I'm blessed in my family. I've known this, but I am reminded again and again.
My dad is doing much better. But over the weekend when my mom seemed to need somebody there on Tuesday, my sister and I tried to sort it out. It was the day in my schedule I could go, though I needed to come back that night. I said I could do it. I assured my mom, who wanted my sister's understanding of medicine and the healthcare system, that I could talk to the doctors. I certainly have more experience than I'd like. I told my sister that I could and would do it, but if she could I'd really appreciate. Then thinking about how she was trying to reschedule an appointment that had to happen before Christmas and having her husband try to change his work schedule and piecing together childcare from friends, I called her back and said, this is silly, I should just do it.
She wanted to do it, she said. She felt bad she hadn't been able to go when my dad was so sick before. She'd like to see him. And, she acknowledged, I know this is a hard time for you. This is what I love. My family knows—understands—that even six years out, December is a struggle for me. They get that having my girls' birthdays in this month makes it easier and harder all at the same time. I know people who didn't get that kind of understanding in year one. I'm lucky in my family and thankful.
Showing posts with label family. Show all posts
Showing posts with label family. Show all posts
Tuesday, December 10, 2013
Wednesday, January 23, 2013
My View 5: Making Space?
The glider-rocker I got before Henry was born is still hanging in there, though the way my girls climb on it, hang off it, and slam it too and fro, I wonder how long it has. I find myself back in this chair again more often come evening because this room is cozy.
In November, we got the insert stove we've been talking about getting since we got married. My fears of this room being intolerably warm weren't warranted, but we are still working out the kinks of getting the warm air circulating effectively. The bedrooms are warm, but I worry about the pipes at the other end of the house in the poorly insulated bathroom. We're in the middle of a cold snap, so I guess this is the test.
The stove means that the toys that I once housed in piles and bins in front of the fireplace had to find a new home. It means there are piles of wood and plastic buckets of sticks and wood chips and other debris. The stove has a blower, so if we're working on maximum efficiency, it's loud. I hated that at first, but I've gotten used to, as we do with most things. It also seems to have driven away the ants that usually start invading our living room in January. I remember sitting nursing Kathleen and with Elizabeth and watching lines of ants moving across the floor.
The stove means more sooty dust on the mantle, so I try to dust it more, and when I do, I stop to look at Henry's pictures there. I think about moving the two big collage frames that are there, though I don't know what I'd put there instead. I have a vision of family photos mounted on the walls by the bottom of the stairs (if I don't get the built in bookcases I'd really like), but I'm waiting until we finish peeling wallpaper and paint that wall. It's been in a state of half prepped for almost six years. That's the way of projects I guess.
I think too about replacing some of the pictures from those frames, mingling Henry with the rest of our family. My sister put together all our framed pictures—these two big collage frames and dozens of smaller, individual ones—for his funeral, when I knew I wanted pictures but couldn't do it. These pictures are still all over our house. I love having them, but I want Henry to be part of us, not an aside, much the way I have a tiny tree that is only his but also put his ornaments on our full Christmas tree. As I look around, I see the dried filler flowers from one of the arrangements from his funeral and wonder if I'm ready to compost them. I think of the dried white roses on the Henry shelf in my office and contemplate moving them upstairs and mingling them with the dried roses Brian has given me. These things that are tied not to him, but to his death—am I ready to let them go and make some space?
In November, we got the insert stove we've been talking about getting since we got married. My fears of this room being intolerably warm weren't warranted, but we are still working out the kinks of getting the warm air circulating effectively. The bedrooms are warm, but I worry about the pipes at the other end of the house in the poorly insulated bathroom. We're in the middle of a cold snap, so I guess this is the test.
The stove means that the toys that I once housed in piles and bins in front of the fireplace had to find a new home. It means there are piles of wood and plastic buckets of sticks and wood chips and other debris. The stove has a blower, so if we're working on maximum efficiency, it's loud. I hated that at first, but I've gotten used to, as we do with most things. It also seems to have driven away the ants that usually start invading our living room in January. I remember sitting nursing Kathleen and with Elizabeth and watching lines of ants moving across the floor.
The stove means more sooty dust on the mantle, so I try to dust it more, and when I do, I stop to look at Henry's pictures there. I think about moving the two big collage frames that are there, though I don't know what I'd put there instead. I have a vision of family photos mounted on the walls by the bottom of the stairs (if I don't get the built in bookcases I'd really like), but I'm waiting until we finish peeling wallpaper and paint that wall. It's been in a state of half prepped for almost six years. That's the way of projects I guess.
I think too about replacing some of the pictures from those frames, mingling Henry with the rest of our family. My sister put together all our framed pictures—these two big collage frames and dozens of smaller, individual ones—for his funeral, when I knew I wanted pictures but couldn't do it. These pictures are still all over our house. I love having them, but I want Henry to be part of us, not an aside, much the way I have a tiny tree that is only his but also put his ornaments on our full Christmas tree. As I look around, I see the dried filler flowers from one of the arrangements from his funeral and wonder if I'm ready to compost them. I think of the dried white roses on the Henry shelf in my office and contemplate moving them upstairs and mingling them with the dried roses Brian has given me. These things that are tied not to him, but to his death—am I ready to let them go and make some space?
Sunday, November 27, 2011
A few days late
I'm grateful for family
and traditions
and the laughter of Thanksgiving night, after the crowd has thinned and the turkey has been put away.
and traditions
and the laughter of Thanksgiving night, after the crowd has thinned and the turkey has been put away.
I'm thankful for my neighborhood, where people share and help and look out for each other
and for the beauty of this area and bounty of my garden.
I'm so very grateful for this community and this space,
for people who listen and read and nod and say "me too" and send big hugs when I need them most,
for the amazing people I've met because of Henry
for the wonderful people I knew who I got to know in a different way because of him.
Monday, August 29, 2011
Your brother Henry
Angie's answering questions about talking with your living children about their lost sibling at Still Life with Circles, and I thought I'd chime in.
Right after Henry died, I worried about how we would keep him as part of our family as our family grew (which I hoped it would). I didn’t worry about explaining what happened to him to other children we might have, but I needed to know that they could somehow accept this person that they never met as part of our family. I was desperate to figure out how to do that. Then I met a mom, a little further down the road, who really seemed to have integrated her daughter into her family, even though, like me her firstborn had died and her other children never met her. I decided it was enough to know that it was possible and that I would find my way once I had another child to hold in my arms, not just my heart.
***
Henry, I lost my orange blanket at Zoey’s house.
I’m not sure why this it the thing that Kathleen chooses to tell Henry, over and over and over. The blanket was lost and found much earlier this summer, but it is what she says to him often, when I do the bedtime routine.
Brian talks to Henry about praying for our family and others who knew him. I simply ask if she wants to say good night to Henry. If she says yes, I bring down the picture. Sometimes she kisses it, sometimes she says goodnight or I love you or I lost my orange blanket.
I don’t know how this nightly ritual started, but it is as much a part of the routine as brushing her teeth. I accept that there may come a time when she doesn’t want to say goodnight to Henry or when she wants to do it in some other way. This is about how she interacts with her brother.
***
We had a new babysitter here on Tuesday. While I was getting Elizabeth dressed for the day and Kathleen and H. were playing, I heard Kathleen say, “This is Henry.” I looked out and she was showing her picture blocks with immediate and extended family members, and the first person she decided to show was Henry.
***
I made Kathleen an alphabet book for her first Christmas. Or I intended to. I only completed one page in time for that Christmas. On the H page, I put Henry’s picture in the middle of a big heart. H is for Henry and hearts. Henry is in heaven, but we carry him in our hearts.
***
Brian has lots of photos and little video clips on his iPod. Kathleen likes to watch the video of her going down the slide, but she likes the one of Henry smiling too.
***
In late May, Brian told Kathleen that the next day was Henry’s birthday, and she said I sing “Happy to You” to Henry.
Should we have cake? I asked. But of course.
I had made cupcakes for his first birthday, the only one we marked with our family, but I hadn’t made cake for him since. This year we had chocolate cake with sour cream frosting, and we sang to him.
***
We have pictures of Henry in almost every room of the house. He’s in Kathleen’s alphabet book and blocks. We have photo albums of him as we do of Kathleen and Elizabeth. We talk about him. We talk about memories and missing him. We tell Kathleen about things that she used that Henry used just as we tell her about things that Elizabeth now uses that she once used. We talk naturally about him, and so far it seems she does too.
People have asked me if I will talk to Kathleen and Elizabeth about Henry. I tell them I already do. I can’t imagine how I would not.
So we talk about him, but how do we explain what happened? We’ve told Kathleen simply that he died. We have pictures and stories and we love him, but we can’t see him. We tell her he is with Auntie K and Bandit. We will, I suppose, add more as they asks more and understands more.
I just revisited what I thought about talking to Kathleen about her brother in her first year, early on and later. We're doing the same things, but they have evolved more into part of our routine now. I worry less about Henry's role in our family. My questions about how he and his siblings will interact evolve too—will they ever resent him? feel like we love him more? how will they share him with their friends as they get older? what will they want to know about him dying, about death, about where he is? Or maybe they'll have completely different questions. We'll talk about them as they come up. We'll continue to talk about our son, their brother.
Sunday, November 7, 2010
Headstones and hospital programs
Friday we drove up to visit my parents, but really to look at stones. We still, almost three years later, don't have a headstone for Henry. Making that decision was more than either of us could handle when Henry first died. Then grief was heavy, Brian was in nursing school, I was pregnant, we had a new baby, Brian was still in school . . . we didn't have the time to look or the energy to talk about what we wanted. Still it bothered me that he did not have a marker, and we finally started talking about it this year. We talked about getting a piece of granite from my hometown. I never got to bring him there, so we thought we'd bring a piece to him.
While my mom chased Kathleen around an very old cemetery, Brian and I poked through a pile of stones in the yard of a family friend. I wasn't sure we'd find anything. I kept telling Brian we could always get a stone from someplace else if we didn't find what we wanted. Then he found it. Not too big, not too small. A flat face for his name, curved on the back, not quite a perfect arch at the top. It looked natural, but workable—just what we wanted.
We still need somebody to carve and install the stone, but we are one step closer to having a marker on his grave. One step closer, maybe, to keeping people from driving over him. One step closer to anybody being able to find him.
***
Saturday we left Kathleen with my parents and drove into Boston for a program that Children's runs each November for grieving families.
The timing good for me. It feels right to go back in the fall, during the time that I lived there with him. It feels right to make space for him, for grieving, for talking about all of it, right before we head into the darkest days for me.
Strangely, it feels something like a reunion. We saw our chaplain and the woman I knew best from the family life center and the psychologist and a couple from our grief group and a mom who had helped me a lot while Henry was in the hospital and another mom who was in our small breakout group last year. There was that odd happy to see people feeling, despite our reason for being there.
It was an exhausting day, but a good one. I talked about the things that seem like the big issues right now for me: telling new people I meet about Henry and December. I cried the hardest talking about what I want for Kathleen and this new baby—fun birthdays, happy Christmases—and my fears that the weight of December won't let me give them that. These are the things I struggle with right now.
***
When we left our house on Friday, I thought of it as a grief weekend, thought it might be kind of depressing. It wasn't though: we found the stone; I talked to people have I haven't talked to in a long time; I talked about Henry. It was sad, exhausting, but not depressing.
The moment that sticks with me most clearly isn't sad at all. Friday evening we brought Kathleen over to see my grandmother. She was shy for about the first five minutes; then she was running around with her cousin like she owned the place. When it was time to go, I told her to go say goodbye to Big Nana. Kathleen ran right over to her and gave her a big hug and loud kiss, and my grandmother gave one of her famous neck-breaking hugs and sang "I love you a bushel and a peck and a hug around the neck. You bet your big blue eyes I do!"
Going to look for the stone, the extra night with my family was a last minute plan, but when I think of this weekend, the first picture I see is Kathleen with her arms around my Nana and it makes me smile.
While my mom chased Kathleen around an very old cemetery, Brian and I poked through a pile of stones in the yard of a family friend. I wasn't sure we'd find anything. I kept telling Brian we could always get a stone from someplace else if we didn't find what we wanted. Then he found it. Not too big, not too small. A flat face for his name, curved on the back, not quite a perfect arch at the top. It looked natural, but workable—just what we wanted.
We still need somebody to carve and install the stone, but we are one step closer to having a marker on his grave. One step closer, maybe, to keeping people from driving over him. One step closer to anybody being able to find him.
***
Saturday we left Kathleen with my parents and drove into Boston for a program that Children's runs each November for grieving families.
The timing good for me. It feels right to go back in the fall, during the time that I lived there with him. It feels right to make space for him, for grieving, for talking about all of it, right before we head into the darkest days for me.
Strangely, it feels something like a reunion. We saw our chaplain and the woman I knew best from the family life center and the psychologist and a couple from our grief group and a mom who had helped me a lot while Henry was in the hospital and another mom who was in our small breakout group last year. There was that odd happy to see people feeling, despite our reason for being there.
It was an exhausting day, but a good one. I talked about the things that seem like the big issues right now for me: telling new people I meet about Henry and December. I cried the hardest talking about what I want for Kathleen and this new baby—fun birthdays, happy Christmases—and my fears that the weight of December won't let me give them that. These are the things I struggle with right now.
***
When we left our house on Friday, I thought of it as a grief weekend, thought it might be kind of depressing. It wasn't though: we found the stone; I talked to people have I haven't talked to in a long time; I talked about Henry. It was sad, exhausting, but not depressing.
The moment that sticks with me most clearly isn't sad at all. Friday evening we brought Kathleen over to see my grandmother. She was shy for about the first five minutes; then she was running around with her cousin like she owned the place. When it was time to go, I told her to go say goodbye to Big Nana. Kathleen ran right over to her and gave her a big hug and loud kiss, and my grandmother gave one of her famous neck-breaking hugs and sang "I love you a bushel and a peck and a hug around the neck. You bet your big blue eyes I do!"
Going to look for the stone, the extra night with my family was a last minute plan, but when I think of this weekend, the first picture I see is Kathleen with her arms around my Nana and it makes me smile.
Friday, July 2, 2010
Home
I very much consider where I live now home, but my parents house is still home too. I'm home at their house for the week—a week of chaos (7 adults, 5 kids, 2 dogs in a small house), staying up too late with my sisters, laughing until we almost pee our pants; a week coming home covered in salt and sand and sunscreen (nothing like a shower after a day at the beach). Tomorrow my cousins will come and we'll be at the beach from breakfast to dinner. We'll come home tired and sunburned and put the kids to bed. And then I won't go to my high school reunion.
I never committed to going or not going. There are a few people I'd really like to see, friends I've almost kept in touch with over the past twenty years. There are some people I'm curious to see and find out what they are doing. There are a couple of people I don't want to see, but mostly there are people I don't really care about either way. And I don't know who knows. Do you have kids? How old? I don't stumble over these questions as much as I used to, but I don't like answering them. I get weary thinking about it. It's easier to walk into a room full of strangers who I know don't know than a room full of people I once knew who may or may not know.
A one-time friend stopped by two years ago as we were getting ready for the parade. I was pregnant with Kathleen and just over 6 months out from Henry's death. I had walked on the beach that morning with my cousin's baby, enjoying her little body snuggling against my chest as we walked by the waves, but also lamenting that I never got Henry to the beach, that he never saw the ocean I sang to him about so many times. Mostly, I was having a good day, I was with my family. I was safe and content and I didn't want to break that by saying I had a little boy and he died. I didn't know if she knew, but I just didn't want to have that conversation right then. As she was leaving, my sister told her. I haven't seen or heard from her since. And this bothers me more than I realized.
A good friend of my sister's who had lost touch with her for a while got in touch with her back in March. They talked for a long time and they caught up on news. He emailed me after they talked and we've played Scrabble on Facebook and chatted there. He didn't shy away, but you never know who will.
There are plenty of people out there who don't know. And I don't feel like telling that story. I don't feel like agreeing that I have my daughter now but pointing out that I still miss and grieve for my baby boy. And, because I overanalyze things, I've thought about this and debated whether I should go because I should tell this story, because I shouldn't be a coward. Ten years ago, I didn't go to my reunion either. It fell on 4th of July weekend. I was here, but so were my cousins and friends who came to visit. I decided I'd rather spend the evening with them. That's what I'm doing this time too. There are kids to settle, games to play, cookies and ice cream to eat. My sisters and I will stay up too late even if we're tired; my mom will almost fall asleep playing a game with us. We'll all finally agree to go to bed saying we'll regret staying up so late when the kids are up in a few hours. And we will be tired, but we won't regret it—and we won't stop doing it.
Right now there is a cool breeze coming up from the harbor. The air is dry, the sun shining. My dad is running errands and all the others are at the playground. Kathleen went down for an early nap and I'm enjoying a little quiet and breathing deeply the ocean air.
It's good to be home.
I never committed to going or not going. There are a few people I'd really like to see, friends I've almost kept in touch with over the past twenty years. There are some people I'm curious to see and find out what they are doing. There are a couple of people I don't want to see, but mostly there are people I don't really care about either way. And I don't know who knows. Do you have kids? How old? I don't stumble over these questions as much as I used to, but I don't like answering them. I get weary thinking about it. It's easier to walk into a room full of strangers who I know don't know than a room full of people I once knew who may or may not know.
A one-time friend stopped by two years ago as we were getting ready for the parade. I was pregnant with Kathleen and just over 6 months out from Henry's death. I had walked on the beach that morning with my cousin's baby, enjoying her little body snuggling against my chest as we walked by the waves, but also lamenting that I never got Henry to the beach, that he never saw the ocean I sang to him about so many times. Mostly, I was having a good day, I was with my family. I was safe and content and I didn't want to break that by saying I had a little boy and he died. I didn't know if she knew, but I just didn't want to have that conversation right then. As she was leaving, my sister told her. I haven't seen or heard from her since. And this bothers me more than I realized.
A good friend of my sister's who had lost touch with her for a while got in touch with her back in March. They talked for a long time and they caught up on news. He emailed me after they talked and we've played Scrabble on Facebook and chatted there. He didn't shy away, but you never know who will.
There are plenty of people out there who don't know. And I don't feel like telling that story. I don't feel like agreeing that I have my daughter now but pointing out that I still miss and grieve for my baby boy. And, because I overanalyze things, I've thought about this and debated whether I should go because I should tell this story, because I shouldn't be a coward. Ten years ago, I didn't go to my reunion either. It fell on 4th of July weekend. I was here, but so were my cousins and friends who came to visit. I decided I'd rather spend the evening with them. That's what I'm doing this time too. There are kids to settle, games to play, cookies and ice cream to eat. My sisters and I will stay up too late even if we're tired; my mom will almost fall asleep playing a game with us. We'll all finally agree to go to bed saying we'll regret staying up so late when the kids are up in a few hours. And we will be tired, but we won't regret it—and we won't stop doing it.
Right now there is a cool breeze coming up from the harbor. The air is dry, the sun shining. My dad is running errands and all the others are at the playground. Kathleen went down for an early nap and I'm enjoying a little quiet and breathing deeply the ocean air.
It's good to be home.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Vacation Snapshots
We got home Sunday from a week in the White Mountains with my family. It was chaotic and fun, exhausting and wonderful. I laughed a lot, cried a little.
As I packed the car, I couldn't help remembering our vacation last summer. It was just Brian and me and a baby in my belly. There was no car seat, no stopping to give the baby a bottle, no need for diapers or stroller or Pack & Play. Last year in the car on the way to Maine, the empty backseat made me cry. This year, I kept peeking back, reaching back, making sure Kathleen was breathing okay in her new car seat even as her head lolled forward in sleep.
***
Seven adults + 5 kids five and under + one condo = utter chaos
***
I stayed up too late every night of vacation. My sisters and I, and some nights my mom, would play games: cribbage, Pictionary, 100,000 Pyramid, Farkle, Taboo . . . and we laughed. We tend to get incredibly silly when we are all together and at some point somebody says, "Stop, I'm gonna wet my pants." I remembered how a few weeks after Henry died, I visited with my family. We played games, and we laughed until we almost peed our pants. For me then, the laughter was simply a release of the stress and the sorrow. I was all cried out. The next day my back and belly hurt from the exertion. I didn't feel guilty for laughing, but I didn't feel happy either. This vacation, I laughed a lot. I laughed hard. And I felt it.
***
***
My family took Kathleen for a day so that Brian and I could go for a hike together. The mountain we chose, Mount Tremont, wasn't particularly challenging, but Brian was fighting off a summer cold, we're both out of shape, and it was convenient. And we had tried to climb it before. The last time was on snowshoes, about a month after Henry died. We lost the trail somewhere along the way and decided to turn back. I remember the mountain being cold and bleak and beautiful. I remember me being cold and numb and worn out. (There are no pictures from that winter climb. The first
pictures on my camera for 2008 are from March.)
This time all was green and wet. Mushrooms flourished. We saw frogs and snakes. It was sweaty hot. We summited. While we ate lunch, I watched a flock of dragonflies, huge ones as big as my had flitting and drooping about. And I thought of Henry and the other babies I know who have left too soon.
***
Homecoming
We got home in the early afternoon, so I didn't mind that Henry's lamp was dark. It was after the bustle of unpacking and getting Kathleen to bed, when the house was still, that I sat an missed Henry a little more. Somehow he always feels a little more missing, a little more gone when I come back from being away.
***
Despite the thread of grieving and Henry throughout these memories, it was not a sad time, mostly. The missing was always there, but not always insistent on being recognized. I enjoyed my baby girl. I loved watching her with her cousins and look forward to the fun she will have with them as she gets a little bigger.
Our first family vacation
As I packed the car, I couldn't help remembering our vacation last summer. It was just Brian and me and a baby in my belly. There was no car seat, no stopping to give the baby a bottle, no need for diapers or stroller or Pack & Play. Last year in the car on the way to Maine, the empty backseat made me cry. This year, I kept peeking back, reaching back, making sure Kathleen was breathing okay in her new car seat even as her head lolled forward in sleep.
***
Seven adults + 5 kids five and under + one condo = utter chaos
***
I stayed up too late every night of vacation. My sisters and I, and some nights my mom, would play games: cribbage, Pictionary, 100,000 Pyramid, Farkle, Taboo . . . and we laughed. We tend to get incredibly silly when we are all together and at some point somebody says, "Stop, I'm gonna wet my pants." I remembered how a few weeks after Henry died, I visited with my family. We played games, and we laughed until we almost peed our pants. For me then, the laughter was simply a release of the stress and the sorrow. I was all cried out. The next day my back and belly hurt from the exertion. I didn't feel guilty for laughing, but I didn't feel happy either. This vacation, I laughed a lot. I laughed hard. And I felt it.
***
***
My family took Kathleen for a day so that Brian and I could go for a hike together. The mountain we chose, Mount Tremont, wasn't particularly challenging, but Brian was fighting off a summer cold, we're both out of shape, and it was convenient. And we had tried to climb it before. The last time was on snowshoes, about a month after Henry died. We lost the trail somewhere along the way and decided to turn back. I remember the mountain being cold and bleak and beautiful. I remember me being cold and numb and worn out. (There are no pictures from that winter climb. The first
pictures on my camera for 2008 are from March.)This time all was green and wet. Mushrooms flourished. We saw frogs and snakes. It was sweaty hot. We summited. While we ate lunch, I watched a flock of dragonflies, huge ones as big as my had flitting and drooping about. And I thought of Henry and the other babies I know who have left too soon.
***
Homecoming
We got home in the early afternoon, so I didn't mind that Henry's lamp was dark. It was after the bustle of unpacking and getting Kathleen to bed, when the house was still, that I sat an missed Henry a little more. Somehow he always feels a little more missing, a little more gone when I come back from being away.
***
Despite the thread of grieving and Henry throughout these memories, it was not a sad time, mostly. The missing was always there, but not always insistent on being recognized. I enjoyed my baby girl. I loved watching her with her cousins and look forward to the fun she will have with them as she gets a little bigger.
Our first family vacation
Thursday, July 30, 2009
It's Good to See You
As I was getting off the phone with my sister last night, she said, "It's been really good to see you lately." She meant that she enjoyed the fact that we've been able to get together more lately, but also that when we do it is me that she sees, the Sara she has known all her life, the Sara she lived with for years after college, the Sara she knows better than anyone else in the world.
She was quick to add that while she wanted me to know how good it was to see that me again, she was hesitant to say it because she didn't want me to feel like I couldn't be sad or angry or anxious with her. Because she gets that mourning and missing don't end in a year, that having a new baby fills me with love and wonder and awe but does not fill the gaping hole left in my heart by Henry's death. And she knows that there will be times when this new me gets buried again, but lately she has seen me, and she's liked it.
I've kind of liked it too.
I've liked being Kathleen's mom and watching her change so fast. I've liked laughing and smiling. I've liked spending time with Brian, working in the garden, picking berries, playing cribbage, running, making jam. I've liked singing and reading. And I've liked being happy without reminding people that I'm sad too.
I'm loosening my grasp on my need to remind people that Henry is gone, that we still miss him. It's not so much letting go of Henry as trusting people to remember him. I do still speak of him. I do sometimes still compare Kathleen to him, but some days I simply say, "Listen to her laugh in the tub," instead of "She loves her bath, but Henry hated his." I'm tentative about easing up, though, because I want people to remember Henry, because there are still days when I am crushed by the weight of the foreverness of his death, but I need to let go a little.
My five-year-old niece was riding through one of the tunnels in Boston last weekend, and she said, "I remember this tunnel. I went through here the last time I saw Henry." She's five and she remembers this. I can ease up a little.
My sister and my aunt were talking about being second born, listing the people in our family who are. My sister added Kathleen to the list, Kathleen who will be the oldest in my family, but still my second born. I can stop holding so tightly to the reminder.
Yes, there will continue to be the awkward moments of people who don't know about Henry and the hurtful, unintentional comments that gloss over him, but mostly people remember. They remember him; they recognize that Brian and I are shattered but recovering and rebuilding.
I'm not the me my sister knew for years, though she thinks she sees me again, but I have incorporated some of the pieces of the old me into the new me, the me who is still emerging. I'm still getting to know her, this new me, as she steps out into the light and begins to open up again to the world.
She was quick to add that while she wanted me to know how good it was to see that me again, she was hesitant to say it because she didn't want me to feel like I couldn't be sad or angry or anxious with her. Because she gets that mourning and missing don't end in a year, that having a new baby fills me with love and wonder and awe but does not fill the gaping hole left in my heart by Henry's death. And she knows that there will be times when this new me gets buried again, but lately she has seen me, and she's liked it.
I've kind of liked it too.
I've liked being Kathleen's mom and watching her change so fast. I've liked laughing and smiling. I've liked spending time with Brian, working in the garden, picking berries, playing cribbage, running, making jam. I've liked singing and reading. And I've liked being happy without reminding people that I'm sad too.
I'm loosening my grasp on my need to remind people that Henry is gone, that we still miss him. It's not so much letting go of Henry as trusting people to remember him. I do still speak of him. I do sometimes still compare Kathleen to him, but some days I simply say, "Listen to her laugh in the tub," instead of "She loves her bath, but Henry hated his." I'm tentative about easing up, though, because I want people to remember Henry, because there are still days when I am crushed by the weight of the foreverness of his death, but I need to let go a little.
My five-year-old niece was riding through one of the tunnels in Boston last weekend, and she said, "I remember this tunnel. I went through here the last time I saw Henry." She's five and she remembers this. I can ease up a little.
My sister and my aunt were talking about being second born, listing the people in our family who are. My sister added Kathleen to the list, Kathleen who will be the oldest in my family, but still my second born. I can stop holding so tightly to the reminder.
Yes, there will continue to be the awkward moments of people who don't know about Henry and the hurtful, unintentional comments that gloss over him, but mostly people remember. They remember him; they recognize that Brian and I are shattered but recovering and rebuilding.
I'm not the me my sister knew for years, though she thinks she sees me again, but I have incorporated some of the pieces of the old me into the new me, the me who is still emerging. I'm still getting to know her, this new me, as she steps out into the light and begins to open up again to the world.
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
A New View on an Old Loss
My cousin Peter died 12 years ago today. I've been thinking of him today and of my aunt too.
I was 25 when Peter died. I was shocked by his death, that he could go so suddenly, so young. One minute I was laughing in the hallway at work on the way to my desk to answer the phone. The next minute my brain repeatedly failed to comprehend that Peter, my cousin, was dead. When my mom said there had been an accident and Peter was gone, I ran through every Peter I knew, not understanding why she would call me at work about my landlord, their friends' son, a second cousin I did not know well . . . and then it hit.
I remember the silence in their driveway when we arrived. Silence in spite of the knots of kids that filled it. Silence where it was never quiet. It was a July, very much unlike this July. The heat and humidity were oppressive, the air heavy. To this day, I can't stand the smell of lilies, the thick smell that filled their house where they waked the body. I remember being with my cousins, but I don't remember much of my aunt at that early stage.
I remember though, years later, hearing her laugh, a real laugh that replaced the sometimes brittle sometimes overanimated laugh she had had since Peter died. I don't remember how long that was and it doesn't really matter. But that laugh stands out to me.
***
When Henry almost died in October 2007, when I really wasn't sure he was going to make it and my mom was calling our family and Brian's, I wanted my aunt to come to the hospital. Even as my mom was calling her to go be with my grandmother, I wanted her to come to me. At that moment, I wanted somebody there for me, somebody who would know.
I've been thinking about Peter's death from the perspective of a mother who has also lost a son, thinking of my aunt today on this day that will always bear a special weight. I'm thinking of her, holding her close in my heart.
I was 25 when Peter died. I was shocked by his death, that he could go so suddenly, so young. One minute I was laughing in the hallway at work on the way to my desk to answer the phone. The next minute my brain repeatedly failed to comprehend that Peter, my cousin, was dead. When my mom said there had been an accident and Peter was gone, I ran through every Peter I knew, not understanding why she would call me at work about my landlord, their friends' son, a second cousin I did not know well . . . and then it hit.
I remember the silence in their driveway when we arrived. Silence in spite of the knots of kids that filled it. Silence where it was never quiet. It was a July, very much unlike this July. The heat and humidity were oppressive, the air heavy. To this day, I can't stand the smell of lilies, the thick smell that filled their house where they waked the body. I remember being with my cousins, but I don't remember much of my aunt at that early stage.
I remember though, years later, hearing her laugh, a real laugh that replaced the sometimes brittle sometimes overanimated laugh she had had since Peter died. I don't remember how long that was and it doesn't really matter. But that laugh stands out to me.
***
When Henry almost died in October 2007, when I really wasn't sure he was going to make it and my mom was calling our family and Brian's, I wanted my aunt to come to the hospital. Even as my mom was calling her to go be with my grandmother, I wanted her to come to me. At that moment, I wanted somebody there for me, somebody who would know.
I've been thinking about Peter's death from the perspective of a mother who has also lost a son, thinking of my aunt today on this day that will always bear a special weight. I'm thinking of her, holding her close in my heart.
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Love Like an Ocean
I got back yesterday from a few days visiting my parents. I grew up on the coast, spending every weekday at the beach every summer of my childhood. It wasn't until I grew up and moved away that I realized just how lucky I was. The ocean soothes me, calms me, sets me straight. If I go too long without seeing it, smelling it, feeling its rhythm, I get out of balance. So it was good to be there.
We went to the beach each of the three full days I was there and I soaked it all up. I played cold in the water with my nieces. I found periwinkles and crab shells and feathers with them. I ate sandy sandwiches with lemonade. And I walked with Kathleen up and down the beach when she got fussy. I thought about last year on the 4th of July when I walked up and down the beach with my cousin's baby girl, just a tiny two-month-old bundle, how she nestled into me and fell asleep to the sound of the waves, and how I felt the need to hold her and walk with her, but how it made me cry because I hadn't had the chance to walk like that with my baby. Henry never made it to the beach, though he heard about the ocean from me so much. Walking with my cousin's baby last year was a reminder of so much that had never been and never would be. Walking with Kathleen this year reminded me of that too, but also of what is and what is yet to be. In summers to come she will play in the sand and the sea, she'll take walks with her grampy and make sand castles with her nana. The tides will continue to flow in and out. The ocean will continue to stretch out its endless blue expanse. And my love will swell like the waves and stretch beyond where you can see for Henry and for Kathleen.
We went to the beach each of the three full days I was there and I soaked it all up. I played cold in the water with my nieces. I found periwinkles and crab shells and feathers with them. I ate sandy sandwiches with lemonade. And I walked with Kathleen up and down the beach when she got fussy. I thought about last year on the 4th of July when I walked up and down the beach with my cousin's baby girl, just a tiny two-month-old bundle, how she nestled into me and fell asleep to the sound of the waves, and how I felt the need to hold her and walk with her, but how it made me cry because I hadn't had the chance to walk like that with my baby. Henry never made it to the beach, though he heard about the ocean from me so much. Walking with my cousin's baby last year was a reminder of so much that had never been and never would be. Walking with Kathleen this year reminded me of that too, but also of what is and what is yet to be. In summers to come she will play in the sand and the sea, she'll take walks with her grampy and make sand castles with her nana. The tides will continue to flow in and out. The ocean will continue to stretch out its endless blue expanse. And my love will swell like the waves and stretch beyond where you can see for Henry and for Kathleen.
***
Henry out and about:
Kathleen 2009
Henry 2007
- At dinner while I was visiting my family, my brother-in-law commented that he thought Kathleen looked a lot like Henry. I see it sometimes, certain expressions. A bit later, my niece said, "I miss Henry." I told her I missed him too. "But," she said, brightening, "now you have Kakaleen." From a grown-up, this would have bothered me, but from a five-year-old, I accept her thought process, her attempt to sort it all out.
- My cousin told me about his bird feeder and how a cardinal came and sat with them for a while last week.
- Last night at dinner, our friend's daughter wanted her dad to read to her. The book she picked was Hello, Henry. They had gone to the dump on Henry's birthday and visited the book discard area, where they found half a dozen Henry books, including this one, one of their daughter's current favorites.
***
Fourth of July
Kathleen 2009
Henry 2007
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
Sunday to Wednesday Catching Up
Baptism
When I was cleaning out Kathleen's closet, I found a card. Part of the handwritten note said, "I believe Henry is an angel sent from above to teach us to live and love." It was a card for his baptism from his godmother. It was written before his surgery, when we were scared but hopeful and we believed his heart would be fixed and all would be well. And yet, she was right.
Kathleen was baptized this past weekend. It was an event that I looked forward to and dreaded. I feared the memories it might bring up. For a while we had a priest who was always admonishing people to SMILE. I wrote dozens of letters to him in my head, because had he told me to smile at Kathleen's baptism as I was having a Henry moment I might have lost it. I needed him to know that we had a son, that he had been baptized in that same spot about two years before, that he died months after he was baptized, that his casket had sat in the center aisle feet away from the baptismal font, that six months later his godmother had died, so that while we were happy, we were also sad and we would smile—and cry—as we felt like it. But our priest was replaced and I never sent the letter or let forth that flood of anger at him.
And Kathleen's baptism was a joyous event. I had my Henry moment at the end of the mass that preceded the baptism. Tears welled up as I stared up at the font. During the ceremony, I was able to focus mainly on her; I only noted that she cried much more than Henry did when the water was poured over her.
***
Love Like an Ocean
I just got back from visiting my parents with Kathleen. It is a trip I never made with Henry. My parents met him as did my aunts and uncles—even my grandmother. But I never got to bring him there.
I grew up on the coast. The ocean is in my blood. It is the one main complaint I have about where I live now—too far from the ocean. I used to sing to Henry about the ocean in "Peace Like a River." I'd sing that I had love like an ocean, and I'd tell him that he had never seen the ocean, but when he did, he'd know what I meant. But I never got him there. I remember standing looking out over the water for the first time after he died, how I choked on the words as I sang to him.
But Kathleen made it, in what I hope is one of many trips. She saw and smelled the ocean. She was held by her nana and grampy and by her great-grandmother, aunt, and great-aunt. Her cousin Thomas brought her toys when she cried and helped feed her a bottle.
We walked up to the handicapped accessible playground, and my mom showed me the sign that remembers several kids who left too soon, including Henry. We wheeled Kathleen right up to the top level where the sign is, and I saw his name and cried.
Henry loved his baby swing. I imagine he would have loved the playground swings too.
***
Watching You Grow
In the past few days, Kathleen has changed remarkably. She went from tolerating and showing mild interest in her play mat to grabbing and holding onto the dangling toys and half -rolling herself over. She wants to creep forward. She writhes herself backward on her back. And she laughs! She continues to amaze me daily.
I wrote about Henry's song, and Kathleen has her own. One of the last verses is this:
Kathleen Avery we love you so.
We are looking forward to watching you grow.
You will get much bigger, so many things you'll do,
But one thing won't change. We'll always love you.
It took me some time before I could sing this verse with confidence, before I could believe that we would indeed get the chance to watch her grow. I hope to have a long lifetime of watching her grow, but right now she is changing so much I'm trying to just focus on the moment.
When I was cleaning out Kathleen's closet, I found a card. Part of the handwritten note said, "I believe Henry is an angel sent from above to teach us to live and love." It was a card for his baptism from his godmother. It was written before his surgery, when we were scared but hopeful and we believed his heart would be fixed and all would be well. And yet, she was right.
Kathleen was baptized this past weekend. It was an event that I looked forward to and dreaded. I feared the memories it might bring up. For a while we had a priest who was always admonishing people to SMILE. I wrote dozens of letters to him in my head, because had he told me to smile at Kathleen's baptism as I was having a Henry moment I might have lost it. I needed him to know that we had a son, that he had been baptized in that same spot about two years before, that he died months after he was baptized, that his casket had sat in the center aisle feet away from the baptismal font, that six months later his godmother had died, so that while we were happy, we were also sad and we would smile—and cry—as we felt like it. But our priest was replaced and I never sent the letter or let forth that flood of anger at him.
And Kathleen's baptism was a joyous event. I had my Henry moment at the end of the mass that preceded the baptism. Tears welled up as I stared up at the font. During the ceremony, I was able to focus mainly on her; I only noted that she cried much more than Henry did when the water was poured over her.
***
Love Like an Ocean
I just got back from visiting my parents with Kathleen. It is a trip I never made with Henry. My parents met him as did my aunts and uncles—even my grandmother. But I never got to bring him there.
I grew up on the coast. The ocean is in my blood. It is the one main complaint I have about where I live now—too far from the ocean. I used to sing to Henry about the ocean in "Peace Like a River." I'd sing that I had love like an ocean, and I'd tell him that he had never seen the ocean, but when he did, he'd know what I meant. But I never got him there. I remember standing looking out over the water for the first time after he died, how I choked on the words as I sang to him.
But Kathleen made it, in what I hope is one of many trips. She saw and smelled the ocean. She was held by her nana and grampy and by her great-grandmother, aunt, and great-aunt. Her cousin Thomas brought her toys when she cried and helped feed her a bottle.
We walked up to the handicapped accessible playground, and my mom showed me the sign that remembers several kids who left too soon, including Henry. We wheeled Kathleen right up to the top level where the sign is, and I saw his name and cried.
Henry loved his baby swing. I imagine he would have loved the playground swings too.
***
Watching You Grow
In the past few days, Kathleen has changed remarkably. She went from tolerating and showing mild interest in her play mat to grabbing and holding onto the dangling toys and half -rolling herself over. She wants to creep forward. She writhes herself backward on her back. And she laughs! She continues to amaze me daily.
I wrote about Henry's song, and Kathleen has her own. One of the last verses is this:
Kathleen Avery we love you so.
We are looking forward to watching you grow.
You will get much bigger, so many things you'll do,
But one thing won't change. We'll always love you.
It took me some time before I could sing this verse with confidence, before I could believe that we would indeed get the chance to watch her grow. I hope to have a long lifetime of watching her grow, but right now she is changing so much I'm trying to just focus on the moment.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)