When you were born

April 15, 2011

Dear Andrea,

            New Year’s Eve morning, when you were born, they lifted me, laboring with forces out of my control, onto a gurney, wheeled me into the delivery room.  The doctor, scrubbed and gloved was waiting.  The orderly wheeled me into place, propped pillows behind my head and back, asking me “are you comfortable, is this o.k.?

            I could only pant, shake my head, concentrated as I was on muscles grown taut, screaming “ENOUGH OF THIS.  We cannot stretch anymore.”  They were fighting back, squeezing everything out of me.

            The nurses put each leg into a metal stirrup.  They worked around me, with me, efficiently, quietly.

            “Adjust the mirror so she can see,” the doctor said.

            “Can you see that?” he asked me.  “Your baby is crowning.  Look at all of that black hair!”

            No longer focused on the tautness of my womb squeezing you, I watched, mesmerized.  In that moment the crown of your head was framed by my body.  

            “Another push,” he directed, as if I had control and this force did not have control of me.

            The nurse put her arm around my back, folding me over on myself as far as she could.  My face turned pink, red, purple.  I could not breathe.  I could only push.

            “You’re doing great,” she tells me.

            Bending, stretching, pushing, pushing, pushing.  I saw your head, twisting as you shouldered your way out.  Then arms, chest, legs, feet. 

            The doctor held you up for me to see, all glistening pink and white and warm.  “It’s a girl,” he announced.

            You let out your first cry.

The nurse held you as the doctor cut the cord.  Once un-tethered, she wrapped you in a blanket, placed you in my arms.

From these moments we would grow together and apart.

                                    --------------------------------------

That is the scene that played over and over in my dreams the hot summer of 2009--as you texted me from mountain falls and rocky beaches and called me from emergency rooms in pain, afraid of what was happening to you.

My strong daughter who stood at helms of ships, stood watch for pirates, sailed seas, called from Catania, Chania, Naples, Dubai, Shanghai.

It was then I began to know what my dreams were telling me.

                                 ______________________

In thinking about Annalise's birth, and of yours I am in awe.  My friend Linda is a midwife.  She always tells me she is amazed by the strenght of women.  I am amazed by the forces of nature that give and take.  I am amazed by the fact that each of us mothers who have survived our children, can get out of bed in the morning, brush her teeth, brush her hair, make coffee, toast, sandwiches, soup, wash dishes, vacuum floors, show up for work.  I am amazed by the strength I have found in me to not just get through, but to accept this absence of you. 

Love you baby--

A Gift

April 14, 2011              

Dear Andrea,

“Annalise just had a doctor appointment.  She weighs 13.5 pounds.  She had gone from the 10^th percentile to the 90^th!  He thinks she is eating too much because food makes her tummy feel better.  So he is giving her some reflux medicine to try to help her.”

This is what your cousin, my niece, Lisa texted me this morning.

“Food makes my tummy better too J” I text her back.

I never used to text until you showed me how.  “It works like this.” You said as you showed me.  After that, you texted me all the time.  I would sit there, watching your words appear.   Then you started sending pictures.  “Are these the shoes you’re looking for?”  “Can you believe this?”  “Sadie says hi.”    

Lisa came to help sort through your stuff the day after you died.  Later, my sister Karen, her mother, told me Lisa was devastated seeing me so sad.  She did not know what to do.  She hugged me and held me as I quaked in sorrow. 

She stepped in as a daughter would.  She called to check on me.  Made sure I was invited to family dinners, then followed up with my sister to remind me, encourage me to come.  Now Lisa calls me her “second” mother.  When she asks my sister for an opinion, my sister tells her, “you should ask your other mother too.”  When she calls with good news, or sad, my sister tells her “did you call your other mother too?”  They know nothing will ever replace you, Andrea.  They loved you too.

What they are offering me is an incredible gift.  They have wrapped their arms around me, drawn me into their relationship.  I accept their gift, and thank them for it.

Annalise was born on February 4, 2011.   I was there with Lisa, on the right side of her hospital bed in the birthing room.  I had my right arm around her shoulders to help her lift up with each pushing contraction.  I took cool washcloths from her friend and put them to her forehead in those moments she could rest.  I watched the doctor, the nurses working quietly. Even when Annalise’s heart rate dropped, they barely spoke above a whisper, moved quickly with efficiency.

“The baby’s heart rate dropped.” A nurse relayed to the doctor.

“Call the team.  Get me suction.”  The doctor quietly ordered.

I was worried.  My heart raced.  This had to have a happy ending.

I watched, listened, holding Lisa up and leaning in to see.

When Annalise came out, I saw her drop into the doctor’s gloved hands.  I held my breath, until she took her first.

When my sister Karen called to tell me Lisa was pregnant, she told me, “I have two grandchildren.  This is my third.  I’ve talked to Lisa.  We want this one to be your first.  You can be this baby’s grandma also.  We’ll share.”

After that, Lisa called me after every doctor visit, every ultrasound.  When she learned the baby was a girl, I texted her baby names to the point even I thought I was annoying.  Georgia, Isabel, Elizabeth (I thought about calling you Elizabeth), Lilly, Isabel.  We went shopping for pink baby clothes, things with flowers and hearts.  I checked with her, making sure “my baby” had everything she needed. 

When I am holding Annalise, when I am with her mother, Lisa and when I am with Lisa’s older two children—Tanner and Alicia—I feel something break loose in me.  I am sad that you and I never got to share the birthing of your child.  I know how badly you wanted that.  I kept telling myself, I would have been an awesome grandma. 

I hope I am.

Love you baby girl--Mom   

Part of a Wish

April 12, 2011

When I was reading all the things you posted on Twitter, Myspace and Facebook, I came across some lists you made.  One of the things you wanted was for someone to write you a love song.  It was such a sweet thing to ask.  But even now, it is a wish I cannot grant.  Though I made sure you learned to play an instrument, the violin,  I never learned to read music.  I always had to sing along. 

In high school I wrote poetry.  I wrote well enough to get published in some anthologies, though I could not tell you which ones.  I sold a poem once to the ­Tacoma News Tribune for $25.00.  After high school, I dabbled with poetry once in awhile, but never for more than a few days or weeks at a time.  There were always other, more pressing demands.  My stories, my thoughts, the words that tumbled round in me seeking exit, remained trapped. 

After you died, after I could pull myself out from under the down comforter long enough to take a bath, I began to listen to the words that formed.  I tried to write them down, but tears turned them into rivers of ink I could not read.  Now, the tears come less frequently, I cannot stop the flow of words.  I write everywhere and race to find pen and paper to capture thoughts.  Even though I cannot write you a love song, I wrote you a poem.

For Andrea on Her 29^th Birthday

Your letterman jacket

hangs limply

on my office chair

I eat from pink chopsticks

painted with dogwood blossoms

you purchased in Shanghai

the Blessed Virgin oil

you bought in Italy

I found rolled up in a cardboard tube

hangs framed now

above my desk

your baby shoes

scuffed from crawling

sit next to a framed picture of you

learning how to surf.

I cannot bend to this

there is no truth here I want to know

on my knees

I beat bare earth

demanding back

what was never mine

to keep.

Are you afraid?

I am.

Do you miss me there?

I miss you here.

I gather all I am

ever was

I draw from trees

grass, sky

call out your name

Do you call out to me?

I catch glimpses

chase you

look for you in dreams.

I hear music now

I am carried away on the notes

of a violin

haunting me

the melody brings me back again

to the whole of it

this world without you.

                                                Love you--Mom

Where did you go?

 

April 11, 2011

Good evening Andie,

      It rained all night like a thousand old women weeping for their children.  I laid in bed and listened as the wind whispered, then sang, trying to console them.  Growing tired of so much sadness, it attacked the women in a fury.

     They could not stop.

     The light was pink this morning.  I check the sky for its mood.  Gray clouds edged in sunshine disperse, turn white, scatter revealing blue sky as I sip the first cup of coffee.

     When I was a child, Heaven was in the clouds.  I envisioned whole cities floating above me.  If I strained hard enough, I thought I might catch a glimpse.  If I had a ladder long enough, I could go there.  My God was an all knowing one who heard my prayers.  I did not need to look for him.  He was everywhere.

     Sunday school, catechism, the doctrines of miscellaneous religions interposed in my young mind tried to displace what my heart knew.  I was introduced to an angry God—a punishing God.  Adam and Eve, Sodom and Gomorrah, Noah’s Ark.  He showed no mercy until he became a father.  And even then, it took the death of his son.

     It was always Mary I identified with.  I sang a song about her once in an Easter solo.  I sang about how she rocked Jesus as a baby, watched him take his first step and cried when he first said her name.  I could not finish without my voice breaking.  When I was finished singing, there was the sound of sniffling, the quiet rustle of Kleenex and handkerchiefs.  It took a moment for the pastor to compose himself, before he could move on to the next part of the service.

     You were still alive then.  On that Good Friday you came to church with me and sat in the pews in front of the church choir as I sang about Mary raising Jesus as a child and then watching him die on the cross.  I felt what it must be like to survive the death of your child.  The thought, the possibility, the reality was too immense for me.  Back then, I could leave the song—the notes, the words, the haunting feelings they invoked.  I was simply channeling Mary’s grief.  It was not my own.

     Yesterday, Steve sent me an email from his sister Jana.  Fwd:Interesting view of heaven.  He must have seen the books I have laying around the house—The Shack,  A New Theology by Sheila Bender, 90 Minutes in Heaven, Heaven is for Real.  I am sending you a copy of that email at the end of this letter.  I know you cannot write me back to comment, but that does not stop me from sharing.

     All of this leads me to this question—what happened to you when you died?  Where did you go?  I am searching for an answer.

     When I found you once in a dream, I wanted to stay with you.  You laughed at me, told me I could not.  I asked you for something to bring back with me, a souvenir of our visit.  You hugged me and apologized.  You are somewhere I cannot travel to now.  There is no ticket I can buy.  No roadmap showing roads I could drive leading where you stay.    

     Though I do not know where you are, I have seen that you are happy there.  I found the slide show that you left.  At the end, you wrote “If I am smiling, you should be smiling too.”

     I am finding ways to smile again.

Love you—Mom

http://www.myspace.com/video/vid/54000075  Life vs. Lyme  Andrea’s video she made on myspace in March 2010

"THE ROOM" as written by a 17 Year Old Boy.

This is excellent and really gets you thinking about what will happen in Heaven.
17-year-old Brian Moore had only a short time to write something for a class. The subject was What Heaven Was Like. "I wowed 'em," he later told his father, Bruce. It's a killer. It's the bomb It's the best thing I ever wrote." It also was the last.
Brian's parents had forgotten about the essay when a cousin found it while cleaning out the teenager's locker at  Teays Valley High School   inPickaway County  .

Brian had been dead only hours, but his parents desperately wanted every piece of his life near them, notes from classmates and teachers, and his homework. Only two months before, he had handwritten the essay about encountering Jesus in a file room full of cards detailing every moment of the teen's life. But it was only after Brian's death that Beth and Bruce Moore realized that their son had described his view of heaven.
It makes such an impact that people want to share it. "You feel like you are there," Mr. Moore said. Brian Moore died May 27, 1997, the day after Memorial Day. He was driving home from a friend's house when his car went off

Bulen-Pierce Road

in Pickaway County and struck a utility pole. He emerged from the wreck unharmed but stepped on a downed power line and was electrocuted.

The Moore 's framed a copy of Brian's essay and hung it among the family portraits in the living room. "I think God used him to make a point. I think we were meant to find it and make something out of it," Mrs. Moore said of the essay. She and her husband want to share their son's vision of life after death. "I'm happy for Brian. I know he's in heaven. I know I'll see him.

Here is Brian's essay entitled:

"THE ROOM"
In that place between wakefulness and dreams, I found myself in the room. There were no distinguishing features except for the one wall covered with small index card files. They were like the ones in libraries that list titles by author or subject in alphabetical order. But these files, which stretched from floor to ceiling and seemingly endless in either direction, had very different headings.
As I drew near the wall of files, the first to catch my attention was one that read "Girls I Have Liked." I opened it and began flipping through the cards. I quickly shut it, shocked to realize that I recognized the names written on each one. And then without being told, I knew exactly where I was. This lifeless room with its small files was a crude catalog system for my life. Here were written the actions of my every moment, big and small, in a detail my memory couldn't match. A sense of wonder and curiosity, coupled with horror, stirred within me as I began randomly opening files and exploring their content. Some brought joy and sweet memories; others a sense of shame and regret so intense that I would look over my shoulder to see if anyone was watching.

A file named "Friends" was next to one marked "Friends I Have Betrayed." The titles ranged from the mundane to the outright weird. "Books I Have Read," "Lies I Have Told," "Comfort I have Given," "Jokes I Have Laughed At."Some were almost hilarious in their exactness: "Things I've Yelled at My Brothers." Others I couldn't laugh at: "Things I Have Done in My Anger", "Things I Have Muttered Under My Breath at My Parents." I never ceased to be surprised by the contents. Often there were many more cards than expected. Sometimes fewer than I hoped. I was overwhelmed by the sheer volume of the life I had lived.

Could it be possible that I had the time in my years to fill each of these thousands or even millions of cards? But each card confirmed this truth. Each was written in my own handwriting. Each signed with my signature.

When I pulled out the file marked "TV Shows I Have Watched," I realized the files grew to contain their contents. The cards were packed tightly, and yet after two or three yards, I hadn't found the end of the file. I shut it, shamed, not so much by the quality of shows but more by the vast time I knew that file represented.
When I came to a file marked "Lustful Thoughts," I felt a chill run through my body. I pulled the file out only an inch, not willing to test its size, and drew out a card. I shuddered at its detailed content. I felt sick to think that such a moment had been recorded. An almost animal rage broke on me.

One thought dominated my mind: No one must ever see these cards! No one must ever see this room! I have to destroy them!" In insane frenzy I yanked the file out. Its size didn't matter now. I had to empty it and burn the cards.
But as I took it at one end and began pounding it on the floor, I could not dislodge a single card. I became desperate and pulled out a card, only to find it as strong as steel when I tried to tear it. Defeated and utterly helpless, I returned the file to its slot. Leaning my forehead against the wall, I let out a long, self-pitying sigh.

And then I saw it. The title bore "People I Have Shared the Gospel With." The handle was brighter than those around it, newer, almost unused. I pulled on its handle and a small box not more than three inches long fell into my hands. I could count the cards it contained on one hand.
And then the tears came. I began to weep. Sobs so deep that they hurt. They started in my stomach and shook through me. I fell on my knees and cried. I cried out of shame, from the overwhelming shame of it all. The rows of file shelves swirled in my tear-filled eyes. No one must ever, ever know of this room.. I must lock it up and hide the key. But then as I pushed away the tears, I saw Him.

No, please not Him. Not here. Oh, anyone but Jesus. I watched helplessly as He began to open the files and read the cards. I couldn't bear to watch His response. And in the moments I could bring myself to look at His face, I saw a sorrow deeper than my own. He seemed to intuitively go to the worst boxes.
Why did He have to read every one? Finally He turned and looked at me from across the room.. He looked at me with pity in His eyes. But this was a pity that didn't anger me. I dropped my head, covered my face with my hands and began to cry again. He walked over and put His arm around me. He could have said so many things. But He didn't say a word. He just cried with me.

Then He got up and walked back to the wall of files.. Starting at one end of the room, He took out a file and, one by one, began to sign His name over mine on each card. "No!" I shouted rushing to Him. All I could find to say was "No, no," as I pulled the card from Him. His name shouldn't be on these cards. But there it was, written in red so rich, so dark, and so alive.The name of Jesus covered mine. It was written with His blood. He gently took the card back He smiled a sad smile and began to sign the cards. I don't think I'll ever understand how He did it so quickly, but the next instant it seemed I heard Him close the last file and walk back to my side. He placed His hand on my shoulder and said, "It is finished."

I stood up, and He led me out of the room. There was no lock on its door. There were still cards to be written.

   

Sadie Girl

April 10, 2011

Hey you--

Today I went in search of pussywillows—those first harbingers of spring. 

I told Steve I wanted to find them.  Asked him if he knew where they grew.  Within ten minutes he called me back.  They grow in wet areas—by fresh water.  Look along the creeks and rivers.  Look beside a lake and you will find them there. 

Like me, they love the water.  I would plant myself beside one if I could.

I took your little dog, Sadie with me.  She lives with me now.  I know she misses you as much as I do, though she has no words to tell me this.

Sadie loves a good run in the woods.  I love the woods too, though I prefer to walk, not run.  Being outside clears my mind.  I unclip Sadie from her flexi-lead, she runs ahead of me.  She doesn’t go far before turning around.  Dancing, she smiles at me--invites me to follow at her pace. 

          “WoooooWoooooWoooo!”

          It is not often that she speaks to me.  I think she is asking permission.

          “Go Sades,” I tell her, “You can play.”  She runs ahead.

          The tide must be out.  The mudflats are exposed.  A lone mallard sits out on the point, where the Deschutes empties into Capital Lake.  I am watching him sitting there taking in the sun.  Sadie sees him too.  Before I can call her back, she is gone.  Across the mudflats, towards the duck, she gathers speed.  The duck hears her, does not look back.  He opens his wings, runs a few steps, finds that first current of air and is lifted in flight.  He is stunning. 

          “Sadie.  Come back here.” I call to her in my mother voice. 

          She turns and runs to me.  Still laughing, still dancing, she is happy.

          All I can do is laugh.  Her wheaton colored coat looks like she was dipped in chocolate from all four legs to her chest.  

          “You are not riding in the car like that.” I tell her.  She doesn’t care.  She knows I would never leave her.

          I cut across the grass field, she runs ahead, sees two crows visiting.  She races up to them, interrupting their conversation.  I am searching the edges of the marsh.  The trees are still holding tightly to their buds, it is not warm enough for leaves.  And then I see what I have come for.  One tree, grown large, branches full of fuzzy white buds. 

          I reach up and break a branch.  I have followed my friend’s advice.  He knew where pussywillows grow. 

          He teaches me about the plants and trees, the rocks, the dirt, the mountains.  He teaches me about things that grow and others that should not.  He walks with me in wind and rain telling me the names of plants.  I see things differently through his eyes and I am better for it.  I learn to be gentle with the earth and with myself.  To listen and to wait.

          And to remember.    

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                      

Second Spring

Dear Andrea,

It is spring.  It is the second you have missed.  The cherry trees are massive clouds of pink against this gray Washington sky.  There is still a coldness in the air, frost in the mornings.  But there are daffodils, tulips, hyacinths in bloom.   All my plants that died back last winter are pushing back the dirt, their leaves bringing promise of buds and then flowers.

This spring I am those leaves.  I hold the promise of a flower tight within my chest.  I know I will never get over this.  I will forever be cradled in the hands of grief.  I have grown comfortable there.  I lay there in the warmth of it.  I close my eyes and feel cool breath entering my nostrils, warm breath leaving my body.

Bathed in tears, I am softened to possibilities.   

I had no idea how fierce love could be until you were born. Holding you as you nursed at my breast until your stomach was full and you fell asleep there in my arms milk falling out of the corner of your mouth, the smell of Johnson's baby lotion on your skin, I sat there cradling you, watching you sleep unable to put you in your own bed. I buttoned my shirt and watched you as you slept. And as you laid there cradled in my arms you'd twitch and smile, your eyes would move under your lids, and I wondered, what does she dream about? Being so new to this life.

This year, as the trees are holding a little less tightly to their buds, my spring is filled with images of you.

You in your Johnny jump up clipped to the doorframe between the kitchen and the living room. You loved to bounce and you were quite exuberant about it.  You in your high chair, Oreo cookies smeared all over your face.

Sleeping on the couch in pink footed pajamas, asleep with your Cabbage Patch doll I made for you in one arm and a bag of nacho flavored Doritos in the other arm.

Standing on the vanity in the bathroom in the little green dress with white eyelet pinafore I made you, brushing your hair.

Splashing in the bathtub until the floor was soaking wet.

Three years old sitting on your sister's piece of birthday cake. When she screamed and cried "Andrea sat on my cake." You smiled and said "Yeah. And I farted on it to."

I want to hold your three-year-old hand again. I want to help you brush your teeth, bathe you, wash your hair, make your favorite breakfast, a Farmer's omelet of eggs and sausage and fried potatoes.

My cells and nerves all memorized the sight, the sound, the shape of you pressed up against me in a hug. If I sit still long enough I can feel you here. 

It is Spring again.  I am going to lie beneath a cherry tree and feel the coolness of the ground seep through my jacket and my jeans.  I am going to curl myself around the trunk, feel the roughness of its bark against my skin.  I am going to let the cherry blossom petals fall on me until they form a blanket I can sleep beneath.
You will find me in my dreams.

                                                                                       Love You Always,

                                                                                       Mom

Why Dead Letters?

September 2, 2010. 

When I write the date, it all comes back to me.  I retreat into the shelter of myself, braced against the hurricane of grief.  The hurricane bears my daughter’s name. I am carried on winds I cannot brace myself against.  I am pelted with rain.  I am everywhere.  I am nowhere.

I know I am not alone.  We mothers of dead children find each other.  We have been initiated into a sisterhood no one wants to join. We can speak our children’s names to one another, talk about how we are changed, share stories of our child and no one tries to change the subject.  Or walk away.    

I go about my life quietly, silent in a grief only the initiated understand.  In this world without my daughter, Andrea, I grab my pen and paper, I sit in front of my computer, I write.  Then I share.  I am mapping the latitudes and longitudes of grief I travel through each day, each week, each month, each year.  Without a compass, no points to mark the way, I am often lost.  But I keep moving.

I create my posts to remember where I have been, and of the moment I am in.  I still do not know where I am going.  That is not important now.  It is only important that I keep moving.  And that I break the silence surrounding the event no one wants to even imagine, let alone have happen—a child’s death.

I am a mother.  I miss my daughter Andrea.  In losing her, I am finding myself, a new self.  My grief is always there.  There are no stages.  The whisper of her existence is the first thing on my mind each morning and the last thing at night.  I feel her around me.  She bathes me in warmth before I fall asleep.  She visits me in dreams. 

And she has told me—when the winds blow, the colors are incredible.  I will love it there, where she is now.

For now, I am here.  I am among the living.