The Winter Solstice. The longest night. How very appropriate, to end this calendar year honoring the longest night and the darkest half of the year. Since losing Christina, I have been wandering in a darkness - a place I've never been before. Oh I've been in dark places, but not THIS dark place.
To those on the outside, looking in, I must seem fine. You know: Well-adjusted, coping with the loss, managing the tragedy. But inside...in the basement of my soul...there lies the scream, the tears, the guilt, the agony, and the little girl who - like Christina - wants her mommy. How ironic: by taking her life, she left ME hanging.
And it's been a long night. A long, restless, sleepless night. Sure, I still accomplish things: the house is clean, a semester has been successfully completed, I periodically wash the gray right out of my hair; but have I accomplished my grief??
So I wander through this darkness, searching desperately for the Light that I once held as if I owned it. Searching, as I wander, for a sign. And inviting, tempting, daring, the paranormal. I get nothing. Void. Empty spaces.
"Christina, where ARE you?!" My voice echoes in the emptiness. Nothingness. I conclude that it's all a fabrication; since the beginning of time we have collectively struggled with the not-knowing. What happens when we die?? And so we've fabricated stories to make ourselves feel better. "She's an angel in heaven now." Or so I've been told in loving, consoling tones. "God has her now." Really?? Why did he take her in the first place? No. When we die, there is nothing, and thus the empty spaces. No reply.
I've been told to be patient; she'll contact me from the other side, eventually. I've been advised to notice the small things...little signs, like a song I hear or a scent that suddenly appears. Really? And if I step on a crack, will I break my mother's back? Should I cross my fingers, just for luck? And what about that rabbit's foot and my silver dice...if I carry those around, maybe THAT will help too.
It's been suggested that perhaps my shattered sense of all-things-spiritual is actually Christina and that she is telling me, from the other side, that my former beliefs were wrong. Really?? Why wouldn't God just tell me directly? He's done it before...supposedly.
The Longest Night.
I try to hold on to the scientific fact that the longest night is followed by the slow return of the Light and attempt to apply it philosophically to my own Dark Night: after a time, the Light will return and warm me once again. Rebirth always follows the dead/dark time. I long to be reborn. I want to come back to life. But it is not time, yet. This continues to be a time of Dark Rumination for me. The record must be played and played and played until the grooves are well-worn and deeply engraved and I know the lyrics by heart. And so, like a needle on a LP, I continue to wander in circles, digging deeper each time around, creating static, and entrenching myself, but all the while, still hanging there, as she was on That Morning: warm, but lifeless and yet, resolved in her exit.
And my first response remains: "WHY Baby Girl?? WHY??"
Wednesday, December 21, 2011
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
READING, LEARNING, PROCESSING
Throughtout my adult life, when faced with new experiences, I must read about it to fully understand it and process it. When I was in my childbearing years, I read compulsively about pregnancy, giving birth, breastfeeding, and childrearing until I knew much more than the average mom, more than most obstetrical nurses, and even more than some physicians. I was able to birth my babies in the comfort of my own bed, and was even capable of helping a young mom with a very difficult and risky home birth of her own.
When I became a Christian Fundamentalist, it was not enough for me to simply "accept Christ;" I had to read all about what it meant to be "born again." And, when I reached the point that I realized Christian Fundamentalism was a toxic, dysfunctional religion, I again filled my time with reading about religious history, feminine spirituality, mythology, and ancient history until finally I was able to create a functional, healthy, nature-inspired spiritual template that was realistic and psychologically beneficial.
As I began to learn more about who I really am, I began to explore my sexual identity and finally admitted - to myself and others - that I am bisexual. Once again, I had to read coming-out stories, the history of gay culture, and what it meant to love women. In the process, I learned to love and accept myself more fully.
During the cumulative twenty years of homeschooling, I read, learned, and processed how to teach, how to create multi-level, cross-curricular lesson plans, and even reacquainted myself with basic english, mathematics, science, and history.
As I began to reach my forties, I realized that life doesn't last forever and suddenly I felt compelled to understand the funeral industry and how to plan for my own death. It was then that I discovered the Green Funeral Movement and realized through my research and reading that my desire to be buried in a simply, hand-crafted wood box without being embalmed was not unique; there is an entire movement of people who are desiring the same thing.
Then, as I committed to pursuing my Master's degree in counseling and clinical mental health, I began to read about personality disorders, treatment plans, psychopharmacology, psychological assessments, and counseling methods.
And my personal library is a testament to a lifetime of reading, learning, and processing. With just over 500 titles that address everything from Pagan rituals and holy days to whole foods, from mindfulness to caring for the dead, my bookshelves are a tangible expression of who I am, where I've been, and what I've done. There are books about reincarnation, feminism, paleolithic societies, everyday life in early America, the 20th century, and how to interpret Tarot cards. But I never imagined that someday I would need to incorporate a new subject to read about, learn about and process. I never imagined that I would need to accumulate books about suicide, grieving, and losing a child this way.
And yet, it almost seems as if my life has prepared me for this - at least to some degree. It is as if all I have experienced in my life have been prerequisits for this event. I have a deep understanding of the paradoxes of life from all of my prior explorations in religion, philosophy, and spirituality. I long ago gained an appreciation for the complex nature of human psychology and mental health. And, having given birth at home and having recently approached the subject of natural funerals and caring for the deceased, I am at ease with both birthing and dying.
While my exposure to all of these subjects did not necessarily make losing Christina easy, perhaps it has given me a sense of peace and acceptance - even while I struggle to process - for the messy part of Life and for the endless paradoxical nature of the Human experience. On the one hand, I am relieved knowing that Christina is no longer in mental pain and anguish; on the other hand, I cannot fully accept her absence and wish she was still here. Perhaps all of my prior learning has given me an appropriate and suitable foundation on which to bear this loss. Yes, I grieve. I cry, mourn, and feel anguish when I realize I will never see her again, hear her voice, or watch her dance to Nancy Sinatra's "These Boots are Made for Walking!" It hurts. The pain will never end and I must now learn how to live in spite of the pain. I am forever changed, but I am realizing, as I process, that every life experience has left me forever changed.
So my personal library continues to expand, along with my Life experiences. I wish suicide was not a part of my experience, but it is. As I move into the realm of counseling and clinical mental health, I suspect the knowledge that has been thrust upon me when Christina took her life will be an asset; I will have both professional knowledge and personal, first-hand experience with the subject - and this will likely benefit my clients and make me more professionally valuable. A silver lining, perhaps, to an otherwise very dark and dismal black cloud.
When I became a Christian Fundamentalist, it was not enough for me to simply "accept Christ;" I had to read all about what it meant to be "born again." And, when I reached the point that I realized Christian Fundamentalism was a toxic, dysfunctional religion, I again filled my time with reading about religious history, feminine spirituality, mythology, and ancient history until finally I was able to create a functional, healthy, nature-inspired spiritual template that was realistic and psychologically beneficial.
As I began to learn more about who I really am, I began to explore my sexual identity and finally admitted - to myself and others - that I am bisexual. Once again, I had to read coming-out stories, the history of gay culture, and what it meant to love women. In the process, I learned to love and accept myself more fully.
During the cumulative twenty years of homeschooling, I read, learned, and processed how to teach, how to create multi-level, cross-curricular lesson plans, and even reacquainted myself with basic english, mathematics, science, and history.
As I began to reach my forties, I realized that life doesn't last forever and suddenly I felt compelled to understand the funeral industry and how to plan for my own death. It was then that I discovered the Green Funeral Movement and realized through my research and reading that my desire to be buried in a simply, hand-crafted wood box without being embalmed was not unique; there is an entire movement of people who are desiring the same thing.
Then, as I committed to pursuing my Master's degree in counseling and clinical mental health, I began to read about personality disorders, treatment plans, psychopharmacology, psychological assessments, and counseling methods.
And my personal library is a testament to a lifetime of reading, learning, and processing. With just over 500 titles that address everything from Pagan rituals and holy days to whole foods, from mindfulness to caring for the dead, my bookshelves are a tangible expression of who I am, where I've been, and what I've done. There are books about reincarnation, feminism, paleolithic societies, everyday life in early America, the 20th century, and how to interpret Tarot cards. But I never imagined that someday I would need to incorporate a new subject to read about, learn about and process. I never imagined that I would need to accumulate books about suicide, grieving, and losing a child this way.
And yet, it almost seems as if my life has prepared me for this - at least to some degree. It is as if all I have experienced in my life have been prerequisits for this event. I have a deep understanding of the paradoxes of life from all of my prior explorations in religion, philosophy, and spirituality. I long ago gained an appreciation for the complex nature of human psychology and mental health. And, having given birth at home and having recently approached the subject of natural funerals and caring for the deceased, I am at ease with both birthing and dying.
While my exposure to all of these subjects did not necessarily make losing Christina easy, perhaps it has given me a sense of peace and acceptance - even while I struggle to process - for the messy part of Life and for the endless paradoxical nature of the Human experience. On the one hand, I am relieved knowing that Christina is no longer in mental pain and anguish; on the other hand, I cannot fully accept her absence and wish she was still here. Perhaps all of my prior learning has given me an appropriate and suitable foundation on which to bear this loss. Yes, I grieve. I cry, mourn, and feel anguish when I realize I will never see her again, hear her voice, or watch her dance to Nancy Sinatra's "These Boots are Made for Walking!" It hurts. The pain will never end and I must now learn how to live in spite of the pain. I am forever changed, but I am realizing, as I process, that every life experience has left me forever changed.
So my personal library continues to expand, along with my Life experiences. I wish suicide was not a part of my experience, but it is. As I move into the realm of counseling and clinical mental health, I suspect the knowledge that has been thrust upon me when Christina took her life will be an asset; I will have both professional knowledge and personal, first-hand experience with the subject - and this will likely benefit my clients and make me more professionally valuable. A silver lining, perhaps, to an otherwise very dark and dismal black cloud.
Monday, September 19, 2011
TRYING SO HARD TO FIGURE IT ALL OUT
I realize that in Life, some things are just unknowable. Certain aspects forever remain a mystery. Yet, four months after losing Christina, I still wonder. I wonder who she really was. I wonder, considering all the now-apparent foreshadowing, just how much is pre-ordained. I wonder if this truly was all "meant to be" or if there was some way it could've been avoided.
I suspect that Christina often felt like the Black Sheep of the family. She often said that she felt she was my least favorite child. I always disagreed. Christina was never that. But she seemed to identify most strongly with being the unloved child.
I have come to believe that I mis-named her; she was not ever truly Christina. Was she Katherine Elizabeth, as I intended to name her while pregnant? I'm not sure. In fact, I suspect she was not; when she was born and I looked at her, my first thought was that she was not who I expected and she was not, therefore, Katy Beth. But neither was she Christina Danielle. But who was she? Honestly, I do not know, and I fear that I may never know; but the closest I came to properly naming her was when I called her Tani. That is why I want to get a tattoo of an apple with "Tani" inscribed across it. It most truly reflects who she really was. She was my Tani Apple.
So I wonder then: Can mis-naming a child cause such lifelong stress? Can it cause them to struggle with their identity the way Christina struggled with hers? And, if that is possible, then doesn't that imply that when a child is born, they come into this world with an identity and it is up to the parents then to properly name them and recognize who they are??
That's a lot to expect from a new parent.
I suspect that Christina often felt like the Black Sheep of the family. She often said that she felt she was my least favorite child. I always disagreed. Christina was never that. But she seemed to identify most strongly with being the unloved child.
I have come to believe that I mis-named her; she was not ever truly Christina. Was she Katherine Elizabeth, as I intended to name her while pregnant? I'm not sure. In fact, I suspect she was not; when she was born and I looked at her, my first thought was that she was not who I expected and she was not, therefore, Katy Beth. But neither was she Christina Danielle. But who was she? Honestly, I do not know, and I fear that I may never know; but the closest I came to properly naming her was when I called her Tani. That is why I want to get a tattoo of an apple with "Tani" inscribed across it. It most truly reflects who she really was. She was my Tani Apple.
So I wonder then: Can mis-naming a child cause such lifelong stress? Can it cause them to struggle with their identity the way Christina struggled with hers? And, if that is possible, then doesn't that imply that when a child is born, they come into this world with an identity and it is up to the parents then to properly name them and recognize who they are??
That's a lot to expect from a new parent.
Sunday, September 11, 2011
WHERE ARE YOU??
I miss you Christina and I suppose I am beginning - just beginning - to realize that I will never see you again and that as we all age, you will forever remain twenty-three.
It's been nearly four months - which feels like both a short time and a really, really long time - and still, I mourn losing you like this. Sometimes, I must remind myself: You aren't at CCDOC (because that is what your absence reminds me of); I must actually remind myself that you're not just "not here," you are no longer alive; we laid you to rest. Physically, I was there; but mentally I was gone. I functioned on automatic pilot that first week. I remember your funeral as if it were a bad dream. Perhaps that accounts for the trouble I am having accepting your death: I was not fully present from that moment we found you. And so is it any surprise that I find myself wondering where you are?
I found your journals today and started reading them. The two I read today were from ten years ago. As I read it, I thought, "She seems like she was just a normal adolescent." I didn't read anything that surprised me, although I read a lot of things I didn't know about. And I noticed, for the first time, that your penmanship is a lot like your dad's. In fact, at first I thought he had actually written in your journal, until I realized it was in fact your handwriting.
Yesterday we had guests here and one of the women mentioned liking shoes - especially boots. I showed her some of your collection and wondered if Ada will like them when she's older; there's no way I can part with them because I know how much you liked your shoe collection. Your daughter will inherit them. I wonder what she will think of them.
I've learned a lot since you've been gone, Christina, about things I didn't ever think I'd have to know. I've learned that grieving for someone who took their own life is more difficult than losing someone to natural causes; it's traumatic. I've learned that the grieving process can take a long, long time - several years - when a parent loses one of their own the way I lost you. And I learned that the pain will never go away; I will simply have to learn to live my life in spite of the pain. I believe you took part of me with you That Morning and that I will remain forever changed.
It's been nearly four months - which feels like both a short time and a really, really long time - and still, I mourn losing you like this. Sometimes, I must remind myself: You aren't at CCDOC (because that is what your absence reminds me of); I must actually remind myself that you're not just "not here," you are no longer alive; we laid you to rest. Physically, I was there; but mentally I was gone. I functioned on automatic pilot that first week. I remember your funeral as if it were a bad dream. Perhaps that accounts for the trouble I am having accepting your death: I was not fully present from that moment we found you. And so is it any surprise that I find myself wondering where you are?
I found your journals today and started reading them. The two I read today were from ten years ago. As I read it, I thought, "She seems like she was just a normal adolescent." I didn't read anything that surprised me, although I read a lot of things I didn't know about. And I noticed, for the first time, that your penmanship is a lot like your dad's. In fact, at first I thought he had actually written in your journal, until I realized it was in fact your handwriting.
Yesterday we had guests here and one of the women mentioned liking shoes - especially boots. I showed her some of your collection and wondered if Ada will like them when she's older; there's no way I can part with them because I know how much you liked your shoe collection. Your daughter will inherit them. I wonder what she will think of them.
I've learned a lot since you've been gone, Christina, about things I didn't ever think I'd have to know. I've learned that grieving for someone who took their own life is more difficult than losing someone to natural causes; it's traumatic. I've learned that the grieving process can take a long, long time - several years - when a parent loses one of their own the way I lost you. And I learned that the pain will never go away; I will simply have to learn to live my life in spite of the pain. I believe you took part of me with you That Morning and that I will remain forever changed.
Saturday, August 13, 2011
DROWNING IN A SEA OF WORDS & PHRASES
Ok, so I'm a compulsive writer. Writing helps me purge my ruminating thoughts. I live primarily in my head, and rarely in the present moment. Tonite, I sense it is time to release the thoughts and perhaps the resulting catharsis will allow me to sleep.
Naturally, I am thinking about Christina. It's been almost thirteen weeks and I am surprised (though, not really) by how hard it is to process and accept that she is gone. On the one hand, it is undeniable. I have the haunting images of what she did, the vague, dream-like memory of her funeral, and of course, all the documentation of her death to solidify the reality of her passing. And, each day passes without seeing or hearing her, adding to the reality of the situation. Still, in spite of all the evidence proving her death, I feel a huge sense of disbelief, as if "this" could not possibly have happened. This is a chapter in my life that I did not anticipate, even though at some level, I always knew it could happen. And yet...I find myself saying to myself, "it just CAN'T be true."
The other day, I was returning home from the store and living my life as if it were unchanged when suddenly, I thought of Christina and thought, "Christina's dead" and it made me shudder, as if hearing it for the first time. It was as if my subconscious was taking it upon itself to remind my conscious mind of the facts. Instantly, that awful image of her hanging from that beam flashed into my mind's eye and I gasped, as if seeing her like that for the first time. Every time that happens, I feel traumatized all over again, like it is registering for the first time.
I find myself self-absorbed in thoughts about her childhood and feel overwhelming guilt for having been spread so thin. Was I EVER available to her?? The guilt just keeps building and building within me and I wonder if I will ever be able to escape the sense of failure. I failed her. I did not provide what she needed. I could not be what she wanted in a mother. I let her down. I brought her into the world, and she resented it.
Then, as if reality is just too harsh, my thoughts wander into more philosophical and metaphysical realms in regards to Christina. Who was she? What were her past lives like (assuming reincarnation is true) and what residual pain did she bring with her into this one? It often seemed as if her soul was grieving - even from her infancy and early childhood. So much sadness there. And so I question The Universe, wondering about Life, spirits, heaven, god, eternity, and our divine purpose - or if any of those things are even real.
Since losing Christina, I have a much more profound need to know the answers to Life's questions, yet am equally frustrated by the realization that I will NEVER know. Do I really think I am the first to wonder what happens after death or to want proof of eternal survival of the soul?? And not being able to have those answers angers and frustrates me. It is no longer good enough to theorize and have have suspicions about the afterlife; I need proof. And there is none. No proof exists. It all requires a leap of faith, which I refuse to give in to. That is far too dangerous. Somehow, I will need to accept the not-knowing and not being able to know for certain. But at this moment, I struggle with it all.
More than anything, I miss her and still cannot fully comprehend and accept that she left us - forever. Forever gone. NO! I cannot fathom that! I want so badly to scream. I want so badly to just fall apart and sob uncontrollably...and feel guilt because I've not done that. Guilt. Always more guilt. But the screams remain within me. There has been neither opportunity nor a safe space to let it out freely. It scares people. It will even scare me, if and when it should happen. And yet, I know it is eventual.
I need to spend an afternoon at her gravesite - alone. This much, I know for certain. I need to talk to her, even though I realize she won't be "there" to hear me. Or will she?? In spirit form, will she, can she, might she be there?? It's what I hope, but cannot prove. It's gonna require that leap of faith. Ugh!! So I tell myself that I should just do it, just in case she can somehow be aware. And if not, at the very least, I might experience some catharsis. Some relief. Some peace and healing. Maybe just staring at her gravesite will help me process the truth of her death.
But for now, it is still very unreal. It is still difficult to truly accept. Life - all the demands of daily life - get in the way and distract me from processing the facts. And perhaps that is WHY I continue to be haunted by the evidence...
Naturally, I am thinking about Christina. It's been almost thirteen weeks and I am surprised (though, not really) by how hard it is to process and accept that she is gone. On the one hand, it is undeniable. I have the haunting images of what she did, the vague, dream-like memory of her funeral, and of course, all the documentation of her death to solidify the reality of her passing. And, each day passes without seeing or hearing her, adding to the reality of the situation. Still, in spite of all the evidence proving her death, I feel a huge sense of disbelief, as if "this" could not possibly have happened. This is a chapter in my life that I did not anticipate, even though at some level, I always knew it could happen. And yet...I find myself saying to myself, "it just CAN'T be true."
The other day, I was returning home from the store and living my life as if it were unchanged when suddenly, I thought of Christina and thought, "Christina's dead" and it made me shudder, as if hearing it for the first time. It was as if my subconscious was taking it upon itself to remind my conscious mind of the facts. Instantly, that awful image of her hanging from that beam flashed into my mind's eye and I gasped, as if seeing her like that for the first time. Every time that happens, I feel traumatized all over again, like it is registering for the first time.
I find myself self-absorbed in thoughts about her childhood and feel overwhelming guilt for having been spread so thin. Was I EVER available to her?? The guilt just keeps building and building within me and I wonder if I will ever be able to escape the sense of failure. I failed her. I did not provide what she needed. I could not be what she wanted in a mother. I let her down. I brought her into the world, and she resented it.
Then, as if reality is just too harsh, my thoughts wander into more philosophical and metaphysical realms in regards to Christina. Who was she? What were her past lives like (assuming reincarnation is true) and what residual pain did she bring with her into this one? It often seemed as if her soul was grieving - even from her infancy and early childhood. So much sadness there. And so I question The Universe, wondering about Life, spirits, heaven, god, eternity, and our divine purpose - or if any of those things are even real.
Since losing Christina, I have a much more profound need to know the answers to Life's questions, yet am equally frustrated by the realization that I will NEVER know. Do I really think I am the first to wonder what happens after death or to want proof of eternal survival of the soul?? And not being able to have those answers angers and frustrates me. It is no longer good enough to theorize and have have suspicions about the afterlife; I need proof. And there is none. No proof exists. It all requires a leap of faith, which I refuse to give in to. That is far too dangerous. Somehow, I will need to accept the not-knowing and not being able to know for certain. But at this moment, I struggle with it all.
More than anything, I miss her and still cannot fully comprehend and accept that she left us - forever. Forever gone. NO! I cannot fathom that! I want so badly to scream. I want so badly to just fall apart and sob uncontrollably...and feel guilt because I've not done that. Guilt. Always more guilt. But the screams remain within me. There has been neither opportunity nor a safe space to let it out freely. It scares people. It will even scare me, if and when it should happen. And yet, I know it is eventual.
I need to spend an afternoon at her gravesite - alone. This much, I know for certain. I need to talk to her, even though I realize she won't be "there" to hear me. Or will she?? In spirit form, will she, can she, might she be there?? It's what I hope, but cannot prove. It's gonna require that leap of faith. Ugh!! So I tell myself that I should just do it, just in case she can somehow be aware. And if not, at the very least, I might experience some catharsis. Some relief. Some peace and healing. Maybe just staring at her gravesite will help me process the truth of her death.
But for now, it is still very unreal. It is still difficult to truly accept. Life - all the demands of daily life - get in the way and distract me from processing the facts. And perhaps that is WHY I continue to be haunted by the evidence...
Wednesday, August 10, 2011
DO IT MY WAY, PLEASE
If I learned just one thing from losing Christina, it's that my ideas about Natural/Green Funerals are truly the way I want things done when it's my turn to go.
There is a trend gaining momentum in our country, most often referred to as "Green Funerals." While it appears to appeal primarily to those concerned about the environment, it is also attracting people like me who gave birth at home without the needless and costly obstetrical interventions. Green Funerals often involve caring for your own deceased, which usually means waking them at home and eliminating embalming. It also involves using simple, earth-friendly caskets rather than the expensive, hermetically sealed "crockpots" that most people spend thousands of dollars on today.
For me, I learned that embalming does not create a pretty body; in fact, Christina did not look at all like she did when she was alive. The embalming added years to her face. It also made her stiff and virtually unmoveable and unpleasant to the touch. I wish I had insisted that she not be embalmed, but what did I know? Even though I was very aware of the Green Funeral movement (and had just been reading about it prior to her taking her life), I was not ready to apply it.
Most of all, I regret not waking her at home. I believe it would've helped the grieving process for all of us and would've allowed us to be with her continually until it was time to bury her. Instead, she was shipped to the coroner's office, then to lansing, then to dyer, and then to the cemetery. No, I now believe strongly that she belonged at home where we could've spent those last few days with her, cleaned her, dressed her, but most of all - loved and cared for her. Instead, those 12 hours in the hospital with all that life support equipment ran up thousands of dollars worth of bills, and for what? Instead, we were distracted and interrupted by the hospital environment - even though the staff was all very kind and made every effort to respect our presence. Still, it was unnatural and kept me from realizing what was going on. It distracted me from her. Never again.
When I die, I hope to pass away peacefully in my own bed. I hope that my children will lovingly care for me, and prepare me, for my final rest. I will pre-purchase a casket. I will leave instructions for my kids, so they know what to do. I want them to be able to touch me, hug me, lay next to me - if they want to. I want them to create an ambience in my room that reflects who I was: burn candles and sage, annoint me with my oils, dress me as I would've dressed, and take their time saying their goodbyes. It's what I want. It's what I believe is best. It seems healthier for all involved.
I realize I am choosing to do something revolutionary, by today's standards, but isn't that just like me??
There is a trend gaining momentum in our country, most often referred to as "Green Funerals." While it appears to appeal primarily to those concerned about the environment, it is also attracting people like me who gave birth at home without the needless and costly obstetrical interventions. Green Funerals often involve caring for your own deceased, which usually means waking them at home and eliminating embalming. It also involves using simple, earth-friendly caskets rather than the expensive, hermetically sealed "crockpots" that most people spend thousands of dollars on today.
For me, I learned that embalming does not create a pretty body; in fact, Christina did not look at all like she did when she was alive. The embalming added years to her face. It also made her stiff and virtually unmoveable and unpleasant to the touch. I wish I had insisted that she not be embalmed, but what did I know? Even though I was very aware of the Green Funeral movement (and had just been reading about it prior to her taking her life), I was not ready to apply it.
Most of all, I regret not waking her at home. I believe it would've helped the grieving process for all of us and would've allowed us to be with her continually until it was time to bury her. Instead, she was shipped to the coroner's office, then to lansing, then to dyer, and then to the cemetery. No, I now believe strongly that she belonged at home where we could've spent those last few days with her, cleaned her, dressed her, but most of all - loved and cared for her. Instead, those 12 hours in the hospital with all that life support equipment ran up thousands of dollars worth of bills, and for what? Instead, we were distracted and interrupted by the hospital environment - even though the staff was all very kind and made every effort to respect our presence. Still, it was unnatural and kept me from realizing what was going on. It distracted me from her. Never again.
When I die, I hope to pass away peacefully in my own bed. I hope that my children will lovingly care for me, and prepare me, for my final rest. I will pre-purchase a casket. I will leave instructions for my kids, so they know what to do. I want them to be able to touch me, hug me, lay next to me - if they want to. I want them to create an ambience in my room that reflects who I was: burn candles and sage, annoint me with my oils, dress me as I would've dressed, and take their time saying their goodbyes. It's what I want. It's what I believe is best. It seems healthier for all involved.
I realize I am choosing to do something revolutionary, by today's standards, but isn't that just like me??
Sunday, August 7, 2011
A LETTER TO CHERYL
Cheryl,
There are so many things I wish I could tell you, ask you, and talk about with you. I guess this letter will have to do.
First of all, the day we buried Christina, we went to your resting spot and I made a deal with you. I asked to watch over my daughter on your side, and in return, I will watch over your son on this side. I believe you orchestrated the events that led to me being here, in your house, with your husband, and especially, with your son. There have been so many parallels for it to be just a coincidence Cheryl and I have to believe you had something to do with it. And now, after losing Christina, it seems even more likely that somehow, you knew.
I believe, had we met, we would've been great friends. It seems we had a lot in common. You must see how much I care about your children - especially Brian. He could be one of my own. I worry about him Cheryl. He's been through so much, losing you and then losing Christina. I'm trying Cheryl, to reach him, to support him, and to be there for him; but I'm not you. I can't replace you. I can only attempt to stand in, but you're a hard act to follow!
I know my Christina was often brutal with him and broke his heart over and over; but please be understanding, as only a mother can do. Be there for her - on your side. Stand in, for me; I am not a hard act to follow!
Help me Cheryl, if you can. You know I love your Jimmy (and he IS yours); but you also know the part of him that I struggle with - the same part of him that I believe you struggled with. Help me with that. He's a wonderful man, as you know, but he has an inner weakness (there's so much pain there) that he doesn't recognize nor admit to.
Cheryl, I will do my best to care for your son (and Tracy and Jimmy too, although they don't need me the same way Brian does). And our grandchildren Cheryl...Damien and Ada. Help me help them.
Thank you Cheryl - for everything.
There are so many things I wish I could tell you, ask you, and talk about with you. I guess this letter will have to do.
First of all, the day we buried Christina, we went to your resting spot and I made a deal with you. I asked to watch over my daughter on your side, and in return, I will watch over your son on this side. I believe you orchestrated the events that led to me being here, in your house, with your husband, and especially, with your son. There have been so many parallels for it to be just a coincidence Cheryl and I have to believe you had something to do with it. And now, after losing Christina, it seems even more likely that somehow, you knew.
I believe, had we met, we would've been great friends. It seems we had a lot in common. You must see how much I care about your children - especially Brian. He could be one of my own. I worry about him Cheryl. He's been through so much, losing you and then losing Christina. I'm trying Cheryl, to reach him, to support him, and to be there for him; but I'm not you. I can't replace you. I can only attempt to stand in, but you're a hard act to follow!
I know my Christina was often brutal with him and broke his heart over and over; but please be understanding, as only a mother can do. Be there for her - on your side. Stand in, for me; I am not a hard act to follow!
Help me Cheryl, if you can. You know I love your Jimmy (and he IS yours); but you also know the part of him that I struggle with - the same part of him that I believe you struggled with. Help me with that. He's a wonderful man, as you know, but he has an inner weakness (there's so much pain there) that he doesn't recognize nor admit to.
Cheryl, I will do my best to care for your son (and Tracy and Jimmy too, although they don't need me the same way Brian does). And our grandchildren Cheryl...Damien and Ada. Help me help them.
Thank you Cheryl - for everything.
Friday, August 5, 2011
WHERE HAS IT GONE?
Since losing Christina, I have been thinking about how I wish I had spiritual beliefs that I accepted an undeniable fact. How much better I would feel if I could only believe that Christina still existed, residing forever in Heavenly bliss, awaiting the eventual arrival of the rest of us and that joyous moment of reuniting with her. But that is not what I believe. I wish I could; but I cannot, for there is no proof. It would require that leap of faith - which I do not have.
I have also been thinking about all the things that, prior to losing Christina, I once believed but which no longer offer me any consolation or relief from the incessant grief. Prior to her suicide, Nature provided the foundation for my spirituality. I suppose it still does, at some level. The concept of the Wheel of the Year, based on the agricultural life cycle, offered a tangible example of Life in general. There is birth, life, death, and then rebirth. Living next to a cornfield offered me visual proof of this cycle and its repetition gave me a sense of comfort; it appeared as if life goes on indefinitely.
Then there was the inspiration I felt from the Maiden-Mother-Crone archetypes. Again, this mythic example provided me with a clear sense of what to expect from life. I was once the Maiden, full of youthful potential and physical perfection. Then, the Mother, fertile, productive, nurturing, and active. Now, as I move into the Crone stage, I have increased in wisdom and like the Sage or Hermit, am reaching both physical and spiritual maturity.
But where does suicide fit in with these mythological analogies?? In Nature, I do not see mental illness and self-destruction. Yes, Nature destroys itself via tornadoes, floods, earthquakes and forest fires and in the wake of natural destruction come new life in abundance. But does that analogy transfer? Does it apply?? Christina was precariously perched between Maidenhood and Motherhood. By self-destruction, will she leave enriched and fertile ground for exceptional growth and restoration?? I will probably only know for sure retrospectivly. In the meanwhile, I am offered no comfort, spiritually.
I wish I could locate something inspirational to help me cope with her suicide: a myth, an analogy, anything that would give me the hope and even the belief that perhaps she is not just gone but transformed. I want to believe that she still exists, somewhere. I want to trust that she is experiencing wholeness and restoration along with freedom from the pain she struggled with here with us. But because it is all so subjective and unprovable, I am left with doubts. I wish. I wish I could simply take that leap of faith and believe. I wish I was afforded that comfort. I wish I knew for certain, but know that is not an option.
So where has it gone? My spiritual references have helped me though so much and guided me through personal development, self acceptance, and even toward self-actualization; but with THIS particular Life Struggle, it is curiously absent. I am left with nothing. And I wonder why.
I have also been thinking about all the things that, prior to losing Christina, I once believed but which no longer offer me any consolation or relief from the incessant grief. Prior to her suicide, Nature provided the foundation for my spirituality. I suppose it still does, at some level. The concept of the Wheel of the Year, based on the agricultural life cycle, offered a tangible example of Life in general. There is birth, life, death, and then rebirth. Living next to a cornfield offered me visual proof of this cycle and its repetition gave me a sense of comfort; it appeared as if life goes on indefinitely.
Then there was the inspiration I felt from the Maiden-Mother-Crone archetypes. Again, this mythic example provided me with a clear sense of what to expect from life. I was once the Maiden, full of youthful potential and physical perfection. Then, the Mother, fertile, productive, nurturing, and active. Now, as I move into the Crone stage, I have increased in wisdom and like the Sage or Hermit, am reaching both physical and spiritual maturity.
But where does suicide fit in with these mythological analogies?? In Nature, I do not see mental illness and self-destruction. Yes, Nature destroys itself via tornadoes, floods, earthquakes and forest fires and in the wake of natural destruction come new life in abundance. But does that analogy transfer? Does it apply?? Christina was precariously perched between Maidenhood and Motherhood. By self-destruction, will she leave enriched and fertile ground for exceptional growth and restoration?? I will probably only know for sure retrospectivly. In the meanwhile, I am offered no comfort, spiritually.
I wish I could locate something inspirational to help me cope with her suicide: a myth, an analogy, anything that would give me the hope and even the belief that perhaps she is not just gone but transformed. I want to believe that she still exists, somewhere. I want to trust that she is experiencing wholeness and restoration along with freedom from the pain she struggled with here with us. But because it is all so subjective and unprovable, I am left with doubts. I wish. I wish I could simply take that leap of faith and believe. I wish I was afforded that comfort. I wish I knew for certain, but know that is not an option.
So where has it gone? My spiritual references have helped me though so much and guided me through personal development, self acceptance, and even toward self-actualization; but with THIS particular Life Struggle, it is curiously absent. I am left with nothing. And I wonder why.
BITTER THOUGHTS
Although my intention was to write something happy tonite, I am plagued with bitter, jaded thoughts about the twisted irony of Life. Of course, I realize I am not the first - nor will I be the last - to make these realizations. But yet, here I am, feeling that life is unfair. I remember hearing, when I was much younger, that "youth is wasted on the young," and it seemed trite. But now? Now it is painfully apparent why this sentiment is so very true. It seems totally unfair and twisted that we gain wisdom with age. And then what? We die! What a waste!
In my youth, I made choices out of ignorance that laid a foundation for the rest of my life. Now, as I approach my 50th birthday, I realize that, had I only known then what I know now, my life could've been so much better! But now, it is virtually too late, and it is my children who will pay the price for my youthful ignorance.
If only I had known then what I know now! When I was younger - in my 20's - all I knew is that I wanted children. But what I DIDN'T know is how I would feel about them once they were grown and once I discovered who they actually are!
Knowing what I know now, I would have built my life so differently. I would've invested in rural, wooded property that would be large enough to build small, very modest and unique homes for each of my children. I envision the homes laid in a circular arrangement, all facing in toward the center of the circle. The circle would contain a playground for grandchildren and a firepit for late night gatherings, weather permitting. Behind each home would be a garden - because we would all know how to garden. In doing this, I would have been able to provide a home for each of my children - affording each one privacy and self-sufficiency, yet a connection with family.
Then there is education. While I am still not opposed to homeschooling, I think I would've instead ensured that we lived in a good school district and I would've put a lot more emphasis on vocational assessment and training. In fact, it would've been a major theme of their childhood years: discovering each of their unique talents and interests, and then guiding them in that direction.
But a lot of good those realizations do me now. My children are grown and struggling with self-sufficiency. I take the responsibility for that; I failed to adequately prepare them for adulthood. I blame myself and their father, but can only address my own part in this failure. Why didn't I insist on more for them? Why was I so distracted by the short-term goals that the long term goals were overlooked? I am forever indebted to them.
Yeah, I'm feeling bitter. My anger is directed inward for my errrors, but also outward, toward life in general. How was I to know?? It seems like each generation must reinvent the wheel in discovering who they are and collecting the wisdom that comes with age. Some say we must share our life wisdom with the younger generation; but they don't want it (or comprehend it) any more than I did when I was young. So, each generation is left to discover it all on their own and, like me, by the time they acquire it, mistakes will be made and erroneous foundations will be laid.
And that really pisses me off.
In my youth, I made choices out of ignorance that laid a foundation for the rest of my life. Now, as I approach my 50th birthday, I realize that, had I only known then what I know now, my life could've been so much better! But now, it is virtually too late, and it is my children who will pay the price for my youthful ignorance.
If only I had known then what I know now! When I was younger - in my 20's - all I knew is that I wanted children. But what I DIDN'T know is how I would feel about them once they were grown and once I discovered who they actually are!
Knowing what I know now, I would have built my life so differently. I would've invested in rural, wooded property that would be large enough to build small, very modest and unique homes for each of my children. I envision the homes laid in a circular arrangement, all facing in toward the center of the circle. The circle would contain a playground for grandchildren and a firepit for late night gatherings, weather permitting. Behind each home would be a garden - because we would all know how to garden. In doing this, I would have been able to provide a home for each of my children - affording each one privacy and self-sufficiency, yet a connection with family.
Then there is education. While I am still not opposed to homeschooling, I think I would've instead ensured that we lived in a good school district and I would've put a lot more emphasis on vocational assessment and training. In fact, it would've been a major theme of their childhood years: discovering each of their unique talents and interests, and then guiding them in that direction.
But a lot of good those realizations do me now. My children are grown and struggling with self-sufficiency. I take the responsibility for that; I failed to adequately prepare them for adulthood. I blame myself and their father, but can only address my own part in this failure. Why didn't I insist on more for them? Why was I so distracted by the short-term goals that the long term goals were overlooked? I am forever indebted to them.
Yeah, I'm feeling bitter. My anger is directed inward for my errrors, but also outward, toward life in general. How was I to know?? It seems like each generation must reinvent the wheel in discovering who they are and collecting the wisdom that comes with age. Some say we must share our life wisdom with the younger generation; but they don't want it (or comprehend it) any more than I did when I was young. So, each generation is left to discover it all on their own and, like me, by the time they acquire it, mistakes will be made and erroneous foundations will be laid.
And that really pisses me off.
Wednesday, August 3, 2011
OVERWHELMED WITH PAIN AND SORROW
Yesterday, it was officially eleven weeks since Christina took her life and it is not getting much easier. True, I've had some days that felt almost normal; but just below the surface, the pain remains. And, without warning, the images of That Day re-emerge. My mind may forget - for small chunks of time - but my body remembers.
I've been thinking about that a lot these past few weeks - about how the body remembers, even when the mind is otherwise occupied. The memory of this trauma, I've come to realize, is stored primarily in my face, throat, arms, and chest. I know why: as we struggled to take her down, I wanted to scream, but could not. I knew that for the sake of the kids we had to act quickly and quietly. So the screams within my were trapped in my throat. Then, in our physical efforts to take her down, I held her up to take the tension off her neck so that the cord could be loosened and removed. In the process of holding her, I felt the weight of her body in my arms. I held my breath, perhaps because I knew she could not breathe (had she any life left in her), but perhaps also just because of the physical effort. I held her - and my breath - until my chest hurt. And there, the memory of the trauma remains. I fear I will always remember, physically, what it felt like to take her down from that beam. And when those body-based memories surface, I feel it again, almost like re-living the experience, and I fear I will be forever haunted by it.
And so, even while Life goes on, there remains a part of me that is stuck in those moments of struggling so urgently, so desperately, and so overwhelmed with pain and sorrow, as we hurried to release her. Those moments of shock, disbelief, and yet stark realization that my daughter had killed herself - that paradox - remains forever embedded in my mind, body, and soul.
Is it any wonder then that I would suddenly begin to cry, without warning? Can I truly expect to be free of the trauma?? Nothing - nothing has ever traumatized me so greatly and so deeply. I now, as a direct result, fear losing another loved one. I fear tragedy. I know now that anything can happen. I know now that Life can turn quickly to death, happiness to pain. Anything can happen. BAD things can happen - without warning. And even if there IS warning, it can go unrecognized.
Some have said that Christina would not want me to suffer endlessly like this; but I wonder. She resented me so deeply. Was this revenge? Did she do this to me, intentionally, in anger and hatred? Did she laugh to herself before taking that final step off the couch as she envisioned the pain she would inflict upon me for the rest of my life? Or was she simply not thinking at all? Was she thinking only of ending her own misery, as others have concluded? I'll never know. I'll never be quite certain. And in the uncertainty comes more pain.
I want desperately to resolve this. I want to be able to evaluate what has happened, picking it apart, and creating an explanation that I can live with and that will allow me to close that chapter and move on; but I have not been successful in that endeavor. Every time I think I have satisfactorily synthsized all of the events leading up to her action, and subsequently resolved the aftermath, I unearth another aspect of the trauma that I must confront and come to terms with. Most recently, it has been my regret (oh, how I despise regret) for calling 911. We should have instead allowed ourselves time with her right here at home. There was nothing the paramedics could have done. And the police were an unwelcome intrusion. What she did was not a crime. A tragedy, yes. But not a crime.
And so I have felt overwhelmed - not so much by what happened eleven weeks ago, but with Life intruding upon my ability to process what happened on That Day. I resent that Life goes on. I resent that I feel as if Life has not afforded me the opportunity to fully process her death before moving on to yet another day, another week, another month. Time is having its way with me. And I resent Time's intrusion.
I've been thinking about that a lot these past few weeks - about how the body remembers, even when the mind is otherwise occupied. The memory of this trauma, I've come to realize, is stored primarily in my face, throat, arms, and chest. I know why: as we struggled to take her down, I wanted to scream, but could not. I knew that for the sake of the kids we had to act quickly and quietly. So the screams within my were trapped in my throat. Then, in our physical efforts to take her down, I held her up to take the tension off her neck so that the cord could be loosened and removed. In the process of holding her, I felt the weight of her body in my arms. I held my breath, perhaps because I knew she could not breathe (had she any life left in her), but perhaps also just because of the physical effort. I held her - and my breath - until my chest hurt. And there, the memory of the trauma remains. I fear I will always remember, physically, what it felt like to take her down from that beam. And when those body-based memories surface, I feel it again, almost like re-living the experience, and I fear I will be forever haunted by it.
And so, even while Life goes on, there remains a part of me that is stuck in those moments of struggling so urgently, so desperately, and so overwhelmed with pain and sorrow, as we hurried to release her. Those moments of shock, disbelief, and yet stark realization that my daughter had killed herself - that paradox - remains forever embedded in my mind, body, and soul.
Is it any wonder then that I would suddenly begin to cry, without warning? Can I truly expect to be free of the trauma?? Nothing - nothing has ever traumatized me so greatly and so deeply. I now, as a direct result, fear losing another loved one. I fear tragedy. I know now that anything can happen. I know now that Life can turn quickly to death, happiness to pain. Anything can happen. BAD things can happen - without warning. And even if there IS warning, it can go unrecognized.
Some have said that Christina would not want me to suffer endlessly like this; but I wonder. She resented me so deeply. Was this revenge? Did she do this to me, intentionally, in anger and hatred? Did she laugh to herself before taking that final step off the couch as she envisioned the pain she would inflict upon me for the rest of my life? Or was she simply not thinking at all? Was she thinking only of ending her own misery, as others have concluded? I'll never know. I'll never be quite certain. And in the uncertainty comes more pain.
I want desperately to resolve this. I want to be able to evaluate what has happened, picking it apart, and creating an explanation that I can live with and that will allow me to close that chapter and move on; but I have not been successful in that endeavor. Every time I think I have satisfactorily synthsized all of the events leading up to her action, and subsequently resolved the aftermath, I unearth another aspect of the trauma that I must confront and come to terms with. Most recently, it has been my regret (oh, how I despise regret) for calling 911. We should have instead allowed ourselves time with her right here at home. There was nothing the paramedics could have done. And the police were an unwelcome intrusion. What she did was not a crime. A tragedy, yes. But not a crime.
And so I have felt overwhelmed - not so much by what happened eleven weeks ago, but with Life intruding upon my ability to process what happened on That Day. I resent that Life goes on. I resent that I feel as if Life has not afforded me the opportunity to fully process her death before moving on to yet another day, another week, another month. Time is having its way with me. And I resent Time's intrusion.
Thursday, July 28, 2011
AND THEN THERE ARE GOOD DAYS
With all that has been going on in my life, this has been a Summer without an abundance of good days. In fact, I've been in such a fog that I barely notice much of the world going on around me. Today however, was different.
Today I needed Brian to take me to the University so I could complete some paperwork in preparation for the Fall semester and so naturally we brought Damien and Ada. I prepared them by asking them if they'd like to go to my school.
At first they simply said yes, but without much enthusiasm. So I began to tell them what to expect.
"It's a big giant building and it has a swimming pool and a gym. There's lots of people there, but there are big stairs and even lots of elevators!" Suddenly they became more excited. "And there's computers and a giant library with lots of books. Oh, and outside the school, there is a lake that has fishies and duck-duck-gooses!!" Now they couldn't wait!
Fortunately, my paperwork took only a few minutes, during which time, Brian took them for a ride on one of the elevators. From there, we went to the cafeteria where I told them all to pick out whatever they wanted: pizza, hot dogs, hamburgers, salad, pizza puffs, nachos and cheese...the options were endless. Damien wanted a Mountain Dew and ONLY a Mountain Dew. Ada wanted a yogurt. For Brian and I, it was a no-brainer: We each had a White Chocolate Mocha WITH whipped cream! Yes, there's a Starbucks in the cafeteria!!
When we finished our snack, we explored the university: The kids learned what raquetball is and saw the fitness center. They smelled the pool, but it was locked so we could view it only through the window. We walked outdoors for a bit, around the perimeter of the university which is kept well with indigenous wild flowers, nice lawns, and shady trees. Along the path there are various sculpts made from steel and i-beams. I've never cared much for them and they remind me of the Picasso that we have downtown. As we approached one, I asked Damien what it was. He said he wasn't sure but that maybe it was a slide. I told the kids they could go check it out and so they ran on ahead. As Brian and I caught up with them, Damien had been inspecting the sculpt up-close and had examined underneath it as well. He came out and dusted his hands and reported, "Well, nothing useful here!" and Brian and I laughed at his brilliant observation!
We continued walking and Ada found some big flowers to smell. "Do they smell good Ada?" I asked her. "Yeah," she replied, "They smell like butterflies!" Well, of course they do!
Further along we spotted a circular outdoor stage where Ada couldn't wait to reach. Once we got there, she and her daddy danced and Damien showed how he could jump from the 2nd step. Ada showed off and jumped successfully from the third step and then Damien had no choice but to pull on his big boy pants and do as his little sister had done.
Next we came across a dumpster. Damien wondered out loud what was inside and naturally Brian and I assured him it was just garbage but - too late - Damien had already reached it and glanced inside. "Nothin' in there except a porcupine" he reported. A porcupine?? Well, no, there wasn't a porcupine in the dumpster, but there was a rather large racoon in there!! Apparently, Damien wasn't impressed; he responded as if EVERY garbage dumpster holds wildlife! Naturally, we let Ada take a peak.
Before leaving the grounds, I showed Damien and Ada a particularly beautiful pine tree and plucked a pinecone for Ada. "It looks like a pineapple" she noted; actually, it kinda did.
Throughout the excursion, we talked about school, being a grown up, and how when you become a grown up you can be whatever you want to be: a doctor, a garbage truck driver, a newscaster, a veterinarian, a fisherman on big ships, a gas station attendent...anything! Damien decided that he will work as part of a SWAT team - as long as he is able to get $1000 or even $2000 for doing so because he wants so much money that he can buy whatever he wants. Not only that, but he informed us that he will make so much money that he will share and put money in his dad's money jar, in my money jar, in papa's money jar - in lots of people's money jars!! "I'll HAVE to give some of my money away dad, to make room for all the other money I will keep making!" Ada also expressed her career goals: "I will be a fireman and a ballerina!!" That sounds like a plan!!
So I had a wonderful, delightful, even magical day where I was able to put my pain aside, stay in the moment, and enjoy the time spent with Brian and the kids. Brian and I had a chance to talk about the kids and how they're adjusting to Christina being gone, and we talked about ways to prepare Damien for school - which is only weeks away. I couldn't have asked for a better afternoon.
Oh, and it looks like I will have adequate funding for school this year so I am now fully enrolled and my tuition and books will be paid in full. Even when Life throws shit at us (and it always does), the squeals of my grandchildren's laughter, their insanely accurate observations of the world around them, or just the smile on their faces can often more than compensate!
Today I needed Brian to take me to the University so I could complete some paperwork in preparation for the Fall semester and so naturally we brought Damien and Ada. I prepared them by asking them if they'd like to go to my school.
At first they simply said yes, but without much enthusiasm. So I began to tell them what to expect.
"It's a big giant building and it has a swimming pool and a gym. There's lots of people there, but there are big stairs and even lots of elevators!" Suddenly they became more excited. "And there's computers and a giant library with lots of books. Oh, and outside the school, there is a lake that has fishies and duck-duck-gooses!!" Now they couldn't wait!
Fortunately, my paperwork took only a few minutes, during which time, Brian took them for a ride on one of the elevators. From there, we went to the cafeteria where I told them all to pick out whatever they wanted: pizza, hot dogs, hamburgers, salad, pizza puffs, nachos and cheese...the options were endless. Damien wanted a Mountain Dew and ONLY a Mountain Dew. Ada wanted a yogurt. For Brian and I, it was a no-brainer: We each had a White Chocolate Mocha WITH whipped cream! Yes, there's a Starbucks in the cafeteria!!
When we finished our snack, we explored the university: The kids learned what raquetball is and saw the fitness center. They smelled the pool, but it was locked so we could view it only through the window. We walked outdoors for a bit, around the perimeter of the university which is kept well with indigenous wild flowers, nice lawns, and shady trees. Along the path there are various sculpts made from steel and i-beams. I've never cared much for them and they remind me of the Picasso that we have downtown. As we approached one, I asked Damien what it was. He said he wasn't sure but that maybe it was a slide. I told the kids they could go check it out and so they ran on ahead. As Brian and I caught up with them, Damien had been inspecting the sculpt up-close and had examined underneath it as well. He came out and dusted his hands and reported, "Well, nothing useful here!" and Brian and I laughed at his brilliant observation!
We continued walking and Ada found some big flowers to smell. "Do they smell good Ada?" I asked her. "Yeah," she replied, "They smell like butterflies!" Well, of course they do!
Further along we spotted a circular outdoor stage where Ada couldn't wait to reach. Once we got there, she and her daddy danced and Damien showed how he could jump from the 2nd step. Ada showed off and jumped successfully from the third step and then Damien had no choice but to pull on his big boy pants and do as his little sister had done.
Next we came across a dumpster. Damien wondered out loud what was inside and naturally Brian and I assured him it was just garbage but - too late - Damien had already reached it and glanced inside. "Nothin' in there except a porcupine" he reported. A porcupine?? Well, no, there wasn't a porcupine in the dumpster, but there was a rather large racoon in there!! Apparently, Damien wasn't impressed; he responded as if EVERY garbage dumpster holds wildlife! Naturally, we let Ada take a peak.
Before leaving the grounds, I showed Damien and Ada a particularly beautiful pine tree and plucked a pinecone for Ada. "It looks like a pineapple" she noted; actually, it kinda did.
Throughout the excursion, we talked about school, being a grown up, and how when you become a grown up you can be whatever you want to be: a doctor, a garbage truck driver, a newscaster, a veterinarian, a fisherman on big ships, a gas station attendent...anything! Damien decided that he will work as part of a SWAT team - as long as he is able to get $1000 or even $2000 for doing so because he wants so much money that he can buy whatever he wants. Not only that, but he informed us that he will make so much money that he will share and put money in his dad's money jar, in my money jar, in papa's money jar - in lots of people's money jars!! "I'll HAVE to give some of my money away dad, to make room for all the other money I will keep making!" Ada also expressed her career goals: "I will be a fireman and a ballerina!!" That sounds like a plan!!
So I had a wonderful, delightful, even magical day where I was able to put my pain aside, stay in the moment, and enjoy the time spent with Brian and the kids. Brian and I had a chance to talk about the kids and how they're adjusting to Christina being gone, and we talked about ways to prepare Damien for school - which is only weeks away. I couldn't have asked for a better afternoon.
Oh, and it looks like I will have adequate funding for school this year so I am now fully enrolled and my tuition and books will be paid in full. Even when Life throws shit at us (and it always does), the squeals of my grandchildren's laughter, their insanely accurate observations of the world around them, or just the smile on their faces can often more than compensate!
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
LIFE SUPPORT or SUPPORTING LIFE?
Today it has been 10 weeks since Christina died. I still ruminate about that morning and all that has followed. Regrets accumulate as I look back with 20/20 hindsight, but what did I know? I acted without thinking, allowing pure emotion in my driver's seat. Looking back, I now wish we had not called 911 upon finding her. What was I thinking? Did I really think she was still alive? Did I really think the paramedics could somehow reverse what she had done?
Instead, I wish we would've waited. I wish we had simply taken her down, moved her lifeless body to my bed, and called family first. By calling 911, we relinquished all rights. Once the paramedics and law enforcement arrived, Christina no longer belonged to us and our opportunity to process what she had done was amputated. If we had laid her in my bed and allowed family and friends to spend time with her, I believe our grieving process would have been easier and more humane. By keeping the authorities at bay, we could've provided a more holistic opportunity for her children to see her and understand that she had died. Instead, they never got those final hugs. All they got was a poorly designed replica of their mother.
Once the paramedics arrived, they took it upon themselves to decide what to do and they artifically injected "life" back into her; well, a pulse anyway. Then the hospital. Using all of their finest samples of life support technology, they made her heart beat, her lungs expand and contract, and with the help of a heating blanket, they kept her warm. But that is not life. Christina was not alive; her body simply simulated life. And, because we were never consulted nor asked our opinions on what should be done, the medical profession took hold of her simulated final hours. She may have been on life suport, but that system does not support life. It kept us at bay. How could we hold her and hug her with all of that equipment in the way? She belonged at home, in my bed, where we could've grieved and said our goodbyes more naturally and with dignity.
Prior to Christina's death, I was intellectually and theoretically in support of the green funeral movement and the old ways of caring for our own deceased. Now, I am fully convinced, both intellectually and emotionally, that we must return to the more humane traditions of allowing the family to care for their departed - at home. While the medical profession and the funeral industry has their merits, it should not be routine. I am more convinced than ever before that when I die, I shall remain at home, not be embalmed, and buried as God and nature intended. I do not wish to be preserved with toxic chemicals that will render me unrecognizable. I do not want to be sealed in an airtight crock pot of a casket. I want simply to be placed in a biodegradeable wood box and buried, allowing Nature to take its course.
Once again, I must apologize to Christina - for not thinking, for not taking control of the situation, and for not allowing her the dignity to be mourned in her own home. But, what did I know?
Instead, I wish we would've waited. I wish we had simply taken her down, moved her lifeless body to my bed, and called family first. By calling 911, we relinquished all rights. Once the paramedics and law enforcement arrived, Christina no longer belonged to us and our opportunity to process what she had done was amputated. If we had laid her in my bed and allowed family and friends to spend time with her, I believe our grieving process would have been easier and more humane. By keeping the authorities at bay, we could've provided a more holistic opportunity for her children to see her and understand that she had died. Instead, they never got those final hugs. All they got was a poorly designed replica of their mother.
Once the paramedics arrived, they took it upon themselves to decide what to do and they artifically injected "life" back into her; well, a pulse anyway. Then the hospital. Using all of their finest samples of life support technology, they made her heart beat, her lungs expand and contract, and with the help of a heating blanket, they kept her warm. But that is not life. Christina was not alive; her body simply simulated life. And, because we were never consulted nor asked our opinions on what should be done, the medical profession took hold of her simulated final hours. She may have been on life suport, but that system does not support life. It kept us at bay. How could we hold her and hug her with all of that equipment in the way? She belonged at home, in my bed, where we could've grieved and said our goodbyes more naturally and with dignity.
Prior to Christina's death, I was intellectually and theoretically in support of the green funeral movement and the old ways of caring for our own deceased. Now, I am fully convinced, both intellectually and emotionally, that we must return to the more humane traditions of allowing the family to care for their departed - at home. While the medical profession and the funeral industry has their merits, it should not be routine. I am more convinced than ever before that when I die, I shall remain at home, not be embalmed, and buried as God and nature intended. I do not wish to be preserved with toxic chemicals that will render me unrecognizable. I do not want to be sealed in an airtight crock pot of a casket. I want simply to be placed in a biodegradeable wood box and buried, allowing Nature to take its course.
Once again, I must apologize to Christina - for not thinking, for not taking control of the situation, and for not allowing her the dignity to be mourned in her own home. But, what did I know?
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
TEN WEEKS GONE
Tomorrow it will be ten weeks. Time has become marked by that day: It has either happened before Christina died, or after and the after-time is chronicled in weeks. In spite of all that, it still does not seem true. The fact, "christina died," seems like one big farce; a sad Lifetime movie, a nightmare, an impossibility. And yet, the rational part of my mind knows it is true. The logical, functioning part of my brain continues to inform me that yes, Christina is gone - forever. If ten weeks feels like forever, how will I cope with every single day and upcoming months, years, and decades without her? Forever is way too long.
Tonite, I found myself desperately wishing that I could just believe in religion - any religion - with the promise of a magnificent afterlife where we shall all meet again. What a comfort that would be! But I don't. I can't. I need proof. I want so badly to know without a doubt that I will encounter her again, that some part of her still exists. I want to be convinced that she is somehow aware...of me, of us, of life as we know it. And more than that, I want proof that she is somehow still...somewhere. What we buried was not her. Or was it? Was her body all that was left?? That is so painful - too painful - to comprehend fully. Yet, it could very well be reality. There's just no knowing.
Yes, I spoke with a psychic intuitive. At the time, it seemed possible. At the time, I felt like perhaps the things she said were authentic; now, I'm not so sure. It could've been all wishful thinking and emotionally fed. I needed to believe the things she told me that Christina was supposedly communicating. I still want to believe it; yet, I'm a skeptic. If Christina was able to communicate with Pam, why not directly to me?
Last night - or perhaps the night before - I dreamed about Christina. I dreamed she was still a child and her father and I had taken her to the doctor regarding her diabetes. The doctor confirmed it and we were told we had saved her life by bringing her in. Now, as I remember the dream, I don't know what to do with that. Ultimately, it triggers more guilt and regret. David and I failed as parents. We did not adequately provide for our kids. Christina needed medical intervention back then, but where were we?? Why weren't we seeing the depth of her trauma and pain?
I'm reading about PTSD and am realizing the multi-faceted nature of the trauma I've endured. Along with flashbacks that continue to occur daily, I am equally traumatized by all the what-ifs. Not just the guilt that comes with thinking about the things I could have / should have done differently that may have kept her alive, but all the other scenarios that could've made this traumatic event even more debilitating. What if the kids had found her? What if she had used a gun? What if the kids will be psychologically damaged beyond repair as they come to terms with her death? What if I die prematurely? What if there is another family calamity? What if I lose another child...or grandchild? My thoughts torture me. But that is the nature of trauma.
Tomorrow I see my doctor for medication refills. I will be asking him about a referral to their psych department or perhaps to Aunt Martha's (if they can do that). I feel like I need some help processing all of this. True, I've had some "good" days recently - days that felt almost normal. I realize I will never be who I was before Christina died; I will simply change and adapt and hopefully learn how to live with the pain. But will I ever be able to release the guilt and regrets?? Isn't the guilt legitimate??
Ten weeks. Ten weeks gone and I am ten weeks into trying to unearth who I am in light of losing her. Ten weeks of magical thinking, feeling not fully present, and wondering about the afterlife. Ten weeks of feeling numb and wanting to hear her voice (what if I forget her voice over the years???). Ten weeks of wishing this wasn't true. Ten weeks of alternating between tears restrained and sobbing uncontrollably. Ten weeks. A microscopic dent into forever.
Tonite, I found myself desperately wishing that I could just believe in religion - any religion - with the promise of a magnificent afterlife where we shall all meet again. What a comfort that would be! But I don't. I can't. I need proof. I want so badly to know without a doubt that I will encounter her again, that some part of her still exists. I want to be convinced that she is somehow aware...of me, of us, of life as we know it. And more than that, I want proof that she is somehow still...somewhere. What we buried was not her. Or was it? Was her body all that was left?? That is so painful - too painful - to comprehend fully. Yet, it could very well be reality. There's just no knowing.
Yes, I spoke with a psychic intuitive. At the time, it seemed possible. At the time, I felt like perhaps the things she said were authentic; now, I'm not so sure. It could've been all wishful thinking and emotionally fed. I needed to believe the things she told me that Christina was supposedly communicating. I still want to believe it; yet, I'm a skeptic. If Christina was able to communicate with Pam, why not directly to me?
Last night - or perhaps the night before - I dreamed about Christina. I dreamed she was still a child and her father and I had taken her to the doctor regarding her diabetes. The doctor confirmed it and we were told we had saved her life by bringing her in. Now, as I remember the dream, I don't know what to do with that. Ultimately, it triggers more guilt and regret. David and I failed as parents. We did not adequately provide for our kids. Christina needed medical intervention back then, but where were we?? Why weren't we seeing the depth of her trauma and pain?
I'm reading about PTSD and am realizing the multi-faceted nature of the trauma I've endured. Along with flashbacks that continue to occur daily, I am equally traumatized by all the what-ifs. Not just the guilt that comes with thinking about the things I could have / should have done differently that may have kept her alive, but all the other scenarios that could've made this traumatic event even more debilitating. What if the kids had found her? What if she had used a gun? What if the kids will be psychologically damaged beyond repair as they come to terms with her death? What if I die prematurely? What if there is another family calamity? What if I lose another child...or grandchild? My thoughts torture me. But that is the nature of trauma.
Tomorrow I see my doctor for medication refills. I will be asking him about a referral to their psych department or perhaps to Aunt Martha's (if they can do that). I feel like I need some help processing all of this. True, I've had some "good" days recently - days that felt almost normal. I realize I will never be who I was before Christina died; I will simply change and adapt and hopefully learn how to live with the pain. But will I ever be able to release the guilt and regrets?? Isn't the guilt legitimate??
Ten weeks. Ten weeks gone and I am ten weeks into trying to unearth who I am in light of losing her. Ten weeks of magical thinking, feeling not fully present, and wondering about the afterlife. Ten weeks of feeling numb and wanting to hear her voice (what if I forget her voice over the years???). Ten weeks of wishing this wasn't true. Ten weeks of alternating between tears restrained and sobbing uncontrollably. Ten weeks. A microscopic dent into forever.
Thursday, July 7, 2011
EMPATHIC GRIEF...AN EPIPHANY
I have had a bit of an insight...and epiphany...about my grieving process, and so I shall share. You all know that I write for the cathartic effect; the sharing is actually a byproduct of the technology.
I have come to the realization that I would likely be further along in my grieving had Christina not been a mother. Had she not left two children behind in my household, I think I would be more able to cope with her leaving. In essence, I am grieving the loss of my daughter, but I am also grieving empathically; I grieve on their behalf.
I noticed that since Christina took her life, I have needed my own mother much, much more and am grateful I have her to turn to. And today, I realized why:
When I was in 3rd grade...I was 7 years old...my mom's appendix ruptured. She went to the ER, but they sent her home, erroneously. Later that day, her pain became even more unbearable and she returned to the ER. This time, she was properly diagnosed and the appendectomy was performed. I was devastated by my mother's hospitalization; deeply traumatized by her absence. That first night when she was in the hospital, I was laying in my bed with my usual insomnia. I could hear the adults in the house talking about what had happened. And I remember my father telling my uncle, "...and the doctor said if we had waited another 15 minutes to get her to the hospital, I would've had to kiss my wife goodbye because she would've been DOA." While I did not know what DOA meant, I understood exactly what he was saying: My mom came within in minutes of dying.
The fear of losing my mom originated much earlier than her ruptured appendix however. Even prior to that, I remember being told about my grandmother's tragic childhood. HER mother had been killed when she was struck by a car walking home from work one night. My grandmother was only about 8 years old at the time she lost her mother and she carried her grief with her throughout her entire lifetime. I could see it on her face and hear it in her voice; even when my grandmother was happy, she was sad. And knowing her story very early in my childhood triggered a lot of fear and separation anxiety within me; I knew from an early age that fate alone could take a mom forever.
The remainder of my childhood was filled with the fear of losing my mom. Then, as I became an adult and had children of my own, I feared that something would happen to me that would leave my own kids motherless. Being a motherless child has been my greatest fear...for myself, then for my own children, and eventually for my ten grandchildren.
And then IT happened.
While there is no doubt that my grief has everything to do with losing Christina, I believe it is amplified by this deep-rooted childhood trauma-based fear. What I have feared most in life has occurred. Yes, I lost my daughter. But in addition to losing my daughter, Damien and Ada have lost their mother, just as my grandmother had lost hers and just as I had nearly lost mine.
Strange, how my life...and even my generational history...has primed me for this experience. A common thread. There are some in the family who suspect that my grandmother's mother's death was not an accident, but a likely suicide, but we'll never know for certain. All we can do is speculate. But whether she died due to a mental illness like Christina did, or died as the result of being struck by a car, she died leaving my grandmother forever a wounded child. She often told the story of her mother's death: how she was waked in their home without being embalmed, how my great-grandmother had been dressed in a beautiful pink satin dress, and how my grandmother had been brutally traumatized when blood began to leak from her mother's nose and got all over the pink dress as they were getting ready to transport the casket to the cemetery. And how my grandmother never recovered from losing her mother.
While Damien and Ada never saw Christina that morning the way WE saw her, nor did they see her attached to all the life support equipment, they will still forever be motherless chidlren. The Christina that they saw at the memorial service looked sort of like their mom, and sort of NOT like their mom. Even though she shed no blood as my great-grandmother did, it still could not have been anything less than traumatic - though necessary - for them to see her that way on the day we buried her. And so I mourn, on their behalf, fearful that they will forever carry that trauma, as my grandmother did and as their father does (for he is also traumatized by the unanticpated and tragic loss of his mother during his teen years).
So I grieve, exponentially and empathically - for my motherless grandchildren, and for motherless children everywhere.
I have come to the realization that I would likely be further along in my grieving had Christina not been a mother. Had she not left two children behind in my household, I think I would be more able to cope with her leaving. In essence, I am grieving the loss of my daughter, but I am also grieving empathically; I grieve on their behalf.
I noticed that since Christina took her life, I have needed my own mother much, much more and am grateful I have her to turn to. And today, I realized why:
When I was in 3rd grade...I was 7 years old...my mom's appendix ruptured. She went to the ER, but they sent her home, erroneously. Later that day, her pain became even more unbearable and she returned to the ER. This time, she was properly diagnosed and the appendectomy was performed. I was devastated by my mother's hospitalization; deeply traumatized by her absence. That first night when she was in the hospital, I was laying in my bed with my usual insomnia. I could hear the adults in the house talking about what had happened. And I remember my father telling my uncle, "...and the doctor said if we had waited another 15 minutes to get her to the hospital, I would've had to kiss my wife goodbye because she would've been DOA." While I did not know what DOA meant, I understood exactly what he was saying: My mom came within in minutes of dying.
The fear of losing my mom originated much earlier than her ruptured appendix however. Even prior to that, I remember being told about my grandmother's tragic childhood. HER mother had been killed when she was struck by a car walking home from work one night. My grandmother was only about 8 years old at the time she lost her mother and she carried her grief with her throughout her entire lifetime. I could see it on her face and hear it in her voice; even when my grandmother was happy, she was sad. And knowing her story very early in my childhood triggered a lot of fear and separation anxiety within me; I knew from an early age that fate alone could take a mom forever.
The remainder of my childhood was filled with the fear of losing my mom. Then, as I became an adult and had children of my own, I feared that something would happen to me that would leave my own kids motherless. Being a motherless child has been my greatest fear...for myself, then for my own children, and eventually for my ten grandchildren.
And then IT happened.
While there is no doubt that my grief has everything to do with losing Christina, I believe it is amplified by this deep-rooted childhood trauma-based fear. What I have feared most in life has occurred. Yes, I lost my daughter. But in addition to losing my daughter, Damien and Ada have lost their mother, just as my grandmother had lost hers and just as I had nearly lost mine.
Strange, how my life...and even my generational history...has primed me for this experience. A common thread. There are some in the family who suspect that my grandmother's mother's death was not an accident, but a likely suicide, but we'll never know for certain. All we can do is speculate. But whether she died due to a mental illness like Christina did, or died as the result of being struck by a car, she died leaving my grandmother forever a wounded child. She often told the story of her mother's death: how she was waked in their home without being embalmed, how my great-grandmother had been dressed in a beautiful pink satin dress, and how my grandmother had been brutally traumatized when blood began to leak from her mother's nose and got all over the pink dress as they were getting ready to transport the casket to the cemetery. And how my grandmother never recovered from losing her mother.
While Damien and Ada never saw Christina that morning the way WE saw her, nor did they see her attached to all the life support equipment, they will still forever be motherless chidlren. The Christina that they saw at the memorial service looked sort of like their mom, and sort of NOT like their mom. Even though she shed no blood as my great-grandmother did, it still could not have been anything less than traumatic - though necessary - for them to see her that way on the day we buried her. And so I mourn, on their behalf, fearful that they will forever carry that trauma, as my grandmother did and as their father does (for he is also traumatized by the unanticpated and tragic loss of his mother during his teen years).
So I grieve, exponentially and empathically - for my motherless grandchildren, and for motherless children everywhere.
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
TOSSED OVERBOARD...AND LEARNING TO SWIM
With all that has happened - losing Christina - I feel like I have been thrown into my worst nightmare of being tossed into a black, churning pool of water and cannot swim. Drowning. My worst fear. Just when I come up for air and feel like I just might make it, I find myself pulled under. I cannot see and cannot tell which way is up. That is what grief has been like for me. I am out of my element and worry that I will not be able to save myself.
But perhaps...maybe...I am learning to swim through the grief, pain, regret, guilt, and sorrow. I've been reading a lot and that always helps me. But I still find myself shocked that I must become knowledgeable about the grieving process and losing someone to suicide. Although I've always worried about losing a child of mine in a tragic way, and although I had often worried about Christina killing herself because of her chronic struggle with her emotions, even then...even when I worried, I never truly thought something like this would really happen. Or perhaps, I never allowed myself to believe it. Every mother's nightmare, to have to bury her own child.
Yet, here I am, learning, reading, processing, assimilating. Sometimes what frightens me the most is just how prevalent suicide really is. Knowing that I am not alone offers some comfort, but also adds to my pain: empathic pain. Pain on behalf of all the other moms and dads, siblings and children who have lost a loved one this way.
I've been through many, many rough spots in my life. I have dealt with having my heart broken, living in poverty, and losing my home. I have survived being sexually abused as an adolescent and finding out that two of my six children were sexually abused. I have mourned the loss of my hometown, my youth, and have survived two broken marriages. I have wrestled with child abuse, toxic faith, and depression. And yet, every time I was reduced to being nothing more than a wounded puddle on the floor, I somehow found the will and determination to pick myself up and try again.
Yet, in spite of all the previous traumas, nothing seems to compare to this. I will never, ever be able to remove that image from my memory of her lifeless body, still warm, but clearly void, hanging in her room. And I wonder: Can I do it yet again? Can I find the willpower and determination to overcome, to heal, to rise above, to accomplish restoration, and to move forward? Honestly, I believe I can, and I will. Somehow. I remind myself that I have five other children - and ten grandchildren - even though right now, the only one I can think of is Christina. I remind myself that I am at the threshold of starting to work on my master's degree and have vocational dreams to pursue. I remind myself that Life IS worth living, even while wishing Christina could've felt the same way. Somehow, in spite of being tossed overboard, I am learning to swim and am struggling defiantly to stay afloat. If I can survive this, surely there will be nothing left that I cannot do. Surely there will be no roadblock that I cannot plough through. Surely there will never be a wall to high for me to climb.
And so I continue to make my attempts to surface and take a life-saving breath. Yes, I still plunge into the depths of despair from time to time (as I did Sunday); but they are temporary submersions. As I continue to read and consult with other parents who have lost children via suicide, I get support and encouragement that although this is hard - very, very hard - it is not impossible.
Look: I see the shoreline. I will be there soon.
But perhaps...maybe...I am learning to swim through the grief, pain, regret, guilt, and sorrow. I've been reading a lot and that always helps me. But I still find myself shocked that I must become knowledgeable about the grieving process and losing someone to suicide. Although I've always worried about losing a child of mine in a tragic way, and although I had often worried about Christina killing herself because of her chronic struggle with her emotions, even then...even when I worried, I never truly thought something like this would really happen. Or perhaps, I never allowed myself to believe it. Every mother's nightmare, to have to bury her own child.
Yet, here I am, learning, reading, processing, assimilating. Sometimes what frightens me the most is just how prevalent suicide really is. Knowing that I am not alone offers some comfort, but also adds to my pain: empathic pain. Pain on behalf of all the other moms and dads, siblings and children who have lost a loved one this way.
I've been through many, many rough spots in my life. I have dealt with having my heart broken, living in poverty, and losing my home. I have survived being sexually abused as an adolescent and finding out that two of my six children were sexually abused. I have mourned the loss of my hometown, my youth, and have survived two broken marriages. I have wrestled with child abuse, toxic faith, and depression. And yet, every time I was reduced to being nothing more than a wounded puddle on the floor, I somehow found the will and determination to pick myself up and try again.
Yet, in spite of all the previous traumas, nothing seems to compare to this. I will never, ever be able to remove that image from my memory of her lifeless body, still warm, but clearly void, hanging in her room. And I wonder: Can I do it yet again? Can I find the willpower and determination to overcome, to heal, to rise above, to accomplish restoration, and to move forward? Honestly, I believe I can, and I will. Somehow. I remind myself that I have five other children - and ten grandchildren - even though right now, the only one I can think of is Christina. I remind myself that I am at the threshold of starting to work on my master's degree and have vocational dreams to pursue. I remind myself that Life IS worth living, even while wishing Christina could've felt the same way. Somehow, in spite of being tossed overboard, I am learning to swim and am struggling defiantly to stay afloat. If I can survive this, surely there will be nothing left that I cannot do. Surely there will be no roadblock that I cannot plough through. Surely there will never be a wall to high for me to climb.
And so I continue to make my attempts to surface and take a life-saving breath. Yes, I still plunge into the depths of despair from time to time (as I did Sunday); but they are temporary submersions. As I continue to read and consult with other parents who have lost children via suicide, I get support and encouragement that although this is hard - very, very hard - it is not impossible.
Look: I see the shoreline. I will be there soon.
Sunday, July 3, 2011
EMPTY
Tonight I'm feeling sad, frustrated, angry, and stuck. I feel empty and tired of Life's constant assault. I take responsibility for my part; I know I have never really gotten into the Driver's Seat of My Life, and that is why I am always at the mercy of others. I accept that. But even so, I feel so used up, so tired, so empty.
I love my tribe. I really do. But in spite of my love for everyone I am tapped. I crave only solitude. It is the only time I am at peace. And I feel like I am living on borrowed time. The end could come at any moment. I realize that. I realize how fragile my life is and how I am at the mercy of others. I'm trying though, as quickly as I can, to take the reigns. But even so, there are limitations; I can't go any quicker than life will allow.
Like I said, I'm sad. Of course I'm sad. No surprise there. And I'm frustrated...about so many things, but mostly about Life in general. I'm frustrated that I grew up in a world that no longer exists. I'm frustrated that I made self-destructive choices in my life and that for so many decades it has been just about simple survival. I am angry; I am angry that I do not have the freedom to be me and that no matter what I do, there is always someone who feels they have the right to critisize and editorialize about who I am. Is it any wonder then that I am so solitary?? And I feel stuck. The foundation that I have created does not readily allow me to be more than a passenger in the life of others. My fault. I know. Just, let me out here. No need to go any further. I'll walk, thank you very much.
Like I said, I realize I've forged my own life. I can't blame anyone but myself. But I'm tired now. Losing Christina seems like such a pivotal point for me. I am struggling with my sadness, trying to sort it all out: the grief, the guilt, the sadness, the pain, the consequences. I'm even looking for the silver lining in an effort to turn something really, really bad into something with the potential to be really, really good. I see it, but can I reach it? Can I make things work long enough to get me through??
And then there's all the regrets. Can't change a thing. But I can be vocal, stubborn, and bitchy, stating my point of view regardless. But when I do that...when I am authentically me...I put myself in a precarious position. I risk it all. So for now, once again, I must do what I must do to keep me afloat. Survival. Suck it up. Do what it takes. Just a little longer. I'm so close.
But in the meanwhile, as I struggle to reach those goals of self-sufficiency, I am empty. Worse than empty, now that Christina did what she did. I am functioning on a deficit. Or not functioning. Not really sure. People ask me how I'm doing...and I'm never quite sure. Of course, it's just a polite question...it's not like they really want to know! Still, it gets me thinking. I find myself asking myself, "How AM I doing?" I tell others I am doing well, all things considered; but in truth, I am broken, confused, heartsick, aching, and done. So very done. I feel like a wounded animal searching for a secluded place to nurse my wounds. But really, I am more like a trapped animal, subjected to the Alpha Males of the world. I must submit...for now. I must relinquish, for now. I must grin and bear it, for now. I must.
And so I grab hold of whatever I can, to stabilize, to maintain my balance, to keep myself from going under. And I gasp for air, hold my breath, and hope I can make it until I reach the surface once more. In fact, at this point, I just hope I CAN reach the surface in time.
I love my tribe. I really do. But in spite of my love for everyone I am tapped. I crave only solitude. It is the only time I am at peace. And I feel like I am living on borrowed time. The end could come at any moment. I realize that. I realize how fragile my life is and how I am at the mercy of others. I'm trying though, as quickly as I can, to take the reigns. But even so, there are limitations; I can't go any quicker than life will allow.
Like I said, I'm sad. Of course I'm sad. No surprise there. And I'm frustrated...about so many things, but mostly about Life in general. I'm frustrated that I grew up in a world that no longer exists. I'm frustrated that I made self-destructive choices in my life and that for so many decades it has been just about simple survival. I am angry; I am angry that I do not have the freedom to be me and that no matter what I do, there is always someone who feels they have the right to critisize and editorialize about who I am. Is it any wonder then that I am so solitary?? And I feel stuck. The foundation that I have created does not readily allow me to be more than a passenger in the life of others. My fault. I know. Just, let me out here. No need to go any further. I'll walk, thank you very much.
Like I said, I realize I've forged my own life. I can't blame anyone but myself. But I'm tired now. Losing Christina seems like such a pivotal point for me. I am struggling with my sadness, trying to sort it all out: the grief, the guilt, the sadness, the pain, the consequences. I'm even looking for the silver lining in an effort to turn something really, really bad into something with the potential to be really, really good. I see it, but can I reach it? Can I make things work long enough to get me through??
And then there's all the regrets. Can't change a thing. But I can be vocal, stubborn, and bitchy, stating my point of view regardless. But when I do that...when I am authentically me...I put myself in a precarious position. I risk it all. So for now, once again, I must do what I must do to keep me afloat. Survival. Suck it up. Do what it takes. Just a little longer. I'm so close.
But in the meanwhile, as I struggle to reach those goals of self-sufficiency, I am empty. Worse than empty, now that Christina did what she did. I am functioning on a deficit. Or not functioning. Not really sure. People ask me how I'm doing...and I'm never quite sure. Of course, it's just a polite question...it's not like they really want to know! Still, it gets me thinking. I find myself asking myself, "How AM I doing?" I tell others I am doing well, all things considered; but in truth, I am broken, confused, heartsick, aching, and done. So very done. I feel like a wounded animal searching for a secluded place to nurse my wounds. But really, I am more like a trapped animal, subjected to the Alpha Males of the world. I must submit...for now. I must relinquish, for now. I must grin and bear it, for now. I must.
And so I grab hold of whatever I can, to stabilize, to maintain my balance, to keep myself from going under. And I gasp for air, hold my breath, and hope I can make it until I reach the surface once more. In fact, at this point, I just hope I CAN reach the surface in time.
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
TRAUMA...AND DOING IT MY WAY
I'm feeling overwhelmed. Considering all that has happened, could I expect anything else? Even under normal circumstances, I need solitude, order, quiet, and predictability. But now after the trauma of losing Christina, I need it more than ever. And yet, I feel pressured to perform and am overwhelmed by the lack of stillness. Is there ever a time when the house is quiet and still??
My senses are raw and bleeding. And yet, I am being pressured to return to who I was. I am gone. I will not return. The person who used to be me has been forever altered and so dramatically wounded that she cannot return. I am traumatized, and yet, am not afforded the luxury to heal. I guess I am required to stand my ground, but it won't be liked. It won't be well-received.
Still, I am determined. My books arrive tomorrow and so I will now have something constructive to do. It will be like medicine for my aching soul. My intentions are to sit by the pool until sometime in August and just read, rest, recover and seek restoration. Too bad if people disagree. Too bad if people think I am ruminating - which I am - and too bad if people think I should just "get over it" already.
I am frightened by the absolute trauma of losing Christina. Her suicide was not just a death. When someone dies of natural causes, it is usually because of age; it is anticipated and normal. This was not like that. It was sudden. Abrupt. Violent. Gruesome. Heart-wrenching. Painful. Horrifying. It was shocking, unexpected, a nightmare. It broke my soul in a million pieces...and like shards of glass, they are piercing my every moment.
So I am desperately trying to gather those broken shards and piece them back together. It won't be the same; it will forever be tainted, imperfect, and compromised. What if I cannot find all the pieces? Will my soul forever be just broken junk?? Still, I am determined to gather what's left of it and repair it as best I can. Rebuild. Reconstruct. Refurbish. To the best of my ability - but in my own way and in my own time.
I am frightened by the trauma. Like a veteran suffering from shell-shock, I am sent into a state of panic: when I hear sirens (someone is facing a trauma), when I hear someone use the number 18 (because that was the day of the month that "it" happened), when I hear the kids cry (because crying is so sad). I can't even hang my clothes to dry because when I see them hanging it conjurs images of seeing Christina "that day." Evenings trigger sadness...because it marks another day without her. Then there are the things that are said in casual conversation that haunt me: "Are you hangin' in there?" Or, "it just KILLS me when..." Do people realize how brutal our conversations really are??
I am frightened by the trauma...that the images continue to barge into consciousness...the blueish tinge around her mouth. The swelling of her tongue. The coolness of her fingers and toes. How unnatural she felt once she was embalmed. I am haunted by the echoes of things said. "Don't get your hopes up." "Your daughter consented to organ donation..." "...basically brain dead." "..they detect a weak pulse..." All these bits and pieces continue to intrude into my thoughts and rip through my heart and soul.
And I am frustrated that no one around me seems to be aware of just how traumatized I really am. They don't see blood gushing or bones protruding, so they assume all is well; but I'm not. I'm traumatized. I've been side-swiped, knocked to the ground, shattered to pieces, and robbed of my stability.
So I will stand my ground and do this MY way. I have that right.
My senses are raw and bleeding. And yet, I am being pressured to return to who I was. I am gone. I will not return. The person who used to be me has been forever altered and so dramatically wounded that she cannot return. I am traumatized, and yet, am not afforded the luxury to heal. I guess I am required to stand my ground, but it won't be liked. It won't be well-received.
Still, I am determined. My books arrive tomorrow and so I will now have something constructive to do. It will be like medicine for my aching soul. My intentions are to sit by the pool until sometime in August and just read, rest, recover and seek restoration. Too bad if people disagree. Too bad if people think I am ruminating - which I am - and too bad if people think I should just "get over it" already.
I am frightened by the absolute trauma of losing Christina. Her suicide was not just a death. When someone dies of natural causes, it is usually because of age; it is anticipated and normal. This was not like that. It was sudden. Abrupt. Violent. Gruesome. Heart-wrenching. Painful. Horrifying. It was shocking, unexpected, a nightmare. It broke my soul in a million pieces...and like shards of glass, they are piercing my every moment.
So I am desperately trying to gather those broken shards and piece them back together. It won't be the same; it will forever be tainted, imperfect, and compromised. What if I cannot find all the pieces? Will my soul forever be just broken junk?? Still, I am determined to gather what's left of it and repair it as best I can. Rebuild. Reconstruct. Refurbish. To the best of my ability - but in my own way and in my own time.
I am frightened by the trauma. Like a veteran suffering from shell-shock, I am sent into a state of panic: when I hear sirens (someone is facing a trauma), when I hear someone use the number 18 (because that was the day of the month that "it" happened), when I hear the kids cry (because crying is so sad). I can't even hang my clothes to dry because when I see them hanging it conjurs images of seeing Christina "that day." Evenings trigger sadness...because it marks another day without her. Then there are the things that are said in casual conversation that haunt me: "Are you hangin' in there?" Or, "it just KILLS me when..." Do people realize how brutal our conversations really are??
I am frightened by the trauma...that the images continue to barge into consciousness...the blueish tinge around her mouth. The swelling of her tongue. The coolness of her fingers and toes. How unnatural she felt once she was embalmed. I am haunted by the echoes of things said. "Don't get your hopes up." "Your daughter consented to organ donation..." "...basically brain dead." "..they detect a weak pulse..." All these bits and pieces continue to intrude into my thoughts and rip through my heart and soul.
And I am frustrated that no one around me seems to be aware of just how traumatized I really am. They don't see blood gushing or bones protruding, so they assume all is well; but I'm not. I'm traumatized. I've been side-swiped, knocked to the ground, shattered to pieces, and robbed of my stability.
So I will stand my ground and do this MY way. I have that right.
Sunday, June 26, 2011
FOREVER CHANGED
It's been less than six weeks since Christina's been gone. I'm still at the beginning of the grieving process, and still assimilating her absence. So many thoughts race through my mind every conscious moment of each day about what this all means in the Big Scheme of Things.
I wish I believed in Heaven. What a comfort that would be to trust that there was a God that would bring me to Heaven upon dying where I would one day be reunited with my daughter. But I don't. I can't. I want to, but I can't. For all I know, we simply cease to exist upon death. But how much nicer it would feel to be comforted by a belief that I'd see her again. So I am desperately seeking answers about the afterlife; I've become obsessed with the paranormal. Can I communicate with her and her with me? Will it help if I create an altar in her honor and light a candle? If I sit by her gravesite, will she know I am there? Does she "see" all of us? Is she aware of how deeply and profoundly she is missed? Is that really her speaking through the Tarot cards? Was that unexpected chilly breeze I felt on my back while doing the dishes her? Or, when Michelle and I were sitting at the kitchen table talking about her and the light began to flicker and the bulb suddenly burnt out - was THAT her??
Then there are the thoughts about how this has changed me. I am not who I was when I woke up on May 18th. I was, that morning, thrust into a new identity: A mother who has lost a child, a suicide survivor, a grief-stricken individual. How can I ever be who I was prior to her leaving: she took part of me with her.
Some say I will become stronger as a result of this trauma. I believe that is likely. But I may also become somehow less than I once was, since part of me is forever gone. I certainly FEEL like less. A part of me is missing. I feel distant from Life right now, as if part of me is truly there, on the Other Side, with her. Part of me died with her. If she had only known...
Some say I will be able to help others as a result of this experience. I believe that is likely too: as a grief counselor, as a crisis counselor, as the founder and facilitator of a grief/suicide survivor support group, as an author of a book...all of those are potentials. But it's hard to be excited about those opportunities because they are not worth losing Christina. Still, if I can save just one life as a result, Christina will have indirectly been the reason.
I am forever changed because I am now so painfully aware of just how devastating a suicide can be. There was a time when I felt it was a human right to take one's own life. But now...now I am not so convinced. Sure, those who are terminally ill seem to deserve the right to a dignified death (Dr. Kevorkian-style). But that is not really the same as suicide...is it??
I am frightened by the statistics:
* There is one suicide every 15 minutes in the United States.
* It's the 11th leading cause of death.
* Slightly more than HALF of all U.S. suicides are done with firearms.
* Some say there are about 25 attempted suicides for every suicide death.
* There are an estimated 6 survivors for every completed suicide, which means that in the U.S., there are currently about 4.6 million people who have lost a loved one to a suicidal death.
- Taken from the American Association of Suicidology (http://www.suicidology.org/) -
So yes, I am forever changed, with part of me forever deleted, and with a new facet to my identity. I want to survive. I want to feel joy and happiness again some day. I want to reach out and help others, some day, in honor of my daughter. But for right now, I am just a grief-stricken mom, overcome by morbid intruding images of that last day with her, and forcing myself to smile and interact with my still-present grown children and grandchildren. I am forcing myself to get out of my bed and into the sunshine of the day. I am forcing myself to face each day, one moment at a time. In fact, I am forcing myself to behave as if I am alive, because regardless of feeling like losing her has killed me, it has not; I am very much alive - but still very much in pain. I am forever changed.
I wish I believed in Heaven. What a comfort that would be to trust that there was a God that would bring me to Heaven upon dying where I would one day be reunited with my daughter. But I don't. I can't. I want to, but I can't. For all I know, we simply cease to exist upon death. But how much nicer it would feel to be comforted by a belief that I'd see her again. So I am desperately seeking answers about the afterlife; I've become obsessed with the paranormal. Can I communicate with her and her with me? Will it help if I create an altar in her honor and light a candle? If I sit by her gravesite, will she know I am there? Does she "see" all of us? Is she aware of how deeply and profoundly she is missed? Is that really her speaking through the Tarot cards? Was that unexpected chilly breeze I felt on my back while doing the dishes her? Or, when Michelle and I were sitting at the kitchen table talking about her and the light began to flicker and the bulb suddenly burnt out - was THAT her??
Then there are the thoughts about how this has changed me. I am not who I was when I woke up on May 18th. I was, that morning, thrust into a new identity: A mother who has lost a child, a suicide survivor, a grief-stricken individual. How can I ever be who I was prior to her leaving: she took part of me with her.
Some say I will become stronger as a result of this trauma. I believe that is likely. But I may also become somehow less than I once was, since part of me is forever gone. I certainly FEEL like less. A part of me is missing. I feel distant from Life right now, as if part of me is truly there, on the Other Side, with her. Part of me died with her. If she had only known...
Some say I will be able to help others as a result of this experience. I believe that is likely too: as a grief counselor, as a crisis counselor, as the founder and facilitator of a grief/suicide survivor support group, as an author of a book...all of those are potentials. But it's hard to be excited about those opportunities because they are not worth losing Christina. Still, if I can save just one life as a result, Christina will have indirectly been the reason.
I am forever changed because I am now so painfully aware of just how devastating a suicide can be. There was a time when I felt it was a human right to take one's own life. But now...now I am not so convinced. Sure, those who are terminally ill seem to deserve the right to a dignified death (Dr. Kevorkian-style). But that is not really the same as suicide...is it??
I am frightened by the statistics:
* There is one suicide every 15 minutes in the United States.
* It's the 11th leading cause of death.
* Slightly more than HALF of all U.S. suicides are done with firearms.
* Some say there are about 25 attempted suicides for every suicide death.
* There are an estimated 6 survivors for every completed suicide, which means that in the U.S., there are currently about 4.6 million people who have lost a loved one to a suicidal death.
- Taken from the American Association of Suicidology (http://www.suicidology.org/) -
So yes, I am forever changed, with part of me forever deleted, and with a new facet to my identity. I want to survive. I want to feel joy and happiness again some day. I want to reach out and help others, some day, in honor of my daughter. But for right now, I am just a grief-stricken mom, overcome by morbid intruding images of that last day with her, and forcing myself to smile and interact with my still-present grown children and grandchildren. I am forcing myself to get out of my bed and into the sunshine of the day. I am forcing myself to face each day, one moment at a time. In fact, I am forcing myself to behave as if I am alive, because regardless of feeling like losing her has killed me, it has not; I am very much alive - but still very much in pain. I am forever changed.
Thursday, June 16, 2011
THE SPIRITUAL SIDE OF GRIEF
In the past, my spiritual beliefs helped to introduce me to myself at a time in my life when I felt I had no identity. I wasn't sure who I really was, but as I explored my spiritual thoughts and feelings, I became acquainted with the divine feminine and began to appreciate myself.
This new awareness of feminine theology introduced me to the connection between the agricultural Wheel of the Year and stories of Gods and Goddesses. It was through these stories and through the cylical nature of Life that I began to form a conceptual perception of what might be Holy. Although I always knew that while mythological stories can be inspiring, they are just stories and not histories. So my concept of the Divine presented itself in female form because I could more easily identify with another woman as Divine Maiden/Mother/Crone than I could relate to a Father-God. The agricultural cycle seemed parallel to the cycle of a lifetime and provided many relevant analogies, especially regarding birth-life-death-rebirth. In the Spring, new life is born. In the Summer, the new life matures. In the Fall, life begins to die. Then, in mid-winter, we celebrate the promise of new life and the return of the Sun on the Solstice (or Christmas).
Then, as time went by, I found that the older I became, the more like myself I became. I no longer depended so greatly on religious and spiritual mythologies and analogies to support me. But now, with the recent suicide of my youngest daughter, I am once again retreating to the stories of old to help me come to terms with my loss. I have been plunged into the Underworld, void of light and life. My grief must be experienced, just as Life becomes dormant during the Dark Half of the year. While it may be the height of the Light Half of the Year, for me, I am in a state of suspended animation...hibernating, nursing my wounds, experiencing the Darkness from which eventual new life will emerge.
There is a season for all things; this is my season to mourn, to cry, to withdraw and seek seclusion. I feel compelled to retreat into the caverns of the earth as if to somehow approach the Other Side, inviting communication and signs from those who have gone before me...from my daughter. I want to reach my hand into the depths of the Spirit world to touch her and to come to terms with her departure. The only way for me to do this is to escape into solitude where there are no demands or distractions. I must be left alone to nurse my wounds - and in doing so, I shall eventually recover and emerge back into the light of Life itself.
In essence, I feel the need for sabbatical retreat. Solitude. Silence. Pseudo-Death. I must symbolically die from the pain of my grief, with the promise of being born again brand new, full of life, light, and the magic that I once possessed. I must surrender to the pain allowing it to fully break me before I can hope to find renewal.
But no one seems to understand this need. It is nature's way, to die; but the promise of rebirth is always there, on the horizon. It is what I must do. I must endure this plunge into my own mental underworld of grief, pain, and death if I am to ever recover and rise with a renewed sense of life. And so, I embrace the Darkness of symbolic death and allow the pain to wash over me and to consume me...for now...for as long as it takes. And, once consumed and wiped clean of this agony, only then will I be able to bring forth new life from within. Only then will the sun shine down upon me and from within me. Only then...
This new awareness of feminine theology introduced me to the connection between the agricultural Wheel of the Year and stories of Gods and Goddesses. It was through these stories and through the cylical nature of Life that I began to form a conceptual perception of what might be Holy. Although I always knew that while mythological stories can be inspiring, they are just stories and not histories. So my concept of the Divine presented itself in female form because I could more easily identify with another woman as Divine Maiden/Mother/Crone than I could relate to a Father-God. The agricultural cycle seemed parallel to the cycle of a lifetime and provided many relevant analogies, especially regarding birth-life-death-rebirth. In the Spring, new life is born. In the Summer, the new life matures. In the Fall, life begins to die. Then, in mid-winter, we celebrate the promise of new life and the return of the Sun on the Solstice (or Christmas).
Then, as time went by, I found that the older I became, the more like myself I became. I no longer depended so greatly on religious and spiritual mythologies and analogies to support me. But now, with the recent suicide of my youngest daughter, I am once again retreating to the stories of old to help me come to terms with my loss. I have been plunged into the Underworld, void of light and life. My grief must be experienced, just as Life becomes dormant during the Dark Half of the year. While it may be the height of the Light Half of the Year, for me, I am in a state of suspended animation...hibernating, nursing my wounds, experiencing the Darkness from which eventual new life will emerge.
There is a season for all things; this is my season to mourn, to cry, to withdraw and seek seclusion. I feel compelled to retreat into the caverns of the earth as if to somehow approach the Other Side, inviting communication and signs from those who have gone before me...from my daughter. I want to reach my hand into the depths of the Spirit world to touch her and to come to terms with her departure. The only way for me to do this is to escape into solitude where there are no demands or distractions. I must be left alone to nurse my wounds - and in doing so, I shall eventually recover and emerge back into the light of Life itself.
In essence, I feel the need for sabbatical retreat. Solitude. Silence. Pseudo-Death. I must symbolically die from the pain of my grief, with the promise of being born again brand new, full of life, light, and the magic that I once possessed. I must surrender to the pain allowing it to fully break me before I can hope to find renewal.
But no one seems to understand this need. It is nature's way, to die; but the promise of rebirth is always there, on the horizon. It is what I must do. I must endure this plunge into my own mental underworld of grief, pain, and death if I am to ever recover and rise with a renewed sense of life. And so, I embrace the Darkness of symbolic death and allow the pain to wash over me and to consume me...for now...for as long as it takes. And, once consumed and wiped clean of this agony, only then will I be able to bring forth new life from within. Only then will the sun shine down upon me and from within me. Only then...
CALL ME SELF-CENTERED, I DON'T CARE
Call me self-centered; I don't care. I feel like I have earned the right to be as selfish as I want to be. For so many years, I gave, continuously. When the babies were coming every two years, I shared my bed night after night. I shared my body...carrying them for nine months, nursing them for months and years, holding them, carrying them...I was selfless. I relinquished myself for their benefit. I put their needs ahead of my own. I did so willingly, not as a martyr, but willingly because, I reasoned, that someday my kids would be grown and then I would be able to care for and indulge in myself.
Well, those days are here! My youngest is twenty-two. True, a few of them still live at home - with their girlfriends. But they aren't dependent babies; they are adults. And this is MY time to do as I please.
Yet, I am chastised for wanting and insisting that things be done a certain way. I have my own standards for how I expect the house to look, now that I don't have small children. I have that right. I've earned it. But I'm being called neurotic. That's ok. Call me whatever you want; it's MY house and so we will do it MY way. Still, I hear hurtful remarks.
More and more I want to be alone...very, very alone. Yes, I love my grown children. But I deserve to have at least some of my life back. I'm tired of being just the housekeeper. I'm tired of feeling compelled to do for others. I'm tired of feeling guilty for being who I am. I'm tired of feeling obligated. I just wanna be me. I want to sleep only when I'm tired and eat only when I'm hungry. I want to clean my house - and then have it remain clean, at least for a day or two! I want silence. I want things MY way, damn it. I'm tired of feeling overwhelmed. I'm too old for this tired argument.
So call me self-centered; I don't care. I've earned the right.
Well, those days are here! My youngest is twenty-two. True, a few of them still live at home - with their girlfriends. But they aren't dependent babies; they are adults. And this is MY time to do as I please.
Yet, I am chastised for wanting and insisting that things be done a certain way. I have my own standards for how I expect the house to look, now that I don't have small children. I have that right. I've earned it. But I'm being called neurotic. That's ok. Call me whatever you want; it's MY house and so we will do it MY way. Still, I hear hurtful remarks.
More and more I want to be alone...very, very alone. Yes, I love my grown children. But I deserve to have at least some of my life back. I'm tired of being just the housekeeper. I'm tired of feeling compelled to do for others. I'm tired of feeling guilty for being who I am. I'm tired of feeling obligated. I just wanna be me. I want to sleep only when I'm tired and eat only when I'm hungry. I want to clean my house - and then have it remain clean, at least for a day or two! I want silence. I want things MY way, damn it. I'm tired of feeling overwhelmed. I'm too old for this tired argument.
So call me self-centered; I don't care. I've earned the right.
Monday, June 13, 2011
LOOKING FOR A RHYME OR A REASON
I've heard it said that there is a reason for everything and I myself have often claimed that "everything is as it should be" as a sort of life-mantra to explain the rough spots in life; but this time, those cliches offer no comfort. How can this be a justifiable, "should-be," part of my life??
It will make me stronger, it's been said. Will it, really? And, aren't there better ways to gain emotional strength than losing a daughter to suicide?? What kind of sick logic is that?
Some have said that god will give you nothing that you can't handle. Really? And what about Christina? Wasn't she given more than she could handle??
While I believe that, in the end, I will survive, recover, heal from my grief and move on, I will also be forever changed. She has taken part of me with her. Is it a part of me that I can do without? What "part" of me has left with her? I'm not sure what that means, but know that some part of me feels...gone.
Then there is my irrational preoccupation with the paranormal as I desperately want to sense her presence. She can't be just...gone. I need some proof that she is still somewhere, still aware of us, still in existence, somewhere, somehow. I light candles, hoping to attract her spirit. I watch tv shows about ghosts and hauntings trying deperately to find some proof that what I want - a sign from her - is possible and not just wishful thinking.
I remember when my grandfather died and several weeks later, I "saw him" while at a restaurant. It was a very real, yet unreal experience. It's not that I rule out the paranormal. I've lived in two "haunted" houses and know that the unexplained happens. But while those two homes were apparently inhabited by something from the other side, it was more or less meaningless (and unnerving) because the ghosts were not mine but just some unknown remnant of the past. When I saw my grandfather at the restaurant, I got the impression he was saying, "I'm still around. Remember me like this. This is who I was." Will Christina do the same? Will she offer me some proof, some message, some tangible evidence that she is still "out there?"
I look at the collection of photos we have of her - lots of them - and she seems so strong, so self-confident, so beautiful; but then I get a flash of what she looked like when we found her, or how helpless and lifeless she appeared attached to all the life support equipment and I wonder: Why?? How could this be real? Why did this have to happen?? She had so much potential. So why didn't she see that?
I want to go to the cemetery; but then again, I know I am not ready. I can't. I simply cannot. I fear the emotions that still simmer just below the surface. Sure, I've cried. But I'm no where near being done with that. Not yet. Perhaps never will the tears be fully gone.
So why? Why?? How does tragedy fit in? Why do bad things have to happen? How do we rise above a tragic loss and accept it as something that "should be?" I feel confused, as if my acceptance of Life has been shattered. I feel somewhat bitter and jaded, as if I am building a wall or donning a coat of armor to protect myself from the harshness of Life. Help me Christina! What am I supposed to do from this point on? I want to honor you, to "be there" for your kids; yet I feel so empty now and so mortally wounded. How is what you did supposed to be something that will strengthen me when, right now, I feel weaker and more vulnerable than I've ever felt before. So, what? Where is the rhyme or reason? Where is the bigger picture that will explain it all? Why? How? And, where are you now??
It will make me stronger, it's been said. Will it, really? And, aren't there better ways to gain emotional strength than losing a daughter to suicide?? What kind of sick logic is that?
Some have said that god will give you nothing that you can't handle. Really? And what about Christina? Wasn't she given more than she could handle??
While I believe that, in the end, I will survive, recover, heal from my grief and move on, I will also be forever changed. She has taken part of me with her. Is it a part of me that I can do without? What "part" of me has left with her? I'm not sure what that means, but know that some part of me feels...gone.
Then there is my irrational preoccupation with the paranormal as I desperately want to sense her presence. She can't be just...gone. I need some proof that she is still somewhere, still aware of us, still in existence, somewhere, somehow. I light candles, hoping to attract her spirit. I watch tv shows about ghosts and hauntings trying deperately to find some proof that what I want - a sign from her - is possible and not just wishful thinking.
I remember when my grandfather died and several weeks later, I "saw him" while at a restaurant. It was a very real, yet unreal experience. It's not that I rule out the paranormal. I've lived in two "haunted" houses and know that the unexplained happens. But while those two homes were apparently inhabited by something from the other side, it was more or less meaningless (and unnerving) because the ghosts were not mine but just some unknown remnant of the past. When I saw my grandfather at the restaurant, I got the impression he was saying, "I'm still around. Remember me like this. This is who I was." Will Christina do the same? Will she offer me some proof, some message, some tangible evidence that she is still "out there?"
I look at the collection of photos we have of her - lots of them - and she seems so strong, so self-confident, so beautiful; but then I get a flash of what she looked like when we found her, or how helpless and lifeless she appeared attached to all the life support equipment and I wonder: Why?? How could this be real? Why did this have to happen?? She had so much potential. So why didn't she see that?
I want to go to the cemetery; but then again, I know I am not ready. I can't. I simply cannot. I fear the emotions that still simmer just below the surface. Sure, I've cried. But I'm no where near being done with that. Not yet. Perhaps never will the tears be fully gone.
So why? Why?? How does tragedy fit in? Why do bad things have to happen? How do we rise above a tragic loss and accept it as something that "should be?" I feel confused, as if my acceptance of Life has been shattered. I feel somewhat bitter and jaded, as if I am building a wall or donning a coat of armor to protect myself from the harshness of Life. Help me Christina! What am I supposed to do from this point on? I want to honor you, to "be there" for your kids; yet I feel so empty now and so mortally wounded. How is what you did supposed to be something that will strengthen me when, right now, I feel weaker and more vulnerable than I've ever felt before. So, what? Where is the rhyme or reason? Where is the bigger picture that will explain it all? Why? How? And, where are you now??
Thursday, June 9, 2011
GRIEVING
Perhaps it is too soon to say. It's been only three weeks since she's been gone. Only three weeks - three weeks that have both rushed by and have felt like months. But, regardless, my experience thus far with grieving the tragic loss of my youngest daughter is not what I expected.
I've always said that I don't fear death - just untimely death, and that was always in reference to my own moment of passing from this life. I had never really considered the loss of one of my offspring. Well, every mother fears losing one of their own, but it was a thought I never contemplated. Instead, as a mom, those thoughts would run through my head causing a shudder and perhaps a tear, but then the internal shout of "NO!" - banishing the thought from consciousness. Too painful to contemplate. No, the statistics were on my side: Mothers just don't bury their children.
I've had to face loss only minimally - until now. When my paternal grandmother died as a result of her diabetes, I was a young teen and had never been close to her. I went to the wake, saw her, and her death became part of my family history. No tears. No sadness. Just a fact.
When my maternal great-grandfather died, it was again a non-traumatic event. He was old. It was his time. Then, years later when my maternal grandfather died, I felt grief. But not like this. I was sad because I loved him like a father and I cried because I knew I'd never see him again. I thought about all the good memories I had of him, but again, he was old enough for it to be "his time" and a simple fact of life. I cried and knew I would miss him, but accepted his passing as a natural part of life.
Then, about ten years later, my maternal grandmother died. A week or two before, my mother had called and told me, "You may want to go see your grandmother. She doesn't seem to have long to live." I went to see her and clearly she was dying. She was transferred to a facility where she could get more care than the assisted living site she'd been living in for years. I went to see her again. Took a picture of her. But, it was clear she was on the threshold of death. I barely recognized her. She looked so small. One week later, she died. Again, I felt grief, but not like this. While she was like a mother to me my whole life, it was her time. She was ninety-two. I went to the wake and funeral and shed tears. But, I accepted her death, like that of my grandfather's, as being a normal, expected part of the life cycle.
Those have been my primary experiences with death. Peripheral acquaintences have passes, unexpectedly, and those were sad; but they did not involve grief - just shock, sadness, and then quickly processed. My life went on, in spite of their tragic departure.
Then, three weeks ago, my youngest daughter took her own life. At first, my grief was experienced as shock and numbness. It seemed so hard to believe - even though it was me and two other family members that took her down from where she hung herself. In spite of that visual memory that cannot be purged, it initially seemed unreal, surreal, and more like a bad dream than reality.
In the days that followed, I was side-tracked and distracted by phone calls, visitors, and planning her funeral. How do we explain her absence to her two small children? How do we pay for services? Where shall we bury her? What should she wear? She was an organ-donor?? Why didn't she leave a note? Can we put her piercing back in for the burial? Then, there were all the usual mundane tasks that still persisted each day: dishes needed to be done, clothes needed to be washed, kids needed to be fed, bathed, and comforted.
The day of the funeral, I felt as if I was attending some generic family gathering. Again, it seemed unreal, as if I was physically present, but not mentally. Emotionally, I was still numb and it seemed like things were moving too fast. I wasn't ready to bury her. I still needed to see her...to touch her...to process the fact of her passing. But that was not an option...at least, not one that I could afford.
Internally, I knew that it would be only after the funeral that the reality of my loss would sink in. Once there were no more calls to make, no more final plans to tend to, and once guests and visitors returned to the normalcy of their daily lives, only then would it likely hit me.
And that is the part that has surprised me the most so far: the paradoxical nature of my grieving. I can be functioning in one moment, as I tend to the tasks of daily life when suddenly, without warning, I feel overwhelmed with apathy, and find myself just sitting, mindlessly, lost in altered state of...emptiness, shock, pain, sadness, and yet wanting to scream, yell, and cry out loud to the world, "HOW DARE YOU ALL GO ON WITH YOUR LIVES?!! MY DAUGHTER IS GONE!! FOREVER!!!"
How can something that has caused such a profound and permanent change in my life not affect the rest of the world??
And then there are the disjointed thoughts that run through my head as I sit in this immobilized, frozen state of forced acceptance of a reality I want nothing to do with: How will her children ever know who she really was? What am I supposed to do now with all of her personal possessions? Do I say now that I am the mother of five children, or will I always be a mother of six - or, six minus one? Will she - can she - communicate with us from the other side? Did she plan to do this, or was it just one final impulsive act that was done without much forethought? Did she think we would find her in time to save her? What if it had been her kids that found her?? How often should I go to her gravesite? How long will I continue to walk through life feeling as if she took me with her??
And then, there are the changes in my daily life: I sleep for a few hours, then wake, drinking cup after cup of coffee hoping to feel alert. Then, back to bed. Sleep through most of the afternoon. Get up again. More coffee. Not hungry. Not motivated to accomplish much of anything. Evening comes, and along with it, deep sadness - as if the sun going down alerts me to the fact that another day has gone by, without her. The facts have not changed. And night falls. I am alone in the silence and find contentment and peace with the solitude, until the birds begin to chirp - and another day dawns.
The death certificate is ready for pick-up. Cause of death: asphyxiation. I knew that. But seeing it written on the formal, authentic, notarized, government-issued form jolts me into reality: Christina is dead. Cry some more.
Thank you notes need to be written and sent. Another welcome distraction. "Thank you for your kindness and generosity." "Having you present at my daughter's memorial was deeply appreciated." "The flowers you sent were beautiful. Thank you for your condolences."
Back to having nothing to do but ruminate. My religious beliefs are being questioned - by others and my my self. What do I believe? I remember telling one of the funeral directors at the cemetery that our family is "inspired more by nature than by scripture," and that best summarizes the foundation of my spiritual beliefs. At a spiritual level, I accept the life-death-rebirth cycle of life; but does that help me now? Only somewhat. I am agnostic; while I am open to the possibility of a god, a creator, a Master of the Universe, I also realize that all of our current religions are based upon mythological tales. Mythology can be inspiring, but they are made-up stories. While I am inspired by stories about Demeter, Persephone, Jesus, the Buddha, and many, many more, I realize that none are real gods - and that's okay; they remain inspiring. But, because I don't believe in a literal Heaven or Hell, I wonder: Where are you Christina?? Have you been reborn, reincarnated into another life? Have you been returned to the Earth only to return to basic, organic compounds? Is your soul, your spirit, lingering, watching from above, or just a figment of my wishful imagination?? And, I am frustrated by the lack of proof regarding the afterlife. While I am open to all the possibilities, I am also skeptical without scientific evidence and realize that my desires for signs and wonders from "the other side" is rooted deeply in wishful thinking.
A call comes in: Christina's teacher from the GED classes she recently finished. Christina's graduation has been scheduled for next month. "Ms. Stone, I chose your daughter of the 150 students I had this term to be the one I would honor by reading some of her essays - which were wonderfully written." I tell her what has happened. More condolences and shock. We are welcome to attend and would someone in the family like to accept her diploma on her behalf?" The call adds to my disbelief. How could she have done this when her life was finally beginning to show promise??
Then there is the room. That Room. The place where she did what she did. We removed the beam. It wasn't structurally necessary, except for Christina's last act. But now, it will always be "the room where it happened." I avoid it. Yet, every few days I approach the doorway, look inside, and see the events of that morning flash through my memory: her screams of anger? frustration? despair? I thought she had seen a spider that freaked her out. Hadn't she screamed like that just a week prior when she woke up because a spider was crawling on her? Flashes of her throwing herself down on the couch in that room, crying. Me begging her to tell me what was wrong. The next time I would see her - only an hour later - she'd be hanging there from that damn beam. Taking her down, lying her on the couch. The paramedics, laying her on the floor, injecting her, trying desperately to bring her back. And then, I must walk away. No. That room. It will never be anything other than...That Room.
So this is grief?? This madness? This altered terrain of flashbacks, longing to hear her voice, and unanswered questions? This is what it feels like to suffer the loss of a child? And, worst of all, I won't wake up from this, will I? No. It will only become more real. And me? I will be forever changed. Forever.
I've always said that I don't fear death - just untimely death, and that was always in reference to my own moment of passing from this life. I had never really considered the loss of one of my offspring. Well, every mother fears losing one of their own, but it was a thought I never contemplated. Instead, as a mom, those thoughts would run through my head causing a shudder and perhaps a tear, but then the internal shout of "NO!" - banishing the thought from consciousness. Too painful to contemplate. No, the statistics were on my side: Mothers just don't bury their children.
I've had to face loss only minimally - until now. When my paternal grandmother died as a result of her diabetes, I was a young teen and had never been close to her. I went to the wake, saw her, and her death became part of my family history. No tears. No sadness. Just a fact.
When my maternal great-grandfather died, it was again a non-traumatic event. He was old. It was his time. Then, years later when my maternal grandfather died, I felt grief. But not like this. I was sad because I loved him like a father and I cried because I knew I'd never see him again. I thought about all the good memories I had of him, but again, he was old enough for it to be "his time" and a simple fact of life. I cried and knew I would miss him, but accepted his passing as a natural part of life.
Then, about ten years later, my maternal grandmother died. A week or two before, my mother had called and told me, "You may want to go see your grandmother. She doesn't seem to have long to live." I went to see her and clearly she was dying. She was transferred to a facility where she could get more care than the assisted living site she'd been living in for years. I went to see her again. Took a picture of her. But, it was clear she was on the threshold of death. I barely recognized her. She looked so small. One week later, she died. Again, I felt grief, but not like this. While she was like a mother to me my whole life, it was her time. She was ninety-two. I went to the wake and funeral and shed tears. But, I accepted her death, like that of my grandfather's, as being a normal, expected part of the life cycle.
Those have been my primary experiences with death. Peripheral acquaintences have passes, unexpectedly, and those were sad; but they did not involve grief - just shock, sadness, and then quickly processed. My life went on, in spite of their tragic departure.
Then, three weeks ago, my youngest daughter took her own life. At first, my grief was experienced as shock and numbness. It seemed so hard to believe - even though it was me and two other family members that took her down from where she hung herself. In spite of that visual memory that cannot be purged, it initially seemed unreal, surreal, and more like a bad dream than reality.
In the days that followed, I was side-tracked and distracted by phone calls, visitors, and planning her funeral. How do we explain her absence to her two small children? How do we pay for services? Where shall we bury her? What should she wear? She was an organ-donor?? Why didn't she leave a note? Can we put her piercing back in for the burial? Then, there were all the usual mundane tasks that still persisted each day: dishes needed to be done, clothes needed to be washed, kids needed to be fed, bathed, and comforted.
The day of the funeral, I felt as if I was attending some generic family gathering. Again, it seemed unreal, as if I was physically present, but not mentally. Emotionally, I was still numb and it seemed like things were moving too fast. I wasn't ready to bury her. I still needed to see her...to touch her...to process the fact of her passing. But that was not an option...at least, not one that I could afford.
Internally, I knew that it would be only after the funeral that the reality of my loss would sink in. Once there were no more calls to make, no more final plans to tend to, and once guests and visitors returned to the normalcy of their daily lives, only then would it likely hit me.
And that is the part that has surprised me the most so far: the paradoxical nature of my grieving. I can be functioning in one moment, as I tend to the tasks of daily life when suddenly, without warning, I feel overwhelmed with apathy, and find myself just sitting, mindlessly, lost in altered state of...emptiness, shock, pain, sadness, and yet wanting to scream, yell, and cry out loud to the world, "HOW DARE YOU ALL GO ON WITH YOUR LIVES?!! MY DAUGHTER IS GONE!! FOREVER!!!"
How can something that has caused such a profound and permanent change in my life not affect the rest of the world??
And then there are the disjointed thoughts that run through my head as I sit in this immobilized, frozen state of forced acceptance of a reality I want nothing to do with: How will her children ever know who she really was? What am I supposed to do now with all of her personal possessions? Do I say now that I am the mother of five children, or will I always be a mother of six - or, six minus one? Will she - can she - communicate with us from the other side? Did she plan to do this, or was it just one final impulsive act that was done without much forethought? Did she think we would find her in time to save her? What if it had been her kids that found her?? How often should I go to her gravesite? How long will I continue to walk through life feeling as if she took me with her??
And then, there are the changes in my daily life: I sleep for a few hours, then wake, drinking cup after cup of coffee hoping to feel alert. Then, back to bed. Sleep through most of the afternoon. Get up again. More coffee. Not hungry. Not motivated to accomplish much of anything. Evening comes, and along with it, deep sadness - as if the sun going down alerts me to the fact that another day has gone by, without her. The facts have not changed. And night falls. I am alone in the silence and find contentment and peace with the solitude, until the birds begin to chirp - and another day dawns.
The death certificate is ready for pick-up. Cause of death: asphyxiation. I knew that. But seeing it written on the formal, authentic, notarized, government-issued form jolts me into reality: Christina is dead. Cry some more.
Thank you notes need to be written and sent. Another welcome distraction. "Thank you for your kindness and generosity." "Having you present at my daughter's memorial was deeply appreciated." "The flowers you sent were beautiful. Thank you for your condolences."
Back to having nothing to do but ruminate. My religious beliefs are being questioned - by others and my my self. What do I believe? I remember telling one of the funeral directors at the cemetery that our family is "inspired more by nature than by scripture," and that best summarizes the foundation of my spiritual beliefs. At a spiritual level, I accept the life-death-rebirth cycle of life; but does that help me now? Only somewhat. I am agnostic; while I am open to the possibility of a god, a creator, a Master of the Universe, I also realize that all of our current religions are based upon mythological tales. Mythology can be inspiring, but they are made-up stories. While I am inspired by stories about Demeter, Persephone, Jesus, the Buddha, and many, many more, I realize that none are real gods - and that's okay; they remain inspiring. But, because I don't believe in a literal Heaven or Hell, I wonder: Where are you Christina?? Have you been reborn, reincarnated into another life? Have you been returned to the Earth only to return to basic, organic compounds? Is your soul, your spirit, lingering, watching from above, or just a figment of my wishful imagination?? And, I am frustrated by the lack of proof regarding the afterlife. While I am open to all the possibilities, I am also skeptical without scientific evidence and realize that my desires for signs and wonders from "the other side" is rooted deeply in wishful thinking.
A call comes in: Christina's teacher from the GED classes she recently finished. Christina's graduation has been scheduled for next month. "Ms. Stone, I chose your daughter of the 150 students I had this term to be the one I would honor by reading some of her essays - which were wonderfully written." I tell her what has happened. More condolences and shock. We are welcome to attend and would someone in the family like to accept her diploma on her behalf?" The call adds to my disbelief. How could she have done this when her life was finally beginning to show promise??
Then there is the room. That Room. The place where she did what she did. We removed the beam. It wasn't structurally necessary, except for Christina's last act. But now, it will always be "the room where it happened." I avoid it. Yet, every few days I approach the doorway, look inside, and see the events of that morning flash through my memory: her screams of anger? frustration? despair? I thought she had seen a spider that freaked her out. Hadn't she screamed like that just a week prior when she woke up because a spider was crawling on her? Flashes of her throwing herself down on the couch in that room, crying. Me begging her to tell me what was wrong. The next time I would see her - only an hour later - she'd be hanging there from that damn beam. Taking her down, lying her on the couch. The paramedics, laying her on the floor, injecting her, trying desperately to bring her back. And then, I must walk away. No. That room. It will never be anything other than...That Room.
So this is grief?? This madness? This altered terrain of flashbacks, longing to hear her voice, and unanswered questions? This is what it feels like to suffer the loss of a child? And, worst of all, I won't wake up from this, will I? No. It will only become more real. And me? I will be forever changed. Forever.
Saturday, June 4, 2011
ALL-CONSUMING GRIEF
Less than three weeks into losing my daughter. I never realized grief could be so tight, so gripping, so all-consuming. I didn't realize it would creep into my dreams so that even sleep is not always an escape from the pain.
I didn't expect grief to be so paradoxical, so twisted, so ironic. I never expected to be swept away by tides of sadness, engulfed by sorrow and loss, and never thought that any emotional pain could drown me so completely while moments later, I find myself in a state of numbness, disbelief, and denial. I couldn't have imagined being able to laugh light-heartedly at the silly things life throws at us, while at the same time, feeling the deeply entrenched pain that accompanies the loss of one of my own.
I brought her into this world...and she took herself out, so brutally, so suddenly, so unexpectedly, and without adequate explanation. No final note. No final goodbyes. Just...gone.
All of this, in less than three weeks. It doesn't get easier...not yet anyway. It is still mounting, gaining in strength and intensity, growing exponentially. When will it crest?
The mundane...the dishes that need to be washed, the bank deposits that need to be made, the groceries that need to be purchased...all seem so wrong. "Life goes on," people say; but does it? Really? It feels more like limbo...like I am living in an altered state of being neither here nor there. Yes, Life goes on - but right now, I resent it. Every new day is simply another one without her.
Why? Why Christina?? You were so loved! You had such potential! And this is so final, your parting. Forever. And still, in this fog of grief, I still cannot comprehend nor believe it entirely - and yet, knowing. It's true. This really happened. You took your life. And there is no turning back. If only, as your five year old son so eloquently lamented, if only we could rewind.
Rest in peace, my baby girl. I love you.
I didn't expect grief to be so paradoxical, so twisted, so ironic. I never expected to be swept away by tides of sadness, engulfed by sorrow and loss, and never thought that any emotional pain could drown me so completely while moments later, I find myself in a state of numbness, disbelief, and denial. I couldn't have imagined being able to laugh light-heartedly at the silly things life throws at us, while at the same time, feeling the deeply entrenched pain that accompanies the loss of one of my own.
I brought her into this world...and she took herself out, so brutally, so suddenly, so unexpectedly, and without adequate explanation. No final note. No final goodbyes. Just...gone.
All of this, in less than three weeks. It doesn't get easier...not yet anyway. It is still mounting, gaining in strength and intensity, growing exponentially. When will it crest?
The mundane...the dishes that need to be washed, the bank deposits that need to be made, the groceries that need to be purchased...all seem so wrong. "Life goes on," people say; but does it? Really? It feels more like limbo...like I am living in an altered state of being neither here nor there. Yes, Life goes on - but right now, I resent it. Every new day is simply another one without her.
Why? Why Christina?? You were so loved! You had such potential! And this is so final, your parting. Forever. And still, in this fog of grief, I still cannot comprehend nor believe it entirely - and yet, knowing. It's true. This really happened. You took your life. And there is no turning back. If only, as your five year old son so eloquently lamented, if only we could rewind.
Rest in peace, my baby girl. I love you.
Friday, June 3, 2011
TWO WEEKS INTO GRIEVING
To Those Who Love Me…
Know that I love you too. In fact, now more than ever, I am grateful for your love. Know that I am here for you – but I’m not sure where “here” is. Since Christina’s been gone, and especially since the funeral, I feel…displaced, confused, cloudy, and disoriented. Sometimes, I find myself feeling particularly good and even optimistic; then, suddenly, without warning, I feel spent, exhausted, sad, and over-stimulated.
This is all new to me – just as it is for each of you. We are all still in a state of shock and even some disbelief. I’ve been told that is normal. So when I retreat, or when I stay up all night, or when I seem to not hear you, or perhaps appear to ignore you or look through you…please be kind, please be forgiving, please understand and have patience. I don’t know where I am on this road I’ve never traveled.
Hugs help.
I’ve lost my sense of motivation. That scares me, but again, I’ve been told it is a normal response. Do you all feel that way too??
I want to be the one you can turn to, the one you can always count on, the Tower of Strength. But when I find myself needing the same, I don’t like it. I don’t like the weakness and vulnerability I feel since this has happened.
Solitude helps.
And knowing that you all know that I love you deeply: that helps too, because right now I feel emotionally drained – and at the same time, emotionally overwhelmed.
One thing I am sure of: I love you and need you more than ever. I want you by my side. I’m grateful you are a part of my life. Please know that.
Saturday, May 21, 2011
LOSING CHRISTINA
LOSING CHRISTINA
by Ruth Martinez on Sunday, May 22, 2011 at 12:13am
WARNING: FAMILY MEMBERS SHOULD PROBABLY NOT READ THIS BECAUSE IT CONTAINS SOME GRAPHIC DESCRIPTIONS OF "THAT MORNING."
Writing is the only way I know of that helps me process and release my emotions when they overwhelm me, and so I must write about losing Christina.
In some ways, I lost Christina long ago. She died just the other day at the young age of twenty-three, but her struggle with Life and her recurring bouts of sadness and despair began when she was an adolescent, entering her teen years. At first, it seemed like normal teenage angst. It will pass, I assured myself. Besides, our household and family life at the time was stressed and perhaps even dysfunctional. So I let it slide, often frustrated by her impulsivity and extreme emotions.
She said she felt unloved and felt that I treated her siblings better than I treated her. I remember one therapy session she had in particular. Her therapist called me into their session and asked me if I felt I treated all my children the same. I answered, "No. I do not treat them all the same. In fact, I cannot treat them all the same because they are all different and unique individuals of different ages; therefore, while I do not treat them the same, I believe I treat them equally and appropriately, based on who they are, taking their ages, levels of maturity, individual needs, and personalities into consideration." "Wow," she said, "Good answer."
It is no secret that Christina put those who loved her most through hell at times. She could be verbally vicious and emotionally volatile. Instead of accepting hugs, advice, and words of encouragement when she was distraught, she would lash out, push us away, or say such hateful, hurtful things that we would retreat and give up.
When Christina WAS in a good mood, I would often jump on the opportunity to encourage her to find a passion to attach herself to - a goal, a focus, a purpose. But there was always a sense of walking on eggshells because she could quickly and without warning interpret my advice or encouragement as "telling her what to do." She was extremely pessimistic, so the smallest bump in the road would be proof that the world was against her.
I hoped that when she became a mother she would be infused with the joy of being loved unconditionally by her son...and then by her daughter. While it is true that she loved her children deeply, they often saw her at her worst. She admitted to me on several occassions that she KNEW her moods were extreme, but that as much as she wanted to, and as much as she tried, she could not control her thought, emotions, or extreme behavior - they controlled her. And she hated that part of herself. I encouraged her to lean upon the extended family in the household when she felt like that, but instead, she resented our "interference" with her parenting.
The morning she took her life was like no other morning and yet like any other morning. I could see she was in one of her "moods." But I also knew she had gotten into a huge argument with her sister the day before. She loved her sister. They had become very close over the past few years. So I was not surprised that she was both sad and angry. I was not surprised when she said, "I don't even want to be alive anymore," that morning...the last words she said to me. I had heard those sentiments from Christina countless times before.
Retreating to my room with her 3 year old daughter in my arms after trying unsuccessfully to comfort her, I decided that I would call the Emergency Mental Health hotline to find out how to get an adult child admitted. Intuitively, I felt that perhaps this time, it was different. I worried that perhaps this time, she really would attempt to take her life. But then another voice in my head told me not to be so dramatic. She's done this before, I reminded myself. And the voice continued, "Just because you want to be a licensed counselor doesn't make you an expert Ruth. This is Christina we're talking about. She'll be fine."
Still, I decided that I would make that call as soon as Brian returned for work. I didn't want to make the call with Christina's daughter in the room with me. I didn't want Christina to hear me making the call. Brian would likely be home soon, I told myself, and then I'll call.
Brian DID return home that morning. Ada, Christina's daughter, greeted him. He held her. They chatted casually for a few minutes. I left my room to pour another cup of coffee. I guess I'll be making that call, I thought to myself. I returned to my room.
And that's when I heard Brian's yell: NOOOOO! Ada, RUN! Go!! Get out of here!!! COME HERE! COME HERE! HELP ME!!
I came running down the hall to the other end of the house to their room. Part of me already knew. And then I saw her, lifelessly hanging from the beam in their room, and Brian trying to lift her up to put slack in the rope.
Christina's brother, hearing the commotion came running. "Call 911" I yelled as I struggled to lift my daughter so Brian could release her from the noose. And it seemed it was a perfect noose. "How did she know how to do this?" I wondered. She was still warm, but lifeless. We couldn't release the tight grip of the rope. "Help us!" I yelled to Stone. The three of us struggled until finally the rope released her and she fell into my arms. I laid her on the couch behind us. She was so limp. Her lips and eyelids were cyanotic with visible petechiae in the whites of her eyes. The ligature mark around the front of her neck was incredibly deep and already purple. Her tongue was bluish, swollen, and protruding.
I went to administer CPR, but Brian said he couldn't feel a pulse. I searched desperately for a pulse, did not detect any breath or heartbeat, and then it hit me: It's too late. She's dead...
I held her, hugged her, and cried. "Baby girl! Why??? Why did you DO this??"
Paramedics arrive and tell us to leave the room. "No," I tell them. That is my daughter. I will stay out of your way, but I will not leave.
Police arrived. I was informed our home was now a potential crime scene. I was ordered to leave the room. Again, I resisted. "They found a very weak pulse," the officer said. "Let the paramedics work on her."
A weak pulse?? I should have done CPR!! I should have given mouth-to-mouth resusitation!! Why did I give up so easily?!
They took her to the ER. It doesn't look good, the ER physician told me. We think she's brain-dead, they said. She was on life support.
The CT scan looked promising: No spinal fractures. Carotid arteries, in good shape. Still, unconscious, not breathing on her own. Don't get your hopes up.
She was moved to ICU. Still on life support. Family members began flocking to her bedside. When a family member would talk to her, Christina would shed a tear or two. Just a biological response. One of the staff members said she could hear us and we should talk to her; another said she was brain-dead and heard nothing.
A long day of holding her hand, calling her name, crying, begging her to wake up. Giving up hope, and yet hoping for miracles. Waiting for her father to arrive from Louisiana. Hoping he'd make it in time.
Twelve hours after taking her down from that beam the nurse came into the lounge where I thought I might try to sleep for an hour when her dad would likely arrive from O'Hare. "Ms. Stone, we need you to come to your daughter's room. There has been a change in her condition."
I practically ran to her room. "A nurse will be here in a moment to explain what has happened," her brother and I were told; but it was clear to me: She had flatlined.
I lost Christina - again - but this time, for good.
About an hour later, she was removed from the life support, cleaned up a bit, and I went to her bedside once more. Her color was now completely gone. She was quickly losing body heat. And I held her in my arms one last time and cried.
Writing is the only way I know of that helps me process and release my emotions when they overwhelm me, and so I must write about losing Christina.
In some ways, I lost Christina long ago. She died just the other day at the young age of twenty-three, but her struggle with Life and her recurring bouts of sadness and despair began when she was an adolescent, entering her teen years. At first, it seemed like normal teenage angst. It will pass, I assured myself. Besides, our household and family life at the time was stressed and perhaps even dysfunctional. So I let it slide, often frustrated by her impulsivity and extreme emotions.
She said she felt unloved and felt that I treated her siblings better than I treated her. I remember one therapy session she had in particular. Her therapist called me into their session and asked me if I felt I treated all my children the same. I answered, "No. I do not treat them all the same. In fact, I cannot treat them all the same because they are all different and unique individuals of different ages; therefore, while I do not treat them the same, I believe I treat them equally and appropriately, based on who they are, taking their ages, levels of maturity, individual needs, and personalities into consideration." "Wow," she said, "Good answer."
It is no secret that Christina put those who loved her most through hell at times. She could be verbally vicious and emotionally volatile. Instead of accepting hugs, advice, and words of encouragement when she was distraught, she would lash out, push us away, or say such hateful, hurtful things that we would retreat and give up.
When Christina WAS in a good mood, I would often jump on the opportunity to encourage her to find a passion to attach herself to - a goal, a focus, a purpose. But there was always a sense of walking on eggshells because she could quickly and without warning interpret my advice or encouragement as "telling her what to do." She was extremely pessimistic, so the smallest bump in the road would be proof that the world was against her.
I hoped that when she became a mother she would be infused with the joy of being loved unconditionally by her son...and then by her daughter. While it is true that she loved her children deeply, they often saw her at her worst. She admitted to me on several occassions that she KNEW her moods were extreme, but that as much as she wanted to, and as much as she tried, she could not control her thought, emotions, or extreme behavior - they controlled her. And she hated that part of herself. I encouraged her to lean upon the extended family in the household when she felt like that, but instead, she resented our "interference" with her parenting.
The morning she took her life was like no other morning and yet like any other morning. I could see she was in one of her "moods." But I also knew she had gotten into a huge argument with her sister the day before. She loved her sister. They had become very close over the past few years. So I was not surprised that she was both sad and angry. I was not surprised when she said, "I don't even want to be alive anymore," that morning...the last words she said to me. I had heard those sentiments from Christina countless times before.
Retreating to my room with her 3 year old daughter in my arms after trying unsuccessfully to comfort her, I decided that I would call the Emergency Mental Health hotline to find out how to get an adult child admitted. Intuitively, I felt that perhaps this time, it was different. I worried that perhaps this time, she really would attempt to take her life. But then another voice in my head told me not to be so dramatic. She's done this before, I reminded myself. And the voice continued, "Just because you want to be a licensed counselor doesn't make you an expert Ruth. This is Christina we're talking about. She'll be fine."
Still, I decided that I would make that call as soon as Brian returned for work. I didn't want to make the call with Christina's daughter in the room with me. I didn't want Christina to hear me making the call. Brian would likely be home soon, I told myself, and then I'll call.
Brian DID return home that morning. Ada, Christina's daughter, greeted him. He held her. They chatted casually for a few minutes. I left my room to pour another cup of coffee. I guess I'll be making that call, I thought to myself. I returned to my room.
And that's when I heard Brian's yell: NOOOOO! Ada, RUN! Go!! Get out of here!!! COME HERE! COME HERE! HELP ME!!
I came running down the hall to the other end of the house to their room. Part of me already knew. And then I saw her, lifelessly hanging from the beam in their room, and Brian trying to lift her up to put slack in the rope.
Christina's brother, hearing the commotion came running. "Call 911" I yelled as I struggled to lift my daughter so Brian could release her from the noose. And it seemed it was a perfect noose. "How did she know how to do this?" I wondered. She was still warm, but lifeless. We couldn't release the tight grip of the rope. "Help us!" I yelled to Stone. The three of us struggled until finally the rope released her and she fell into my arms. I laid her on the couch behind us. She was so limp. Her lips and eyelids were cyanotic with visible petechiae in the whites of her eyes. The ligature mark around the front of her neck was incredibly deep and already purple. Her tongue was bluish, swollen, and protruding.
I went to administer CPR, but Brian said he couldn't feel a pulse. I searched desperately for a pulse, did not detect any breath or heartbeat, and then it hit me: It's too late. She's dead...
I held her, hugged her, and cried. "Baby girl! Why??? Why did you DO this??"
Paramedics arrive and tell us to leave the room. "No," I tell them. That is my daughter. I will stay out of your way, but I will not leave.
Police arrived. I was informed our home was now a potential crime scene. I was ordered to leave the room. Again, I resisted. "They found a very weak pulse," the officer said. "Let the paramedics work on her."
A weak pulse?? I should have done CPR!! I should have given mouth-to-mouth resusitation!! Why did I give up so easily?!
They took her to the ER. It doesn't look good, the ER physician told me. We think she's brain-dead, they said. She was on life support.
The CT scan looked promising: No spinal fractures. Carotid arteries, in good shape. Still, unconscious, not breathing on her own. Don't get your hopes up.
She was moved to ICU. Still on life support. Family members began flocking to her bedside. When a family member would talk to her, Christina would shed a tear or two. Just a biological response. One of the staff members said she could hear us and we should talk to her; another said she was brain-dead and heard nothing.
A long day of holding her hand, calling her name, crying, begging her to wake up. Giving up hope, and yet hoping for miracles. Waiting for her father to arrive from Louisiana. Hoping he'd make it in time.
Twelve hours after taking her down from that beam the nurse came into the lounge where I thought I might try to sleep for an hour when her dad would likely arrive from O'Hare. "Ms. Stone, we need you to come to your daughter's room. There has been a change in her condition."
I practically ran to her room. "A nurse will be here in a moment to explain what has happened," her brother and I were told; but it was clear to me: She had flatlined.
I lost Christina - again - but this time, for good.
About an hour later, she was removed from the life support, cleaned up a bit, and I went to her bedside once more. Her color was now completely gone. She was quickly losing body heat. And I held her in my arms one last time and cried.
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