Two Months or Twenty Years

(ask any parent missing their child)

When I became a "heart mom,"

my biggest hope

was that my child would have at least 20 good years

my biggest worry

was how would we ever be able to say

goodbye?


And now, that she is gone and she is gone

I sit and think, oh but what it means to loose a child

at any age


What a parent who's baby didn't make it to birth

would haven given to hold the little life,

even for a moment

in their arms.


Or a mother who could only hold their baby for a few days or hours

saying a simultaneous hello and goodbye

wouldn't give

to have had two months, or four,

or a little more
(please, God, just a little more)


Or the 18 month old who never turned 2;

the five year old who never saw 10;

the 19 year old,

just shy of 20.


To a mother and father

who's lost a child

at any age

by any cause
since death is death
and gone is gone,


they lost a whole life.


All the past, the present and the dreams ahead

are now cherished places

in a house built out of memories and dreams

established on a sunny hill
inside the hearts of a mother and father


All the rooms that once held so much joy, all the days behind

sit silent

and, with a "click,"

go dark


Each new day is a room that will never be used

all these rooms

sit empty and dark

with light switches
never to flip on...



When a child dies, at any age

there is an enormous house built of memories and dreams

complete, whole, and entire

but dark

and empty


where love will always visit

(and sadness forever dwell)


- in Memory of Gwen and Marie

Two Sad Parents

(and some distasteful notes about Grief involving ill-placed metaphor)

Two empty cups.

There is no exhaustion more taxing than missing a child, than living with the state of grief that won't subside no matter what you do.

Your brain is like "mommy brain" on crack. You make cup a tea and a little while later notice the cup of tea you apparently made just a few minutes before. You have no recollection of the first cup of tea. You did notice that your tea already tasted like it had milk in it, and you think, "hmmmm, that's odd" as you pour milk into your tea, the second cup made within minutes of the forgotten cup.

You can't fall asleep easily at night for two reasons. The first being, it is your only time to "process" without interruption. To think your long, long thoughts and capture your insights or thoughts about the path you are on...to write in a journal about how much you hurt in the hopes that maybe that will give a tiny bit of relief to pain. Then, you finally lay your head to pillow and all the images flood your mind. I could take a sleeping pill but then when can I process? If I take it after my "processing" time, it is too late because I need to be up in far less than 7-8 hours. But, I notice that being so bone tired is a helpful distraction from my agony... it just makes it harder to parent Lil. That is an unacceptable downside.

Myers of course, processes in his own way. It's not something we can "do" together - we can only watch the other and know they are suffering too.

So the two of us fumble around giving every last ounce of energy to our wonderful daughter that we love with all our heart... and we are acutely aware of the discord between what we want to give and what our physical beings are able to give right now. You'd think we'd be better parents after loosing our other child...but, let's be honest, on a good day it is a challenge to raise a two year old. I wouldn't trade it for the world, believe you me. And we are doing it...it's okay, but we hate being aware of how hard we are trying - it is depressing that we know we are doing the motions, that it is not effortless now to be everything she needs and wants.

We are depleted. We are so tired. And then we think about Marie...and it just feels suffocating to cope through this, together.

Nothing is more exhausting or mentally taxing. She is not here...our baby girl. She was here. She is not. She was here. She is not. When we go to Tate next week we will see Marie not here. Our brains won't just stop. They are in over-drive. We are being dragged along... having to keep moving forward into more and more time and days without... looking into each others sad eyes.

Wondering...what happened? We were just taking her to the doctor because of a few small symptoms...

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Some notes on Grief (from the other day)

So, I feel like I'm falling off cliffs all day. Which is why I feel so drained and exhausted by evening. Lack of regular sleep doesn't help.

You doing your life, your surviving. You don't think about her every second, you can't, life does get in the way. But then you do. And drop.

And sometimes you land the wrong way and it hits you hard. Sometimes it's just a bump and you get back up, keep going, and just do the dishes with sadness gripping you shoulders. Sometimes it is anger that "helps" you up and you try to politely say "thanks for your help" and get on your way quickly (but this one is hard to give the slip sometimes).

Then sometimes you get pushed off a cliff. Out of the blue - when there is no reason for her to bring it up, at least that day (you hadn't shown tears you weren't talking to anyone about Gwen in front of her). All of the sudden, in the middle of playing, she says, "I'm sad about Gwenyth"

I know she is really just "trying it on," that phrase. I know she is too young for the same type of sadness as we are experiencing. All the same, it is strikes a chord, loud and hard. Then she asks, "Why did she go to heaven?" - I breath in deep. I state, with a questioning tone even as I'm trying to sound confident, "Well..." with a long silence.

I think hard and try to think fast. Then I remember, she is asking me, not God. She's not "there" yet. She just needs the facts, hard and cold (as our "grief counselor" rightly advised). So, I tell her that Gwen was really sick, her heart wasn't well. Without missing a beat, the channel flips, Lil is satisfied with the answer and we're done and on to something else (okay, well, I'm a few steps behind...I was pushed after all, but it's okay, I get up and get with the program quickly enough and pocket this moment for later. And I miss Gwen too).

And then you feel sick. Because this metaphor, well it is a little too close to home. This metaphor - with the whole cliff thing. It's just wrong. And down I go...

Relating to a House? I am probably Insane.

"Christmas Eve"

A friend recently walked through the village of Cold Spring, NY. It is An amazingly, charming little Hudson River town with little shops and restaurants on a hill and glimpses of the river below. Across the water Storm King Mountain rises above as part of the Hudson Highlands, graceful and strong. A pedestrian short-cut tunnels under some train tracks if you'd like to stroll all the way down to the river. And why wouldn't you? It is healing to stand beside Hudson. At least, for me it is. A small waterfront allows you to walk out onto the river. At the railings edge it is only you, the river and Storm King, the humbling but peaceful giant sitting across the river, closing you in, reeling in the sun behind. We each have places like this, restorative places. Further down the river, peaking out among the hills is the place where I was born. A nearby church is where I was married. It too, overlooks the river and invites a perfect sanctuary, hidden, unassuming and quiet, a relatively unknown historic site.

The view from the church where we were married.

Anyway, I totally diverge...

In a shop window, in Cold Spring, my friend saw a photograph of a house. She recognized it. I had stopped the car to show it to her when I was in New York recently. It was one of those things that compelled you to gawk and then share with others. This house apparently caught the eye of an artist, a photographer, and there it was in the window of a store. The title was "Christmas Eve". The framed photo was of what had been, a beautiful house.

It is a tradition in Austria to put real candles on a Christmas tree. This family was from Austria. They lit candles and put them on their tree. It was Christmas Eve and their house burned almost to the ground. Thank goodness that is the end of the story. No one was injured. So far, I hear, they plan to rebuild (oh for the simple things in the world, simple replaceable things).

It is a unsettling feeling to look at a house and relate to it. To see an inanimate object and feel as though you understand how it must feel. To see a burned out-house that once stood beautiful and new and think, "there is me". The singed, jagged edges of the walls. The roof completely missing. The raw exposure.

So there. Another image of what this looks and feels like (to be here). For what its worth. Yet another way to explain why it will be a while. There is a lot of rebuilding required... and with my energy level where it is... this house is going to sit here, as is, for a while.

Your house is not supposed to burn down on Christmas Eve.

Your child is not supposed to die (and without warning).



Go ahead. Make plans in life. Get comfortable for a moment. Think you are in control. I dare you.

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Another day, another question, inspired by this sad story of a house...

Is it the utmost act of faith to put candles on a Christmas tree? For me to Trust the world again, feels like I'd be lighting candles on a Christmas tree. In the same house where I rebuilt my house after it burned down...after I put candles on the Christmas tree. I don't know if I can handle that again. Because in my heart, I don't have a lot of Trust that it won't just burn right down again.

Trust. Somehow that goes with Faith. Right? But, right now, I'm having to relearn the definition of those words. They are as a new language to me now.

At what point do you throw in the towel? At what point do you to you listen to your sanity begging for mercy?

Sanity?

I need a dictionary.

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