.
"Are you sad?"
"Uh, yeah."
"I mean, are you sadder than you would expect?"
I swear there was an audible click as the doorway that stood open between me and the ordinary world closed...forever. I may have laughed a little.
What did I expect? A first time mother to almost died and almost lived. I felt like the entire universe had been crammed into the space between my ears and there was no room left for expectations of any kind.
Going on four years since pregnancy/birth/death, aside from the eternal ache of missing R and my white-hot obsession with C, this is the most lasting effect--I lost my expectations.
I can need and hope and want. I just can't expect.
I think this may actually be an improvement.
****
R's tree started out like any other red maple. The seed landed, down went the roots, up went the cotyledon. When the resources supplied by the seed were gone, leaves sprouted and photosynthesis kicked in...as expected.
It had a lot of siblings, this tree. In the r-selected world of plant propagation, it's all about the numbers. Because, if it can expect anything at all, a tree probably expects dead babies.
Survival is for the seeds that land in a wooded area with the best soil and a little break in the canopy to let in the sunlight. If conditions are right, a red maple can expect to live for close to one hundred years. It's a relatively short lifespan for a tree but, still.
Pressed up against the post of a playground structure (even one as well-meant as this one) with the maintenance crew breathing down its neck, this tree couldn't expect much more than a couple of weeks.
But, you know, fuck expectations.
Saturday, April 23, 2011
Parental Failings of the Ironical Sort
"Yep, I see it."
The doctor points to the exam room and I scoop C up mid-run for the next part of the appointment.
She clambers up onto the exam table and he starts checking her hips for alignment--or rather, checks them for a lack of alignment to explain the hitch in her gait.
"We could do some x-rays but it probably wouldn't help at this point," he says, frowning at her apparently symmetrical pelvis, "Could be neurological."
****
I had a housemate in college who was a stone, cold fox.
I maybe had a few weeks in 1995 when I was a solid 7. I may even still be a 6 for those who are attracted to sturdiness and sarcasm. But, truly, I'm a 5* most days..at best.
My friend, J, is a solid 10--perhaps an 11. Back then she looked like a veela as interpreted by one of those pervy animators responsible for the Disney princesses.
Living with her was just how I imagine it would be to run a base camp at Everest. Hordes of men show up all aflutter with adventure and conquest on their minds. Even those who are vanquished can't talk about anything else but the next try. The ones with any sense stay far away.
I won't lie, my ego was definitely bruised up by the end of it but I came away with a solid understanding some basic truths.
Comparing yourself to other people is a short road to disappointment.
*In case it's not obvious, I'm including this as a bit of a sly wink--I am, however, serious about the sarcasm part.
****
It was probably intended in the spirit of upward mobility that marks members of the middle class but, it still seems like a bad idea to me, especially now that I'm a mother myself.
On my second birthday my mom went to the trouble to get out my baby book and a pen and note that I "still had a miserable personality" but "had shown some improvement lately."
Guess who doesn't have a baby book of her own? What would I have written in there during her first year?
C still defies expectations by continuing to be alive. She's alive!!!! She's alive!!!
It's still the predominant thought in my head when I look at her--holy shit! She's still here! Please, please let her continue to exist.
Right after we were pounded by the fickle sledgehammer of fate, I gathered up my tiny daughter and ran as fast as I could away from the trouble. Along the way I've done my best to shed her lingering association with loss and grief.
I've ditched any hard-wired expectations.
I don't compare her to other children as a matter of principle.
Those things just slow you down.
And now I've charged face-first into the enormous, spiky outstretched fist of the universe.
I can't escape the notion that I've been making this all about me this whole time.
It could be neurological.
Is that better or worse than a deformed pelvis?
The doctor points to the exam room and I scoop C up mid-run for the next part of the appointment.
She clambers up onto the exam table and he starts checking her hips for alignment--or rather, checks them for a lack of alignment to explain the hitch in her gait.
"We could do some x-rays but it probably wouldn't help at this point," he says, frowning at her apparently symmetrical pelvis, "Could be neurological."
****
I had a housemate in college who was a stone, cold fox.
I maybe had a few weeks in 1995 when I was a solid 7. I may even still be a 6 for those who are attracted to sturdiness and sarcasm. But, truly, I'm a 5* most days..at best.
My friend, J, is a solid 10--perhaps an 11. Back then she looked like a veela as interpreted by one of those pervy animators responsible for the Disney princesses.
Living with her was just how I imagine it would be to run a base camp at Everest. Hordes of men show up all aflutter with adventure and conquest on their minds. Even those who are vanquished can't talk about anything else but the next try. The ones with any sense stay far away.
I won't lie, my ego was definitely bruised up by the end of it but I came away with a solid understanding some basic truths.
Comparing yourself to other people is a short road to disappointment.
*In case it's not obvious, I'm including this as a bit of a sly wink--I am, however, serious about the sarcasm part.
****
It was probably intended in the spirit of upward mobility that marks members of the middle class but, it still seems like a bad idea to me, especially now that I'm a mother myself.
On my second birthday my mom went to the trouble to get out my baby book and a pen and note that I "still had a miserable personality" but "had shown some improvement lately."
Guess who doesn't have a baby book of her own? What would I have written in there during her first year?
C still defies expectations by continuing to be alive. She's alive!!!! She's alive!!!
It's still the predominant thought in my head when I look at her--holy shit! She's still here! Please, please let her continue to exist.
Right after we were pounded by the fickle sledgehammer of fate, I gathered up my tiny daughter and ran as fast as I could away from the trouble. Along the way I've done my best to shed her lingering association with loss and grief.
I've ditched any hard-wired expectations.
I don't compare her to other children as a matter of principle.
Those things just slow you down.
And now I've charged face-first into the enormous, spiky outstretched fist of the universe.
I can't escape the notion that I've been making this all about me this whole time.
It could be neurological.
Is that better or worse than a deformed pelvis?
Monday, April 4, 2011
Once More...without Feeling
You know when you throw something together using whatever you have in the cupboard and it doesn't turn out so great but you choke it down anyway so that you don't waste food.
Maybe not.
Just imagine something unpleasant that's lurking around making you uneasy.
I don't think I made the point I was trying to make with that last post. Or maybe I'm not sure what the point was.
I'd like to just wipe it away...except for the part about the three A's (angst, accents, acoustic instruments). I won't apologize for my little fetish. I could pour that whole situation into a glass and drink it.
Ok, so maybe I'd just sip at it...demurely.
And then, about halfway through, I'd start wondering how I could dare enjoy any aspect of my continued existence. But I'd be proud of myself for making it halfway.
The 2007 version of myself who paces around in my head finds none of this amusing or encouraging but she seems to be taking a lot of naps lately.
Happy is easier than sad--maybe it always has been for me. Or maybe I've just covered my sad with a scab so thick that I can hardly feel anything anymore.
Grief hasn't changed me as profoundly as I thought it might. I've not been engulfed in a swell of magnanimity. I haven't been compelled to help others or to do something meaningful in R's memory. I've made friends here in the land of babyloss grief but lately I keep forgetting how I met them.
Acceptance has invaded every corner of my heart. The muck has settled to the bottom of the glass of water. I can take the stone from the master's hand. Etc...
Scope, immediacy, violence--these things don't register on my scale of reaction anymore. Death is death is death. Doesn't really matter how it happened. Respect the pain and then file it away for later. Misery keeps.
Good and bad are a package deal. It's possible to fit them both into your head. Trust me on this one. Look up from the 24-hour news cycle. Have you noticed that the daffodils are blooming?
Let the neighbors and co-workers think that this is easy or that I'm cold and unfeeling.
For so long after R died I had to fake happy. I don't have any energy left over to fake sad.
But I'll spare you the banjos this time.
Maybe not.
Just imagine something unpleasant that's lurking around making you uneasy.
I don't think I made the point I was trying to make with that last post. Or maybe I'm not sure what the point was.
I'd like to just wipe it away...except for the part about the three A's (angst, accents, acoustic instruments). I won't apologize for my little fetish. I could pour that whole situation into a glass and drink it.
Ok, so maybe I'd just sip at it...demurely.
And then, about halfway through, I'd start wondering how I could dare enjoy any aspect of my continued existence. But I'd be proud of myself for making it halfway.
The 2007 version of myself who paces around in my head finds none of this amusing or encouraging but she seems to be taking a lot of naps lately.
Happy is easier than sad--maybe it always has been for me. Or maybe I've just covered my sad with a scab so thick that I can hardly feel anything anymore.
Grief hasn't changed me as profoundly as I thought it might. I've not been engulfed in a swell of magnanimity. I haven't been compelled to help others or to do something meaningful in R's memory. I've made friends here in the land of babyloss grief but lately I keep forgetting how I met them.
Acceptance has invaded every corner of my heart. The muck has settled to the bottom of the glass of water. I can take the stone from the master's hand. Etc...
Scope, immediacy, violence--these things don't register on my scale of reaction anymore. Death is death is death. Doesn't really matter how it happened. Respect the pain and then file it away for later. Misery keeps.
Good and bad are a package deal. It's possible to fit them both into your head. Trust me on this one. Look up from the 24-hour news cycle. Have you noticed that the daffodils are blooming?
Let the neighbors and co-workers think that this is easy or that I'm cold and unfeeling.
For so long after R died I had to fake happy. I don't have any energy left over to fake sad.
But I'll spare you the banjos this time.
Monday, March 28, 2011
Perspective
Sometimes I wonder if my sadness over R's death is outsized.
Tsunamis, bombings, floods.
My neighbor's house burned to the ground last week.
R is dead. No more pain. No more worry. She is as she is. As she will be. Forever.
The first time I heard someone use the word 'tragedy' in reference to my daughter I was surprised. Tragedy? How could that be right? Everyone knows that tragedies happen far away from here in corrugated tin huts with inadequate plumbing.
Tragedy needs a good head of steam. It should start with years of social injustice and oppression that create an unsustainable situation that completely crumbles under the weight of a natural disaster. This was just some bad luck in our otherwise lucky lives. R was just one tiny person.
It was the most horrible thing I've ever seen happen to another human. Her body rotted from the inside out. She died slowly, in pieces, right in front of me and I couldn't do anything to stop it.
Even so, I've only glimpsed the bottom of the pit and I have no interest in getting any closer.
****
This process is slow and grinding. Some portion of each day is spent shoring up the compartments in my mind, remembering how to get along to go along. I'm pretty proficient. I can have hours of normal conversations and experience genuine interest and engagement with something other than my own thoughts.
I keep it small.
I don't call or email anyone for frivolous reasons. My co-workers probably think I'm chained to my desk.
I don't watch the news. I don't read about important world events.
It seems best to not start things that I won't be able to finish.
I pour my energy into maintaining a socially acceptable exterior and keeping C happy and I just don't have any to spare--not consistently anyway.
I can't tell if it's the sadness or the walling off of the sadness that's more wearing. They feel so integrated now. It might be easier to let it all out and be done with it.
****
Summer makes me a little manic. Fall and winter are depressing. Despite my pollen allergies, I think spring might be my favorite. Springtime is for nostalgia.
I'm not exactly ancient but I miss being young and carefree. I want to lounge around in the sunshine and neglect my responsibilities. I want to sip on an iced coffee and get incensed about politics.
I spent the better part of my young adult years in North Carolina and every spring I get this urge to go back there and see if I can find that other version of myself lurking amidst the magnolias and excessive politeness.
But I don't have the time. And we all know that it's impossible to go back.
Instead I've just been scratching my itch by listening to this song and reminiscing about earnestness and banjos.
Tsunamis, bombings, floods.
My neighbor's house burned to the ground last week.
R is dead. No more pain. No more worry. She is as she is. As she will be. Forever.
The first time I heard someone use the word 'tragedy' in reference to my daughter I was surprised. Tragedy? How could that be right? Everyone knows that tragedies happen far away from here in corrugated tin huts with inadequate plumbing.
Tragedy needs a good head of steam. It should start with years of social injustice and oppression that create an unsustainable situation that completely crumbles under the weight of a natural disaster. This was just some bad luck in our otherwise lucky lives. R was just one tiny person.
It was the most horrible thing I've ever seen happen to another human. Her body rotted from the inside out. She died slowly, in pieces, right in front of me and I couldn't do anything to stop it.
Even so, I've only glimpsed the bottom of the pit and I have no interest in getting any closer.
****
This process is slow and grinding. Some portion of each day is spent shoring up the compartments in my mind, remembering how to get along to go along. I'm pretty proficient. I can have hours of normal conversations and experience genuine interest and engagement with something other than my own thoughts.
I keep it small.
I don't call or email anyone for frivolous reasons. My co-workers probably think I'm chained to my desk.
I don't watch the news. I don't read about important world events.
It seems best to not start things that I won't be able to finish.
I pour my energy into maintaining a socially acceptable exterior and keeping C happy and I just don't have any to spare--not consistently anyway.
I can't tell if it's the sadness or the walling off of the sadness that's more wearing. They feel so integrated now. It might be easier to let it all out and be done with it.
****
Summer makes me a little manic. Fall and winter are depressing. Despite my pollen allergies, I think spring might be my favorite. Springtime is for nostalgia.
I'm not exactly ancient but I miss being young and carefree. I want to lounge around in the sunshine and neglect my responsibilities. I want to sip on an iced coffee and get incensed about politics.
I spent the better part of my young adult years in North Carolina and every spring I get this urge to go back there and see if I can find that other version of myself lurking amidst the magnolias and excessive politeness.
But I don't have the time. And we all know that it's impossible to go back.
Instead I've just been scratching my itch by listening to this song and reminiscing about earnestness and banjos.
Monday, March 7, 2011
Bread Line
When I was a kid, my Dad would sometimes get up early on a Saturday to stand in line at the Conshohocken Bakery for the rolls. Ridiculous, no? Why line up for bread that you have to pay for--with real money? Yet, every Saturday people would queue up regardless of the weather as if they were waiting for Mike Schmidt's autograph.
I'm not begrudging any culture their own ways with yeast and flour but, seriously, the bread in Philly is friggin' amazing--crusty and chewy and just the right amount of salty. T, Army brat and citizen of the world, has assured me that my opinion isn't just warped hometown pride. He thinks it may have something to do with the fact that we have 'wuhder' here instead of water.
Once Dad waited on line for hours only to discover that all of the rolls were gone by the time he reached the front and he was forced to switch to loaves of Italian bread. He wasn't disappointed though. The lady behind the counter handed him the queen mother of them all--a ridiculously huge hunk of bread. He was buying for our extended family so he took a couple more average-sized loaves too. My aunt and grandmother were slightly appalled by the size disparity between their loaves and his yet, not surprised that he would keep the largest one for himself.
When he got home and presented my Mom with the colossal loaf they laughed and laughed at their good luck...until they cut it open and realized that the inside was mostly empty.
****
A couple of weeks ago I passed the 20th anniversary of my first date.
I regularly forget my wedding anniversary, my mother's birthday, pretty much every date that's important for the significant people in my life. Every Feb. 23, however, I seem to remember my first night out on the town with "Lloyd."
After weeks of after school negotiations and one Valentine's Day note that could have scorched the attached red carnation, I agreed to go out with him. It was a Friday night. We went to see "The Silence of the Lambs." I was so terrified about being in a dark theater with a boy that I forgot to be freaked out by a movie about a cannibal and lady-skin-coat wearing serial killer. When he dropped me off at the foot of my driveway, I darted out of his Malibu as if it had burst into flames.
We dated off and on for the next 18 months despite the fact that we really had nothing in common aside from location and above-average physical fitness.
Lloyd's family was a disaster. His parents divorced when he was around 5 and his dad moved to a town maybe 10 miles to the west. Lloyd's mom remarried a few years later and had two more kids--the family she had always envisioned. At the ripe old age of 10, Lloyd, recognizing that he was now persona non grata, packed his belongings into a paper bag and rode his bike up the shoulder of the turnpike to his dad's house. His dad fed him a hot dog and sent him back to his mom. Lloyd had an endless supply of similar, miserable stories.
My family bore more than a passing resemblance to his mom's 2.0 version--two parents, two kids (big brother and little sister), a four bedroom house in the 'burbs. My Dad and Lloyd's stepdad probably could have had a support group for men who wished Lloyd would disappear.
Looking back on the whole thing it seems as though Lloyd was on some sort of mission to uncover the inner workings of a happy family. He'd hopped over the fence and was ready to sample the sweet, green grass on the other side. Unfortunately it turned out to be a disappointment. I can't remember all of the details now but I have the faint impression that he broke up with me because I was a boring know-it-all.
****
We're having a bit of a time in these parts. T's dad has passed the point of treatment for his cancer. My eternally spry grandfather seems to have started the fast march toward infirmity. T's aunt was hospitalized last week and is likely in the end stages of emphysema.
I feel I'm experiencing all of it from some remote location. Family members call on the phone all adither with the bad news and it's like the noise disappears inside me where there's nothing to catch the vibration.
In the storage compartment where I once kept fear and sadness, there are only angry questions.
How can any of R's relatives still be afraid of death?
How can any of them grieve the loss of a life that spanned multiple decades?
Have they forgotten my girl?
I suspect that everything they're saying is perfectly normal but grief for a terminally-ill senior citizen still seems like a luxury item to me.
****
After Lloyd and I broke up we never spoke again. We didn't have any common friends and we were on decidedly different trajectories. We just went back to being strangers. I have a box of Lloyd-related mementos in my Mom's attic that I haven't looked at in years. For all I know he doesn't even remember my name or my face. He probably just has a passing memory of a girl who made a big deal out of small problems.
A quick googling tells me that Lloyd escaped his parents. It looks like he made his way to NYC and spent some time in a band. The cursory FB profile doesn't reveal whether he's happy.
Twenty years ago I didn't have any appreciation for Lloyd's perspective. I had no idea what it felt like to lose or to want. The obstacles I encountered in my life were tiny things I could step over without even a running start.
Right before we broke up, his parents threw him out for the final time. He called me and I went to pick him up at the park near his house so I could take him to a friend's house.. He didn't even have a bag packed. I remember being annoyed by the inconvenience of his homeless status.
I wish I could redo that moment. I want grab both of those kids and tell them that all of it--success, failure, happiness, misery--it's just dumb luck. A wake-up call for the girl who had it all figured out. Some relief for the boy who couldn't even understand the question.
We just take what we're given.
Cut it open and you'll find that there's nothing inside.
Happy anniversary, Lloyd...wherever you may be.
I'm not begrudging any culture their own ways with yeast and flour but, seriously, the bread in Philly is friggin' amazing--crusty and chewy and just the right amount of salty. T, Army brat and citizen of the world, has assured me that my opinion isn't just warped hometown pride. He thinks it may have something to do with the fact that we have 'wuhder' here instead of water.
Once Dad waited on line for hours only to discover that all of the rolls were gone by the time he reached the front and he was forced to switch to loaves of Italian bread. He wasn't disappointed though. The lady behind the counter handed him the queen mother of them all--a ridiculously huge hunk of bread. He was buying for our extended family so he took a couple more average-sized loaves too. My aunt and grandmother were slightly appalled by the size disparity between their loaves and his yet, not surprised that he would keep the largest one for himself.
When he got home and presented my Mom with the colossal loaf they laughed and laughed at their good luck...until they cut it open and realized that the inside was mostly empty.
****
A couple of weeks ago I passed the 20th anniversary of my first date.
I regularly forget my wedding anniversary, my mother's birthday, pretty much every date that's important for the significant people in my life. Every Feb. 23, however, I seem to remember my first night out on the town with "Lloyd."
After weeks of after school negotiations and one Valentine's Day note that could have scorched the attached red carnation, I agreed to go out with him. It was a Friday night. We went to see "The Silence of the Lambs." I was so terrified about being in a dark theater with a boy that I forgot to be freaked out by a movie about a cannibal and lady-skin-coat wearing serial killer. When he dropped me off at the foot of my driveway, I darted out of his Malibu as if it had burst into flames.
We dated off and on for the next 18 months despite the fact that we really had nothing in common aside from location and above-average physical fitness.
Lloyd's family was a disaster. His parents divorced when he was around 5 and his dad moved to a town maybe 10 miles to the west. Lloyd's mom remarried a few years later and had two more kids--the family she had always envisioned. At the ripe old age of 10, Lloyd, recognizing that he was now persona non grata, packed his belongings into a paper bag and rode his bike up the shoulder of the turnpike to his dad's house. His dad fed him a hot dog and sent him back to his mom. Lloyd had an endless supply of similar, miserable stories.
My family bore more than a passing resemblance to his mom's 2.0 version--two parents, two kids (big brother and little sister), a four bedroom house in the 'burbs. My Dad and Lloyd's stepdad probably could have had a support group for men who wished Lloyd would disappear.
Looking back on the whole thing it seems as though Lloyd was on some sort of mission to uncover the inner workings of a happy family. He'd hopped over the fence and was ready to sample the sweet, green grass on the other side. Unfortunately it turned out to be a disappointment. I can't remember all of the details now but I have the faint impression that he broke up with me because I was a boring know-it-all.
****
We're having a bit of a time in these parts. T's dad has passed the point of treatment for his cancer. My eternally spry grandfather seems to have started the fast march toward infirmity. T's aunt was hospitalized last week and is likely in the end stages of emphysema.
I feel I'm experiencing all of it from some remote location. Family members call on the phone all adither with the bad news and it's like the noise disappears inside me where there's nothing to catch the vibration.
In the storage compartment where I once kept fear and sadness, there are only angry questions.
How can any of R's relatives still be afraid of death?
How can any of them grieve the loss of a life that spanned multiple decades?
Have they forgotten my girl?
I suspect that everything they're saying is perfectly normal but grief for a terminally-ill senior citizen still seems like a luxury item to me.
****
After Lloyd and I broke up we never spoke again. We didn't have any common friends and we were on decidedly different trajectories. We just went back to being strangers. I have a box of Lloyd-related mementos in my Mom's attic that I haven't looked at in years. For all I know he doesn't even remember my name or my face. He probably just has a passing memory of a girl who made a big deal out of small problems.
A quick googling tells me that Lloyd escaped his parents. It looks like he made his way to NYC and spent some time in a band. The cursory FB profile doesn't reveal whether he's happy.
Twenty years ago I didn't have any appreciation for Lloyd's perspective. I had no idea what it felt like to lose or to want. The obstacles I encountered in my life were tiny things I could step over without even a running start.
Right before we broke up, his parents threw him out for the final time. He called me and I went to pick him up at the park near his house so I could take him to a friend's house.. He didn't even have a bag packed. I remember being annoyed by the inconvenience of his homeless status.
I wish I could redo that moment. I want grab both of those kids and tell them that all of it--success, failure, happiness, misery--it's just dumb luck. A wake-up call for the girl who had it all figured out. Some relief for the boy who couldn't even understand the question.
We just take what we're given.
Cut it open and you'll find that there's nothing inside.
Happy anniversary, Lloyd...wherever you may be.
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