About a month and a half before he died, I had a conversation with my dad about death. I didn't know if it was right or fair, given his incredibly frail health, but I desperately needed to talk to him. I wanted to tell him about the vision I had of Thomas pushing through crowds of family and friends to be the first to greet whichever one of us was to arrive next.
I said "whichever one of us". I knew it would be Dad.
He smiled. And got quiet.
To fill the silence I blathered on, making a vague reference to some pretty severe doubts that had been plaguing me since he'd gotten so sick, about whether or not there even was a heaven.
In hindsight this all seems so cruel - to try to seek spiritual solace from someone staring death in the face, someone getting weaker every day and fighting so hard to live. But I couldn't help myself. I knew I was losing him. I was watching him slip away right before my eyes. The enormity of that impending loss made me realize exactly how desperately I needed to know that this is not all there is. That I would see him again, even if he had to leave me for a while now.
It was easy when he was younger and healthier. It was theoretical, the separation.
But when you look at someone and see death staring back at you, sometimes you say things you might otherwise not. And I hope he has long forgiven me for forcing him to talk about dying in the dialysis waiting room that day.
He told me he wasn't afraid of death. He was a man of immense, unwavering faith. He said if he happened to be wrong, which I know he didn't think he was, he'd never know the difference so it didn't concern him.
He said the only thing he was afraid of was the moment of death.
And I didn't know what to say, except to agree. And to feel sick for making him reach in and poke at that one little weak chink in his armor.
And then he was gone.
He would have loved to tell me about the moment of death, once he finally experienced it. As weird as that sounds, I know he would have. He loved to tell stories, especially if they were funny, but also if he knew someone was really, really interested in what he had to say. And I am. Oh, I am.
He would lean forward in his chair and said, "Say, do you remember that day in the waiting room when we were talking about dying? WELL..." then he'd pause for emphasis, lean back, and proceed to tell me that it wasn't as bad as he'd feared. Or that it was worse. Or quick. Or agonizingly slow. Most likely he'd say it's not worth worrying about while you're still alive because there's all sorts of important living to do then. And if that was his message, he'd probably wag his finger at me with his head tilted and his stern face on while he was delivering it.
And I would listen to the sound of that lovely voice, taking in all the details, nodding and commenting and laughing at the funny bits I'm sure he'd have managed to find in it all. Just like always.
It's been so long.
Thursday, April 28, 2011
Monday, March 28, 2011
Tired
I'm so tired of being sad. Bone weary exhausted, really.
I'm not wallowing. Honest. I have newly-purchased cans of paint and two bathrooms ready and waiting. I have crochet projects on the go. I have work scheduled. I have a to-do list that I follow. I have lunch plans with a friend on Friday.
The thing is, when I'm in the midst of the busyness, it's all good. But when I pause to figure out what that nagging feeling is - that sense that someone is watching me, that something is wrong, that I've had a bad dream, that I'm late for something - I realize it's sadness quietly waiting to be acknowledged.
And so I cry. I cry for my dad - for all the pain and indignities he suffered in the months before he died. I cry for me, because I miss him so much. I cry because I haven't yet figured out what to do with this unplanned life. And I cry because that scares the bejeezus out of me.
Fate has been clever and methodical in the doling out of disaster. A miscarriage in 2003, a miscarriage in 2004, Thomas' birth and death in 2005, fertility treatments in 2006/7, a miscarriage in 2007, more fertility treatments in 2008, dad's illness in 2010, his death in 2011. These things seemed to have spaced themselves out, giving me juuuuuust enough time to recover from one disaster before tossing some new horror my way.
The cumulative effect is like sitting beneath a pile of elephants trying to smile while I'm being crushed to death.
This is life. I know that. No one escapes unscathed, and in the midst of the horror is unimaginable beauty. I know that. I know that. I know that. There are bigger disasters. There are crueler fates. There are harder lives.
But, still, this is mine.
The other day I was telling My Beloved that I barely remember the girl I was before that first loss in 2003. I miss her, I told him. She's like a brightly-coloured character in a book - happy and innocent. Not without worry or sorrow, but still buzzing with light and energy.
In his wisdom and kindness he acknowledged her loss, but told me that the girl he's now married to is not just a shadow of the one he once knew. I am better, he says, in some ways. I didn't ask for specifics. I was too stunned and overjoyed to care.
Better. At least in some ways. That's good to know.
I know the fatigue of sorrow will wane. And maybe I'm thinking too hard; worrying about it too much. It hasn't yet been three months since the most recent elephant, after all.
But it would be nice not to be so grief-weary. So very, very nice.
I'm not wallowing. Honest. I have newly-purchased cans of paint and two bathrooms ready and waiting. I have crochet projects on the go. I have work scheduled. I have a to-do list that I follow. I have lunch plans with a friend on Friday.
The thing is, when I'm in the midst of the busyness, it's all good. But when I pause to figure out what that nagging feeling is - that sense that someone is watching me, that something is wrong, that I've had a bad dream, that I'm late for something - I realize it's sadness quietly waiting to be acknowledged.
And so I cry. I cry for my dad - for all the pain and indignities he suffered in the months before he died. I cry for me, because I miss him so much. I cry because I haven't yet figured out what to do with this unplanned life. And I cry because that scares the bejeezus out of me.
Fate has been clever and methodical in the doling out of disaster. A miscarriage in 2003, a miscarriage in 2004, Thomas' birth and death in 2005, fertility treatments in 2006/7, a miscarriage in 2007, more fertility treatments in 2008, dad's illness in 2010, his death in 2011. These things seemed to have spaced themselves out, giving me juuuuuust enough time to recover from one disaster before tossing some new horror my way.
The cumulative effect is like sitting beneath a pile of elephants trying to smile while I'm being crushed to death.
This is life. I know that. No one escapes unscathed, and in the midst of the horror is unimaginable beauty. I know that. I know that. I know that. There are bigger disasters. There are crueler fates. There are harder lives.
But, still, this is mine.
The other day I was telling My Beloved that I barely remember the girl I was before that first loss in 2003. I miss her, I told him. She's like a brightly-coloured character in a book - happy and innocent. Not without worry or sorrow, but still buzzing with light and energy.
In his wisdom and kindness he acknowledged her loss, but told me that the girl he's now married to is not just a shadow of the one he once knew. I am better, he says, in some ways. I didn't ask for specifics. I was too stunned and overjoyed to care.
Better. At least in some ways. That's good to know.
I know the fatigue of sorrow will wane. And maybe I'm thinking too hard; worrying about it too much. It hasn't yet been three months since the most recent elephant, after all.
But it would be nice not to be so grief-weary. So very, very nice.
Sunday, March 20, 2011
Missing
Years ago, not long after Thomas died, I read a post by a fellow babyloss blogger who was struggling with an overwhelming desire to make herself look as outwardly grief-stricken as she felt inside. She wanted to cut her hair, tattoo her body, cut patterns into her empty stomach - do something radical and drastic so that people would know, just by looking at her, that she was broken on the inside. She wanted the mark of grief.
It scared me. But I understood.
I started thinking about her - and the strange need for grief to be known and recognized - this morning at Mass. I'd made small talk with one of the office staff on the way in - a woman who helps me organize the annual Mass of Remembrance for bereaved parents. We both hate the heat, but wished it was a little warmer today. And isn't that funny, because in a few months we'll both be wishing for a crisp day just like this one. And isn't it a shame that while it's going to be warmer tomorrow, it's going to be rainy too. Blah, blah, blah.
When I finally got into the church, I sat down and started thinking about my dad, as I often do when I'm alone and quiet with nothing proper to distract me. Driving is a particular hazard. It often ends in tears.
Anyway, I was thinking that I display no outward sings of grief. I'm clean, my hair is freshly cut, I wear makeup (a necessity to hide the circles and bags my 40s have gifted me), I smile when appropriate, I attend meetings, I work. I am functional in all the ways that matter.
But inside there is so much grief. And no one knows.
It makes me feel like I'm existing inside a plexiglass dome, visible, but somehow unreachable. And thoroughly unknowable. Most importantly, separate. Always separate.
I started wondering why exactly it is that we need to share grief with others. It's such a personal thing that no two people feel or experience the same way - even if they've lost the same person - and yet we're desperate to find people who will listen to us when we need to talk about the aching emptiness a loved one's loss has created in our lives. We want to share, in explicit detail, what it feels like to be without that person; what it's like not to hear their voice tell us we are loved, what it's like to see the empty chair they once sat in, what it's like to want to tell them a story and forget, for a split second, that they are no longer there to hear it.
I want everyone to know how much I miss my dad. How I still cry for him. How agonizing it is to be separated from him. How I still can't fathom that he's really gone and is never coming back.
How I feel like I'm once again hollow inside, waiting to be filled up with whatever it is that filled the empty space Thomas left behind.
And no one knows.
And I don't know why that matters. Except somehow it does.
It scared me. But I understood.
I started thinking about her - and the strange need for grief to be known and recognized - this morning at Mass. I'd made small talk with one of the office staff on the way in - a woman who helps me organize the annual Mass of Remembrance for bereaved parents. We both hate the heat, but wished it was a little warmer today. And isn't that funny, because in a few months we'll both be wishing for a crisp day just like this one. And isn't it a shame that while it's going to be warmer tomorrow, it's going to be rainy too. Blah, blah, blah.
When I finally got into the church, I sat down and started thinking about my dad, as I often do when I'm alone and quiet with nothing proper to distract me. Driving is a particular hazard. It often ends in tears.
Anyway, I was thinking that I display no outward sings of grief. I'm clean, my hair is freshly cut, I wear makeup (a necessity to hide the circles and bags my 40s have gifted me), I smile when appropriate, I attend meetings, I work. I am functional in all the ways that matter.
But inside there is so much grief. And no one knows.
It makes me feel like I'm existing inside a plexiglass dome, visible, but somehow unreachable. And thoroughly unknowable. Most importantly, separate. Always separate.
I started wondering why exactly it is that we need to share grief with others. It's such a personal thing that no two people feel or experience the same way - even if they've lost the same person - and yet we're desperate to find people who will listen to us when we need to talk about the aching emptiness a loved one's loss has created in our lives. We want to share, in explicit detail, what it feels like to be without that person; what it's like not to hear their voice tell us we are loved, what it's like to see the empty chair they once sat in, what it's like to want to tell them a story and forget, for a split second, that they are no longer there to hear it.
I want everyone to know how much I miss my dad. How I still cry for him. How agonizing it is to be separated from him. How I still can't fathom that he's really gone and is never coming back.
How I feel like I'm once again hollow inside, waiting to be filled up with whatever it is that filled the empty space Thomas left behind.
And no one knows.
And I don't know why that matters. Except somehow it does.
Wednesday, March 09, 2011
Thursday, February 24, 2011
Universal mother
"...The thing I have always wanted to say I have no right to and may be so unwanted and I never would wish that. And my greatest fear has always been that my words could possibly cause you further pain which I would never want.
But I am saying it today to you. Forgive me if this is upsetting, please please.
I have always seen you as a mother, to Thomas yes, but in my soul I have always felt you must become a mother to another child, no matter how, no matter from your body or not, from birth or not it has been so strong I have written friends to speak about you and ask their advice. I feel it achingly in my core that your life, that your joy and your path is this, is to find a way to make it happen for you. Through foster or adopt or any other means. And I know that is so easier said than done, I know what you have said about all of it. I do I truly do. I just want you to know I dream about this, it haunts me and I have never understood why it is so, with you, it has never done so with someone else from our land of IF."
I think about this sort of thing a lot. Even still.
I imagine the life I nearly had every time I see a mother lean in to her child to listen to a secret he wants to share, or watch her touch her child with that absent-minded mother-love that makes her need to stroke her daughter's hair without even realizing she's doing it. I feel the emptiness around me so acutely in those fleeting moments when I see so clearly what I'm missing. And I panic in those moments too, knowing that I won't have that kind of connection with anyone. Ever.
But I also believe that childlessness is the road some people walk - some by choice, some because the choice was made for them.
I'm not walking it to be noble or to take the bullet for someone else. I'm walking it because I have to - because this is where life has lead me and I can't turn around and go back to a different starting point. Not now. Not after everything. I tried to choose a different path, but I kept ending up back on this one - more bloodied and broken each time - and there finally came a moment when I decided to stop fighting against it and accept that this is what was meant to be.
I regret that I was ever put in a position where I had to choose. But I don't regret the choice I made. I have to trust that it was the right one for me and for My Beloved.
I admit that it haunts me too. It probably always will. But I do believe that for us this is how it is supposed to be.
So I've just decided that I'll be a mother in other ways to other people until I'm with my own children again. A universal mother, if you will.
I'll crochet for my friends' babies, I'll listen when someone needs to talk, I'll keep secrets, I'll send cookies to work with My Beloved so he can share them with his co-workers, I'll make homemade birthday cakes, I'll make spaghetti sauce from scratch, I'll dry tears, I'll soothe hurts, I'll offer advice, I'll make things better when I can. And I will always keep tissues, gum, hand sanitizer, and aspirin in my purse.
I can still be a mother in the little ways that mean so much. It's not the same, I know that. But walking this road doesn't mean that I can't still use the mothering instincts that I was born with, or pass the kindness and love that I was shown by my own mother on to others.
Making that choice is easy.
Bleu, thank you so much for your comment. I know it came from a place of love and respect, and so no, it didn't hurt me. In fact, I've been thinking a lot about this whole "universal mother" thing in the last few months, and your words helped. Truly.
But I am saying it today to you. Forgive me if this is upsetting, please please.
I have always seen you as a mother, to Thomas yes, but in my soul I have always felt you must become a mother to another child, no matter how, no matter from your body or not, from birth or not it has been so strong I have written friends to speak about you and ask their advice. I feel it achingly in my core that your life, that your joy and your path is this, is to find a way to make it happen for you. Through foster or adopt or any other means. And I know that is so easier said than done, I know what you have said about all of it. I do I truly do. I just want you to know I dream about this, it haunts me and I have never understood why it is so, with you, it has never done so with someone else from our land of IF."
I think about this sort of thing a lot. Even still.
I imagine the life I nearly had every time I see a mother lean in to her child to listen to a secret he wants to share, or watch her touch her child with that absent-minded mother-love that makes her need to stroke her daughter's hair without even realizing she's doing it. I feel the emptiness around me so acutely in those fleeting moments when I see so clearly what I'm missing. And I panic in those moments too, knowing that I won't have that kind of connection with anyone. Ever.
But I also believe that childlessness is the road some people walk - some by choice, some because the choice was made for them.
I'm not walking it to be noble or to take the bullet for someone else. I'm walking it because I have to - because this is where life has lead me and I can't turn around and go back to a different starting point. Not now. Not after everything. I tried to choose a different path, but I kept ending up back on this one - more bloodied and broken each time - and there finally came a moment when I decided to stop fighting against it and accept that this is what was meant to be.
I regret that I was ever put in a position where I had to choose. But I don't regret the choice I made. I have to trust that it was the right one for me and for My Beloved.
I admit that it haunts me too. It probably always will. But I do believe that for us this is how it is supposed to be.
So I've just decided that I'll be a mother in other ways to other people until I'm with my own children again. A universal mother, if you will.
I'll crochet for my friends' babies, I'll listen when someone needs to talk, I'll keep secrets, I'll send cookies to work with My Beloved so he can share them with his co-workers, I'll make homemade birthday cakes, I'll make spaghetti sauce from scratch, I'll dry tears, I'll soothe hurts, I'll offer advice, I'll make things better when I can. And I will always keep tissues, gum, hand sanitizer, and aspirin in my purse.
I can still be a mother in the little ways that mean so much. It's not the same, I know that. But walking this road doesn't mean that I can't still use the mothering instincts that I was born with, or pass the kindness and love that I was shown by my own mother on to others.
Making that choice is easy.
Bleu, thank you so much for your comment. I know it came from a place of love and respect, and so no, it didn't hurt me. In fact, I've been thinking a lot about this whole "universal mother" thing in the last few months, and your words helped. Truly.
Sunday, February 06, 2011
Grief in 30
What I know about grief:
1. When it moves in, it brings every piece of baggage it can along with it.
2. It steals your sleep, your concentration, your confidence, your energy, and your peace.
3. It feels endless.
4. It gets better.
5. It gets worse.
6. It's totally unpredictable.
7. It makes you feel desperate.
8. It makes you feel incomplete.
9. It makes you feel scattered, scared, and lonely.
10. It thrives on the chaos it creates.
11. It changes your priorities.
12. It alters your perception.
13. It lies in wait.
14. It attacks without warning.
15. It bleeds you dry.
16. It makes you more compassionate.
17. It makes you more paranoid.
18. It makes you need friends, crave comfort, and beg for mercy.
19. It is ruthless, relentless, and insatiable.
20. It makes you vulnerable.
21. It makes you weep.
22. It makes you scream.
23. It chokes off your words.
24. It strangles your joy.
25. It claws at your heart.
26. It rakes at your mind.
27. It thunders in your ears.
28. It blinds your eyes.
29. It cripples, maims, and scars for life.
30. It makes you wonder if the people you're missing would even recognize the person you are now.
And each day you survive living with it, you win the tiniest little piece of yourself back.
1. When it moves in, it brings every piece of baggage it can along with it.
2. It steals your sleep, your concentration, your confidence, your energy, and your peace.
3. It feels endless.
4. It gets better.
5. It gets worse.
6. It's totally unpredictable.
7. It makes you feel desperate.
8. It makes you feel incomplete.
9. It makes you feel scattered, scared, and lonely.
10. It thrives on the chaos it creates.
11. It changes your priorities.
12. It alters your perception.
13. It lies in wait.
14. It attacks without warning.
15. It bleeds you dry.
16. It makes you more compassionate.
17. It makes you more paranoid.
18. It makes you need friends, crave comfort, and beg for mercy.
19. It is ruthless, relentless, and insatiable.
20. It makes you vulnerable.
21. It makes you weep.
22. It makes you scream.
23. It chokes off your words.
24. It strangles your joy.
25. It claws at your heart.
26. It rakes at your mind.
27. It thunders in your ears.
28. It blinds your eyes.
29. It cripples, maims, and scars for life.
30. It makes you wonder if the people you're missing would even recognize the person you are now.
And each day you survive living with it, you win the tiniest little piece of yourself back.
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
I want happy
Slow work weeks for freelancers are distressing. Slow work weeks for grieving freelancers are dangerous.
With nothing pressing to occupy your mind, it's especially easy to get lost down an internet rabbit hole. Eat the wrong things. Dwell on what-ifs. Wander aimlessly. Bother sleeping cats. Then eat the wrong things and start the whole cycle all over again.
Lather, rinse, repeat.
Today I found myself curled up on the only cat-free spot on the bed begging my Dad - who I'm only partially convinced can even hear me now - to help me find happy again.
I want happy.
My Beloved and I lost our first baby a little over 7 years ago. I have spent almost all the time since that moment being afraid or sad. Desperately so in both cases. Sometimes at the same time. There were bits of hope and moments of happy sprinkled in, sure, lots of them. But mostly I feel like I've been sad for such a very long time.
I want happy.
So I sat up and made a mental list of things that make me happy, thinking that was a good start. But I cried the whole time. I am responsible for my own happiness, but that responsibility is so overwhelming right now that I don't even know where to start. It makes me tired and defeated just thinking about the effort of it all.
I want someone to walk in with happy on a silver platter. A great huge plate heaped full with more happy on it than I could ever possibly need or want. An excess of happy. Effortlessly won.
But that's not the way it works. So I'll press on as I have been; as best I know how.
I'll get lost online, eat crap, cry, move quietly from room to room, and pester the cats while I wait for work.
And while I try to figure out a way to find happy again.
With nothing pressing to occupy your mind, it's especially easy to get lost down an internet rabbit hole. Eat the wrong things. Dwell on what-ifs. Wander aimlessly. Bother sleeping cats. Then eat the wrong things and start the whole cycle all over again.
Lather, rinse, repeat.
Today I found myself curled up on the only cat-free spot on the bed begging my Dad - who I'm only partially convinced can even hear me now - to help me find happy again.
I want happy.
My Beloved and I lost our first baby a little over 7 years ago. I have spent almost all the time since that moment being afraid or sad. Desperately so in both cases. Sometimes at the same time. There were bits of hope and moments of happy sprinkled in, sure, lots of them. But mostly I feel like I've been sad for such a very long time.
I want happy.
So I sat up and made a mental list of things that make me happy, thinking that was a good start. But I cried the whole time. I am responsible for my own happiness, but that responsibility is so overwhelming right now that I don't even know where to start. It makes me tired and defeated just thinking about the effort of it all.
I want someone to walk in with happy on a silver platter. A great huge plate heaped full with more happy on it than I could ever possibly need or want. An excess of happy. Effortlessly won.
But that's not the way it works. So I'll press on as I have been; as best I know how.
I'll get lost online, eat crap, cry, move quietly from room to room, and pester the cats while I wait for work.
And while I try to figure out a way to find happy again.
Friday, January 21, 2011
The sweater
I have my Dad's sweater hanging in the closet in the sitting room. It's the butter-yellow one with the faux wood buttons that my mom made so long ago that no one can remember exactly when; the one he wore to dialysis all summer long; the one that was finally deemed too raggedy and was replaced by a navy blue store-bought cardigan in the Fall.
But it slipped into rotation every now and again. And it's what he had on the last day he was alive. I found it at the bottom of their basement stairs, along with the shirt he'd worn to dialysis that Monday, hastily tossed away out of sight while my mom and sister waited for the coroner. And then, finally, the funeral parlor to come and take him away.
I brought it home and washed it. And I hung it in the closet that would have been Thomas'.
I'm not sure what I'm going to do with it - it's pilled and has a small blood stain on one arm caused by the ever-present itchy rash that plagued him. A side-effect of dialysis, we were told.
But I had to have it. I sat with him in the waiting room so many times as he wore that sweater. I watched him walk into the treatment room, slightly hunched and shuffling, with that butter-yellow sweater hanging off the shoulders that used to be broad and strong. I'd retrieve it from his bedroom when he'd forget to put it on. I'd help him into it. I hugged him hello and goodbye so many times while he was wearing it.
I needed it.
Maybe I'll wear it. Maybe I won't. But I need it here with me just the same.
I've only just started not needing to have lights on at dusk in rooms we're not using. When Thomas died, nightfall suffocated me, and I wanted to banish it before it had a chance to take a choke-hold this time.
But it's been a kinder sort of healing, and after not quite two and a half weeks the lights aren't necessary any longer. I've also stopped needing to have the TV on while I fall asleep. We still do it every once in a while, but I don't panic at the thought of falling asleep in the dark anymore. And my brain is quieter and lets me slip into sleep much easier now too.
So there's the sweater. And there's the darkness. And for now, I'm living comfortably enough with both of them.
But it slipped into rotation every now and again. And it's what he had on the last day he was alive. I found it at the bottom of their basement stairs, along with the shirt he'd worn to dialysis that Monday, hastily tossed away out of sight while my mom and sister waited for the coroner. And then, finally, the funeral parlor to come and take him away.
I brought it home and washed it. And I hung it in the closet that would have been Thomas'.
I'm not sure what I'm going to do with it - it's pilled and has a small blood stain on one arm caused by the ever-present itchy rash that plagued him. A side-effect of dialysis, we were told.
But I had to have it. I sat with him in the waiting room so many times as he wore that sweater. I watched him walk into the treatment room, slightly hunched and shuffling, with that butter-yellow sweater hanging off the shoulders that used to be broad and strong. I'd retrieve it from his bedroom when he'd forget to put it on. I'd help him into it. I hugged him hello and goodbye so many times while he was wearing it.
I needed it.
Maybe I'll wear it. Maybe I won't. But I need it here with me just the same.
I've only just started not needing to have lights on at dusk in rooms we're not using. When Thomas died, nightfall suffocated me, and I wanted to banish it before it had a chance to take a choke-hold this time.
But it's been a kinder sort of healing, and after not quite two and a half weeks the lights aren't necessary any longer. I've also stopped needing to have the TV on while I fall asleep. We still do it every once in a while, but I don't panic at the thought of falling asleep in the dark anymore. And my brain is quieter and lets me slip into sleep much easier now too.
So there's the sweater. And there's the darkness. And for now, I'm living comfortably enough with both of them.
Saturday, January 15, 2011
11 Days
My dad has been gone for 11 days.
Separation by death is agony. The new, awful distance between you rubs your soul raw, shredding you from the inside out as you push forward through the busyness of sleeping, eating, working.
I keep thinking of things I want to tell him. I used to stockpile bits and pieces to talk to him about while we were in the dialysis waiting room - things to distract him or amuse him. Sometimes they were things that were so exciting to me that I couldn't wait, and told him in the car on the way to the hospital.
He was the kind of person who you wanted to run to when you had something to say that you knew he'd want to hear. He lit up. He laughed from his toes. He pounded his fist with sympathetic rage.
Sometimes, for a fraction of a second, I forget. And then I am frozen with this thing I want to say sitting quietly unspoken in my head as I remember.
When my mom woke me that morning to tell me he'd died in his sleep, I didn't cry. I hung up the phone, looked out the window and thought, "So this is what it looks like without him here."
It looked the same. And I couldn't understand how that could possibly be.
I miss him in a way I can't miss Thomas - and in a way that confused me for the first few days. There's a hole where Thomas should have been, but there's a hole where my dad was. In those first, awful days it felt so much worse than when Thomas died.
Because I knew my dad.
I've finally decided that it's okay to miss them differently. I don't know why this preoccupied me so much, but I was worried about missing one more than the other. I was worried about what that might say about the love I had for each of them.
But as it turns out, I love them both and miss them both - for a million different reasons. And for two common reasons: because we three are a part of each other, and because they both belonged to me.
His hands are gone. He can't hold mine anymore. But I feel him guiding me through these sad, strange days - urging me onward and reminding me that life does go on. And that it can be wonderful, even still.
Because he led by example.
The night he died - before I even knew he was gone - I cried quietly in bed wondering how on earth I'd live without that love when the time came.
I now know that it's still there - that his love will always be with me.
And the friends who came to the visitation and the funeral - and who send cards, flowers, chocolates, food, messages and Mass cards, and left treats at my door - have demonstrated that there is abundant love to be had all around me. I'm once again in grateful awe of the way friends seem to find a way to fill the awful empty spaces with their concern, friendship and love.
I miss my daddy.
But I'm doing okay.
Separation by death is agony. The new, awful distance between you rubs your soul raw, shredding you from the inside out as you push forward through the busyness of sleeping, eating, working.
I keep thinking of things I want to tell him. I used to stockpile bits and pieces to talk to him about while we were in the dialysis waiting room - things to distract him or amuse him. Sometimes they were things that were so exciting to me that I couldn't wait, and told him in the car on the way to the hospital.
He was the kind of person who you wanted to run to when you had something to say that you knew he'd want to hear. He lit up. He laughed from his toes. He pounded his fist with sympathetic rage.
Sometimes, for a fraction of a second, I forget. And then I am frozen with this thing I want to say sitting quietly unspoken in my head as I remember.
When my mom woke me that morning to tell me he'd died in his sleep, I didn't cry. I hung up the phone, looked out the window and thought, "So this is what it looks like without him here."
It looked the same. And I couldn't understand how that could possibly be.
I miss him in a way I can't miss Thomas - and in a way that confused me for the first few days. There's a hole where Thomas should have been, but there's a hole where my dad was. In those first, awful days it felt so much worse than when Thomas died.
Because I knew my dad.
I've finally decided that it's okay to miss them differently. I don't know why this preoccupied me so much, but I was worried about missing one more than the other. I was worried about what that might say about the love I had for each of them.
But as it turns out, I love them both and miss them both - for a million different reasons. And for two common reasons: because we three are a part of each other, and because they both belonged to me.
His hands are gone. He can't hold mine anymore. But I feel him guiding me through these sad, strange days - urging me onward and reminding me that life does go on. And that it can be wonderful, even still.
Because he led by example.
The night he died - before I even knew he was gone - I cried quietly in bed wondering how on earth I'd live without that love when the time came.
I now know that it's still there - that his love will always be with me.
And the friends who came to the visitation and the funeral - and who send cards, flowers, chocolates, food, messages and Mass cards, and left treats at my door - have demonstrated that there is abundant love to be had all around me. I'm once again in grateful awe of the way friends seem to find a way to fill the awful empty spaces with their concern, friendship and love.
I miss my daddy.
But I'm doing okay.
Saturday, January 08, 2011
Godspeed
On January 4th, sometime in the wee hours while he was tucked up in his bed, my dad's sweet and much-loved heart quietly stopped beating.
I'm sure I will be able to speak more eloquently about this in the days to come, but right now I'm spent. Yesterday afternoon, under cold but mercifully sunny skies, we laid him to rest in the same cemetery where our Thomas lies.
And I miss him like crazy. I can still feel the last hug I got from him on Sunday night after dinner. Tight, tight, tight, despite how incredibly weak and frail he was. And as he held me, he kissed me on the head as though I was a child again.
I lost my son - my only child. I know that putting one foot in front of the other is how you carry on despite the suffocating grief and sorrow's unrelenting fatigue.
But I miss my daddy. I miss him so very, very much.
I'm sure I will be able to speak more eloquently about this in the days to come, but right now I'm spent. Yesterday afternoon, under cold but mercifully sunny skies, we laid him to rest in the same cemetery where our Thomas lies.
And I miss him like crazy. I can still feel the last hug I got from him on Sunday night after dinner. Tight, tight, tight, despite how incredibly weak and frail he was. And as he held me, he kissed me on the head as though I was a child again.
I lost my son - my only child. I know that putting one foot in front of the other is how you carry on despite the suffocating grief and sorrow's unrelenting fatigue.
But I miss my daddy. I miss him so very, very much.
Saturday, January 01, 2011
2011
Welcome, 2011!
I have high hopes for you, but also know that ultimately I am responsible for making my own happiness, cultivating my own good luck, and sewing up all those sow's ears I keep finding into enchanting little silk purses. I'm used to the drill.
How about this: I'll put 100% effort into it if you do too, 2011. Deal?
Deal.
P.S. be a pal and be nice to my peeps while you're at it, huh? Thanks, 2011.
P.S.S. I'm not still drunk from last night, 2011, I'm just really tired and a little worn out from the stress of the holidays. Once I've had a good night's sleep I'll probably stop talking to you...and writing to you in public. Don't be offended, m'k? M'k.
I have high hopes for you, but also know that ultimately I am responsible for making my own happiness, cultivating my own good luck, and sewing up all those sow's ears I keep finding into enchanting little silk purses. I'm used to the drill.
How about this: I'll put 100% effort into it if you do too, 2011. Deal?
Deal.
P.S. be a pal and be nice to my peeps while you're at it, huh? Thanks, 2011.
P.S.S. I'm not still drunk from last night, 2011, I'm just really tired and a little worn out from the stress of the holidays. Once I've had a good night's sleep I'll probably stop talking to you...and writing to you in public. Don't be offended, m'k? M'k.
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
Happy enough
Is this really the most wonderful time of the year?
In some ways, yes.
Two of my favourite food groups, chocolate and gravy, feature prominently during the Christmas season. Some of the most gorgeous sacred music ever written finds its way onto radio station playlists and my DVD player in November and December - along with Bing Crosby with his soothing brand of seasonal crooning.
And speaking of Bing, the coziest old movies and the best animated specials can be found on television stations 24/7 as the clock ticks down to Christmas day. And those you can't find on TV are almost always available on DVD to watch over and over again.
And cards - sparkly, lovely, mushy, happy cards - find their way into my mailbox almost every day, giving bills and junk mail a run for their money.
Christmas is a greeting card whore's dream come true.
And there really is a gentleness about the season. People, when they're not shopping or trying to find a parking spot, just seem nicer somehow.
So yes, it's a lovely time of year. And I love it.
But I think it's important not to over-glorify Christmas. Not because the other holidays will get jealous, but because it puts entirely too much pressure on everyone to actually feel as happy as we might be pretending to look; as happy as the songs and stories and televisions specials tell us we should be.
Sometimes happy isn't always there. But because Mariah Carey is shrieking at me about a silent night over the sound system at the mall, I feel like the world expects me to be happy, calm, and bright. Right now, dammit.
Like I used to be, back when I didn't know that babies died and fathers got sick.
It's not realistic to be happy all the time. And it's even less realistic at Christmas, where there's additional pressure to be the Norman Rockwellian picture of festive bliss - no matter what's going on in the rest of your life, it seems.
Divorced people, sick people, abused people, grieving people, depressed people, lonely people - they're feeling additional pressure to be festive and happy when circumstances in their lives make just regular old happy difficult some days. Maybe most days.
Spring is a wonderful time of year. Buds, blooms, balmy weather and an end to snow boots and winter tires makes it a perfectly lovely season. Summer, although I despise the heat, is nice simply because there's no chance of snow and a good chance of a cottage vacation. Fall - also known as pie season around here - is a delight, with crisp air, cozy sweaters, changing leaves and Thanksgiving.
All the seasons are nice.
It's just good to remember that when the joy of Christmas seems a little hard to find. Or when you think the amount of joy you have isn't enough.
One of my sweetest Christmas memories is sitting alone in bed, sick as a dog, eating canned chicken noodle soup and listening to Boris Karloff tell me how the Grinch stole Christmas, on CD.
By all accounts, it was a miserable Christmas. I was too sick to stay and have dinner with my family, so I went home after opening presents and crawled into bed with some soup. It was the very first Christmas My Beloved and I were together, and he'd given me the CD on Christmas Eve.
I was sad - I'd made my mother cry when I told her I had to leave - and in addition to being devastated that I was missing Christmas dinner for the first time ever, I felt like death warmed over. But I also felt loved as I listened to the CD and ate my soup. And by the time my sister got home with a turkey sandwich and some leftover pie, I was feeling marginally better. And even more loved.
Even a little joy is more than enough, especially during times when experiencing just a little smidgen of merry is a hard-fought victory.
It's important to remember that. It makes even the smallest amount of Christmas happy, happy enough.
In some ways, yes.
Two of my favourite food groups, chocolate and gravy, feature prominently during the Christmas season. Some of the most gorgeous sacred music ever written finds its way onto radio station playlists and my DVD player in November and December - along with Bing Crosby with his soothing brand of seasonal crooning.
And speaking of Bing, the coziest old movies and the best animated specials can be found on television stations 24/7 as the clock ticks down to Christmas day. And those you can't find on TV are almost always available on DVD to watch over and over again.
And cards - sparkly, lovely, mushy, happy cards - find their way into my mailbox almost every day, giving bills and junk mail a run for their money.
Christmas is a greeting card whore's dream come true.
And there really is a gentleness about the season. People, when they're not shopping or trying to find a parking spot, just seem nicer somehow.
So yes, it's a lovely time of year. And I love it.
But I think it's important not to over-glorify Christmas. Not because the other holidays will get jealous, but because it puts entirely too much pressure on everyone to actually feel as happy as we might be pretending to look; as happy as the songs and stories and televisions specials tell us we should be.
Sometimes happy isn't always there. But because Mariah Carey is shrieking at me about a silent night over the sound system at the mall, I feel like the world expects me to be happy, calm, and bright. Right now, dammit.
Like I used to be, back when I didn't know that babies died and fathers got sick.
It's not realistic to be happy all the time. And it's even less realistic at Christmas, where there's additional pressure to be the Norman Rockwellian picture of festive bliss - no matter what's going on in the rest of your life, it seems.
Divorced people, sick people, abused people, grieving people, depressed people, lonely people - they're feeling additional pressure to be festive and happy when circumstances in their lives make just regular old happy difficult some days. Maybe most days.
Spring is a wonderful time of year. Buds, blooms, balmy weather and an end to snow boots and winter tires makes it a perfectly lovely season. Summer, although I despise the heat, is nice simply because there's no chance of snow and a good chance of a cottage vacation. Fall - also known as pie season around here - is a delight, with crisp air, cozy sweaters, changing leaves and Thanksgiving.
All the seasons are nice.
It's just good to remember that when the joy of Christmas seems a little hard to find. Or when you think the amount of joy you have isn't enough.
One of my sweetest Christmas memories is sitting alone in bed, sick as a dog, eating canned chicken noodle soup and listening to Boris Karloff tell me how the Grinch stole Christmas, on CD.
By all accounts, it was a miserable Christmas. I was too sick to stay and have dinner with my family, so I went home after opening presents and crawled into bed with some soup. It was the very first Christmas My Beloved and I were together, and he'd given me the CD on Christmas Eve.
I was sad - I'd made my mother cry when I told her I had to leave - and in addition to being devastated that I was missing Christmas dinner for the first time ever, I felt like death warmed over. But I also felt loved as I listened to the CD and ate my soup. And by the time my sister got home with a turkey sandwich and some leftover pie, I was feeling marginally better. And even more loved.
Even a little joy is more than enough, especially during times when experiencing just a little smidgen of merry is a hard-fought victory.
It's important to remember that. It makes even the smallest amount of Christmas happy, happy enough.
Thursday, December 09, 2010
The days leading up to Christmas...
...look a little something like this at my house:
When the family cookie party detritus is all cleaned up and put away for another year, the dining room table is re-purposed, becoming the official home of the Christmas train. Once they're wrapped, I pile all the presents that are heading out of the house into the middle of the train, creating present mountain around which it chugs.
As Dibley watches.
I've said it before and I'll say it again: Christmas is NOT just for kids (dammit!!). It's also for adults who love to revel in the simple joys of the season. And for cats who live for the excitement of watching things that go around and around and around in circles.
Christmas is for everyone who wants a little piece of it.
And I do.
As Dibley watches.
I've said it before and I'll say it again: Christmas is NOT just for kids (dammit!!). It's also for adults who love to revel in the simple joys of the season. And for cats who live for the excitement of watching things that go around and around and around in circles.
Christmas is for everyone who wants a little piece of it.
And I do.
Monday, December 06, 2010
This, that 'n the other
On Saturday we had our 6th annual Family Christmas Tea, a tradition I started that first Christmas without Thomas when I was desperate to make new memories in place of the ones I'd imagined we'd be creating (with a 9-month old boy dressed in the santa suit his Grandma had knitted for him).
I've been baking and prepping for the last three weeks, and at 2:00pm on Saturday afternoon the plastic wrap came off the trays of goodies, and I scooped the whipped cream for the diabetic gingerbread cake into the candy cane bowl as my family walked in the front door.
The best moment of the day was when my dad, snuggled into the comfiest chair in the family room by the fire, smiled and said, "This is exactly where I wanted to be today."
The second best moment of the day was when my nephew, giggling and sticky with candy cane face, played charades with me in the kitchen.
It is possible, as it turns out, for your heart to both melt and break all at the same time.
___________________________________________
A few weeks ago my sister handed me a little round paper ornament. It was a copy of one that was going to be hung on the Christmas tree at the hospital where Thomas was born, in his memory.
By coincidence (one that has made my dad's health issues all the more emotionally complicated for me), it's the same hospital where my dad spent three months this winter/spring, and where he now receives dialysis three times a week.
On my way out of the dialysis waiting room on Friday, I spied the massive Chirstmas tree in the hospital's atrium covered in hundreds and hundreds of the little round paper ornaments purchased by family and friends in memory and honour.
I remembered the ornament that's now stuck on our fridge, and thought I might try to find its mate on the tree.
The tree has to be upwards of 20 feet tall and easily six feet wide. There are, as I said, hundreds of paper ornaments covering it from top to bottom.
And I found Thomas' almost instantly, about seven feet up and facing directly into the renal unit.
So I know he's watching over his Grandpa, at Christmas and always. Just like I asked him to.
__________________________________________
And speaking of Christmas, I got an early present the other day when I opened up my e-mail and found I'd been given a really sweet blog award by Lady Pumpkin! This is my very first one, and I have to say I was chuffed. I really was.
As per the instructions, I'm now passing the Cherry On Top award to the following five wonderful women who always manage to say something that makes me smile, cry, nod or laugh - sometimes all in the same post:
Mrs. Spit
Loribeth
Pamela at Silent Sorority
Emily
Justine at A Half Baked Life
Here are the rules: Link back to the person who awarded you, and then pick five blogs to pass the award along to. Make sure to comment on the awarded blogs so they know they’ve been picked.
Thank you again, Lady Pumpkin! I'm glad you think I'm deserving of a cherry on top!
I've been baking and prepping for the last three weeks, and at 2:00pm on Saturday afternoon the plastic wrap came off the trays of goodies, and I scooped the whipped cream for the diabetic gingerbread cake into the candy cane bowl as my family walked in the front door.
The best moment of the day was when my dad, snuggled into the comfiest chair in the family room by the fire, smiled and said, "This is exactly where I wanted to be today."
The second best moment of the day was when my nephew, giggling and sticky with candy cane face, played charades with me in the kitchen.
It is possible, as it turns out, for your heart to both melt and break all at the same time.
___________________________________________
A few weeks ago my sister handed me a little round paper ornament. It was a copy of one that was going to be hung on the Christmas tree at the hospital where Thomas was born, in his memory.
By coincidence (one that has made my dad's health issues all the more emotionally complicated for me), it's the same hospital where my dad spent three months this winter/spring, and where he now receives dialysis three times a week.
On my way out of the dialysis waiting room on Friday, I spied the massive Chirstmas tree in the hospital's atrium covered in hundreds and hundreds of the little round paper ornaments purchased by family and friends in memory and honour.
I remembered the ornament that's now stuck on our fridge, and thought I might try to find its mate on the tree.
The tree has to be upwards of 20 feet tall and easily six feet wide. There are, as I said, hundreds of paper ornaments covering it from top to bottom.
And I found Thomas' almost instantly, about seven feet up and facing directly into the renal unit.
So I know he's watching over his Grandpa, at Christmas and always. Just like I asked him to.
__________________________________________
And speaking of Christmas, I got an early present the other day when I opened up my e-mail and found I'd been given a really sweet blog award by Lady Pumpkin! This is my very first one, and I have to say I was chuffed. I really was.
As per the instructions, I'm now passing the Cherry On Top award to the following five wonderful women who always manage to say something that makes me smile, cry, nod or laugh - sometimes all in the same post:
Mrs. Spit
Loribeth
Pamela at Silent Sorority
Emily
Justine at A Half Baked Life
Here are the rules: Link back to the person who awarded you, and then pick five blogs to pass the award along to. Make sure to comment on the awarded blogs so they know they’ve been picked.
Thank you again, Lady Pumpkin! I'm glad you think I'm deserving of a cherry on top!
Thursday, December 02, 2010
Don't forget...
Lately I've been carefully reminding myself to prepare for the emotional onslaught of Christmas Eve, which seems to catch me off guard every year.
The first one without Thomas I spent cleaning - manically cleaning - and sobbing. It has not gotten much better. But that's because I kept forgetting how shittastic Christmas Eve is, for some reason. It's fresh agony each year thanks to my surprising inability to retain useful information like: CHRISTMAS EVE SUCKED LAST YEAR BECAUSE I WAS VERY, VERY SAD.
As the years have passed there's been noticeably less frenzied cleaning activity on Christmas Eve (of course that would be the first thing to go...), but there's still a debilitating amount of very raw sorrow in my heart on the 24th.
It's such a little kid day - my most favourite day of the year when I was small. So much magic in the air. So much promise. So much to look forward to.
And now, of course, there's markedly less magic and promise in my life. And the sorts of things I look forward to are having a schooner of wine when I get home from taking my dad to the hospital, or knowing there's a chocolate bar My Beloved has stashed away in the freezer for me.
See? Wine and chocolate. And I was going to mention something about fleece sheets, but that's just too obvious.
So I've been reminding myself that Christmas Eve is coming, pain and all, because I think maybe if it doesn't sneak up on me, it might not be as bad as usual.
Plus this year I'll be spending some of it in dialysis with my dad - which isn't necessarily merrier, but, well, different. And different is good, I find. Even when the different is actually bad, different.
I don't know for sure if being prepared will help at all - but at least I'm doing something beside waiting to wake up on Christmas Eve to a crushing sadness I'd forgotten would come.
The first one without Thomas I spent cleaning - manically cleaning - and sobbing. It has not gotten much better. But that's because I kept forgetting how shittastic Christmas Eve is, for some reason. It's fresh agony each year thanks to my surprising inability to retain useful information like: CHRISTMAS EVE SUCKED LAST YEAR BECAUSE I WAS VERY, VERY SAD.
As the years have passed there's been noticeably less frenzied cleaning activity on Christmas Eve (of course that would be the first thing to go...), but there's still a debilitating amount of very raw sorrow in my heart on the 24th.
It's such a little kid day - my most favourite day of the year when I was small. So much magic in the air. So much promise. So much to look forward to.
And now, of course, there's markedly less magic and promise in my life. And the sorts of things I look forward to are having a schooner of wine when I get home from taking my dad to the hospital, or knowing there's a chocolate bar My Beloved has stashed away in the freezer for me.
See? Wine and chocolate. And I was going to mention something about fleece sheets, but that's just too obvious.
So I've been reminding myself that Christmas Eve is coming, pain and all, because I think maybe if it doesn't sneak up on me, it might not be as bad as usual.
Plus this year I'll be spending some of it in dialysis with my dad - which isn't necessarily merrier, but, well, different. And different is good, I find. Even when the different is actually bad, different.
I don't know for sure if being prepared will help at all - but at least I'm doing something beside waiting to wake up on Christmas Eve to a crushing sadness I'd forgotten would come.
Thursday, November 25, 2010
Yeah, it's just not fair
Life is such a mental exercise sometimes.
Yesterday morning as I was getting ready to leave to take my dad to dialysis, I suddenly stopped dead in my tracks, momentarily overwhelmed by what a seemingly constant struggle life has become.
I'm still trying to navigate my way through the muddy waters of childlessness (complete with new and dazzling special effects and stomach churning surprises at every turn), and at the same time I'm watching my dad slowly slip away, and desperately trying to cope with the grief that creeps into my weary head when I think of how little time I know he has left.
One of the older dialysis patients had his wife, daughter, granddaughter and two great-grandsons with him in the waiting room yesterday. The oldest boy, just big enough to be out of a stroller, was simply booming with little boy energy - something pretty foreign in a waiting room cluttered with wheelchairs, motor scooters, oxygen tanks, and tired patients.
I couldn't help but smile at them.
And then I couldn't help but feel empty as I watched the sweet scene unfold in front of me. My dad is easily as old as that great-great grandfather. I looked at their big, growing family, and I just felt so sad and defeated. And then, of course, guilty for not being able to give my family the extra light and life that two little boys - or even one little boy - can bring.
Light and life are markedly absent from our family right now.
I stared at the boys and their mom and her grandparents wondering what it must feel like to have so much pulsing, vibrant, loveliness surrounding you in such sad, desperate times. And I thought about how sweet it must be to live in a world where the proper order of things (with its tidy, A always follows B, reality) provides a measure of comfort and peace during difficult times. Old people get sick and die while babies are born, live, and nourish the family with fresh hope.
I couldn't take my eyes off the family. Watching them was an exquisite sort of agony, but I just couldn't look away. Mercifully, they left soon after their husband/father/grandfather/great-grandfather was called into dialysis.
And order returned to my world. Just me and my dad. No little boys trailing along behind to remind us that life does go on and that we will not be forgotten.
I've been trying, of late, to focus on my blessings - of which there are many - to keep myself from sinking into a self-pitying funk from which there is no return.
It works. Mostly.
But I'm still angry that this is my life right now. I'm angry that we're surviving more than we're living. I'm angry that joy has to be so hard won. I'm angry that my dad is suffering so much, and that we're all suffering the helpless agony of not being able to make him better.
It's not fair, it's not fair, it's not fair, it's not fair!!
But I know it's up to me to figure out a way to pry the good from all this and make my life about more than just the cumulative effects of its losses and sorrows and struggles.
I just hope I can muster the energy to do it. Again.
Yesterday morning as I was getting ready to leave to take my dad to dialysis, I suddenly stopped dead in my tracks, momentarily overwhelmed by what a seemingly constant struggle life has become.
I'm still trying to navigate my way through the muddy waters of childlessness (complete with new and dazzling special effects and stomach churning surprises at every turn), and at the same time I'm watching my dad slowly slip away, and desperately trying to cope with the grief that creeps into my weary head when I think of how little time I know he has left.
One of the older dialysis patients had his wife, daughter, granddaughter and two great-grandsons with him in the waiting room yesterday. The oldest boy, just big enough to be out of a stroller, was simply booming with little boy energy - something pretty foreign in a waiting room cluttered with wheelchairs, motor scooters, oxygen tanks, and tired patients.
I couldn't help but smile at them.
And then I couldn't help but feel empty as I watched the sweet scene unfold in front of me. My dad is easily as old as that great-great grandfather. I looked at their big, growing family, and I just felt so sad and defeated. And then, of course, guilty for not being able to give my family the extra light and life that two little boys - or even one little boy - can bring.
Light and life are markedly absent from our family right now.
I stared at the boys and their mom and her grandparents wondering what it must feel like to have so much pulsing, vibrant, loveliness surrounding you in such sad, desperate times. And I thought about how sweet it must be to live in a world where the proper order of things (with its tidy, A always follows B, reality) provides a measure of comfort and peace during difficult times. Old people get sick and die while babies are born, live, and nourish the family with fresh hope.
I couldn't take my eyes off the family. Watching them was an exquisite sort of agony, but I just couldn't look away. Mercifully, they left soon after their husband/father/grandfather/great-grandfather was called into dialysis.
And order returned to my world. Just me and my dad. No little boys trailing along behind to remind us that life does go on and that we will not be forgotten.
I've been trying, of late, to focus on my blessings - of which there are many - to keep myself from sinking into a self-pitying funk from which there is no return.
It works. Mostly.
But I'm still angry that this is my life right now. I'm angry that we're surviving more than we're living. I'm angry that joy has to be so hard won. I'm angry that my dad is suffering so much, and that we're all suffering the helpless agony of not being able to make him better.
It's not fair, it's not fair, it's not fair, it's not fair!!
But I know it's up to me to figure out a way to pry the good from all this and make my life about more than just the cumulative effects of its losses and sorrows and struggles.
I just hope I can muster the energy to do it. Again.
Monday, November 22, 2010
Of course it hurts. Yes, even still.
The other day I read a blog post by someone who is much more willing to admit her brokenness than I am. She is not ashamed of it the way I am. She is not afraid of it, nor of what people think of it.
I'm not sure she even thinks of it as brokenness, as a matter of fact. Come to think of it she's probably right, dammit.
The gist of her post was that infertile women who claim to be okay with being around babies are lying to us - even to those of us in the same boat - and to themselves. I'm paraphrasing, but that's basically what she was saying - that those of us who are childless not by choice are never completely comfortable being surrounded by the things we wanted most in the world and can never have.
It makes sense, really. Say you want a drink of water really badly, and then say you can never have one ever again. Ignore the fact that this would, of course, eventually kill you, and just imagine how agonizing it would be to be surrounded by clean, crisp, cold water that you can never, ever have. Ever.
It would be difficult - painful even - to go to a cottage, or a beach, or do something as simple as wash your dishes or have a long, hot bath. Touching the water but never being able to drink it and quench your thirst would be absolute torture. Probably forever.
So it really does make sense that those of us who wanted children but haven't been able to either conceive them, carry them, or bring them home alive would find exposure to children painful on some level every time. Probably forever.
It makes perfect sense.
And if I'm honest (which I don't always like to be when it comes to this sort of thing because I want people to think I'm strong and lovely), it really does always hurt to be around children. It's not a life-threatening gunshot to the head kind of pain anymore. But it is still there. And it's uncomfortable.
I would disagree with the blogger's insistence that the infertile never want to be around children (and are lying if they say so) because there are times when I genuinely do want to be around the children I love, even though I know it will hurt at the same time. Because I love children, and I especially love the ones in my life.
So the pain is just a side effect of exposure. And I can live with that. I have no choice, of course, but I really can live with it - especially since I've learned coping mechanisms that help me deal with the lingering after effects.
Those coping mechanisms often involve chocolate, wine, and shopping - but still, they work.
But I do wish I'd had the wherewithal to say no back when the pain really was like a shot to the head. When newborns were thrust into my arms by well-meaning friends who obviously thought that it would be a salve on my broken heart, and when new mothers (inexplicably, under the circumstances) launched into birth stories and tales of breastfeeding that seemed positively endless. I wish I'd had the courage then to say, "I'm sorry, but as happy as I am for you, hearing this much detail is a little painful for me right now - and no, I can't hold your baby either."
I wish I'd cared more for my own feelings than the feelings of others back then. I wish I'd known that it would have been more than okay for me to retreat to the safety of my home (or my car, or a bathroom - or anywhere where there weren't mothers and babies) when all the babyness around me threatened to suffocate me. I wish I'd known it was okay to protect myself and my barely beating heart.
I'm sure the unsolicited immersion therapy can be at least partially credited for shoving me along to the place I'm at now. I can look forward to spending time with a child - and in some cases I'm the one who initiates it - knowing full well that it's also going to hurt, but enjoying it despite the ever-present ache.
But the point is, I do still hurt. And I need to stop being ashamed of admitting it. And I need to stop thinking I'm broken because of it. And I need to stop thinking I'm less of a woman for feeling it.
I'm not sure she even thinks of it as brokenness, as a matter of fact. Come to think of it she's probably right, dammit.
The gist of her post was that infertile women who claim to be okay with being around babies are lying to us - even to those of us in the same boat - and to themselves. I'm paraphrasing, but that's basically what she was saying - that those of us who are childless not by choice are never completely comfortable being surrounded by the things we wanted most in the world and can never have.
It makes sense, really. Say you want a drink of water really badly, and then say you can never have one ever again. Ignore the fact that this would, of course, eventually kill you, and just imagine how agonizing it would be to be surrounded by clean, crisp, cold water that you can never, ever have. Ever.
It would be difficult - painful even - to go to a cottage, or a beach, or do something as simple as wash your dishes or have a long, hot bath. Touching the water but never being able to drink it and quench your thirst would be absolute torture. Probably forever.
So it really does make sense that those of us who wanted children but haven't been able to either conceive them, carry them, or bring them home alive would find exposure to children painful on some level every time. Probably forever.
It makes perfect sense.
And if I'm honest (which I don't always like to be when it comes to this sort of thing because I want people to think I'm strong and lovely), it really does always hurt to be around children. It's not a life-threatening gunshot to the head kind of pain anymore. But it is still there. And it's uncomfortable.
I would disagree with the blogger's insistence that the infertile never want to be around children (and are lying if they say so) because there are times when I genuinely do want to be around the children I love, even though I know it will hurt at the same time. Because I love children, and I especially love the ones in my life.
So the pain is just a side effect of exposure. And I can live with that. I have no choice, of course, but I really can live with it - especially since I've learned coping mechanisms that help me deal with the lingering after effects.
Those coping mechanisms often involve chocolate, wine, and shopping - but still, they work.
But I do wish I'd had the wherewithal to say no back when the pain really was like a shot to the head. When newborns were thrust into my arms by well-meaning friends who obviously thought that it would be a salve on my broken heart, and when new mothers (inexplicably, under the circumstances) launched into birth stories and tales of breastfeeding that seemed positively endless. I wish I'd had the courage then to say, "I'm sorry, but as happy as I am for you, hearing this much detail is a little painful for me right now - and no, I can't hold your baby either."
I wish I'd cared more for my own feelings than the feelings of others back then. I wish I'd known that it would have been more than okay for me to retreat to the safety of my home (or my car, or a bathroom - or anywhere where there weren't mothers and babies) when all the babyness around me threatened to suffocate me. I wish I'd known it was okay to protect myself and my barely beating heart.
I'm sure the unsolicited immersion therapy can be at least partially credited for shoving me along to the place I'm at now. I can look forward to spending time with a child - and in some cases I'm the one who initiates it - knowing full well that it's also going to hurt, but enjoying it despite the ever-present ache.
But the point is, I do still hurt. And I need to stop being ashamed of admitting it. And I need to stop thinking I'm broken because of it. And I need to stop thinking I'm less of a woman for feeling it.
Thursday, November 18, 2010
Surviving the holidays
When I was a kid, Christmas started as soon as Halloween was put away (which is the reason why I start playing Christmas music on November 1st now that I'm a grown-up and can make those sorts of executive decisions).
But back in the 70s when I didn't have quite as much power (but did have an alarming number of polyester pants), if the beginning of November was deemed too early to drag out the decorations, I just made my own to tide myself over. Construction paper chains and snowflakes worked well, although I callously tossed them aside for the breathtaking beauty of the plastic holly garland as soon as it made its glorious appearance above the fireplace hearth. It had multicoloured twinkle lights and everything - something no paper chain could ever hope to achieve.
My parents, whether they were conscious of doing it or not, created traditions that I still try to find a way to carry on today. The plastic garland melted in an overly-ambitious fire years ago - and our gas fireplace is too hot to allow a swag of garland anyway - but there are some things I cannot change. I will not change.
Christmas has an edge of sadness - I can't lie. I miss Thomas with an ache that sometimes threatens to double me over during the holiday season. And I miss my Grandparents, who were such a huge part of my life and of Christmases past.
But I love the season in all its tinseled glory, and I refuse to give in to the sorrow as much as humanly possible. It sits below my skin like a layer of winter fat, but I can hide it with big sweaters.
And I can ease it by indulging in the traditions that make me feel safe and cozy and loved.
I have a bourbon fruit cake in the oven right now, as a matter of fact, because my mom made it every year. She spent most of December trying to keep my dad from "taste-testing" it, but somehow enough managed to last through to the big day.
I tasted one batter-smothered, brandified raisin before I washed the mixing bowl, and it instantly transported me back to Christmas past. Kind of like my own personal Dickens-inspired time capsule.
The ornaments my Grandma gave me each year still find a way onto my tree - even the Santa Claus with the giant clown lips that we made together (I did the lips) - and I still get a brand new pair of Christmas jammies to wear on Christmas Eve.
There is comfort in ritual. And there is joy in creating new traditions, even if you don't have anyone to pass them down to.
Last year my niece said she'd visit me in the home if I promised to have my Christmas cookie party every year. It began as a distraction in 2005 when I needed to have something to do in the weeks leading up to what would have been Thomas' first Christmas - and when doing something "new" was critical to me, for reasons I can no longer really explain.
But now it's something that I know at least one little soul looks forward to. And the thought that it might become part of her cherished Christmas-past memories when she's all grown up means the world to me.
And so I bake. To distract, to comfort, to remember, to celebrate.
But back in the 70s when I didn't have quite as much power (but did have an alarming number of polyester pants), if the beginning of November was deemed too early to drag out the decorations, I just made my own to tide myself over. Construction paper chains and snowflakes worked well, although I callously tossed them aside for the breathtaking beauty of the plastic holly garland as soon as it made its glorious appearance above the fireplace hearth. It had multicoloured twinkle lights and everything - something no paper chain could ever hope to achieve.
My parents, whether they were conscious of doing it or not, created traditions that I still try to find a way to carry on today. The plastic garland melted in an overly-ambitious fire years ago - and our gas fireplace is too hot to allow a swag of garland anyway - but there are some things I cannot change. I will not change.
Christmas has an edge of sadness - I can't lie. I miss Thomas with an ache that sometimes threatens to double me over during the holiday season. And I miss my Grandparents, who were such a huge part of my life and of Christmases past.
But I love the season in all its tinseled glory, and I refuse to give in to the sorrow as much as humanly possible. It sits below my skin like a layer of winter fat, but I can hide it with big sweaters.
And I can ease it by indulging in the traditions that make me feel safe and cozy and loved.
I have a bourbon fruit cake in the oven right now, as a matter of fact, because my mom made it every year. She spent most of December trying to keep my dad from "taste-testing" it, but somehow enough managed to last through to the big day.
I tasted one batter-smothered, brandified raisin before I washed the mixing bowl, and it instantly transported me back to Christmas past. Kind of like my own personal Dickens-inspired time capsule.
The ornaments my Grandma gave me each year still find a way onto my tree - even the Santa Claus with the giant clown lips that we made together (I did the lips) - and I still get a brand new pair of Christmas jammies to wear on Christmas Eve.
There is comfort in ritual. And there is joy in creating new traditions, even if you don't have anyone to pass them down to.
Last year my niece said she'd visit me in the home if I promised to have my Christmas cookie party every year. It began as a distraction in 2005 when I needed to have something to do in the weeks leading up to what would have been Thomas' first Christmas - and when doing something "new" was critical to me, for reasons I can no longer really explain.
But now it's something that I know at least one little soul looks forward to. And the thought that it might become part of her cherished Christmas-past memories when she's all grown up means the world to me.
And so I bake. To distract, to comfort, to remember, to celebrate.
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
Eight years
On November 16, 2002 I married My Beloved.
In October 2003 we lost our first child to miscarriage.
In March 2004 we lost our second child to miscarriage.
In March 2005 our beautiful boy was born and died 20 hours later.
In June 2006 we started fertility treatments.
In August 2007 we lost our twins to miscarriage.
In 2009 we decided to close this chapter of our lives and stop trying.
On November 16, 2010 we went to Niagara-on-the-Lake for the afternoon. We had a delicious lunch, and then window shopped our way up and down the town's main street until the rain got too heavy for proper strolling. We bought Christmas lights and an ornament for Thomas' wreath. We did a bit of Christmas shopping and bought some Irish tea (which we figured we'd need later once we were home and dry - and we did). We held hands. We laughed. We tried on hats. We marveled at the vast selection of jams Niagara-on-the-lake seems to produce - and bought some of that too. We talked. We drove home in the pouring rain to our quiet little house.
And then I took this:
And when I looked at it, I realized that no matter what has happened - no matter what unfathomable heartbreaks we've faced since we said "I do" eight years ago - I still always look happiest when I'm with my Sandy.
Some things never change.
oxox
In October 2003 we lost our first child to miscarriage.
In March 2004 we lost our second child to miscarriage.
In March 2005 our beautiful boy was born and died 20 hours later.
In June 2006 we started fertility treatments.
In August 2007 we lost our twins to miscarriage.
In 2009 we decided to close this chapter of our lives and stop trying.
On November 16, 2010 we went to Niagara-on-the-Lake for the afternoon. We had a delicious lunch, and then window shopped our way up and down the town's main street until the rain got too heavy for proper strolling. We bought Christmas lights and an ornament for Thomas' wreath. We did a bit of Christmas shopping and bought some Irish tea (which we figured we'd need later once we were home and dry - and we did). We held hands. We laughed. We tried on hats. We marveled at the vast selection of jams Niagara-on-the-lake seems to produce - and bought some of that too. We talked. We drove home in the pouring rain to our quiet little house.
And then I took this:
And when I looked at it, I realized that no matter what has happened - no matter what unfathomable heartbreaks we've faced since we said "I do" eight years ago - I still always look happiest when I'm with my Sandy.
Some things never change.
oxox
Thursday, November 11, 2010
Christmas List
My Christmas list
By Kristin, age 40 & 1/2
1. I would like my Dad to be here for Christmas. Please.
2. I would like like them (whoever "they" are) to hurry the hell up and find a cure for cancer. For all cancers, and no matter at what stage. I would like that very much. Please.
3. I would like someone to invent a reasonably priced and 100% effective under eye cream that would make me look rested and relaxed, even when I'm exhausted and knotted up into a Kristin-shaped ball off anxiety.
4. I would like them (whoever "they" are) to make a fat-free chocolate substitute that tastes exactly like the real thing. But only after they're finished finding the cure for cancer.
5. I would like to be thin. Without trying...as if by magic.
6. I would like Justin Bieber to fix his hair. And then go away.
7. I would like our region to change its policy on backyard poultry so we could have a tiny flock of chickens in our yard, allowing us to bake and cook with farm fresh eggs. Every day, if we wanted.
8. I would like to find a comfortable pair of chubby-foot-flattering heels that don't make it appear as though I'm wearing cartoon pig hooves.
9. Oh hell, I would just like to have thin feet. And ankles that never swell.
10. I would like the fashion industry to pay more attention to round, short-waisted women so I could wear pants that aren't always two inches south of my cleavage.
But mostly I want #1 and #2. So Santa, go work your magic.
Love,
Kristin
By Kristin, age 40 & 1/2
1. I would like my Dad to be here for Christmas. Please.
2. I would like like them (whoever "they" are) to hurry the hell up and find a cure for cancer. For all cancers, and no matter at what stage. I would like that very much. Please.
3. I would like someone to invent a reasonably priced and 100% effective under eye cream that would make me look rested and relaxed, even when I'm exhausted and knotted up into a Kristin-shaped ball off anxiety.
4. I would like them (whoever "they" are) to make a fat-free chocolate substitute that tastes exactly like the real thing. But only after they're finished finding the cure for cancer.
5. I would like to be thin. Without trying...as if by magic.
6. I would like Justin Bieber to fix his hair. And then go away.
7. I would like our region to change its policy on backyard poultry so we could have a tiny flock of chickens in our yard, allowing us to bake and cook with farm fresh eggs. Every day, if we wanted.
8. I would like to find a comfortable pair of chubby-foot-flattering heels that don't make it appear as though I'm wearing cartoon pig hooves.
9. Oh hell, I would just like to have thin feet. And ankles that never swell.
10. I would like the fashion industry to pay more attention to round, short-waisted women so I could wear pants that aren't always two inches south of my cleavage.
But mostly I want #1 and #2. So Santa, go work your magic.
Love,
Kristin
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