Thursday, July 29, 2010
(Mostly) Wordless Thursday...
...Because really, I have no idea what to say about this picture of Dibley the wonder cat anyway.
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
My mother's kitchen
I was standing at my mom & dad's kitchen sink this afternoon, washing up the dishes I'd used to make a meatloaf for their dinner, when the smell of browning meat and simmering chili sauce bubbling from the oven carried me back to another time. To the same place, my parents' kitchen, but to a time when I was a child and my parents were young - and they were looking after me.
And the warmth of that scent memory flowed through me, slowing my breathing, relaxing my body.
I inhaled deeply, trying to pull more comfort from the air in my mother's kitchen. I looked out into the yard where I used to skate on rinks my mom flooded every winter, where my grandma shoveled paths in the deep snow, where I played in the sandbox and lay on a blanket in the sun listening to 45s on my sister's Mickey Mouse record player.
I remember my dad with black hair, taking steps two at a time. I remember my mom wallpapering the stairway, standing on homemade scaffolding without a trace of fear.
And now they are old. And I have woken up 1964 times without Thomas. And life is so different than it was, and every day I find myself sorting through some sort of grief. Sometimes newly realized, sometimes familiar and worn.
There are moments of peace and moments of despair. Moments of joy and moments of sorrow. Always, there is light and dark.
And that's the way it is. Right now, in this aching time as I watch my parents failing and I look into my future and see just a handful of us left and no one following behind; that's the way it is.
This, as it turns out, is what it means to be a grown up: feeling pain, but taking strength from lovely memories and finding moments of comfort in my mother's kitchen.
And the warmth of that scent memory flowed through me, slowing my breathing, relaxing my body.
I inhaled deeply, trying to pull more comfort from the air in my mother's kitchen. I looked out into the yard where I used to skate on rinks my mom flooded every winter, where my grandma shoveled paths in the deep snow, where I played in the sandbox and lay on a blanket in the sun listening to 45s on my sister's Mickey Mouse record player.
I remember my dad with black hair, taking steps two at a time. I remember my mom wallpapering the stairway, standing on homemade scaffolding without a trace of fear.
And now they are old. And I have woken up 1964 times without Thomas. And life is so different than it was, and every day I find myself sorting through some sort of grief. Sometimes newly realized, sometimes familiar and worn.
There are moments of peace and moments of despair. Moments of joy and moments of sorrow. Always, there is light and dark.
And that's the way it is. Right now, in this aching time as I watch my parents failing and I look into my future and see just a handful of us left and no one following behind; that's the way it is.
This, as it turns out, is what it means to be a grown up: feeling pain, but taking strength from lovely memories and finding moments of comfort in my mother's kitchen.
Monday, July 26, 2010
One more time
I used to think it was only me. Not surprisingly, given my penchant for catastrophizing, I'm pretty sure that I was the only one who routinely (as in every single time I walked away from him) wondered if the last goodbye I gave my dad would be the last goodbye.
I would watch him waving from the window as we'd pull out of the driveway, and want to curl up in a ball and cry, sick with worry and despair.
In my defense, he really is that sick. Has been for years. First a bum ticker (with a 1998 cardiac arrest thrown in for added excitement), then diabetes, and now end stage kidney disease on top of everything else.
But, by some miracle, he's still here.
In lighter moments I joke that he might be immortal. Because honest to God, I've never known anyone this sick to continually battle back from the brink. And there have been so many brinks over the past 26 years since his first heart attack; so many times the situation looked dire, only to be turned around by the smiling Irishman with the big laugh and twinkling eyes.
But this time it's different. He's fighting as hard as he can, but I know in my heart that there is well and truly not much time left.
And now, I think, so does he.
There is more weight in his hugs. They last a fraction longer. They are tighter, despite his frailty.
It startled me on Saturday. We had everyone over to celebrate my mom's 70th birthday, and as they piled out the door with presents and leftover dessert in hand, I hugged him goodbye and told him I loved him. And he held on. And squeezed.
And in that moment, I knew he knew it too.
I know what he was saying with that embrace, and I closed my eyes against the truth and hugged him back, willing it not to be our last goodbye.
Willing time to stop and love to cure and hope to best inevitability.
And then I did the only thing I could. I let him go. One more time.
I would watch him waving from the window as we'd pull out of the driveway, and want to curl up in a ball and cry, sick with worry and despair.
In my defense, he really is that sick. Has been for years. First a bum ticker (with a 1998 cardiac arrest thrown in for added excitement), then diabetes, and now end stage kidney disease on top of everything else.
But, by some miracle, he's still here.
In lighter moments I joke that he might be immortal. Because honest to God, I've never known anyone this sick to continually battle back from the brink. And there have been so many brinks over the past 26 years since his first heart attack; so many times the situation looked dire, only to be turned around by the smiling Irishman with the big laugh and twinkling eyes.
But this time it's different. He's fighting as hard as he can, but I know in my heart that there is well and truly not much time left.
And now, I think, so does he.
There is more weight in his hugs. They last a fraction longer. They are tighter, despite his frailty.
It startled me on Saturday. We had everyone over to celebrate my mom's 70th birthday, and as they piled out the door with presents and leftover dessert in hand, I hugged him goodbye and told him I loved him. And he held on. And squeezed.
And in that moment, I knew he knew it too.
I know what he was saying with that embrace, and I closed my eyes against the truth and hugged him back, willing it not to be our last goodbye.
Willing time to stop and love to cure and hope to best inevitability.
And then I did the only thing I could. I let him go. One more time.
Friday, July 23, 2010
Saving grace
It's pouring rain - pounding on the roof and, thankfully, on my poor parched pie pumpkins which can't seem to get enough water these days.
But that's not what's keeping me up. Mostly it's all the cheese and chocolate. A fondue extravaganza, is what it was, with wine and friends. And way, way, way too much food. Seriously.
And then, A Single Man. Which, if you haven't seen it, is utterly fantastic. It so beautifully and artfully demonstrates what it's like seeing life through the lens of loss; how shades of gray dominate until a spark of beauty - a kind word, a lovely face, a selfless gesture - infuses a moment with colour. And in those moments, a fragment of the beauty that existed before loss returns. Shines. Saves.
It was truly stunning in its simplicity and power.
And it's all so true. Loss does alter the way you see the world, and there's nothing you can do to change that. You can't un-ring a bell, as they say. And so it follows that you can't be who or what you were before loss. That person is simply gone.
But there are moments that revive your soul, quench a thirst you didn't know you had, and keep you moving forward. Step by stubborn step.
Today it was a chance encounter in the parking lot of the grocery store. A voice calling my name, a hand gently touching my arm, a friend asking for news about my dad - caring so very much.
And in those few sweet moments, colour radiated from her and bathed me in its healing light.
And for that gentle, restorative energy I am so grateful.
Once again, I am saved.
But that's not what's keeping me up. Mostly it's all the cheese and chocolate. A fondue extravaganza, is what it was, with wine and friends. And way, way, way too much food. Seriously.
And then, A Single Man. Which, if you haven't seen it, is utterly fantastic. It so beautifully and artfully demonstrates what it's like seeing life through the lens of loss; how shades of gray dominate until a spark of beauty - a kind word, a lovely face, a selfless gesture - infuses a moment with colour. And in those moments, a fragment of the beauty that existed before loss returns. Shines. Saves.
It was truly stunning in its simplicity and power.
And it's all so true. Loss does alter the way you see the world, and there's nothing you can do to change that. You can't un-ring a bell, as they say. And so it follows that you can't be who or what you were before loss. That person is simply gone.
But there are moments that revive your soul, quench a thirst you didn't know you had, and keep you moving forward. Step by stubborn step.
Today it was a chance encounter in the parking lot of the grocery store. A voice calling my name, a hand gently touching my arm, a friend asking for news about my dad - caring so very much.
And in those few sweet moments, colour radiated from her and bathed me in its healing light.
And for that gentle, restorative energy I am so grateful.
Once again, I am saved.
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
I don't want to scare you...
...but this dude clearly fears no one.
Toes have been known to get this very same treatment. In the dead of night. From beneath the covers. Which, in case you were wondering, IS terrifying.
Luckily he's not necessarily all that bright...
...so toes are often safe.
Toes have been known to get this very same treatment. In the dead of night. From beneath the covers. Which, in case you were wondering, IS terrifying.
Luckily he's not necessarily all that bright...
...so toes are often safe.
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Thieves
Someone rifled through our car the other night. I noticed that the glove compartment and ash tray were open when I got in to take my dad to the hospital for dialysis Friday morning.
I'm happy that since neither me nor My Beloved ever leave anything more valuable than change for Price Chopper shopping carts in the car, all they found were old receipts, extra napkins, one pink glove and an expired ferry ticket. And garbage.
We're so not car people...
But still, someone rifled through our car. Someone decided to walk onto our property, get into our car (which took us years to pay off), and poke about to see if they could take something from us.
From us.
Because yes, that was my first thought: How could anyone want to take more from us?!
I was aghast, staring stupidly at the open glove box spilling its contents onto the passenger side floor, quietly filling with rage. My baby died. In fact, I did nothing but lose babies for five straight years. And now, after all that, I am still childless.
How dare someone try to take more from me.
I realize that the teenager hunting for beer money in my ash tray had no idea whose care he was attempting to pilfer from. I know it was a totally random car on a totally random street to him. It wasn't personal.
Except that when the universe has fucked with you the way it has fucked me, everything kinda feels personal somehow.
Even when it isn't.
This inflated sense of entitlement - this belief that I should, nay, deserve to be spared any and all future suffering, persecution, toil, torment, sorrow, and general badness is only going to mess me up further. I know that too. Mostly because I know that no one - not even someone who has suffered the worst cruelties imaginable - is immune to experiencing still more. That's the way life works. There is an endless vault of crap for the universe to pull from, and random shit happens all the time to whoever finds themselves walking into the black cloud of a looming shitstorm.
But I can't help it. The injustice of having someone break into my car when life has spent so much time shitting in my general direction was just too much to swallow Friday morning. On the way to the hospital. Where Thomas died.
Fuck.
And while I'm at it, fuck you, stupid kid looking for beer money. I hope you never find yourself sitting speechless in your car wondering why on earth someone would want to take something from you when you've already lost so much.
I hope you never know the fatigue that comes with that kind of defeat.
I'm happy that since neither me nor My Beloved ever leave anything more valuable than change for Price Chopper shopping carts in the car, all they found were old receipts, extra napkins, one pink glove and an expired ferry ticket. And garbage.
We're so not car people...
But still, someone rifled through our car. Someone decided to walk onto our property, get into our car (which took us years to pay off), and poke about to see if they could take something from us.
From us.
Because yes, that was my first thought: How could anyone want to take more from us?!
I was aghast, staring stupidly at the open glove box spilling its contents onto the passenger side floor, quietly filling with rage. My baby died. In fact, I did nothing but lose babies for five straight years. And now, after all that, I am still childless.
How dare someone try to take more from me.
I realize that the teenager hunting for beer money in my ash tray had no idea whose care he was attempting to pilfer from. I know it was a totally random car on a totally random street to him. It wasn't personal.
Except that when the universe has fucked with you the way it has fucked me, everything kinda feels personal somehow.
Even when it isn't.
This inflated sense of entitlement - this belief that I should, nay, deserve to be spared any and all future suffering, persecution, toil, torment, sorrow, and general badness is only going to mess me up further. I know that too. Mostly because I know that no one - not even someone who has suffered the worst cruelties imaginable - is immune to experiencing still more. That's the way life works. There is an endless vault of crap for the universe to pull from, and random shit happens all the time to whoever finds themselves walking into the black cloud of a looming shitstorm.
But I can't help it. The injustice of having someone break into my car when life has spent so much time shitting in my general direction was just too much to swallow Friday morning. On the way to the hospital. Where Thomas died.
Fuck.
And while I'm at it, fuck you, stupid kid looking for beer money. I hope you never find yourself sitting speechless in your car wondering why on earth someone would want to take something from you when you've already lost so much.
I hope you never know the fatigue that comes with that kind of defeat.
Monday, July 12, 2010
It would be funny it was a character in a movie
I'm not going to lie. I've always had a touch of OCD; a special penchant for re-checking the previously checked, worrying about catastrophes that never come, and just generally fretting needlessly.
Virtually no amount of calm reassurance from cooler minds is able to convince me that someone besides myself can check things properly - or, more importantly, will remember to check everything.
During stressful times it's worse. On Christmas Eve, for some odd reason, it's next to impossible to control. Leaving the house to go to my in-laws for dinner involves frantic racing in and out of rooms to ensure that everything is locked, turned off, unplugged, stored properly, sealed, closed, put away - that the whole house is thoroughly, unequivocally safe and sound.
Why I think some catastrophic event is going to happen on Christmas Eve is beyond me. But it sits in my brain and taunts me with its fiery, very un-Christmas like possibility.
In the years since Thomas died, I've noticed that while the OCD (which is self-diagnosed, thanks to my Internet degree in psychology - I also have one in reproductive endocrinology, by the way) isn't necessarily any worse, it has expanded in scope. Morphed into something new.
Now, it seems, I can turn even the most benign non-event into a catastrophe-in-the-making. If there's a way for someone to die because I dropped a stray elastic band in the living room and forgot to pick it up, I'll imagine it. And it will haunt me until I retrieve the elastic band and dispose of it properly.
Only then is peace restored. Only then are those around me safe. Until, of course, I misplace a paper clip.
Do you know the myriad ways you can be injured by a paper clip? Sweet Jesus, do you?
I know where this comes from. Of course I do. Five people died on my watch. I absolutely do not want to be responsible for any more deaths - I can't be. I just can't. So my spastic little brain spends its time calculating the probability of mortality of all those around me at any given moment as I wander through the day living, and checking. And re-checking. And pointing out dangers to others because it's my new responsibility to keep everyone safe - like I'm some middle-aged, chubby, neurotic little suburban superhero.
I've been quiet about this. I fully recognize the batshit craziness of it all, so it has always seemed best just to continue picking up elastics and keeping it all to myself.
But then, as is so often the case in this wonderful virtual world of gut-spilling, I found a blogger who does it too. A blogger who totally gets it.
She wisely pointed out that once you've seen death - once it has crashed in unannounced and violated you in the most horrific way imaginable - you know it's out there. You know the unthinkable is actually possible and that it can come when it is least expected. Like when a baby dies the day after it's just been born.
And you can't un-know it. You can never un-know it. And it taunts you, that knowledge. And it makes you think elastics can kill.
Long slow sigh. There is so much mind-fuckery in grief. So much endless work to soothe a mind so thoroughly and meticulously shattered.
Virtually no amount of calm reassurance from cooler minds is able to convince me that someone besides myself can check things properly - or, more importantly, will remember to check everything.
During stressful times it's worse. On Christmas Eve, for some odd reason, it's next to impossible to control. Leaving the house to go to my in-laws for dinner involves frantic racing in and out of rooms to ensure that everything is locked, turned off, unplugged, stored properly, sealed, closed, put away - that the whole house is thoroughly, unequivocally safe and sound.
Why I think some catastrophic event is going to happen on Christmas Eve is beyond me. But it sits in my brain and taunts me with its fiery, very un-Christmas like possibility.
In the years since Thomas died, I've noticed that while the OCD (which is self-diagnosed, thanks to my Internet degree in psychology - I also have one in reproductive endocrinology, by the way) isn't necessarily any worse, it has expanded in scope. Morphed into something new.
Now, it seems, I can turn even the most benign non-event into a catastrophe-in-the-making. If there's a way for someone to die because I dropped a stray elastic band in the living room and forgot to pick it up, I'll imagine it. And it will haunt me until I retrieve the elastic band and dispose of it properly.
Only then is peace restored. Only then are those around me safe. Until, of course, I misplace a paper clip.
Do you know the myriad ways you can be injured by a paper clip? Sweet Jesus, do you?
I know where this comes from. Of course I do. Five people died on my watch. I absolutely do not want to be responsible for any more deaths - I can't be. I just can't. So my spastic little brain spends its time calculating the probability of mortality of all those around me at any given moment as I wander through the day living, and checking. And re-checking. And pointing out dangers to others because it's my new responsibility to keep everyone safe - like I'm some middle-aged, chubby, neurotic little suburban superhero.
I've been quiet about this. I fully recognize the batshit craziness of it all, so it has always seemed best just to continue picking up elastics and keeping it all to myself.
But then, as is so often the case in this wonderful virtual world of gut-spilling, I found a blogger who does it too. A blogger who totally gets it.
She wisely pointed out that once you've seen death - once it has crashed in unannounced and violated you in the most horrific way imaginable - you know it's out there. You know the unthinkable is actually possible and that it can come when it is least expected. Like when a baby dies the day after it's just been born.
And you can't un-know it. You can never un-know it. And it taunts you, that knowledge. And it makes you think elastics can kill.
Long slow sigh. There is so much mind-fuckery in grief. So much endless work to soothe a mind so thoroughly and meticulously shattered.
Thursday, July 08, 2010
Monday, July 05, 2010
Dusk
After de-slugging the pepper patch on Saturday evening, My Beloved and I sat on our tiny patio (the lottery win I'm planning for this Friday will eliminate the "tiny" in that phrase) and watched the evening melt into dusk.
Everything seems to turn grayish-purple in the blue half-light of dusk - skin, grass, trees, fences. It's an ethereal and melancholic sort of time, I find. A time for fairies and gnomes and things hiding just out of sight.
And yes, I'm aware that almost every time is somehow a melancholic time for me. Dawn, noon, dusk, midnight - I can usually find a little melancholy in each of them if I look hard enough.
But you don't have to look hard at dusk. It's there in the deepening shadows, the blue pall, and the impossible stillness.
And in that half-light, as I stared out at the freshly watered lawn, I remembered a hazy, long-ago conversation My Beloved and I had back when we believed we would, I could, have children. He didn't want too many gardens. He wanted lawn - space to play with his children on the grass in our backyard. I agreed, picturing a chubby-legged toddler in a sun bonnet feeling grass on her toes for the first time.
The lawn still has space. Ample. There are gardens too, like our slug-ridden pepper patch. But nothing more.
So as my eyes fought against the dark on Saturday night, my mind drew a tousle-headed boy running in an arc across the lawn towards my chair, his arms thrown open in that glorious way that boys do when they're let loose on a patch of grass in the summer. He ran towards me, his mouth stretched into a crazy, wide open smile - and then he slipped quietly away into the shadows. Just before he reached me.
My mind will always be drawing pictures of the boy, I guess.
I know I'll see him no matter where I go, but I often wonder if a different place might hurt less. He was expected here. This house is missing him. I see where he should have been. I remember the plans I had and the pictures I drew when he was wriggling and kicking inside me.
Dusk falls everywhere. But it falls hard here.
Everything seems to turn grayish-purple in the blue half-light of dusk - skin, grass, trees, fences. It's an ethereal and melancholic sort of time, I find. A time for fairies and gnomes and things hiding just out of sight.
And yes, I'm aware that almost every time is somehow a melancholic time for me. Dawn, noon, dusk, midnight - I can usually find a little melancholy in each of them if I look hard enough.
But you don't have to look hard at dusk. It's there in the deepening shadows, the blue pall, and the impossible stillness.
And in that half-light, as I stared out at the freshly watered lawn, I remembered a hazy, long-ago conversation My Beloved and I had back when we believed we would, I could, have children. He didn't want too many gardens. He wanted lawn - space to play with his children on the grass in our backyard. I agreed, picturing a chubby-legged toddler in a sun bonnet feeling grass on her toes for the first time.
The lawn still has space. Ample. There are gardens too, like our slug-ridden pepper patch. But nothing more.
So as my eyes fought against the dark on Saturday night, my mind drew a tousle-headed boy running in an arc across the lawn towards my chair, his arms thrown open in that glorious way that boys do when they're let loose on a patch of grass in the summer. He ran towards me, his mouth stretched into a crazy, wide open smile - and then he slipped quietly away into the shadows. Just before he reached me.
My mind will always be drawing pictures of the boy, I guess.
I know I'll see him no matter where I go, but I often wonder if a different place might hurt less. He was expected here. This house is missing him. I see where he should have been. I remember the plans I had and the pictures I drew when he was wriggling and kicking inside me.
Dusk falls everywhere. But it falls hard here.
Friday, July 02, 2010
Shut your pie-hole
Dear Perky Young Thing sitting beside me at the hairdresser,
I understand (from the sounds of things) that you're probably blissfully unaware that not every single person can sneeze and get pregnant. And stay pregnant. And birth a live baby. I understand that you're pleased that you were able to have one child and, now, get pregnant with a second one while you're still young. I understand that in a perfect world this makes a lot of sense. You have energy, health and youth on your side.
I get that. I do. And the part of me that didn't want to jam a curling iron in your great gaping pie-hole is happy for you - happy that you get to be young and pregnant and blissfully unaware.
But the crusty, broken-down, 40-year old whose uterus has left a bloody path of destruction in its wake would like to respectfully tell you to keep your opinions about "old mothers" to yourself. She might patiently bite her bottom lip whilst you wax poetic about the joys of being a young mother, but she will come this close to beating you about the head with a full conditioner bottle when you effortlessly slide into an ugly conversation about how terrible it is that Kelly Preston is pregnant at 47.
Honestly, Perky Young Thing, you were dangerously close to getting a new one ripped for you. You are clearly unaware of how horribly insensitive your comments were, and how inappropriate it is to sit there on your pregnant pedestal judging older mothers with such open scorn and smugness oozing from your lips when you have no idea who is in earshot - or what struggles they might have endured to bring a child home. Or not, as the case may be.
My God, Perky Young Thing, what if I'd been pregnant??
You were saved by the hairdryer which finally drowned out your incessant prosthelytizing (which, in case you hadn't noticed, even your own hairdresser wasn't buying into. I should have tipped her too.).
One of the reasons we decided to stop trying was because we are now both in our 40s. After all we've been through we knew, at a certain point, that we simply didn't have the energy to continue and risk facing any additional hardships or loss.
We have become old before our time, Perky Young Thing. But it was OUR choice to make this incredibly difficult and personal decision based on what we've been through, and I will defend to my death every "old mother's" right to decide when she is finished adding to her family.
Now quit your yapping, keep your eyes on your own uterus - and, by the way, stop getting your hair dyed while you're pregnant.
Regards,
The barren, ferocious hag to your right
I understand (from the sounds of things) that you're probably blissfully unaware that not every single person can sneeze and get pregnant. And stay pregnant. And birth a live baby. I understand that you're pleased that you were able to have one child and, now, get pregnant with a second one while you're still young. I understand that in a perfect world this makes a lot of sense. You have energy, health and youth on your side.
I get that. I do. And the part of me that didn't want to jam a curling iron in your great gaping pie-hole is happy for you - happy that you get to be young and pregnant and blissfully unaware.
But the crusty, broken-down, 40-year old whose uterus has left a bloody path of destruction in its wake would like to respectfully tell you to keep your opinions about "old mothers" to yourself. She might patiently bite her bottom lip whilst you wax poetic about the joys of being a young mother, but she will come this close to beating you about the head with a full conditioner bottle when you effortlessly slide into an ugly conversation about how terrible it is that Kelly Preston is pregnant at 47.
Honestly, Perky Young Thing, you were dangerously close to getting a new one ripped for you. You are clearly unaware of how horribly insensitive your comments were, and how inappropriate it is to sit there on your pregnant pedestal judging older mothers with such open scorn and smugness oozing from your lips when you have no idea who is in earshot - or what struggles they might have endured to bring a child home. Or not, as the case may be.
My God, Perky Young Thing, what if I'd been pregnant??
You were saved by the hairdryer which finally drowned out your incessant prosthelytizing (which, in case you hadn't noticed, even your own hairdresser wasn't buying into. I should have tipped her too.).
One of the reasons we decided to stop trying was because we are now both in our 40s. After all we've been through we knew, at a certain point, that we simply didn't have the energy to continue and risk facing any additional hardships or loss.
We have become old before our time, Perky Young Thing. But it was OUR choice to make this incredibly difficult and personal decision based on what we've been through, and I will defend to my death every "old mother's" right to decide when she is finished adding to her family.
Now quit your yapping, keep your eyes on your own uterus - and, by the way, stop getting your hair dyed while you're pregnant.
Regards,
The barren, ferocious hag to your right
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Now I lay me down to sleep
Now I Lay Me Down To Sleep offers remembrance photography - photographs taken by volunteer professional photographers - to parents suffering the loss of a baby. Their entire network of affiliated photographers graciously donate their time and talents so that NILMDTS can offer this invaluable service to grieving families at no cost. The heirloom photographs of these beautiful babies are an important part of the healing process.
That's why donations are greatly needed and so greatly appreciated.
In celebration of their 5th anniversary, they have started a $5 donation campaign and are asking people to donate $5 to this very worthy and important cause.
If you're so inclined, you can donate here.
NILMDTS wasn't around when Thomas died. I can only imagine the beautiful photographs we might have today if they were...
A bit of housekeeping...
Dear bloggers,
Does anyone have any idea why I'm able to post comments to some Blogger blogs and not others? The blogs I'm having trouble with are ones that provide a list of "identities" to choose from (Google account, Open ID, TypePad, etc.) when commenting. The thing is, no matter which identity I choose - even if I opt for "anonymous" out of desperation - my comments just don't go through.
It's weird. And frustrating. And I have no idea how to remedy this situation...
Help!
Signed,
A confused simpleton
Does anyone have any idea why I'm able to post comments to some Blogger blogs and not others? The blogs I'm having trouble with are ones that provide a list of "identities" to choose from (Google account, Open ID, TypePad, etc.) when commenting. The thing is, no matter which identity I choose - even if I opt for "anonymous" out of desperation - my comments just don't go through.
It's weird. And frustrating. And I have no idea how to remedy this situation...
Help!
Signed,
A confused simpleton
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Two showers in June
I'm just going to come right out and admit it: it's still an energy-sucking challenge to clear out a corner of space in my head to make way for happy for someone else. There's all kind of stuff to wade through to get all the way to some new post-Thomas, post-miscarriages, post-infertility version of being genuinely happy. I have to sort through sorrow, jealousy, and disbelief that it's not me (yeah, still - after all these years. How can it not be me?), and then run the memory gauntlet.
I had my own shower, you know. And I remember it like it was yesterday. I remember the oohs and ahhs for little outfits, and jingly toys, and practical nursery items when I was the one sitting in the specially festooned chair.
So two showers in June. A challenge.
The funny thing is, I didn't hesitate to say yes to either. Okay, a fraction of a second maybe, but that's it. And the happiness for each of those new mothers is genuine too. A first child for one, a gorgeous little adopted daughter from China for the second.
Honestly. I'm absolutely thrilled for both of them, after two very hard-fought and incredibly well-deserved battles.
It's just that the post-apocalypse shower experience is not without a certain degree of mental gymnastics. Kind of like an out of body sort of situation where I float above the sorrowful self, join in the oohing and ahhing, and then plunk back down into the body with the aching heart and sink into a quiet, restorative stupor when I'm back home, safe and sound.
I'm also keenly aware that people know. Not everyone, of course, but some. And I wonder if I'm looking as happy as they think I should be, or if I'm reacting to the gifts with as much enthusiasm as they'd expect. Or if I'm overdoing it - making it look disingenuous and plastic.
I think too much. I know that. And eventually at both showers I relaxed and slipped into a protective comfort zone where I just didn't care what anyone thought, for the most part. I focused on the mothers-to-be and absorbed little fragments of their joy, making it my own.
Joy is like that. Which is useful for me, since I'm very susceptible to picking up other people's moods.
And then I came home, closed the door to the outside world and proceeded to unclench, uncork, and slowly relax.
I shouldn't be, I suppose, but I continue to be amazed by exactly how much mental energy it takes to navigate a child-centric world when you're childless not by choice. There are landmines everywhere, and while they usually don't blow me to pieces anymore, they do inflict some degree of injury. Every time.
But I'm glad I successfully navigated the showers - the first two I've felt strong enough to go to since Thomas died. I think I did okay. And I'm comforted that despite the work (which I have to assume is always going to be required), I really can come to a place where I feel absolute joy for someone else.
All the ugly gunk is still there - let's be clear, I'm not a saint or a magician or completely delusional - but I've figured out a way to drill through it and make a peephole of joy.
And sweet Jesus, a peephole, for someone like me, might as well be the Grand Canyon.
I had my own shower, you know. And I remember it like it was yesterday. I remember the oohs and ahhs for little outfits, and jingly toys, and practical nursery items when I was the one sitting in the specially festooned chair.
So two showers in June. A challenge.
The funny thing is, I didn't hesitate to say yes to either. Okay, a fraction of a second maybe, but that's it. And the happiness for each of those new mothers is genuine too. A first child for one, a gorgeous little adopted daughter from China for the second.
Honestly. I'm absolutely thrilled for both of them, after two very hard-fought and incredibly well-deserved battles.
It's just that the post-apocalypse shower experience is not without a certain degree of mental gymnastics. Kind of like an out of body sort of situation where I float above the sorrowful self, join in the oohing and ahhing, and then plunk back down into the body with the aching heart and sink into a quiet, restorative stupor when I'm back home, safe and sound.
I'm also keenly aware that people know. Not everyone, of course, but some. And I wonder if I'm looking as happy as they think I should be, or if I'm reacting to the gifts with as much enthusiasm as they'd expect. Or if I'm overdoing it - making it look disingenuous and plastic.
I think too much. I know that. And eventually at both showers I relaxed and slipped into a protective comfort zone where I just didn't care what anyone thought, for the most part. I focused on the mothers-to-be and absorbed little fragments of their joy, making it my own.
Joy is like that. Which is useful for me, since I'm very susceptible to picking up other people's moods.
And then I came home, closed the door to the outside world and proceeded to unclench, uncork, and slowly relax.
I shouldn't be, I suppose, but I continue to be amazed by exactly how much mental energy it takes to navigate a child-centric world when you're childless not by choice. There are landmines everywhere, and while they usually don't blow me to pieces anymore, they do inflict some degree of injury. Every time.
But I'm glad I successfully navigated the showers - the first two I've felt strong enough to go to since Thomas died. I think I did okay. And I'm comforted that despite the work (which I have to assume is always going to be required), I really can come to a place where I feel absolute joy for someone else.
All the ugly gunk is still there - let's be clear, I'm not a saint or a magician or completely delusional - but I've figured out a way to drill through it and make a peephole of joy.
And sweet Jesus, a peephole, for someone like me, might as well be the Grand Canyon.
Monday, June 28, 2010
Brain drain
A half hour, just sitting there.
I had a book in my lap - I was prepared to be mildly productive - but instead I sat in the sunshine and watched a duck.
For the next half hour I lay on my tummy with my head over the edge of the dock watching the fish while they watched me. I put my palms on the surface of the water, feeling the cool. I examined the strange, greeny-peach of my skin when submerged. I kept an eye out for dock spiders. I heard the whistling thrum of wing beats as birds flew above me.
I heard everything. Even the tiniest sounds were magnified by the absence of the constant ambient noise I'm so used to here in the suburb where careless sounds crash into me all day long.
I breathed in. I breathed out.
We made fire. And we used that fire to cook marshmallows which, of course, we paired with chocolate and graham crackers.
I marinated in bonfire smoke.
I listened to forest creatures scurry in the underbrush.
I trained my flashlight on the bush looking for bear eyes every now and then.
I waved to an old couple in a passing boat - the only people we ever saw.
I watched the sparks fly high into the dimming night sky.
I got eaten alive by mosquitoes who took the absence of bug spray as an invitation to dine on my exposed ankles and toes.
I used bonfire tending skills I learned from my grandpa, passing them on to My Beloved.
I thought about those bonfires of the 70s - at a cottage, now long gone, not far from this one - and about those who will never again sit by the shores of a lake listening to the cracks and pops of a roaring fire.
I resisted the melancholy.
I laughed at My Beloved while he put his camera and hair in mortal danger in an effort to capture the perfect fire shot.
I relaxed as much as it was humanly possible for me to relax after months of being tied up in knots worrying about my dad - who continues to defy the odds by being here.
I broke the silence. I called to check in every day but one.
It was necessary if I was to continue to breathe.
And I did. Fresh, clean, quiet air.
Too short. Too short.
Wish I was there.
Friday, June 04, 2010
Thank plinking you hear? It's me. And my mid-life crisis
I think I may have officially started my mid-life crisis.
In a foggy haze of sleeplessness, my synapses firing on nothing more than nervous energy, I decided to teach myself the ukulele just days after my dad was finally (finally) released from the hospital. I'm not totally sure my sudden desire to master the uke has anything to do with his discharge, but historically I do seem to manage being in the throes of chaos and uncertainty a little better when I actively take control over something I can control.
Even if it is a funny little four-stringed instrument.
Right after Thomas died, it was redecorating the nursery - with a vengeance I can only describe as pathological. When we were 7 months into trying to conceive early the next year, it was Weight Watchers. When we decided to stop actively trying to get pregnant, officially forgoing more surgery and medical intervention, it was crochet (the great crochet square a day odyssey of 2009).
And now, the ukulele.
I'm such a tied up little knot of anxiety these days - worrying about my dad, worrying about my mom, worrying that I'm worrying about them too much at the expense of my poor, neglected Beloved - and so shutting that part of my brain off and focusing instead on how to twist my fingers into the (really unnatural feeling) positions needed to make sweet, plinky music sing from the belly of the ukulele for a little while just feels so, so good.
I suck at it, but I carry on.
Hmmm, that feels familiar...
We're heading up north to a rented cottage in a few weeks, and the ukulele and my brand new Teach Yourself Ukulele book are coming along for the ride. I'm dreaming of a sun dappled deck, early morning mist rising off the lake, the crackling of a bonfire, and mastery of the Dm7 chord.
I absolutely understand that this is a pretty useless skill to master. There's not much call for barren, angst-ridden, 40-year old ukulele players who drive old men to dialysis and write corporate communications by day and strum badly but determinedly into the night (something My Beloved has already pointed out is kind of annoying - no more ukulele in bed, apparently). But I just don't give a hairy rat's ass.
Some day this will come in handy. Some day I will amaze and astonish someone with my mad uke skills. Or bad uke skills, as the case may be. But still - I will astonish. Or at least amuse.
And it will all be worth it.
In the meantime, right now there's nothing better than this kind of mindless distraction. Or the feeling of once again having control over something. Anything.
In a foggy haze of sleeplessness, my synapses firing on nothing more than nervous energy, I decided to teach myself the ukulele just days after my dad was finally (finally) released from the hospital. I'm not totally sure my sudden desire to master the uke has anything to do with his discharge, but historically I do seem to manage being in the throes of chaos and uncertainty a little better when I actively take control over something I can control.
Even if it is a funny little four-stringed instrument.
Right after Thomas died, it was redecorating the nursery - with a vengeance I can only describe as pathological. When we were 7 months into trying to conceive early the next year, it was Weight Watchers. When we decided to stop actively trying to get pregnant, officially forgoing more surgery and medical intervention, it was crochet (the great crochet square a day odyssey of 2009).
And now, the ukulele.
I'm such a tied up little knot of anxiety these days - worrying about my dad, worrying about my mom, worrying that I'm worrying about them too much at the expense of my poor, neglected Beloved - and so shutting that part of my brain off and focusing instead on how to twist my fingers into the (really unnatural feeling) positions needed to make sweet, plinky music sing from the belly of the ukulele for a little while just feels so, so good.
I suck at it, but I carry on.
Hmmm, that feels familiar...
We're heading up north to a rented cottage in a few weeks, and the ukulele and my brand new Teach Yourself Ukulele book are coming along for the ride. I'm dreaming of a sun dappled deck, early morning mist rising off the lake, the crackling of a bonfire, and mastery of the Dm7 chord.
I absolutely understand that this is a pretty useless skill to master. There's not much call for barren, angst-ridden, 40-year old ukulele players who drive old men to dialysis and write corporate communications by day and strum badly but determinedly into the night (something My Beloved has already pointed out is kind of annoying - no more ukulele in bed, apparently). But I just don't give a hairy rat's ass.
Some day this will come in handy. Some day I will amaze and astonish someone with my mad uke skills. Or bad uke skills, as the case may be. But still - I will astonish. Or at least amuse.
And it will all be worth it.
In the meantime, right now there's nothing better than this kind of mindless distraction. Or the feeling of once again having control over something. Anything.
Wednesday, June 02, 2010
And her reply...
"Many thanks for taking the time to write this, for your kind way of expressing a disagreement, for your sharing of personal details, and for your very thoughtful advice of your own.
I did receive another well-expressed note like this and have already worked it into a future column.... by way of educating readers further about this sensitive topic, to show the deeper areas than those on which I touched.
May I say - not to excuse myself, but to explain - that anyone who is deeply grieving cannot possibly get enough solace from the 50-100 words of an answer in a general audience newspaper advice column.
I do try to show my compassion, which I genuinely feel....and I do try to offer some possible ways to bring new thinking to the situation, such as that the friends and family who don't mention a subject may actually be trying to be kind, not dismissive.
I thank you for understanding most of my approach, and for deepening my understanding."
I wholeheartedly agree that a 100-word column can't possibly provide enough solace for a woman grieving her lost children and her dreams of motherhood, which is why wasting a paragraph on the whole "filling the void" thing bothered me so much, I suspect.
Well, that and the fact that it was just atrocious advice.
But I give her endless credit for responding so kindly and promptly, and for deciding to tackle the subject again in an upcoming column now that she's heard from those of us on the inside.
This is such a quiet little world, this childless place, and it's nice to know that people are listening to our whispers and trying to do their best to understand.
It's all anyone can ask for, really.
I did receive another well-expressed note like this and have already worked it into a future column.... by way of educating readers further about this sensitive topic, to show the deeper areas than those on which I touched.
May I say - not to excuse myself, but to explain - that anyone who is deeply grieving cannot possibly get enough solace from the 50-100 words of an answer in a general audience newspaper advice column.
I do try to show my compassion, which I genuinely feel....and I do try to offer some possible ways to bring new thinking to the situation, such as that the friends and family who don't mention a subject may actually be trying to be kind, not dismissive.
I thank you for understanding most of my approach, and for deepening my understanding."
I wholeheartedly agree that a 100-word column can't possibly provide enough solace for a woman grieving her lost children and her dreams of motherhood, which is why wasting a paragraph on the whole "filling the void" thing bothered me so much, I suspect.
Well, that and the fact that it was just atrocious advice.
But I give her endless credit for responding so kindly and promptly, and for deciding to tackle the subject again in an upcoming column now that she's heard from those of us on the inside.
This is such a quiet little world, this childless place, and it's nice to know that people are listening to our whispers and trying to do their best to understand.
It's all anyone can ask for, really.
Tuesday, June 01, 2010
Because if no one ever tells her...how will she know?
I have become a bit of a letter writer in my advancing years. When something touches a nerve, I march up to my computer and pound out a missive. Most of which I send.
When I read a local advice columnist's piss-poor advice to an infertile woman struggling with Mother's Day blues the other day, I knew a letter was coming.
And this morning, this is what I sent:
Dear Ellie,
I absolutely understand that the advice you give comes from a place of goodness and a desire to help - an admirable thing in today’s “it’s all about me” sort of world.
But I found myself wincing when I read the advice you gave to the childless woman who struggles with her sorrow on Mother’s Day (May 31/10). You were right to point out that her friends and family care, and that they show it by continuing to invite her to events and making her part of their lives. And you were correct in suggesting that she continue to seek counseling to deal with the lifelong after-effects of a battle with infertility.
But oh Ellie, to suggest that she become a foster parent or volunteer with children as a means of “filling the void”? Really?!
I lost five babies during my long, bloody battle to become a mother, one 20 hours after he was born due to a birth injury. Now at 40, I am in the process of dealing with the reality that I will always be a childless mother – an invisible mother, if you will. With that knowledge and experience under my belt, I can tell you with absolute certainty that your “filling the void” suggestion is akin to telling a woman dying of dehydration that while she can’t have a drink, she should take solace in the knowledge that she can clean your pool. That, in fact, cleaning a pool is good for her and will help her “move past” her unquenchable thirst.
Other people’s children will never fill the void left by the five I lost. This is something I think it’s impossible for you to understand, having successfully brought children of your own into the world. And so I would urge you to be very careful when doling out advice about something you can’t possibly fully understand. Volunteering with children may not make this woman “thrive”, as you suggest. It might only exacerbate the feelings of loss and the trauma associated with it. Spending time with children is always challenging for an infertile person living in a fertile world. There is always a little pain (or sometimes a lot of pain) mixed in with the joy of being with children. It hasn’t helped me “thrive”. It has merely helped me learn coping mechanisms to protect my still tender heart.
We foster a child through World Vision and I am glad that we’re able to do so, but I rarely think about it. I do, however, think about my son every single day.
Better advice would have been to tell her that the seasonal Mother’s Day blues are a pretty normal event for an infertile woman who has the cumulative trauma of multiple losses making it worse – not to mention a failed marriage, poor thing. Telling her to be kind to herself – to treat herself well and not beat herself up over the feelings of loss that very naturally arise during the annual celebration of motherhood – would have been far more helpful than telling her to suck it up and go help someone else.
Avoiding all situations where children will be present is impractical and unhealthy. I agree. I happen to think a little immersion therapy every now and then is a good, healthy thing. But knowing it’s okay to feel some degree of sadness in those situations – and knowing it’s okay to politely say your good-byes when you’ve had enough – is also very important. It would have been nice if you’d told her that.
She asked how she can make people understand how much she wishes she was a mother. You might have told her to start writing a journal or a blog documenting her feelings, and to connect with other like-minded blogging women. There is strength in numbers. You also might have told her to look for childless-not-by-choice support groups online or in her community so she’d know she’s not alone. You might have told her to actually sit down and talk to the people closest to her and tell them what’s going on in her head so that they will, finally, understand how much she is hurting and how important it is to her that they know where she’s coming from. This is the only way they’ll truly know how to help and what to say – or, more importantly, what not to say.
Being understood by those around you is critical when you’re facing this kind of challenge. Believe me. Being told to find something to “fill the void” is thoughtless at best, cruel at worst.
As I said, I know you meant well, but you were way, way off the mark on this one. And I just needed you to know.
Regards,
Kristin Z.
When I read a local advice columnist's piss-poor advice to an infertile woman struggling with Mother's Day blues the other day, I knew a letter was coming.
And this morning, this is what I sent:
Dear Ellie,
I absolutely understand that the advice you give comes from a place of goodness and a desire to help - an admirable thing in today’s “it’s all about me” sort of world.
But I found myself wincing when I read the advice you gave to the childless woman who struggles with her sorrow on Mother’s Day (May 31/10). You were right to point out that her friends and family care, and that they show it by continuing to invite her to events and making her part of their lives. And you were correct in suggesting that she continue to seek counseling to deal with the lifelong after-effects of a battle with infertility.
But oh Ellie, to suggest that she become a foster parent or volunteer with children as a means of “filling the void”? Really?!
I lost five babies during my long, bloody battle to become a mother, one 20 hours after he was born due to a birth injury. Now at 40, I am in the process of dealing with the reality that I will always be a childless mother – an invisible mother, if you will. With that knowledge and experience under my belt, I can tell you with absolute certainty that your “filling the void” suggestion is akin to telling a woman dying of dehydration that while she can’t have a drink, she should take solace in the knowledge that she can clean your pool. That, in fact, cleaning a pool is good for her and will help her “move past” her unquenchable thirst.
Other people’s children will never fill the void left by the five I lost. This is something I think it’s impossible for you to understand, having successfully brought children of your own into the world. And so I would urge you to be very careful when doling out advice about something you can’t possibly fully understand. Volunteering with children may not make this woman “thrive”, as you suggest. It might only exacerbate the feelings of loss and the trauma associated with it. Spending time with children is always challenging for an infertile person living in a fertile world. There is always a little pain (or sometimes a lot of pain) mixed in with the joy of being with children. It hasn’t helped me “thrive”. It has merely helped me learn coping mechanisms to protect my still tender heart.
We foster a child through World Vision and I am glad that we’re able to do so, but I rarely think about it. I do, however, think about my son every single day.
Better advice would have been to tell her that the seasonal Mother’s Day blues are a pretty normal event for an infertile woman who has the cumulative trauma of multiple losses making it worse – not to mention a failed marriage, poor thing. Telling her to be kind to herself – to treat herself well and not beat herself up over the feelings of loss that very naturally arise during the annual celebration of motherhood – would have been far more helpful than telling her to suck it up and go help someone else.
Avoiding all situations where children will be present is impractical and unhealthy. I agree. I happen to think a little immersion therapy every now and then is a good, healthy thing. But knowing it’s okay to feel some degree of sadness in those situations – and knowing it’s okay to politely say your good-byes when you’ve had enough – is also very important. It would have been nice if you’d told her that.
She asked how she can make people understand how much she wishes she was a mother. You might have told her to start writing a journal or a blog documenting her feelings, and to connect with other like-minded blogging women. There is strength in numbers. You also might have told her to look for childless-not-by-choice support groups online or in her community so she’d know she’s not alone. You might have told her to actually sit down and talk to the people closest to her and tell them what’s going on in her head so that they will, finally, understand how much she is hurting and how important it is to her that they know where she’s coming from. This is the only way they’ll truly know how to help and what to say – or, more importantly, what not to say.
Being understood by those around you is critical when you’re facing this kind of challenge. Believe me. Being told to find something to “fill the void” is thoughtless at best, cruel at worst.
As I said, I know you meant well, but you were way, way off the mark on this one. And I just needed you to know.
Regards,
Kristin Z.
Monday, May 17, 2010
80
But you're still here. You're still here.
And maybe, just maybe, tomorrow you'll be home.
I love you. Happy birthday, dad.
oxox
Monday, May 10, 2010
Will wonders never cease?
I spent close to a half an hour snuggling with my brand new nephew yesterday after meeting him for the very first time. Yeah, on Mother's Day.
And I didn't die.
Imagine that.
And I didn't die.
Imagine that.
Wednesday, May 05, 2010
The haves and have nots
Ahhhhhh. I'm sitting alone in my office with the (finally) cool breeze bringing in the earthy smell of new rain and damp pavement, and it's just so peaceful. If it weren't for the fact that I'm sitting in the office because I have a ton of work still left to do tonight, it would be perfection.
Except for the odd rumble of thunder and the chirp of spring birds, it's quiet. So, so blissfully quiet. I suppose the fact that it's nearly 8:00pm on a weeknight is part of the reason. All the little ones who are usually out in the street playing during the day are, I presume, getting read their bedtimes stories right about now. Snug in their jammies, fresh from the bath.
But it was a little less quiet a few minutes ago. The unmistakable sound of a most excellently delivered tantrum, Oscar-worthy in fact, came pealing in through the open window along with the evening breeze.
I stood at the screen listening to the fracas - sobs, angry screams, and "daddeeeee, daddeeeee, dadeeeeeeeee!!!" - and breathed a sight of relief as I turned to sit back down at the computer.
I sighed. I sighed because it's not me trying to cope with a 3 year-old who has just copped an, "I don't want to go to bed and you can't make me" attitude. I sighed because tonight my only responsibility, other than getting cat food and picking up My Beloved at the train, is to myself. I sighed because right now it seems easier to be me than them.
It was a happy sigh. And kind of a relieved one.
And this is a startling turn of events. Easier to be me than them? Huh?!
I don't know if this is some sort of a self defense mechanism at work, or just that magical ability humans have to adapt and accept and push on. But this has been happening quite a bit lately. I just haven't wanted to admit it because it seems, well, wrong. In fact it seems all kinds of wrong to be seeing the silver lining in such a dark and awful sky, doesn't it? I mean seriously, doesn't it??
I've become so accustomed to focusing on the negative - on what's missing - that it seems wrong to, every once in a while, actually be happy with my life. Just the way it is.
Not that it's wrong to be happy, but wrong to be happy about this.
This can't be right, can it? Is this even allowed?!
I'm not happy that my son is dead and I miscarried his four siblings. But sometimes I'm incredibly happy with the peaceful life we've managed to carve out since, and sometimes that happiness is directly related to the stress I know we don't - and will never have to - endure. Like bedtime tantrums, for example. Hell, any kind of tantrums. And messes too, dirty diapers included.
Of course it goes without saying that I would trade in all my new-found peace to have Thomas back. In a heartbeat. But since that isn't an option, I'm going to try to stop feeling guilty for enjoying the things our live has given us, even if we have them because of what was taken away.
Except for the odd rumble of thunder and the chirp of spring birds, it's quiet. So, so blissfully quiet. I suppose the fact that it's nearly 8:00pm on a weeknight is part of the reason. All the little ones who are usually out in the street playing during the day are, I presume, getting read their bedtimes stories right about now. Snug in their jammies, fresh from the bath.
But it was a little less quiet a few minutes ago. The unmistakable sound of a most excellently delivered tantrum, Oscar-worthy in fact, came pealing in through the open window along with the evening breeze.
I stood at the screen listening to the fracas - sobs, angry screams, and "daddeeeee, daddeeeee, dadeeeeeeeee!!!" - and breathed a sight of relief as I turned to sit back down at the computer.
I sighed. I sighed because it's not me trying to cope with a 3 year-old who has just copped an, "I don't want to go to bed and you can't make me" attitude. I sighed because tonight my only responsibility, other than getting cat food and picking up My Beloved at the train, is to myself. I sighed because right now it seems easier to be me than them.
It was a happy sigh. And kind of a relieved one.
And this is a startling turn of events. Easier to be me than them? Huh?!
I don't know if this is some sort of a self defense mechanism at work, or just that magical ability humans have to adapt and accept and push on. But this has been happening quite a bit lately. I just haven't wanted to admit it because it seems, well, wrong. In fact it seems all kinds of wrong to be seeing the silver lining in such a dark and awful sky, doesn't it? I mean seriously, doesn't it??
I've become so accustomed to focusing on the negative - on what's missing - that it seems wrong to, every once in a while, actually be happy with my life. Just the way it is.
Not that it's wrong to be happy, but wrong to be happy about this.
This can't be right, can it? Is this even allowed?!
I'm not happy that my son is dead and I miscarried his four siblings. But sometimes I'm incredibly happy with the peaceful life we've managed to carve out since, and sometimes that happiness is directly related to the stress I know we don't - and will never have to - endure. Like bedtime tantrums, for example. Hell, any kind of tantrums. And messes too, dirty diapers included.
Of course it goes without saying that I would trade in all my new-found peace to have Thomas back. In a heartbeat. But since that isn't an option, I'm going to try to stop feeling guilty for enjoying the things our live has given us, even if we have them because of what was taken away.
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