Today at a light I found myself stopped behind some big brown minivan/SUV type thing with a cute little round bumper sticker that read, "I love my twins!" in happy red lettering.
And all I could do was shake my head, look to the sky, smile and admit defeat.
You go me, God. You got me good.
I'm so wracked with anxiety over my dad's health that I have to concentrate on remembering how to walk. Breathe. Blink. I'm hurting from missing my little boy so much that I'm surprised I'm not actually bleeding.
So, you know, good to know some happy family out there loves their twins and feels the need to tell every car that happens to be driving behind them about their familial joy. Couldn't have lived another moment without knowing that the brown minivan/SUV people love those rascally little twins.
I would have loved mine too.
There's never a good time of year for someone you love to be seriously ill. Never. But right now? My God, my mental resources are so depleted from the double whammy, I don't know what to do with myself.
So I've been walking. Somewhat obsessively. I found a site that lets you map your routes and then post them in a training log that adds up your accumulating kilometers and keeps track of the number of calories you've burned to date. This is the perfect thing for someone who desperately needs to fixate on something she can control.
11.6km so far this week.
If only I could outrun my fear and sorrow I'd be set.
Showing posts with label fear. Show all posts
Showing posts with label fear. Show all posts
Friday, March 05, 2010
Thursday, October 02, 2008
I'm a blogolympian...
...for one day, anyway.
So today this is where you can find me, blathering on about God and grief and miracles and demons.
You know, same old same old.
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
And who were they?
My Great-grandfather died in Toronto during the flu outbreak of 1918. He left his wife and 5 children behind, the youngest just a baby. Because his family never accepted my Great-grandmother after they discovered that she conceived their first child out of wedlock, they snatched him back and buried him in a cemetery filled with his ancestors - away from her.
When she died just five years later (of a broken heart, my Grandma always said), she was buried with her parents. In a different cemetery altogether. Eternally separated from the man she adored, much to the satisfaction of his remaining family, I'm sure. There was space to bury her with her husband, but she wasn't.
There's no one left to confirm why this happened, although it's pretty easy to speculate that the simple reason was because she wasn't welcome there.
Years ago my parents and I paid a visit to the cemetery where he was buried. It's tucked away in an old residential area of the city, sun dappled and quiet. We hunted for his stone, anxious to find the resting place of the man we knew so little about. A man who had become somewhat mythic over the years, mostly because he was willing to forsake the support and affection of his family to marry the woman he loved.
We found the little pocket of ancestors all bearing my Grandmother's maiden name. Dozens of them scattered along the sloping hills of the cemetery where they'd been laid to rest generations earlier.
But we couldn't find him.
A visit to the cemetery office confirmed that he was indeed buried there, and they gave us the reference points so we could return to the specified row to check again.
When we did, all we found was an empty space. No marker. No stone. Nothing to indicate that he was buried there at all.
For whatever reason, his family saw fit to reclaim him but not to mark his resting spot. Presumably his window, left to care for their five young children, didn't have money to spend on a stone for her beloved. His grave was indistinguishable from the lawn around it. Unless you were looking for him, like we were, you'd never have known he was there at all.
I happened to pass by the cemetery after a meeting last week, and the story of the missing marker popped back into my head.
I was talking to my parents about it yesterday. It has probably been 15 years since we discovered the missing marker, and I couldn't remember if it had been taken care of or not.
As it turns out, his grave still remains unmarked. Life got in the way and no one got around to getting a marker.
"Oh", I said, feeling sad for the man who remains invisible in death.
"But you know what?", My Dad said, "It doesn't matter at all now, does it? It just doesn't matter at all."
I think he meant that in the grand scheme of things, an unmarked grave isn't a big deal, especially when it has been unmarked for 90 years. He's in heaven. He's been reunited with his beloved. We know where he is, body and soul, even if the world at large doesn't.
All's well that ends well.
But of course, my mind wandered to where it was lingering last night.
It doesn't matter because it's possible that soon there will be no one left to care. After we die, the simple fact is that there's just no one left to care. No one to remember him, or the love story that was so sweetly passed down through the years.
And this is what eats at me.
It's not that I think the story of my family is more interesting than anyone else's, and I realize that that it doesn't hold great historical importance to anyone but me. But it's just heartbreaking to think that it's conceivable that those stories may one day simply disappear. That all those people who lived and loved and died will truly vanish when I close my eyes for the last time.
I never imagined that this would be something I'd find myself absorbed in, this fear of being one of a forgotten people. When I was actively researching my family tree back in my early twenties, the farthest thing from my mind was the notion that there might be no one for whom my hours of research would one day be a cherished gift.
My Dad's right. It really doesn't matter. There are greater worries in life. Far, far greater tragedies. I know this to be true.
But it's another sorrow to add to the list. A small one, true. But yet another sorrow just the same.
And it's not fair. It's just. Not. Fair.
When she died just five years later (of a broken heart, my Grandma always said), she was buried with her parents. In a different cemetery altogether. Eternally separated from the man she adored, much to the satisfaction of his remaining family, I'm sure. There was space to bury her with her husband, but she wasn't.
There's no one left to confirm why this happened, although it's pretty easy to speculate that the simple reason was because she wasn't welcome there.
Years ago my parents and I paid a visit to the cemetery where he was buried. It's tucked away in an old residential area of the city, sun dappled and quiet. We hunted for his stone, anxious to find the resting place of the man we knew so little about. A man who had become somewhat mythic over the years, mostly because he was willing to forsake the support and affection of his family to marry the woman he loved.
We found the little pocket of ancestors all bearing my Grandmother's maiden name. Dozens of them scattered along the sloping hills of the cemetery where they'd been laid to rest generations earlier.
But we couldn't find him.
A visit to the cemetery office confirmed that he was indeed buried there, and they gave us the reference points so we could return to the specified row to check again.
When we did, all we found was an empty space. No marker. No stone. Nothing to indicate that he was buried there at all.
For whatever reason, his family saw fit to reclaim him but not to mark his resting spot. Presumably his window, left to care for their five young children, didn't have money to spend on a stone for her beloved. His grave was indistinguishable from the lawn around it. Unless you were looking for him, like we were, you'd never have known he was there at all.
I happened to pass by the cemetery after a meeting last week, and the story of the missing marker popped back into my head.
I was talking to my parents about it yesterday. It has probably been 15 years since we discovered the missing marker, and I couldn't remember if it had been taken care of or not.
As it turns out, his grave still remains unmarked. Life got in the way and no one got around to getting a marker.
"Oh", I said, feeling sad for the man who remains invisible in death.
"But you know what?", My Dad said, "It doesn't matter at all now, does it? It just doesn't matter at all."
I think he meant that in the grand scheme of things, an unmarked grave isn't a big deal, especially when it has been unmarked for 90 years. He's in heaven. He's been reunited with his beloved. We know where he is, body and soul, even if the world at large doesn't.
All's well that ends well.
But of course, my mind wandered to where it was lingering last night.
It doesn't matter because it's possible that soon there will be no one left to care. After we die, the simple fact is that there's just no one left to care. No one to remember him, or the love story that was so sweetly passed down through the years.
And this is what eats at me.
It's not that I think the story of my family is more interesting than anyone else's, and I realize that that it doesn't hold great historical importance to anyone but me. But it's just heartbreaking to think that it's conceivable that those stories may one day simply disappear. That all those people who lived and loved and died will truly vanish when I close my eyes for the last time.
I never imagined that this would be something I'd find myself absorbed in, this fear of being one of a forgotten people. When I was actively researching my family tree back in my early twenties, the farthest thing from my mind was the notion that there might be no one for whom my hours of research would one day be a cherished gift.
My Dad's right. It really doesn't matter. There are greater worries in life. Far, far greater tragedies. I know this to be true.
But it's another sorrow to add to the list. A small one, true. But yet another sorrow just the same.
And it's not fair. It's just. Not. Fair.
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
What was her name?
We were out for a walk tonight, My Beloved and I, when we passed by a house from which the most delicious smells were emanating. Dinner. Dinner done right, as far as I'm concerned. Smells that have people passing by on the sidewalk trying to figure out a way to wrangle an invite means clearly you're doing something right as far as meal prep goes.
My Beloved thought it smelled like some sort of a casserole - a conglomeration of delicious scents indistinguishable from one another lead to his conclusion. And that's exactly what it smelled like to me too.
And so, naturally, my mind drifted back to the 1970s. The time of innocence, safety and casseroles.
You know that scent memory thing that happens when you smell something that takes you back? It's more than just a "hey, I remember that smell" experience. Your body floods with images, feelings, memories and emotions all triggered by that one brief hit of familiar scent.
So I'm walking through the casserole scented air and feeling my childhood.
Feeling it.
I stayed outside skating in the backyard for so long that night would fall and my fingers and toes would be numb. I'd come in through the back door and find myself bathed in the warmth of the kitchen's glow while I sat on the stairs to unlace my skates. I'd smell dinner on the stove. I'd watch my Mom busy herself with the last rushed tasks before serving while I took off my coat and mittens. I was warm. Safe. Spent. Happy.
It all rushed through me in an instant. And while I tried to hang onto its sweetness, a sadness crept into my heart.
I don't have a child who will remember coming into the warmth of my kitchen when it's cold outside.
This thought - this reality - makes me unbearably sad. For me, for Thomas, for all the babies who almost were.
I have it to give, and no one to give it to. The simple, tiny pleasures I'm not sure some people are even aware of - they are lost to me. My kitchen still hums with activity, but there's no one to remember any of it. There is no one for whom my cookies hot from the oven will one day be a comforting memory they cling to for a moment's respite from the cruel world.
And...if there is never a child, one day I'll be forgotten too.
My Beloved thought it smelled like some sort of a casserole - a conglomeration of delicious scents indistinguishable from one another lead to his conclusion. And that's exactly what it smelled like to me too.
And so, naturally, my mind drifted back to the 1970s. The time of innocence, safety and casseroles.
You know that scent memory thing that happens when you smell something that takes you back? It's more than just a "hey, I remember that smell" experience. Your body floods with images, feelings, memories and emotions all triggered by that one brief hit of familiar scent.
So I'm walking through the casserole scented air and feeling my childhood.
Feeling it.
I stayed outside skating in the backyard for so long that night would fall and my fingers and toes would be numb. I'd come in through the back door and find myself bathed in the warmth of the kitchen's glow while I sat on the stairs to unlace my skates. I'd smell dinner on the stove. I'd watch my Mom busy herself with the last rushed tasks before serving while I took off my coat and mittens. I was warm. Safe. Spent. Happy.
It all rushed through me in an instant. And while I tried to hang onto its sweetness, a sadness crept into my heart.
I don't have a child who will remember coming into the warmth of my kitchen when it's cold outside.
This thought - this reality - makes me unbearably sad. For me, for Thomas, for all the babies who almost were.
I have it to give, and no one to give it to. The simple, tiny pleasures I'm not sure some people are even aware of - they are lost to me. My kitchen still hums with activity, but there's no one to remember any of it. There is no one for whom my cookies hot from the oven will one day be a comforting memory they cling to for a moment's respite from the cruel world.
And...if there is never a child, one day I'll be forgotten too.
Tuesday, April 10, 2007
Sticks and dogs and fathers and fear
My Dad is afraid of dogs. I mean really afraid of dogs. He was attacked when he was a kid back in the 30s when dogs ran free and mutts were the order of the day. He said he still remembers seeing the ridges on the roof of the dog's mouth as it stood over him, its paws planted firmly on his chest after pushing him to the ground, with a gaping, menacing snarl on its face.
He wasn't bitten. For some reason the dog ran off or was called off - or maybe hauled off. But my Dad was spared. Except that to this day he's still terrified of dogs.
He and I used to walk together every night when I was in University and still living at home. That was back when he actually could walk. Congestive heart failure keeps him pretty sedentary now, which is hard for a man who played sports well into his 40s and who kept active long after that.
We'd set out a little after dinner and make our way around the neighbourhood for a half hour or so, chatting and sneaking peeks into the living rooms of people who didn't keep their curtains shut when night fell. I remember the glee I got when we discovered that an arrogant and much feared psychology professor I'd had in first year lived in our neighbourhood - and kept his blinds open. Every night we'd see him sitting slumped in a lazy-boy with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth in front of the TV.
It was excellent. Just excellent.
By the time I was in University my Dad had pretty much stopped taking sticks along with him when he walked. But when we were kids he always brought a stick. It might have been a rake handle or a garden stake - but it was always something. You see, he needed it in case he encountered a dog.
As far as I can recall he never needed to use it, but I can still remember the look of utter and complete terror on his face when he'd catch sight of someone walking a dog that wasn't on a leash (back when that was okay). Sometimes we'd cross the street or change our course just to avoid it. But if we didn't or couldn't, he had that stick.
All because a big dog bared its teeth at a little boy 70 years ago.
It's awful to have fears that big - so big you need to fight them off with a stick.
But I was thinking this morning, what I wouldn't give to be able to see my fears and beat them into submission. I wish my fears had a face. I wish a stick could keep them at bay.
He wasn't bitten. For some reason the dog ran off or was called off - or maybe hauled off. But my Dad was spared. Except that to this day he's still terrified of dogs.
He and I used to walk together every night when I was in University and still living at home. That was back when he actually could walk. Congestive heart failure keeps him pretty sedentary now, which is hard for a man who played sports well into his 40s and who kept active long after that.
We'd set out a little after dinner and make our way around the neighbourhood for a half hour or so, chatting and sneaking peeks into the living rooms of people who didn't keep their curtains shut when night fell. I remember the glee I got when we discovered that an arrogant and much feared psychology professor I'd had in first year lived in our neighbourhood - and kept his blinds open. Every night we'd see him sitting slumped in a lazy-boy with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth in front of the TV.
It was excellent. Just excellent.
By the time I was in University my Dad had pretty much stopped taking sticks along with him when he walked. But when we were kids he always brought a stick. It might have been a rake handle or a garden stake - but it was always something. You see, he needed it in case he encountered a dog.
As far as I can recall he never needed to use it, but I can still remember the look of utter and complete terror on his face when he'd catch sight of someone walking a dog that wasn't on a leash (back when that was okay). Sometimes we'd cross the street or change our course just to avoid it. But if we didn't or couldn't, he had that stick.
All because a big dog bared its teeth at a little boy 70 years ago.
It's awful to have fears that big - so big you need to fight them off with a stick.
But I was thinking this morning, what I wouldn't give to be able to see my fears and beat them into submission. I wish my fears had a face. I wish a stick could keep them at bay.
Friday, March 23, 2007
Great minds
I was whipped up into a pretty fantastic frenzy by about mid-day yesterday. Anyone who has ever suffered from anxiety attacks will understand the shaky, light-headed, slightly out-of-body feeling that clung to me most of the day like some sort of horrendously putrified stink.
I reeked of fear.
But the thing is, it wasn't so much about the lap itself as it was (as it is) the fear of being a patient in a hospital again. I've thought long and hard about this - about why this fills me with such dread - and aside from the obvious reminders of Thomas' birth and death that will be all around me in sight, sound and smell, I will be powerless. I will have no control over what happens to me once I sign the consent form and lay down on the operating table. Things will be done to me, just like they were two years ago, and I can't control any of it. I will be voluntarily giving up all control - and control over myself and my body is something I've spent two years fiercely protecting. And reveling in.
The moment I shuffled through the doors of the hospital 5 days after Thomas' died, I reclaimed my independence and have not relinquish that control to anyone for more than the briefest of moments since.
Yes, I've been poked and prodded and tested and medicated through the fertility clinic on and off for the last 9 months, but I go there voluntarily and I am still in control 99.9% of the time. And when I'm not, it's for just a moment - long enough for them to inject sperm into my uterus or get a read on a growing follicle or draw a vial of blood. All very manageable lengths of time.
But Thursday I will be at the mercy of my OB and his team in a way I haven't been since I was in the hospital with Thomas.
I remember one awful night laying splayed out on my hospital bed with nurses working both arms trying to find a vein that wasn't collapsed in order to reinsert my IV, while a miserable little shit of an OB put in an extra staple to close a leak in my C-section incision (which, to My Beloved's horror, had been oozing blood for close to two days).
I was utterly powerless and completely vulnerable both mentally and physically. And all I could do was lay there and cry.
I know this is a different situation altogether. I know this surgery won't be like the last one. It's quick, relatively painless and, as I said before, there isn't a dead baby involved here. Not before and not after.
But I still have to give myself over to the kind of people who played a such a key role in the horror show that was Thomas' birth.
Being reminded of that day - and the days that followed - in such an assaulting way is going to be hard. Impossibly hard. And adding the notion of complete and necessary submission to the mix makes it very, very frightening for me.
It's not the pain. It's not the fear of dying. It's the fear of remembering too much too vividly.
It was My Beloved who was finally able to talk me down. He and DinoD (who left a comment here yesterday) both had the very same suggestion.
Why not look at this as a trial run for the next hospital visit (which we hope will be a successful, healthy, happy-ending C-section). Exposure therapy, DinoD called it. Better to face my fears now when it's just simple day surgery, and be that much stronger if and when the time comes to return to the hospital for the birth of another child.
It made so much sense when My Beloved made the suggestion. I felt my shoulders ease and my breaths deepen. I felt my body unclench and my mind clear, just a little bit.
It gave the fear purpose. It gave meaning to my light-headed terror, and in doing so made so much of it go away.
Today I am afraid. But I'm stronger too.
Already I'm stronger.
I reeked of fear.
But the thing is, it wasn't so much about the lap itself as it was (as it is) the fear of being a patient in a hospital again. I've thought long and hard about this - about why this fills me with such dread - and aside from the obvious reminders of Thomas' birth and death that will be all around me in sight, sound and smell, I will be powerless. I will have no control over what happens to me once I sign the consent form and lay down on the operating table. Things will be done to me, just like they were two years ago, and I can't control any of it. I will be voluntarily giving up all control - and control over myself and my body is something I've spent two years fiercely protecting. And reveling in.
The moment I shuffled through the doors of the hospital 5 days after Thomas' died, I reclaimed my independence and have not relinquish that control to anyone for more than the briefest of moments since.
Yes, I've been poked and prodded and tested and medicated through the fertility clinic on and off for the last 9 months, but I go there voluntarily and I am still in control 99.9% of the time. And when I'm not, it's for just a moment - long enough for them to inject sperm into my uterus or get a read on a growing follicle or draw a vial of blood. All very manageable lengths of time.
But Thursday I will be at the mercy of my OB and his team in a way I haven't been since I was in the hospital with Thomas.
I remember one awful night laying splayed out on my hospital bed with nurses working both arms trying to find a vein that wasn't collapsed in order to reinsert my IV, while a miserable little shit of an OB put in an extra staple to close a leak in my C-section incision (which, to My Beloved's horror, had been oozing blood for close to two days).
I was utterly powerless and completely vulnerable both mentally and physically. And all I could do was lay there and cry.
I know this is a different situation altogether. I know this surgery won't be like the last one. It's quick, relatively painless and, as I said before, there isn't a dead baby involved here. Not before and not after.
But I still have to give myself over to the kind of people who played a such a key role in the horror show that was Thomas' birth.
Being reminded of that day - and the days that followed - in such an assaulting way is going to be hard. Impossibly hard. And adding the notion of complete and necessary submission to the mix makes it very, very frightening for me.
It's not the pain. It's not the fear of dying. It's the fear of remembering too much too vividly.
It was My Beloved who was finally able to talk me down. He and DinoD (who left a comment here yesterday) both had the very same suggestion.
Why not look at this as a trial run for the next hospital visit (which we hope will be a successful, healthy, happy-ending C-section). Exposure therapy, DinoD called it. Better to face my fears now when it's just simple day surgery, and be that much stronger if and when the time comes to return to the hospital for the birth of another child.
It made so much sense when My Beloved made the suggestion. I felt my shoulders ease and my breaths deepen. I felt my body unclench and my mind clear, just a little bit.
It gave the fear purpose. It gave meaning to my light-headed terror, and in doing so made so much of it go away.
Today I am afraid. But I'm stronger too.
Already I'm stronger.
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