I belong to a real, live, actual people involved, book club. I know! How outwardly social of me. There was one in the 'hood that was comprised of all the young single women, but apparently it kinda devolved into everyone passing the buck on whose house they were meeting at, and not reading the book, but showing up for the wine and discussing the movie version. I joined at the tail end of this version 1.0, and co-conspired with a member who wanted to make it a wee bit more serious, and we (sadly, perhaps) lost some of the old people, but attracted numerous new ones. And now we have this real organized group 2.0 that meets monthly for dinner (or brunch, if schedules fail) and everyone reads (at least most of it) and everyone talks. And I like it very much.
There are some oddities though, that I'm finding out about reading since the big divide took place in my life. For starts, it never really hit me how many ficitonal books involve themes of motherhood (and all the concomitant yearning, suceeding, failing, losing thereof) and loss (marriage, money, life). And I guess it makes sense to some degree, because what the hell are we going to write about that's remotely interesting? And so all books it seems to some degree hurt a bit.
And in public, this brings about a bit of the awkward. I've noticed at times when we're discussing what to read next, and I say "So! What's the deal with 'Memory Keeper's Daughter!' What's that about?" and there's this really, long pause when someone finally gets brave and starts, "Well, it's about this woman who has two children, but one has Down's, so her husband takes that one away and tells her that the baby died . . . " And again this horrible huge silence where everyone's wishing that the big screeching vulture would swoop down and devour the chirping crickets giving us something else to talk about. And I feel it's my social duty to step into the breech, usually with a (sarcastic) joke, "Well, that sounds cheery!" to let them know I'm ok talking about it. I once discovered that two people in club had a small private conversation about a book a couple nights before we met, and my first thought was, "How great is that!" and my second, conspiratorial thought was, "Jeebus, I bet they were wondering how I'd react to the book -- whether I'd just crumple at the table."
That book was Amy Bloom's "Away" (a gripping story about child-loss of another sort entirely), which I loved. But it brings me to my next personal epiphany: I read books differently than I did before. I suppose that's rather frying-pan-to-the-head obvious, but it really didn't dawn on me until I read Julia's review of Handmaid's Tale (which I read over a decade ago, long before I really contemplated having children) that books might strike me differently now that I'm on this side of infertility, miscarriage, and neonatal death. I recently read "The Other Bolelyn Girl," and found myself running to the bookshelf to cross-ref Alison Wier's awesome "Wives of Henry VIII" so many times, that I'm now rereading it. And talk about infertility, miscarriage, and neonatal death. These were subjects that I glossed over for the politics during the first read through about 8 years ago, that I'm now swimming in, in fascination, horror, and disbelief. During my 40th week of pregnancy with Maddy I read Gregory Maguire's "Wicked," and I'd love to reread it now, knowing what I do about genetics and offspring and siblings.
Stories on loss get met with a very critical eye now. Does the person get it? Months ago, the NY'er had a short story about a guy who faked his young child's death in order to take some time off work. Instead of being completely insulted by the premise, I was instead rolling my eyes in disbelief at the weak research the author used: a completely supportive workplace that would phone the wife to express condolences in person? Fiction indeed.
********************
Bookclub is now into summer reading, and this month's selection seemed a safe bet: David Sedaris', "When You Are Englulfed in Flames," a compilation of short stories by the ever-so-clever and amusing wit. Until I hit the end of the very first story which ostensibly dealt with parasites, but of course, ended with dead children humor:
Did you know that every year five thousand children are startled to death?
...
"Those poor children," Maw Hamrick said.
"And the parents!" Lisa added. "Can you imagine?"
Both groups are tragic, but I was wondering about the surviving children, or, even worse, the replacements, raised in an atmosphere of preventive sobriety.
"All right, now, Caitlin Two, when we get home a great many people are going to jump out from behind the furniture and yell 'Happy Birthday!' I'm telling you now because I don't want you to get too worked up about it."
No surprises, no practical jokes, nothing unexpected, but a parent can't control everything, and there's still the outside world to contend with, a world of backfiring cars and their human equivalents.
Had one of you written this, I would probably be on the floor, trying desperately not to wet myself. ("REPLACEMENTS! BWAH!") But from what I know, he is not one of us. So the lines struck me cold and extremely unfunny, I closed the book, and haven't picked it up in two weeks. I know I need to, and that the subsequent stories are probably hilarious, but continuing to pursue this book has been difficult since we clearly got off on the wrong foot. It is the same reaction I have to people who run on for minutes about how great "Juno" was. It's funny if I (or you) make it funny, but really pregnancy and birth and death will never be humorous again.
Last year at the beach I brought trash -- Tina Brown's "Diana" -- which included the story of Diana's mother giving birth to a stillborn child that the attendants would not allow her to view. This year on my island vacation I picked up a thriller (Laurie King's "A Darker Place") -- known author, completely unknown story -- and it turns out the protagonist was driven by the death of her young daughter. It seems almost impossible for me now to pick up a book and not search for it, or get beat over the head with it. Either babydeath is more recognized than I assumed, or it spins a damn good yarn.
Someone tell me this Sedaris thing gets better, please.
Friday, July 4, 2008
Monday, June 30, 2008
The Road Not Taken
Ah, Irony, funny lady.
Yesterday my accident-prone child, for whom it now takes two hands to count the number of bloody noses she's had in her short life, pitched a fit in the "big pool" claiming she wanted to swim by herself. Fat chance. She was given the choice of a time out, or retreating to the kiddie pool. She chose B, where within seconds she had gashed her knee on a broken piece of pool tile.
(No problem, I'll wait. I laughed too, fate that little fucker.)
It was a long, deep cut in the fleshy part of the knee that didn't appear to be wanting to close itself. I did the best I could with skin and industrial band-aid provided by pool, and made the executive parental decision: I had no fucking clue if this warranted stitches or not and wanted someone with medical training to tell me if it did.
Off we trudged to the local Emergency Room in soggy clothes -- because we weren't staying long and presumably headed straight home for lunch.
(Of course I didn't pack dry clothes or snacks, what do you think I'm prepared for the unexpected? Bwah! Dude, put a plastic bin of dry clothes and snacks in your car right now. You'll thank me when Armageddon comes.)
Cut to the chase, at 5 p.m., exhausted and blinded by hunger, we emerged from the ER: Bella was thrilled that her mother's mad, latent EMT skillz had collected the bloody mess together under the temporary bandage so well that stitches were no longer necessary after a four hour wait. A butterfly band-aid was all we got for our time.Fuck me. Yay me.
Thus was an afternoon I'll never get back spent in the confines of my local ER.
*******************
One evening, when I was 14w pregnant, one week into my new house, still tripping over boxes and obviously without a new doctor yet, I felt what was a now-familiar gush of blood between my legs. I calmly prepared dinner, and then drove myself to the local emergency room knowing nothing better to do with myself.
Bleeding pregnant women are apparently high on the triage list because I didn't wait long at all, but long enough to decide that this particular hospital -- while extremely convenient -- was not quite the warm yet comforting clinical environment conducive to laboring a child. I'm not sure if it was the dilapidated ceiling tile, the snail's pace of bureaucracy, the sullen faces on the employees, or the fact that I had to wait 45 minutes for the OB ultrasound tech to drive in from home at 8 p.m. on a weeknight, but I decided I would need something a bit more homey and sterile and, well, prompt. If that combo was indeed possible.
The nurse who treated me was nothing short of a compassionate delight, and after regaling me with the trials of her problem pregnancy, recommended her OB.
Who became my OB.
The doctor, a young, attractive, and extremely attentive and concerned man, said something cagey to the effect of: "This is going to sound weird seeing as how I work here, but I would deliver at [another named hospital]. My wife is delivering there."
That recommendation became my delivery hospital.
At the end of that night I had some excellent, clear pictures of Maddy, the reassurance of spot-on measurements and a healthy heartbeat, and some group commiseration with the gaggle of nurses who came to share in the photos while I awaited my paperwork.
I also had a trajectory, of what would be. And a rather spooky shadow of what could've been.
I know without doubt that had Maddy been born at local hospital, she would've died within hours. Their NICU non-existent, she would've been transferred -- but to where? A larger NICU or directly to Children's? And with the snail's pace I saw, the lack of a fire for anyone with some need of urgency, it wouldn't have mattered. I'm convinced she would've died before or shortly after transfer.
And we would know nothing.
Which sounds odd, because we know nothing now, but at least now I have no doubts. No doubts to the medical care my new OB suggested, which in turn led to ultrasounds every 3-4 weeks, which turned up nothing indicating a problem in my uterus. I do not stay up at night wondering if someone missed a sign, and know there was nothing I could've done during my pregnancy to stop things from growing into a disaster. No doubts as to the care of the NICU at our lovely delivery hospital, who within minutes detected some serious issues, and began the long roller coaster descent into medical hell. Nothing short of awe for the compassionate head of the NICU who, as it turned out, was a former student of the head of genetics department at Children's, who with one call cleared our path for transfer there. No doubts as to the care at Children's, where they were simply trying to amass and ascertain as much information as possible before letting Maddy expire peacefully on our terms.
Of course the cells and DNA and autopsy and research and presentations at conferences and farming out of slides to medical ringers around the country have led no where meaningful for us, but at least I know it was done, the steps were taken, and we were given the absolute best care the whole way around that this city had to offer.
All because I landed in my shitty little local ER on a hot August night almost two years ago.
It was these thoughts that exhausted me yesterday, in the same place where at my last visit I saw Maddy flickering on a screen. Bella was beyond fine, chipper and feisty and hungry, and I had no fear of witnessing anything worse than I had trying to seam her knee together under a mass of tape a few hours earlier. The promise of ice cream at the end of it all kept us both within the limits of patience (no pun intended) in our damp clothes. What occupied my mind was the the horror of what could've been, in that sad little hospital with the bad wallpaper, where I would've undoubtedly been met with shrugged shoulders and doubt. And the shadows of the past, right down that hall, where I was given promise and a road map to follow.
A map which led me here, wiping tears away in the car en route to a much needed pizza dinner, with a smiling, bandaged, only child in the back seat.
Yesterday my accident-prone child, for whom it now takes two hands to count the number of bloody noses she's had in her short life, pitched a fit in the "big pool" claiming she wanted to swim by herself. Fat chance. She was given the choice of a time out, or retreating to the kiddie pool. She chose B, where within seconds she had gashed her knee on a broken piece of pool tile.
(No problem, I'll wait. I laughed too, fate that little fucker.)
It was a long, deep cut in the fleshy part of the knee that didn't appear to be wanting to close itself. I did the best I could with skin and industrial band-aid provided by pool, and made the executive parental decision: I had no fucking clue if this warranted stitches or not and wanted someone with medical training to tell me if it did.
Off we trudged to the local Emergency Room in soggy clothes -- because we weren't staying long and presumably headed straight home for lunch.
(Of course I didn't pack dry clothes or snacks, what do you think I'm prepared for the unexpected? Bwah! Dude, put a plastic bin of dry clothes and snacks in your car right now. You'll thank me when Armageddon comes.)
Cut to the chase, at 5 p.m., exhausted and blinded by hunger, we emerged from the ER: Bella was thrilled that her mother's mad, latent EMT skillz had collected the bloody mess together under the temporary bandage so well that stitches were no longer necessary after a four hour wait. A butterfly band-aid was all we got for our time.
Thus was an afternoon I'll never get back spent in the confines of my local ER.
*******************
One evening, when I was 14w pregnant, one week into my new house, still tripping over boxes and obviously without a new doctor yet, I felt what was a now-familiar gush of blood between my legs. I calmly prepared dinner, and then drove myself to the local emergency room knowing nothing better to do with myself.
Bleeding pregnant women are apparently high on the triage list because I didn't wait long at all, but long enough to decide that this particular hospital -- while extremely convenient -- was not quite the warm yet comforting clinical environment conducive to laboring a child. I'm not sure if it was the dilapidated ceiling tile, the snail's pace of bureaucracy, the sullen faces on the employees, or the fact that I had to wait 45 minutes for the OB ultrasound tech to drive in from home at 8 p.m. on a weeknight, but I decided I would need something a bit more homey and sterile and, well, prompt. If that combo was indeed possible.
The nurse who treated me was nothing short of a compassionate delight, and after regaling me with the trials of her problem pregnancy, recommended her OB.
Who became my OB.
The doctor, a young, attractive, and extremely attentive and concerned man, said something cagey to the effect of: "This is going to sound weird seeing as how I work here, but I would deliver at [another named hospital]. My wife is delivering there."
That recommendation became my delivery hospital.
At the end of that night I had some excellent, clear pictures of Maddy, the reassurance of spot-on measurements and a healthy heartbeat, and some group commiseration with the gaggle of nurses who came to share in the photos while I awaited my paperwork.
I also had a trajectory, of what would be. And a rather spooky shadow of what could've been.
I know without doubt that had Maddy been born at local hospital, she would've died within hours. Their NICU non-existent, she would've been transferred -- but to where? A larger NICU or directly to Children's? And with the snail's pace I saw, the lack of a fire for anyone with some need of urgency, it wouldn't have mattered. I'm convinced she would've died before or shortly after transfer.
And we would know nothing.
Which sounds odd, because we know nothing now, but at least now I have no doubts. No doubts to the medical care my new OB suggested, which in turn led to ultrasounds every 3-4 weeks, which turned up nothing indicating a problem in my uterus. I do not stay up at night wondering if someone missed a sign, and know there was nothing I could've done during my pregnancy to stop things from growing into a disaster. No doubts as to the care of the NICU at our lovely delivery hospital, who within minutes detected some serious issues, and began the long roller coaster descent into medical hell. Nothing short of awe for the compassionate head of the NICU who, as it turned out, was a former student of the head of genetics department at Children's, who with one call cleared our path for transfer there. No doubts as to the care at Children's, where they were simply trying to amass and ascertain as much information as possible before letting Maddy expire peacefully on our terms.
Of course the cells and DNA and autopsy and research and presentations at conferences and farming out of slides to medical ringers around the country have led no where meaningful for us, but at least I know it was done, the steps were taken, and we were given the absolute best care the whole way around that this city had to offer.
All because I landed in my shitty little local ER on a hot August night almost two years ago.
It was these thoughts that exhausted me yesterday, in the same place where at my last visit I saw Maddy flickering on a screen. Bella was beyond fine, chipper and feisty and hungry, and I had no fear of witnessing anything worse than I had trying to seam her knee together under a mass of tape a few hours earlier. The promise of ice cream at the end of it all kept us both within the limits of patience (no pun intended) in our damp clothes. What occupied my mind was the the horror of what could've been, in that sad little hospital with the bad wallpaper, where I would've undoubtedly been met with shrugged shoulders and doubt. And the shadows of the past, right down that hall, where I was given promise and a road map to follow.
A map which led me here, wiping tears away in the car en route to a much needed pizza dinner, with a smiling, bandaged, only child in the back seat.
Saturday, June 21, 2008
Mourning in Play
Came home from the pool today and flipped on my Tivo which had kindly recorded the Netherlands v. Russia game from Euro Cup. Thank God. What a game.
So a few seconds in, the play guy points out that the Dutch team is wearing black armbands (they're the ones in Orange)
and it turns out they're doing so because on Wednesday, their teammate Khalid Boulahrouz's baby daughter was born prematurely and died.
He played in today's game.
Now, at first I was floored. No way in hell could I have played soccer (read: gone to my job) days after my daughter's death. But then I thought:
What would your husband's first day of work been like if total strangers had shown up at the hospital to show their support?
If 10 of the guys he works with (plus 8-10 more from the next-door office) wore armbands as a visible sign of mourning? The significance being that they viewed this death as important and sad, your grief as valid and significant, wanted to let you know they were thinking of you, and furthermore were thus willing to do so in public and answer any questions from anyone else who might ask about them?
I'm not real up of the present administrative state of US Hockey and Baseball, but I can tell you there is NO WAY an individual team at the last minute would have been able to make this kind of dramatic statement for their bereaved teammate in the NFL or NBA. The leagues don't allow for marring of the all important Uni (which I'm here to tell you, any one of which probably doesn't sell as well worlwide as, say, van Nistelrooy's) and league-wide symbols and team honorifics demand a ream of advance warning and bureaucracy.
Anyway. I thought it was nice.
And then Russia completely outplayed the Dutch and won, and frankly I was ok with that because dang, did they deserve it.
But Mr. Boulharouz and your wife? I'm so sorry for your loss. I'm so sorry you need to do this in such a public forum. I'm so sorry it happened while you were away from your home, and I'm guessing your doctors. But I'm so thankful that your husband's teammates wore black for the loss of your daughter today, and thus brought international light on what for many of us is a very hidden, lonely, invalidated, unsupported, blown off, and ignored experience. You're in my thoughts.
So a few seconds in, the play guy points out that the Dutch team is wearing black armbands (they're the ones in Orange)
and it turns out they're doing so because on Wednesday, their teammate Khalid Boulahrouz's baby daughter was born prematurely and died.
He played in today's game.
Now, at first I was floored. No way in hell could I have played soccer (read: gone to my job) days after my daughter's death. But then I thought:
What would your husband's first day of work been like if total strangers had shown up at the hospital to show their support?
If 10 of the guys he works with (plus 8-10 more from the next-door office) wore armbands as a visible sign of mourning? The significance being that they viewed this death as important and sad, your grief as valid and significant, wanted to let you know they were thinking of you, and furthermore were thus willing to do so in public and answer any questions from anyone else who might ask about them?
I'm not real up of the present administrative state of US Hockey and Baseball, but I can tell you there is NO WAY an individual team at the last minute would have been able to make this kind of dramatic statement for their bereaved teammate in the NFL or NBA. The leagues don't allow for marring of the all important Uni (which I'm here to tell you, any one of which probably doesn't sell as well worlwide as, say, van Nistelrooy's) and league-wide symbols and team honorifics demand a ream of advance warning and bureaucracy.
Anyway. I thought it was nice.
And then Russia completely outplayed the Dutch and won, and frankly I was ok with that because dang, did they deserve it.
But Mr. Boulharouz and your wife? I'm so sorry for your loss. I'm so sorry you need to do this in such a public forum. I'm so sorry it happened while you were away from your home, and I'm guessing your doctors. But I'm so thankful that your husband's teammates wore black for the loss of your daughter today, and thus brought international light on what for many of us is a very hidden, lonely, invalidated, unsupported, blown off, and ignored experience. You're in my thoughts.
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
A Doll's House
Bella's somehow survived almost four years on (a superfluity of) stuffed animals and trains, but no dolls. Something must have flitted across her radar because in the past few months there have been some infrequent "look mom!"'s and plaintive, whiney desires for an assortment of plastic formed females. Some quite scary. I like to think I'm hip, but what the fuck is the with the oversized heads and eyes and heavily made-up figurines? I decided to do a preemptive strike and purchase her an age-appropriate doll of my choosing before the extended relatives got wind of the questionable wishes.
She quickly named her doll Maya? Mia? Well, it changes, and this is the age frankly where if she walked in today and announced that her doll was now to be referred to as "Word Girl," "Tucker -- 'cause he's my favorite cat," or "What's that guy's name again? Oh right, OABAMA," I wouldn't blink. She's much more into the pets this doll possesses than the doll itself, which I suppose is just fine with me. And the doll doesn't get a lot of play time, save for mornings and evenings when she gets dressed for the day/night. A lot of wardrobe decisions, and then Mia/Maya/Little Miss President gets parked while we swing, climb trees, and play Bingo.
Last night I was walking her through her (Bella's, people) bedtime routine out-loud as I am wont when I suspect a bit of lollygagging: praised her for the exhibition of oral hygiene, reminded her of the next step of selecting her own nighttime wardrobe, and skipping ahead yet another step in the process, looked around her room and said,
Now where's Maddy?
Yes. I did. I did slip and call a plastic inanimate fresh-faced girl doll by my deadbaby's name. Um hmm.
And I don't think I've ever seen Bella dumbstruck, but damn if she wasn't. Eyes wide, mouth agape, staring at me, the silence of those milliseconds hanging over us like a cloud with it's own barometric pressure reading. "SILLY MOMMY!" I said in that horrified/self-deprecating tone one takes when we fuck up slightly in front of our children, "MAYA/MIA! Here you are! Time for bed!"
Which got me thinking . . . . Do I talk about Maddy enough?
******************************
I've been trying for, well, months really, to start and finish a post on Bella and this grief business. Because I read things like this and this and think, wow, Bella would never do that. Not in a million years. And then I remind myself that she's younger than these kids, and tra-la-la my way over to Wonkette, and then am suddenly alerted that no, actually, kids younger than Bella speak of their dead siblings, even kids who weren't alive yet. And then I read stuff like this and figure I'm really making a mess of things.
We don't have a gravestone to visit around which to elicit such conversation, and I guess when I think about it, I don't talk about Maddy that much in the course of my daily grind. Except, you know, here. I'm not one to wander into a room and sigh and say out loud, "Ahh. I'm missing Maddy right now. Should we draw the blinds, put on some ambient music, sit down and close our eyes and contemplate her for a few?" Really not my style. But should it be?
Work-friends of Mr. ABF planted a tree for Maddy in a nearby park. I used to run over there to visit, but obviously haven't been running in quite some time, and our daily traffic patterns don't take us over there. But one day, rather out of the blue, I said to Bella on the way home from school, "let's go drive by Maddy's tree and see how it's doing." And that was it, we never left the car, I pointed it out, and then moved on to some lawn sculpture that Bella's fond of. Now that this cube of ice is broken, I do this trip a bit more frequently. But I guess I don't often initiate the Maddy-speak, I usually enter it in response to something already said. And if Mr. ABF and I have a discussion in front of Bella, it's usually about "it" not "her" (as in, "Can you believe they're already planning for the December candlelight service?" or "YOUR FATHER SAID WHAT??").
So I start these posts in my head about how this is unhealthy and terrible and then mid-mental-sentence-forming, Bella, out of the blue, brings her up -- like Murphy's Law. A week or so ago there was the instance of watering Maddy's Lilac, and just a few nights ago, with zero prompting, she turned to me and said, "Maddy's name is on your bracelet, right? Can I see it?" And we talked through spelling her name, and what a "nickname" is. We went over why I wear it all the time, and that yes, Daddy wears his (blue plastic) bracelet with her name on it all the time, too.
I tend to let Bella lead in this ongoing conversation. If she asks me to read her one of her "I'm a Big Sister!" books, I do. But I don't push anything on her at the end. I figure if she asks, I'll tell. Ditto with her death books. I guess I do blurt out Maddy's name here and there subconsciously (whoops), and I'm stupid to think she doesn't pick up on it or won't remember.
I don't want to shape her grief, I don't want to have a sit down with a four year old (who will barely sit down long enough to put on her shoes in the morning) about her sister, but I don't want to ignore it, either. I walk some fine line here, that sometimes feels like I'm doing a disservice, and other times surprises me with a reward. When I read Marita's piece at GITW, my first reaction was "crap, I bet Bella's ALREADY scared to ask me these things, that's she's already made the association between the spoken word 'Maddy' and a complete sobbing collapse on my part." But I think we're both improving a bit. Bella brings her up with a bit more frequency, and hopefully I'm responding with a bit less of the dumbstruck, deer-in-the-headlights look myself.
Now, any advice on what to do if Bella proclaims her doll to be named "Maddy?" Because you just know that's coming.
She quickly named her doll Maya? Mia? Well, it changes, and this is the age frankly where if she walked in today and announced that her doll was now to be referred to as "Word Girl," "Tucker -- 'cause he's my favorite cat," or "What's that guy's name again? Oh right, OABAMA," I wouldn't blink. She's much more into the pets this doll possesses than the doll itself, which I suppose is just fine with me. And the doll doesn't get a lot of play time, save for mornings and evenings when she gets dressed for the day/night. A lot of wardrobe decisions, and then Mia/Maya/Little Miss President gets parked while we swing, climb trees, and play Bingo.
Last night I was walking her through her (Bella's, people) bedtime routine out-loud as I am wont when I suspect a bit of lollygagging: praised her for the exhibition of oral hygiene, reminded her of the next step of selecting her own nighttime wardrobe, and skipping ahead yet another step in the process, looked around her room and said,
Now where's Maddy?
Yes. I did. I did slip and call a plastic inanimate fresh-faced girl doll by my deadbaby's name. Um hmm.
And I don't think I've ever seen Bella dumbstruck, but damn if she wasn't. Eyes wide, mouth agape, staring at me, the silence of those milliseconds hanging over us like a cloud with it's own barometric pressure reading. "SILLY MOMMY!" I said in that horrified/self-deprecating tone one takes when we fuck up slightly in front of our children, "MAYA/MIA! Here you are! Time for bed!"
Which got me thinking . . . . Do I talk about Maddy enough?
******************************
I've been trying for, well, months really, to start and finish a post on Bella and this grief business. Because I read things like this and this and think, wow, Bella would never do that. Not in a million years. And then I remind myself that she's younger than these kids, and tra-la-la my way over to Wonkette, and then am suddenly alerted that no, actually, kids younger than Bella speak of their dead siblings, even kids who weren't alive yet. And then I read stuff like this and figure I'm really making a mess of things.
We don't have a gravestone to visit around which to elicit such conversation, and I guess when I think about it, I don't talk about Maddy that much in the course of my daily grind. Except, you know, here. I'm not one to wander into a room and sigh and say out loud, "Ahh. I'm missing Maddy right now. Should we draw the blinds, put on some ambient music, sit down and close our eyes and contemplate her for a few?" Really not my style. But should it be?
Work-friends of Mr. ABF planted a tree for Maddy in a nearby park. I used to run over there to visit, but obviously haven't been running in quite some time, and our daily traffic patterns don't take us over there. But one day, rather out of the blue, I said to Bella on the way home from school, "let's go drive by Maddy's tree and see how it's doing." And that was it, we never left the car, I pointed it out, and then moved on to some lawn sculpture that Bella's fond of. Now that this cube of ice is broken, I do this trip a bit more frequently. But I guess I don't often initiate the Maddy-speak, I usually enter it in response to something already said. And if Mr. ABF and I have a discussion in front of Bella, it's usually about "it" not "her" (as in, "Can you believe they're already planning for the December candlelight service?" or "YOUR FATHER SAID WHAT??").
So I start these posts in my head about how this is unhealthy and terrible and then mid-mental-sentence-forming, Bella, out of the blue, brings her up -- like Murphy's Law. A week or so ago there was the instance of watering Maddy's Lilac, and just a few nights ago, with zero prompting, she turned to me and said, "Maddy's name is on your bracelet, right? Can I see it?" And we talked through spelling her name, and what a "nickname" is. We went over why I wear it all the time, and that yes, Daddy wears his (blue plastic) bracelet with her name on it all the time, too.
I tend to let Bella lead in this ongoing conversation. If she asks me to read her one of her "I'm a Big Sister!" books, I do. But I don't push anything on her at the end. I figure if she asks, I'll tell. Ditto with her death books. I guess I do blurt out Maddy's name here and there subconsciously (whoops), and I'm stupid to think she doesn't pick up on it or won't remember.
I don't want to shape her grief, I don't want to have a sit down with a four year old (who will barely sit down long enough to put on her shoes in the morning) about her sister, but I don't want to ignore it, either. I walk some fine line here, that sometimes feels like I'm doing a disservice, and other times surprises me with a reward. When I read Marita's piece at GITW, my first reaction was "crap, I bet Bella's ALREADY scared to ask me these things, that's she's already made the association between the spoken word 'Maddy' and a complete sobbing collapse on my part." But I think we're both improving a bit. Bella brings her up with a bit more frequency, and hopefully I'm responding with a bit less of the dumbstruck, deer-in-the-headlights look myself.
Now, any advice on what to do if Bella proclaims her doll to be named "Maddy?" Because you just know that's coming.
Sunday, June 15, 2008
Hallmarks
The immaterial kind. CDE of Once in a Lifetime guest wrote the Father's Day post for Glow In The Woods today. Check it out.
Friday, June 13, 2008
A Dime
Not only was I hit with the 10 year meme (thanks Coggy! And, um, I think a few others I'm spacing out on), but seems to be a theme going around these parts, anyway, what with Bon writing this poignant piece and then this one. So this will probably be a short reiteration of my comments to those, but here goes:
1) 10 years ago, I was 29 (gulp), living outside Chicago, in sin with Mr. ABF (who was then, boyfriend). We had a lovely prewar apartment, and our two cats. I was finishing up research for the diss, starting the writing process, working at the nearby university's Dean's Office as an assistant. I was training for the marathon (fall of '98). I was avidly watching World Cup '98 and painted my toenails weekly in the colors of the teams I was following at that moment. (This also served as a weak attempt to make my poor beat-up feet look and feel better.) It was a freakin' hot summer. I felt, truly, like I had my entire life ahead of me, and while not a pollyanna (it was clear to me by this point that my chosen profession was headed straight into the toilet and I'd probably be looking for jobs elsewhere despite my degree), I was quite optimistic that everything would turn out lovely.
I would give up my billion dollars (see question 4), my left tit, drop-kick a puppy, any other completely inappropriate metaphor you can think of to insert here, to go back and just savor in this summer for a few hours. Relish in my body, my entertainment, my mind, my dreams. I don't think I'd do anything differently, nor would I really want to relive the following 10 years ('99, for example, was a bit rough), but just to be: free. Comfortable. Happy.
Sigh.
2) 5 things on to-do list today:
-- bake bluebery bars for book club tonight
-- go to gym
-- write dog trainer email and tell her how it's going (surprisingly well)
-- ask neighbor if she still has divided Iris that are alive and able to be planted in my yard
-- go to book club and hate on McEwan's "Saturday" over a nice frozen cocktail
3) Good for me snacks: cashews, pistachios, peanut butter and apples, pretty much any kind of cheese. Bad for me snacks I could eat until I burst: chips and sour cream dip, chocolate anything, anything baked. I live for a midmorning sweet thing with coffee.
4) Billion Dollars: I'm going to spare you the warm and fuzzy donations and whatnot -- right now I feel like starting my own invasion of Zimbabwe. On the completely material side I'd:
-- buy a second home (beach? mountains? Italy?)
-- move out and reno my entire house at once so the entire thing would be done by Christmas
-- swap out my husband's car for a hybrid
-- buy hybrids for my entire family
-- buy up some local properties that are falling apart and fix 'em up
-- travel, travel, travel
5) Places I've lived
-- born in midwest city, lived there until six months old.
-- Tempe, AZ
-- Mainz, Germany
-- Pasadena, California
-- NY, NY
-- Madison, WI
-- Evanston, IL
-- VA, suburb of DC
-- Philly region
6) Jobs
-- babysitter
-- quartet (violin)
-- semi-pro orchestra
-- teaching precocious high school kids to write
-- lab assistant
-- department assistant
-- music librarian
-- library assistant
-- assistant in Trust Administration at College
-- bartender
-- planned parenthood
-- word processor for a church
-- various political campaigns
-- assistant in Dean's Office at local University
-- teaching college kids history
I think everyone's done this by now. If you haven't yet, fess up, yo.
1) 10 years ago, I was 29 (gulp), living outside Chicago, in sin with Mr. ABF (who was then, boyfriend). We had a lovely prewar apartment, and our two cats. I was finishing up research for the diss, starting the writing process, working at the nearby university's Dean's Office as an assistant. I was training for the marathon (fall of '98). I was avidly watching World Cup '98 and painted my toenails weekly in the colors of the teams I was following at that moment. (This also served as a weak attempt to make my poor beat-up feet look and feel better.) It was a freakin' hot summer. I felt, truly, like I had my entire life ahead of me, and while not a pollyanna (it was clear to me by this point that my chosen profession was headed straight into the toilet and I'd probably be looking for jobs elsewhere despite my degree), I was quite optimistic that everything would turn out lovely.
I would give up my billion dollars (see question 4), my left tit, drop-kick a puppy, any other completely inappropriate metaphor you can think of to insert here, to go back and just savor in this summer for a few hours. Relish in my body, my entertainment, my mind, my dreams. I don't think I'd do anything differently, nor would I really want to relive the following 10 years ('99, for example, was a bit rough), but just to be: free. Comfortable. Happy.
Sigh.
2) 5 things on to-do list today:
-- bake bluebery bars for book club tonight
-- go to gym
-- write dog trainer email and tell her how it's going (surprisingly well)
-- ask neighbor if she still has divided Iris that are alive and able to be planted in my yard
-- go to book club and hate on McEwan's "Saturday" over a nice frozen cocktail
3) Good for me snacks: cashews, pistachios, peanut butter and apples, pretty much any kind of cheese. Bad for me snacks I could eat until I burst: chips and sour cream dip, chocolate anything, anything baked. I live for a midmorning sweet thing with coffee.
4) Billion Dollars: I'm going to spare you the warm and fuzzy donations and whatnot -- right now I feel like starting my own invasion of Zimbabwe. On the completely material side I'd:
-- buy a second home (beach? mountains? Italy?)
-- move out and reno my entire house at once so the entire thing would be done by Christmas
-- swap out my husband's car for a hybrid
-- buy hybrids for my entire family
-- buy up some local properties that are falling apart and fix 'em up
-- travel, travel, travel
5) Places I've lived
-- born in midwest city, lived there until six months old.
-- Tempe, AZ
-- Mainz, Germany
-- Pasadena, California
-- NY, NY
-- Madison, WI
-- Evanston, IL
-- VA, suburb of DC
-- Philly region
6) Jobs
-- babysitter
-- quartet (violin)
-- semi-pro orchestra
-- teaching precocious high school kids to write
-- lab assistant
-- department assistant
-- music librarian
-- library assistant
-- assistant in Trust Administration at College
-- bartender
-- planned parenthood
-- word processor for a church
-- various political campaigns
-- assistant in Dean's Office at local University
-- teaching college kids history
I think everyone's done this by now. If you haven't yet, fess up, yo.
Monday, June 9, 2008
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