A month ago I went out to dinner with the man I loved; the man who loved me back. We ate at a Thai restaurant and he took a picture of me and said, "My heart is so full!" We were just 6 weeks past a discussion about marriage; a discussion we'd had more than once over the past 2 years... and that date was the last time I remember feeling loved, and in love, with that precious man. Corona Virus, or Covid 19, happened in real time, just days later.
We were already semi-aware of Corona Virus, but more as an encroaching threat, a thing for the future, and even though I worked in health care it wasn't yet a front line fear; and so we went out and had dinner and made love, and promises, and had hopes and dreams. That was then... this is now.
Today I left work, at a major hospital in a major city on the east coast, and I cried all the way home. No, that's not right, because I didn't just cry, I wailed. I screamed into the universe of my small empty car. Alone. I prayed, loudly and from my very soul. I cried out to God, who I felt distanced from in this moment, for myself, for my coworkers, for my friends, my family, for my neighbors, my community (and my online community)... for my children. It's how I've spent every day for the past month - in absolute agony and fear and grief, and also all alone. I am not scared. I am terrified. I am 50 years old and healthy and strong - but I am also alone and there are Covid 19 victims younger than me, at a rapidly increasing rate - right in my own hospital - on the very floor I work on - and I am full up of fear.
I am afraid of dying alone; not of dying, I want to be clear on that - but of dying alone. I am afraid of leaving my children alone. I am afraid that one of my own children could die and I am NOT strong enough to withstand that, I know this, not alone. I am afraid that the two brothers I have left on this earth as true family, could die - WOULD die in fact, if they contracted Covid 19. And I would be alone to navigate that grief. I am afraid of losing my remaining aunties and uncle, my few cousins, my rare and true soul-mate friends who are in the high risk category (which is changing and encompassing younger and healthier people daily). What will I do without my big brother Ricky? Without my friends Karen or Golden? What will my kids do, without me, or me without them? How will I die alone without a true love to hold my hand and see me off into heaven?
As my LEAST favorite cliche says, "It is, what it is..." Oh how I hate that cliche.
All I can do is live in THIS moment - and that is really the problem. THIS moment is full of fear, and stress, and emptiness. I told a friend today that in my loss and grief I was returning to the faith that had seen me through so many other losses, and that I so very much wished she had the same comfort. As much as that is true, I am still just one small human being, and I wish so much that the man I loved one month ago, who loved me back, was still available in this moment. As awesome and mighty as my God is, as my faith is, as my belief is, it isn't a human form that can hold me after a long day with sick and hurting people that I can't fix, a long day with scared and stressed nurses who can't fix their patients, a long day listening to administrative orders and knowing it's not saving lives but saving money. I need to be held and there is no one to hold me.
I can't find the balance right now.
April 7, 2020
September 3, 2019
Things that are seen
I used to work in a grocery store. I stood at a cash register and passed the time noting the odd items people bought and what it might mean or what insight it gave to that person. The guy buying chocolates, candy, and condoms was obviously hopeful. Equally obvious tho was the female buying chocolate, potato chips, salad, and tampons. The salad wasn’t fooling anyone! The occasional oddball with Mac and cheese, frozen meals, 2 liters of soda, and an expensive, specialty brand jar of cornichons. Was he going to eat them straight from the jar with his frozen weight watcher meal? It makes me giggle to buy oddball things on occasion now, wondering what the cashier may be thinking. Did I really need that package of pancetta along with my stony farms organic baby yogurt and my vegan and gluten free waffles? Yes, yes I did!
Today as I was checking out from the library I sheepishly said to the librarian, as I unloaded an overflowing armful of books, that it was a little like going to the store for milk but walking out with a $50 order. She laughed and agreed and then said, “oh I like this title!” while pointing to one book in my pile. The book? It was “The Life-Changing Magic Of Not Giving A F*ck” that she was referencing. In my typically awkward way I just smiled and said, “yeah, that one seemed to call to me today”. And I didn’t give on f*ck at all what she thought.
Scratch that. I did, totally, I gave all of the f*cks actually. But that’s why I got the book - to learn how not to!
I also got books on grieving the loss of your parents because all these years later I still miss my mom so much that it makes me cry. I miss my dad too... I can still hear his voice in my head sometimes. I also got home decorating books and some trashy fiction. A well rounded selection overall. Although maybe some of the books seem like the “salad” part of a mostly junk food grocery trip!
Now I’m going to curl up for hours at a time, (well, maybe in 10 minutes increments!) and read and learn and gather info and daydream. Because I want to. In the minutiae of parenting I sometimes forget to do things that I want to do, things that make me happy, not big grand things, but small things like sitting down to read a book with a cup of tea. So that is where you’ll find me for the next foreseeable future; curled up with a book and some tea. Drop by and visit if you’d like!
Today as I was checking out from the library I sheepishly said to the librarian, as I unloaded an overflowing armful of books, that it was a little like going to the store for milk but walking out with a $50 order. She laughed and agreed and then said, “oh I like this title!” while pointing to one book in my pile. The book? It was “The Life-Changing Magic Of Not Giving A F*ck” that she was referencing. In my typically awkward way I just smiled and said, “yeah, that one seemed to call to me today”. And I didn’t give on f*ck at all what she thought.
Scratch that. I did, totally, I gave all of the f*cks actually. But that’s why I got the book - to learn how not to!
I also got books on grieving the loss of your parents because all these years later I still miss my mom so much that it makes me cry. I miss my dad too... I can still hear his voice in my head sometimes. I also got home decorating books and some trashy fiction. A well rounded selection overall. Although maybe some of the books seem like the “salad” part of a mostly junk food grocery trip!
Now I’m going to curl up for hours at a time, (well, maybe in 10 minutes increments!) and read and learn and gather info and daydream. Because I want to. In the minutiae of parenting I sometimes forget to do things that I want to do, things that make me happy, not big grand things, but small things like sitting down to read a book with a cup of tea. So that is where you’ll find me for the next foreseeable future; curled up with a book and some tea. Drop by and visit if you’d like!
August 6, 2019
Hope, Realized...
I've often made the observation that my three oldest kids are very very much just like me: quiet-ish, introvert-ish, readers and thinkers and creators, sarcastic and witty and flawed in the most interesting ways; and that my last born nugget is... entirely different. G is loud, and fast, his brain is so sharp and constantly working, he is physically active and oddly, he is sensitive and easily offended. He makes friends with cashiers and baggers, greeters, neighbors, strangers...but not so easily with classmates. He loudly embraces life, and adventure, and people. But for me, being his mom has not always been particularly easy. He is fast. And loud. And not... like me.
He didn't like the car much as an infant. He cried miserably for most all car rides. He didn't like it if our house was noisy and full of people but he did enjoy getting out and people watching. He was always easily over-stimulated and if we were out and in public too long, he fell apart. At the same time, he needed interaction and connection and would get bored if stuck at home too much. Grocery shopping was such an anxiety producing experience, as was the rare occasion we went anywhere in public, that at some point in time it was best to NOT go anywhere with him except a playground or other obviously kid-friendly place...that was enclosed.
When he was 2, he once ran away from me in Home Depot (after first screaming miserably in the cart for far too long and then kicking and hitting and squirming and screaming while held so that I HAD to put him down on the ground) and it was some kind of comedy to chase him: 2 employees, Hannah, and myself all trying to cut him off, round him up, corral him... and him running and shrieking gleefully up and down aisles. He also ran from toddler story time once, shrieking with joy, through the aisles of the quiet library, with me in hot pursuit, red faced and embarrassed. He ran away in church once too - darting like a squirrel in and out of pews, right in the middle of the service, with me hissing thru gritted teeth for him to getbackhererightnowthankyouverymuch! We left the grocery store once also, him in my arms, my shirt half up around my neck exposing my body, him screaming and flailing like a cat getting a bath, just because. He was loud in quiet places, overwhelmed in loud places, he ran near streets and near strangers, he slumped down and wouldn't move in the middle of activity. By the time he was about 2 and a half, we just didn't do much at all. It was too hard.
When he was 5, it was better. Not great, but better. We started going places again. It got easier. He didn't run away, at least, not very often. He was more compliant, and I was better at reading his signals. I was learning him. Finally.
Now that he's 7 and heading into second grade it's... so different. It's more like what I had hoped for. We do a LOT of things and go a LOT of places. Regularly. I didn't realize though, exactly how much my little wild one has changed, until this morning.
Yesterday I had to have him come to my work for a couple hours. Hannah dropped him off and he came up with his backpack full of snacks and toys and sat at the front desk with me. The hour of time that comprises "shift change" on a med surg floor is crazy chaotic. Nurses coming in to get report from nurses leaving, last minute hold ups with discharging patients, last minute rushes to get patients admitted, a post lunch slew of toileting needs and medication changes, phones ringing and call bells sounding and overhead pages going out - it's loud and busy. There are doctors and nurses and aids. They know OF him, and when they see him they want to say hello. And he sat through it all. This morning, a nurse commented on G's behavior from yesterday, saying how amazed she was that he just sat there, played with his toys, ate his snack, watched a little show on my phone, answered politely to all the people stopping by to say hello to him and chat for a second, smiled and joked back at the ones who made time to engage, and was, in her opinion, a truly mature and mild child. I listened to her and was overcome with emotion. I hadn't even realized how much my boy has grown and changed, how much time has tempered my feral boy, how easy and joyful our times together now are, until someone else pointed out his genuinely agreeable little persona. Another nurse had met him once before and was thrilled to see him again and commented what fun he was, how quiet and well behaved he was. I was...tearful; and I treasured their comments deep in my heart.
Stepping outside my own limited perspective sheds such a bright light on so many things. Take away? I'm going to try to do this intentionally, regularly, to step outside and look at the bigger view. To live bigger, broader, and with more open eyes. To acknowledge. To 'notice'.
Also? I work with some pretty amazing and kind-hearted people!
He didn't like the car much as an infant. He cried miserably for most all car rides. He didn't like it if our house was noisy and full of people but he did enjoy getting out and people watching. He was always easily over-stimulated and if we were out and in public too long, he fell apart. At the same time, he needed interaction and connection and would get bored if stuck at home too much. Grocery shopping was such an anxiety producing experience, as was the rare occasion we went anywhere in public, that at some point in time it was best to NOT go anywhere with him except a playground or other obviously kid-friendly place...that was enclosed.
When he was 2, he once ran away from me in Home Depot (after first screaming miserably in the cart for far too long and then kicking and hitting and squirming and screaming while held so that I HAD to put him down on the ground) and it was some kind of comedy to chase him: 2 employees, Hannah, and myself all trying to cut him off, round him up, corral him... and him running and shrieking gleefully up and down aisles. He also ran from toddler story time once, shrieking with joy, through the aisles of the quiet library, with me in hot pursuit, red faced and embarrassed. He ran away in church once too - darting like a squirrel in and out of pews, right in the middle of the service, with me hissing thru gritted teeth for him to getbackhererightnowthankyouverymuch! We left the grocery store once also, him in my arms, my shirt half up around my neck exposing my body, him screaming and flailing like a cat getting a bath, just because. He was loud in quiet places, overwhelmed in loud places, he ran near streets and near strangers, he slumped down and wouldn't move in the middle of activity. By the time he was about 2 and a half, we just didn't do much at all. It was too hard.
When he was 5, it was better. Not great, but better. We started going places again. It got easier. He didn't run away, at least, not very often. He was more compliant, and I was better at reading his signals. I was learning him. Finally.
Now that he's 7 and heading into second grade it's... so different. It's more like what I had hoped for. We do a LOT of things and go a LOT of places. Regularly. I didn't realize though, exactly how much my little wild one has changed, until this morning.
Yesterday I had to have him come to my work for a couple hours. Hannah dropped him off and he came up with his backpack full of snacks and toys and sat at the front desk with me. The hour of time that comprises "shift change" on a med surg floor is crazy chaotic. Nurses coming in to get report from nurses leaving, last minute hold ups with discharging patients, last minute rushes to get patients admitted, a post lunch slew of toileting needs and medication changes, phones ringing and call bells sounding and overhead pages going out - it's loud and busy. There are doctors and nurses and aids. They know OF him, and when they see him they want to say hello. And he sat through it all. This morning, a nurse commented on G's behavior from yesterday, saying how amazed she was that he just sat there, played with his toys, ate his snack, watched a little show on my phone, answered politely to all the people stopping by to say hello to him and chat for a second, smiled and joked back at the ones who made time to engage, and was, in her opinion, a truly mature and mild child. I listened to her and was overcome with emotion. I hadn't even realized how much my boy has grown and changed, how much time has tempered my feral boy, how easy and joyful our times together now are, until someone else pointed out his genuinely agreeable little persona. Another nurse had met him once before and was thrilled to see him again and commented what fun he was, how quiet and well behaved he was. I was...tearful; and I treasured their comments deep in my heart.
Stepping outside my own limited perspective sheds such a bright light on so many things. Take away? I'm going to try to do this intentionally, regularly, to step outside and look at the bigger view. To live bigger, broader, and with more open eyes. To acknowledge. To 'notice'.
Also? I work with some pretty amazing and kind-hearted people!
August 4, 2019
Three Years Ago
Three years ago. Three years ago seems like so very long ago - until I look at my child and his skinned up knees and his big brown eyes and hold him on my lap and then I think, "Three years ago was yesterday!"
Facebook gave me a memory today. A memory from three years ago. This is what I posted on Facebook three years ago, today:
And what a terrifying and exciting time it's been! My life has gone through a lot of dramatic changes over the last 10 years but its within these past 3 years that its really begun to settle, to sort itself out, to be balanced in a way it never was before. I haven't enjoyed all the drama and the changes, and honestly I'd rather not have to relive any of it ever again, but I'm grateful for the growth I've experienced, for the time I've had with my son and for his healing which healed us both. Who knows what things will look like in another three years!!
Facebook gave me a memory today. A memory from three years ago. This is what I posted on Facebook three years ago, today:
August 4, 2016
Last winter *G was just 3 and a half I discovered that G had been being mistreated at his daycare. I'll never know the full story - but it happened, and that's all that matters. I pulled him out of that daycare immediately and began looking for a new place. I found a really gentle and encouraging place that seemed to understand the situation and for awhile things were OK but G was really exhibiting a lot of behaviors we couldn't figure out. We did everything we could and worked with his teachers and the director but G was just struggling with interacting with other kids and reacting really strongly when reprimanded; and primarily only at daycare (in hindsight, three years later, we see that he was trying to find his own sense of control and to feel 'big' since he'd been made to feel so helpless and small by adults in the old daycare). He was struggling so much and everyone involved was feeling pretty unhappy so 3 weeks ago I made the decision to leave my job and stay home with him. He only has another year before Kindergarten and he needs this time at home with me to feel safe, to regain trust in adults, to learn that he IS a good kid and worth every second of time I have. I will be able to get back my savings, my retirement, my paycheck - but he will never have another chance to be four and to feel safe and be at home with me. So - today was my last day at work and I'm alternately terrified and excited!
And what a terrifying and exciting time it's been! My life has gone through a lot of dramatic changes over the last 10 years but its within these past 3 years that its really begun to settle, to sort itself out, to be balanced in a way it never was before. I haven't enjoyed all the drama and the changes, and honestly I'd rather not have to relive any of it ever again, but I'm grateful for the growth I've experienced, for the time I've had with my son and for his healing which healed us both. Who knows what things will look like in another three years!!
June 3, 2019
Someone Bring Me a Blanket
When I was married, I used to joke with my husband that when I was old and incapable, he would have to put my make up on for me. The deal was that I would have to remove his nose and ear hair so it seemed pretty fair. I guess we are both off the hook now since the divorce, which also seems pretty fair! As I've gotten older though, putting on makeup has become the least of my concerns when I think about the aging process. Working in a hospital has made it so clear to me that there are more important things to ask a partner to do for you when you can no longer take care of yourself.
To me, one of the most heartbreaking situations I see regularly is when people, especially older people, are alone. A while ago when I was registering patients for surgery it was sometimes frustrating to have an entire posse of family and friends taking up space in the waiting areas for hours at a time, for minor procedures, but in my heart, it was far better than registering a patient for surgery and seeing them come in alone, wait alone, and ultimately leave, alone. Often they wouldn't even have an emergency contact to list. My heart always felt raw after registering those ones. It gave me a chance to offer up a prayer for them, and I was glad to do that one small thing, but the awareness that so many people go through so many experiences in life, alone, pinches my soul.
A patient on my floor died this morning. Alone. Last night I went home and cried about her situation. She was deaf, and blind, and in the process of dying. It wasn't easy and she was alone and I hurt for her. I am hugely grateful for, and in awe of, the nursing staff who advocated mightily on her behalf to make that process easier. I saw them working hard and caring hard and using their hearts as well as their best skills to see that this patient was free from anxiety and pain last night. She did have a husband, but he was also elderly and not able to come often or stay long. The back and forth of getting to the hospital, the long walk from the parking garage to our unit, the hard chairs. It was a lot for him. He would come once a day and sit for as long as he could. He held her hand. He adjusted her blankets. He patted her pillows. He folded a small handmade blanket from home over her chest and tucked it under her chin. He was stoic and expressionless, but he was here. He would check in at the desk when he arrived and would say goodbye when he left. Late last night a nurse called him to let him know her status was changing and that he might want to try and come back. He came with some additional visitors around 7 pm. I'm not sure how long he was able to stay, but I do know that she was alone when she finally passed early this morning.
I often joke about what it will be like when I am unable to care for myself. I joke that my oldest daughter will foot the bill, my oldest son will show up with a secret stash of alcohol, my youngest daughter will be the one actually putting in the work of caring for me, and my youngest son? He'll pop in every once in a while and cause a ruckus before disappearing again. But its not really all that funny. Being single and aging isn't funny at all.
If I am in a hospital, if it's at the end, I wonder if anyone will pat my pillows, hold my hand, or tuck a blanket over me before they leave... I wonder if I will die alone. I'm single and while I know I have a lot of living left to do, I think about the future a lot. Recently I had to assign a health care proxy before I went in for a small medical procedure. I assigned my 21 year old daughter who still lives at home. I'm pretty independent and not worried about being alone right this moment, but it was a little unnerving to ask my 21 year old child to act in my best medical interests in case I was unable to do so. I guess maybe I'll have to tell her to bring me a blanket and hold my hand if it comes to that. She's not the sentimental one of my crew and I might have to leave explicit instructions if I want something like that! And I do - I do want someone to hold my hand and to bring me a blanket. I'd like it to be someone other than whichever nurse is on duty. I'd like it to be someone who loves me. I don't want to die alone, but the reality is that I might. It makes me sad to think about, but I'm willing to lean into this life I have, as it is, and have gratitude for it, as it is. I can pray that when my time comes, I will at least have nurses that are as wonderful as the ones I currently work with and who will advocate for me as fiercely as I watched them advocate for the patient last night. And I can pray that someone will bring me a blanket...
To me, one of the most heartbreaking situations I see regularly is when people, especially older people, are alone. A while ago when I was registering patients for surgery it was sometimes frustrating to have an entire posse of family and friends taking up space in the waiting areas for hours at a time, for minor procedures, but in my heart, it was far better than registering a patient for surgery and seeing them come in alone, wait alone, and ultimately leave, alone. Often they wouldn't even have an emergency contact to list. My heart always felt raw after registering those ones. It gave me a chance to offer up a prayer for them, and I was glad to do that one small thing, but the awareness that so many people go through so many experiences in life, alone, pinches my soul.
A patient on my floor died this morning. Alone. Last night I went home and cried about her situation. She was deaf, and blind, and in the process of dying. It wasn't easy and she was alone and I hurt for her. I am hugely grateful for, and in awe of, the nursing staff who advocated mightily on her behalf to make that process easier. I saw them working hard and caring hard and using their hearts as well as their best skills to see that this patient was free from anxiety and pain last night. She did have a husband, but he was also elderly and not able to come often or stay long. The back and forth of getting to the hospital, the long walk from the parking garage to our unit, the hard chairs. It was a lot for him. He would come once a day and sit for as long as he could. He held her hand. He adjusted her blankets. He patted her pillows. He folded a small handmade blanket from home over her chest and tucked it under her chin. He was stoic and expressionless, but he was here. He would check in at the desk when he arrived and would say goodbye when he left. Late last night a nurse called him to let him know her status was changing and that he might want to try and come back. He came with some additional visitors around 7 pm. I'm not sure how long he was able to stay, but I do know that she was alone when she finally passed early this morning.
I often joke about what it will be like when I am unable to care for myself. I joke that my oldest daughter will foot the bill, my oldest son will show up with a secret stash of alcohol, my youngest daughter will be the one actually putting in the work of caring for me, and my youngest son? He'll pop in every once in a while and cause a ruckus before disappearing again. But its not really all that funny. Being single and aging isn't funny at all.
If I am in a hospital, if it's at the end, I wonder if anyone will pat my pillows, hold my hand, or tuck a blanket over me before they leave... I wonder if I will die alone. I'm single and while I know I have a lot of living left to do, I think about the future a lot. Recently I had to assign a health care proxy before I went in for a small medical procedure. I assigned my 21 year old daughter who still lives at home. I'm pretty independent and not worried about being alone right this moment, but it was a little unnerving to ask my 21 year old child to act in my best medical interests in case I was unable to do so. I guess maybe I'll have to tell her to bring me a blanket and hold my hand if it comes to that. She's not the sentimental one of my crew and I might have to leave explicit instructions if I want something like that! And I do - I do want someone to hold my hand and to bring me a blanket. I'd like it to be someone other than whichever nurse is on duty. I'd like it to be someone who loves me. I don't want to die alone, but the reality is that I might. It makes me sad to think about, but I'm willing to lean into this life I have, as it is, and have gratitude for it, as it is. I can pray that when my time comes, I will at least have nurses that are as wonderful as the ones I currently work with and who will advocate for me as fiercely as I watched them advocate for the patient last night. And I can pray that someone will bring me a blanket...
May 12, 2019
Once Upon A Mother
There are 13 photographs in this collage.
There are 13 different little faces in 13 little card stock framed windows, under glass, in a plain pine frame.
Thirteen hearts shining from blue, brown, hazel, green, and black, wise little eyes.
And all 13 of them were loved by me, however briefly, once upon a time.
There were more than 13 but I don't have pictures of them all. That makes my heart sad, but I still know in my heart the feeling of holding each of them in my arms.
Dori, Ari, and Lili called me mama.
Maddie, my little meme, also called me mama. She wanted to help make my morning "foffee" and would call down the stairs to the big kids by saying, "guys! guys! C'mon guys!!!"
Ray, Kevi, Nico, Xavi, Jelly, Jazzy, Liz, and Ci, didn't call me anything at all; either because they were too young to speak, or because they weren't with me long enough to name me as their own. Flit was one of the the ones who could say my actual name, but refused. He wasn't the only one - as I said, there were more than the 13 that I have pictures of, but he is one of the ones I remember actually ACHING for.
Flit, whom I nick-named after the hummingbird in the Disney movie Pocohontas, was terrified of the dark, and of closets, and held fast to the belief that the only foods worth eating were chicken nuggets, or white bread with peanut butter. One night Flit, all of 5 years old and barely 40lbs, woke up sometime after midnight screaming"I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" and had to be wrestled out of his urine-soaked pajamas and put into soft, dry ones, and laid onto soft, dry sheets and covered with a soft dry blanket, and still he stiffened up and refused to be held, or sung to, or cuddled, or soothed. He just whimpered, "I'm sorry...I'm sorry..." the whole time. My heart broke a little that night in a way I didn't know was possible. Until the next one.
Little man was barely 2, like maybe 21 months. His baby sister was just 10 months old. You do the math... go on... I'll wait...
Little Man and baby sis were brought to me at about 7pm. Little Man, at barely 2, was one of my favorite ages - and was all big eyes and totally expressionless. He was blond, with chocolate drop eyes and a round little tummy... and a green-snot encrusted nose. Baby sis was a dirty, stale smelling, rashy bottom, sticky mess. I moved to unbuckle her from the cheap plastic infant bucket seat the social worker had left her in and Little Man made HIS move. He threw his little baby body over that plastic seat, over his baby sister, with the intention of protecting her from me. He was not even 24 months old. He was still - for all measures - a BABY... yet he felt he had to protect his baby sister. He risked the completely unknown for the salvation of a helpless infant when he himself was just an infant. I cannot even describe what that felt like to see and realize and understand.
At that point in time, I had 3 kids of my own. Three children born from me into breastfeeding, organic homemade baby food, and cloth diapers. Children who were read to and tucked into "family beds" and then fed hot breakfasts in the morning before getting on a bus to the local public school. Children for whom the worst punishment was loss of watching tv, or an early bedtime, or a 5 minute time out in the corner on a chair. Children who sat at the dinner table with both parents every night and ate kid-friendly, nutritious, and balanced meals; who showered or bathed every night and wore clean pajamas and clean clothes every day. Children who left their younger siblings without a second thought because...why should they worry?
Little Man and his baby sis stayed only 2 nights. I can't remember now if they were taken in by family or shifted to a longer term foster family, but i remember Little Man's eyes... and the way he wanted to protect his baby sis even tho he was a baby himself.
I remember Dori and Ari and how I called them "the ladies" and would say things like, "c'mon ladies, lets get going" and "alright ladies, this way now..." I remember Lili and dressing her in everything pink and pretty. I remember my own children wearing yellow raincoats and yellow rainboots and how I would call out, "c'mon duckies, this way...". Maddie was a different story entirely, and deserves a post all of her own. There is a Maddie sized wound in my heart that will never heal.
Thirteen pictures of 13 souls - and there are so many more than just those 13 - that will forever be the beginning of 13 stories... and I loved all of them. There were more like 18... or 20 by the time I had to quit being the foster parent I'd always dreamed of being. There were babies and toddlers and preschoolers that stole bits of my heart and pieces of my soul and they all started with the line, "Once upon a..." time? drug habit gone wrong? bad date? bad childhood? mother? Once upon a mother... yeah, thats it... Once upon a mother...
Once upon a mother, there was a child that needed a heart to love it. And then there was D.
Today on Mothers Day I think about my momma and how long she's been gone - 24 years. I miss her more than I can admit because missing her makes me choke, sob, and keen in grief, ... still.
I think about my mother in law and how long I've been divorced - 10 years. She loved me as best as she could.
I think about Maddie - it's been 11 or 12 years since I saw her - she must be 12, or 13 now... and what has become of the baby who arrived with bite marks on her thighs and a blank expression on her face - who turned into the laughing Buddha baby who wanted to make my morning "foffee" and who yelled, "guys! c'mon guys!" to the big kids down the stairway. The brown girl, in the sun, who stole my heart.
I think about oldest girl with the starry eyes and sunshine smile who lives so far away and whom I miss with an endless ache every hour of every day.
I think of my oldest boy - my Mowgli man-cub with the wild curls and the 'to the bottom of your soul' brown eyes, and the music that erupts from his pores.
I think about my youngest girl with the crazy hair and the stern eyes and the laughter that is moon beams and ocean tides...
and I think about my boy-oh, my WTF child, my upside down inside out life shaking soul splitting shake n shimmy firefly child... and how once upon a time i wasn't a mother yet and how much I would NEVER go back. Not for a moment, not for a day, not for gabazillion dollars.
Once I was a mother - and I always will be.
There are 13 different little faces in 13 little card stock framed windows, under glass, in a plain pine frame.
Thirteen hearts shining from blue, brown, hazel, green, and black, wise little eyes.
And all 13 of them were loved by me, however briefly, once upon a time.
There were more than 13 but I don't have pictures of them all. That makes my heart sad, but I still know in my heart the feeling of holding each of them in my arms.
Dori, Ari, and Lili called me mama.
Maddie, my little meme, also called me mama. She wanted to help make my morning "foffee" and would call down the stairs to the big kids by saying, "guys! guys! C'mon guys!!!"
Ray, Kevi, Nico, Xavi, Jelly, Jazzy, Liz, and Ci, didn't call me anything at all; either because they were too young to speak, or because they weren't with me long enough to name me as their own. Flit was one of the the ones who could say my actual name, but refused. He wasn't the only one - as I said, there were more than the 13 that I have pictures of, but he is one of the ones I remember actually ACHING for.
Flit, whom I nick-named after the hummingbird in the Disney movie Pocohontas, was terrified of the dark, and of closets, and held fast to the belief that the only foods worth eating were chicken nuggets, or white bread with peanut butter. One night Flit, all of 5 years old and barely 40lbs, woke up sometime after midnight screaming"I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" and had to be wrestled out of his urine-soaked pajamas and put into soft, dry ones, and laid onto soft, dry sheets and covered with a soft dry blanket, and still he stiffened up and refused to be held, or sung to, or cuddled, or soothed. He just whimpered, "I'm sorry...I'm sorry..." the whole time. My heart broke a little that night in a way I didn't know was possible. Until the next one.
Little man was barely 2, like maybe 21 months. His baby sister was just 10 months old. You do the math... go on... I'll wait...
Little Man and baby sis were brought to me at about 7pm. Little Man, at barely 2, was one of my favorite ages - and was all big eyes and totally expressionless. He was blond, with chocolate drop eyes and a round little tummy... and a green-snot encrusted nose. Baby sis was a dirty, stale smelling, rashy bottom, sticky mess. I moved to unbuckle her from the cheap plastic infant bucket seat the social worker had left her in and Little Man made HIS move. He threw his little baby body over that plastic seat, over his baby sister, with the intention of protecting her from me. He was not even 24 months old. He was still - for all measures - a BABY... yet he felt he had to protect his baby sister. He risked the completely unknown for the salvation of a helpless infant when he himself was just an infant. I cannot even describe what that felt like to see and realize and understand.
At that point in time, I had 3 kids of my own. Three children born from me into breastfeeding, organic homemade baby food, and cloth diapers. Children who were read to and tucked into "family beds" and then fed hot breakfasts in the morning before getting on a bus to the local public school. Children for whom the worst punishment was loss of watching tv, or an early bedtime, or a 5 minute time out in the corner on a chair. Children who sat at the dinner table with both parents every night and ate kid-friendly, nutritious, and balanced meals; who showered or bathed every night and wore clean pajamas and clean clothes every day. Children who left their younger siblings without a second thought because...why should they worry?
Little Man and his baby sis stayed only 2 nights. I can't remember now if they were taken in by family or shifted to a longer term foster family, but i remember Little Man's eyes... and the way he wanted to protect his baby sis even tho he was a baby himself.
I remember Dori and Ari and how I called them "the ladies" and would say things like, "c'mon ladies, lets get going" and "alright ladies, this way now..." I remember Lili and dressing her in everything pink and pretty. I remember my own children wearing yellow raincoats and yellow rainboots and how I would call out, "c'mon duckies, this way...". Maddie was a different story entirely, and deserves a post all of her own. There is a Maddie sized wound in my heart that will never heal.
Thirteen pictures of 13 souls - and there are so many more than just those 13 - that will forever be the beginning of 13 stories... and I loved all of them. There were more like 18... or 20 by the time I had to quit being the foster parent I'd always dreamed of being. There were babies and toddlers and preschoolers that stole bits of my heart and pieces of my soul and they all started with the line, "Once upon a..." time? drug habit gone wrong? bad date? bad childhood? mother? Once upon a mother... yeah, thats it... Once upon a mother...
Once upon a mother, there was a child that needed a heart to love it. And then there was D.
Today on Mothers Day I think about my momma and how long she's been gone - 24 years. I miss her more than I can admit because missing her makes me choke, sob, and keen in grief, ... still.
I think about my mother in law and how long I've been divorced - 10 years. She loved me as best as she could.
I think about Maddie - it's been 11 or 12 years since I saw her - she must be 12, or 13 now... and what has become of the baby who arrived with bite marks on her thighs and a blank expression on her face - who turned into the laughing Buddha baby who wanted to make my morning "foffee" and who yelled, "guys! c'mon guys!" to the big kids down the stairway. The brown girl, in the sun, who stole my heart.
I think about oldest girl with the starry eyes and sunshine smile who lives so far away and whom I miss with an endless ache every hour of every day.
I think of my oldest boy - my Mowgli man-cub with the wild curls and the 'to the bottom of your soul' brown eyes, and the music that erupts from his pores.
I think about my youngest girl with the crazy hair and the stern eyes and the laughter that is moon beams and ocean tides...
and I think about my boy-oh, my WTF child, my upside down inside out life shaking soul splitting shake n shimmy firefly child... and how once upon a time i wasn't a mother yet and how much I would NEVER go back. Not for a moment, not for a day, not for gabazillion dollars.
Once I was a mother - and I always will be.
May 8, 2019
Renewed
For someone as wordy as am, who used to write daily, who is frequently on social media and truly has a need for connection with others based on conversation, I find myself becoming more and more speechless as time goes by. I'm more often censoring my own words and thoughts. Not that I have less of them, oh no, my thoughts are plentiful! I'm caught up, however, in the act of trying to decide what matters, what will make an impact or be dismissed, what will make someone pause, feel pain, roll their eyes, be angry, or even try to get me to change something or delete something... or want me to agree that I am wrong about some feeling or thought. That happens, even to me, who now writes so very little. It makes the act of writing, and talking, so treacherous. I came across a quote the other day that made me stop in my tracks. I had an "ah-ha!" moment over it.
I discovered "gaslighting" just about 6 years ago. Someone sent me an article about it and as I read the article I was struck with a feeling of both dread and conviction. I had chills, my face flushed hot, I felt nauseous. I was having a panic attack just reading the article that described something so significant about my entire life. This explains Gaslighting...
Parents do to their children, and spouses do to their partners. Alcoholics and addicts do to anyone. Employers do it. Sometimes alcoholic parents do it to their children and those children grow up to be adults that have spouses that do it, partly because its what feels normal to them. Sometimes those adults figure it out and somehow free themselves from the shadow of this abuse and begin to live theirs lives in authenticity and honesty. Or they at least try.
It's hard to recover from a lifetime of trauma - of living under the power of gaslighting. I see it when it happens now; I see it when it happens in interactions with co-workers or with an employer or out in everyday circumstances, I see it when someone tells me about an interaction they had that didn't feel right. I try to make sure it's not happening TO my child, that I'm not doing it out of conditioning. I work hard to be obvious. When I'm tired, or stressed, or worried, it's even harder to notice, to be aware of, to avoid. When I saw the words someone else had written in a quote the other day it was like a splash of cold water to my sleep-walking self.
Man that hit home. I think back to all the times I've gone to a friend or my therapist and asked, "tell me, is this feeling even valid? Is this thought process worthwhile or am I being over-sensitive / dramatic / ridiculous / self-absorbed / crazy" (or any of the other adjectives I carry in my self-sabotaging arsenal). Nearly every single time, it is validated for me that I AM seeing things clearly and having an appropriate feeling or thought. Occasionally I will be shown other ways to think about it, but I am usually doing a fine job of being in reality these days.
When I am feeling my best, feeling my "lady-balls" as someone special likes to call it, I am confident and sure enough to say what I think and feel what I feel without apology. I have better relationships with others, I am a better listener and communicator.
When I am under stress, worried, conflicted, or up against something I am unsure of however, all bets are off. I become a gaslighter to myself. I doubt, I second-guess, I waffle, I apologize, I stuff feelings and emotions and thoughts, I twist my own words and scorn my own feelings. I speak harshly to myself. I switch back and forth between what I feel and think to what I THINK I should feel and think and it gets very messy, very chaotic, and it hurts. It hurts my relationships with others as well as my own self.
I hereby make the commitment to stop doing this to myself.
I'm going back to the beginning. Back to when I focused on balance, on God and the universe presenting opportunity for learning and leaning and grounding and growing. I'm going back to believing in myself, to feeling my feelings and not doubting their true-ness. I am facing a lot of things I am unsure of, a lot of new opportunities, a lot of choices, and I'm tired of fighting against myself. I trust that I will sometimes be wrong and that there will be forgiveness and mercy available when I own those moments as mine. I trust that I will sometimes be right, and there will be gentle acceptance and reward when I claim those moments as mine. I know sometimes that the forgiveness and mercy will be just out of reach and I will have to find it within myself, for myself. That will be hard. I can do hard things though. My sweet 22 year old son just reminded me of that a few nights ago. So goodbye to self-gaslighting. Hello, again, to me...
I discovered "gaslighting" just about 6 years ago. Someone sent me an article about it and as I read the article I was struck with a feeling of both dread and conviction. I had chills, my face flushed hot, I felt nauseous. I was having a panic attack just reading the article that described something so significant about my entire life. This explains Gaslighting...
Parents do to their children, and spouses do to their partners. Alcoholics and addicts do to anyone. Employers do it. Sometimes alcoholic parents do it to their children and those children grow up to be adults that have spouses that do it, partly because its what feels normal to them. Sometimes those adults figure it out and somehow free themselves from the shadow of this abuse and begin to live theirs lives in authenticity and honesty. Or they at least try.
It's hard to recover from a lifetime of trauma - of living under the power of gaslighting. I see it when it happens now; I see it when it happens in interactions with co-workers or with an employer or out in everyday circumstances, I see it when someone tells me about an interaction they had that didn't feel right. I try to make sure it's not happening TO my child, that I'm not doing it out of conditioning. I work hard to be obvious. When I'm tired, or stressed, or worried, it's even harder to notice, to be aware of, to avoid. When I saw the words someone else had written in a quote the other day it was like a splash of cold water to my sleep-walking self.
"The thing about trauma is that it will have you gaslighting yourself when real shit goes down because you have learned that your feelings aren't to be trusted"
Man that hit home. I think back to all the times I've gone to a friend or my therapist and asked, "tell me, is this feeling even valid? Is this thought process worthwhile or am I being over-sensitive / dramatic / ridiculous / self-absorbed / crazy" (or any of the other adjectives I carry in my self-sabotaging arsenal). Nearly every single time, it is validated for me that I AM seeing things clearly and having an appropriate feeling or thought. Occasionally I will be shown other ways to think about it, but I am usually doing a fine job of being in reality these days.
When I am feeling my best, feeling my "lady-balls" as someone special likes to call it, I am confident and sure enough to say what I think and feel what I feel without apology. I have better relationships with others, I am a better listener and communicator.
When I am under stress, worried, conflicted, or up against something I am unsure of however, all bets are off. I become a gaslighter to myself. I doubt, I second-guess, I waffle, I apologize, I stuff feelings and emotions and thoughts, I twist my own words and scorn my own feelings. I speak harshly to myself. I switch back and forth between what I feel and think to what I THINK I should feel and think and it gets very messy, very chaotic, and it hurts. It hurts my relationships with others as well as my own self.
I hereby make the commitment to stop doing this to myself.
I'm going back to the beginning. Back to when I focused on balance, on God and the universe presenting opportunity for learning and leaning and grounding and growing. I'm going back to believing in myself, to feeling my feelings and not doubting their true-ness. I am facing a lot of things I am unsure of, a lot of new opportunities, a lot of choices, and I'm tired of fighting against myself. I trust that I will sometimes be wrong and that there will be forgiveness and mercy available when I own those moments as mine. I trust that I will sometimes be right, and there will be gentle acceptance and reward when I claim those moments as mine. I know sometimes that the forgiveness and mercy will be just out of reach and I will have to find it within myself, for myself. That will be hard. I can do hard things though. My sweet 22 year old son just reminded me of that a few nights ago. So goodbye to self-gaslighting. Hello, again, to me...
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