Mom is Just a Nickname

When I was twelve, if anyone had told me that I’d be pregnant in 8 more years, I might have laughed at them. Although I did have great aspirations to be a mother some day (there’s a reason friends called me ‘Momma Beth’) I really did not think it would happen in 8 years. Although 8 years then seemed an eternity away, still it seemed like 20 years old was too young for me to consider becoming a parent.

12+8=20 and there I was pregnant with my first child. Luckily, also happily married to a great guy with lots of love and support from both of our families.

At the age of 20, if anyone had told me that in 8 more years, I would have had two more children but also have lost one, I would not have believed anything that person had told me. Well, maybe having two more children in 8 years was realistic, but not losing one. The thought of losing a child was inconceivable to me then. I lived in a happy world, with a good life spreading out before me. It was not a life tinged with sadness or tragedy. I had such a blessed life, that I could only think “That can’t happen to me.”

At the age of 23, I had my second child. And five weeks later, he stopped breathing. And still the thought that tragedy could strike my family was not one that I felt applied to me. I still had hope that my second child would recover fully from his brush with death and go on to lead a long and fulfilling life. The doctors tried their hardest to put his future into realistic terms for us. The walls of my safe castle were crumbling, my world was no longer full of the bright colors of optimism and joy. Instead, a strong hand had brushed every thing I saw with gray, black and brown. I quickly came to realize my easy, blessed life was changing in horrifying ways. Thinking 8 years ahead then was not an option. It was all I could do to survive, day by day, hour by hour. The future was not mine to dream about.

At the age of 25, the question of Sullivan’s future was answered. He died. He had no future in this life, beyond that of our memories. I became intimately aware that “IT” could happen to anyone, anywhere, without rhyme or reason. As the days and months passed after his death, I began to see a future ahead again. Each day that passed painted a new kaleidoscope of colors in front of me. The world still held grays, blacks and browns, but they became balanced by the endless shades of other possibilities. At the age of 25, I had no idea what my future held. But I wanted another child. Eight years ahead seemed far distant still.

I’m 31 now. I’m still looking forward into the murky future, trying to resolve the whirling mix of colors into some order that makes sense. I’m still trying to find my own path to the future, while realizing that every day lays a new stone on the path to that future. I don’t know what the next 8 years hold for me or for my family. I hope, I pray, that my two children will continue growing and maturing into the next 8 years. In 8 years, J will be 18 and moving out into the great world beyond, hopefully filled with all the hope and optimism an 18 year old should have. In 8 years, X will be 12 and my hope is that he will still have that boundless energy and curiousity that he was now.

But now, looking back 8 years, I see so many twists and turns in the path. It’s hard to believe that almost 8 years ago, I gave birth to my second child…thinking I was giving him into the world to love and nurture to adulthood. It’s hard to believe that six years ago, I said goodbye to that boy. Instead of raising him to adulthood, I watched him soar to the heavens.

Sometimes, when I see a picture of my family now, there’s a shadow figure standing there beside us. A boy with curly light brown hair and bright blue eyes lit with the mischief most 8 year old boys seem to share. He’s tall for his age, and strong. He’s there with us, always, even if only in my head. I wonder what he’d be like now, if he had never stopped breathing that cold December day. And then I wonder what he’d be like now, if he had stopped breathing…but then hadn’t died two years later.

8 years…it’s amazing what a difference 8 years can make.

We always think, “That can’t happen to us,” but one day, it -whatever ‘it’ is- does. On Sunday, it happened in a church in the heart of our country.

I feel sadness for the people that have died, for those that were injured, and for the families and friends of this congregation who must make sense of what has happened. It’s horrifying that this man walked into a house of worship, filled with families enjoying a children’s production, and opened fire. The children who saw it happen, from their viewpoints in the front of the room…the families who teach their children about loving everyone, about helping others, about respecting differences…now have to figure out how to forgive a man who aimed such hate into their world, and tarnished the bright shine of their children’s innocence.

My heart goes out to these families, these children, this congregation. The situation strikes home especially since I’ve so fallen in love with a UU church family here in my town. The thought lingers in the back of my mind, “That could have been OUR church.” And I tremble.

I cannot stand at their sides, hold their hands, or catch their tears. I am too far away. Still, I stand with these folks in Tennessee, as they do their best to heal, to understand, and to mourn. They do not stand alone…there are many of us standing with them.

Very few books, movies or anything make me cry. There is one topic -death and family responding to death – that will always make me cry.

When I was a teenager, I had yet to find a movie that would make me cry. Then, one day, I watched My Girl. The movie where the little boy dies from bee stings? (sorry if I just ruined it for you…it’s such an old movie, I figure most have seen it by now!) That one made me sob hysterically. Looking back, it almost seems prophetic that the one movie I’d seen that triggered a powerful emotional response was one in which a family and their friends must handle the death of a child.

Yesterday, I read a book called Necessary Arrangementsby Tanya Michna. Basically it juxtaposes the stories of two close and loving sisters. One is getting married, and one has cancer. I literally cried through the entire book. I found it poignant, realistic, and heartbreaking while still being uplifting at the end.

“Don’t let them give up family traditions. If they stop doing the stuff we all did together, if–”

If the customs the four of them had shared disappeared, it would be as if Asia had disappeared. Not just from their active lives, but from their shared memories, their collective love for her. No, they’d always love her, but it was disconcerting to think that one day they might possibly get used to being without her.

Paragraphs like that run throughout the book. They bring to mind the things that have plagued my mind since Sullivan’s death. Sadness that he’d be forgotten, hurt that lives would, could and should move on away from his life, and the ways that relationships change in the wake of a death.

Although I have not lost an immediate family member to cancer, I can relate with the long, drawn out fight, with the constant medical attention, with the array of emotions present, and with the decision that must be made between treating a fatal illness in order to buy more time or treating the symptoms to make the time available worth living. I can relate to the feelings of the family facing the loss of a loved one. So many of the things in the book were from different perspectives than I’ve experienced, but I could so easily step into their shoes and feel what they were going through.

Between the excellent flow of the writing, and my own experiences with prolonged illness and death, this book struck a very deep chord with me.

As is my habit, I followed links to new blogs today. I found one, my semblance of Sanity, that held a story of a little boy who recently died of brain cancer. The mom of the little boy was a friend of the blogger (through the blogosphere? I assumed). I read his story, the mom’s words, the poetry…I had to stop. I had to physically get up from the computer and walk away.

The stories of these tiny children and their families fighting such impossible odds break my heart. Or a better way to say it may be that they take what’s left of my already broken heart and crush it into tinier pieces. Let’s face it, my heart was broken many moons ago when Sullivan died…the breaking started two years before that when he stopped breathing that cold December day and was resuscitated a different child.

I can’t help but read these stories. I can’t help but drop a note or a comment to the parents of these children. Nothing usually comes of it, but maybe they can see that they aren’t alone. Maybe they can see that their world will eventually mend itself around the hole left by their children’s absence. Maybe they just think I’m a nutcase stranger writing them out of the blue.

Maybe I do it just so I can pick at my own wounds and let them bleed awhile. The grief that other parents express is something I can relate to. I don’t display it every day, but I too have that deep well of sorrow that nothing ever heals. I try to live well because I feel that was what Sullivan tried to teach me throughout his time with us. To live well, to show our love, to share our experience. Still, too many days I exist, rather than live.

I feel even more deeply for the families that have lost a child after fighting a long illness. Coping with such a situation is the hardest thing I have ever done. We had months of living hour by hour, day by day, just surviving. We didn’t think too far ahead because the future was so uncertain. And day to day living was more about making sure our children’s needs were met than about being sure our own needs were met. We were exhausted, sick from not taking care of ourselves.

So, when we were saying our goodbyes to Sullivan, there was grief but also a sense of relief. A release, if you will, from the heavy toil and responsibility. And at the time, it seemed horribly selfish to admit to that. It felt like some sort of terrible betrayal to admit that I was glad that now that my son was dead, I could leave the “Waiting Place” and move on with life. I was thankful that I could again sleep all night long in my own bed, with my husband beside me.

It was release from a burden that I willingly carried, but release it was. I can hardly describe Sullivan as a burden either, for the joy he gave even on the last of his days was far greater than any difficulties he caused. To feel his tiny hands tangle in my hair to squeeze me back in a hug; oh to feel that again.

Xavier likes to play with my hair now. It reminds me of Sullivan. So many things remind me of him, but the stories that are told in memory or tribute to a child who has died, they bring so many of these feelings so close to the surface. So many days I end up lost in a funk because of reading these things….but I just can’t help but read them, time and again.

My Xavi can be a sensitive soul at times…

As I wrote my blog post yesterday, tears were streaming down my face as I remembered the wonderful gifts of my grandparents. He saw me and asked, “Are your eyes red, Mama?” And I said, “Yes, they probably are.” He watched me silently for a few minutes and then asked, “Why are your eyes red, Mama? Why are they wet?” I said, “I feel sad, Xavi.” He accepted this and went on with his playing.

Yesterday evening, as I lay down beside him at bedtime, I laid as I normally do: with my back to him, flashlight resting on my shoulder to shine on the book I was reading. Usually, this causes no comment, but I think he has associated this posture with the times when my back hurts and I can’t comfortably lie in his bed any other way. So he began his questions:

“Is your back hurting, Mama?”
“No, not today, Xavi.”
“Is your head hurting, Mama?”
“No, it’s not, Xavi.”
“Are you sad then?”
“No, I’m not Xavi.”
“Oh. Ok.”

He settled down to sleep then. I guess since I had answered no to all of those his world was secure. If I had said yes, I know from past occasions, he would have pressed for “why” and maybe even “how”. If I had said yes, he’d have stretched bedtime out longer, maybe just seeking knowledge and reassurance about me.