Tripping

[caption id="attachment_3747" align="alignright" width="300" caption="Ben, enthusiastic even on the car ride to Chicago."][/caption]

A couple of weeks ago, we traveled to Chicago to visit the grabulous (great fabulous) Betsy C.   While we were there, we went to a children's museum and the Science and Industry Museum.  The thing that struck Thom and I, once again, was Ben's enthusiasm for learning about Chicago.  We were used to Ellie maybe acting interested, just because she loved us, but not because she truly wanted to know more.  She was so much NOT of this material world.  She was more interested in being home, snuggling down in bed, talking, hugging.  What a shocker to us to have someone in the car who actually WANTED to go to Sears Tower (apparently now known as Willis Tower.  Willis Tower!  Can you imagine??)

My superterrific friend, Cynthia was explaining to me how she has dreamed about loved ones who have passed.   I decided while in Chicago I would intend to dream about Ellie.  When I lay down, I immediately fell into a deep sleep.  Some time later, I woke up.  I mean wide awake awake.  The thought that went through my head was,

[caption id="attachment_3748" align="alignleft" width="300" caption="Lotta caught the car ride excitement from Ben."][/caption]

"You don't have to dream about me.  I am ALWAYS with you."  It was as if she were saying, "Mom, Mom are you awake?"  to give me that important message.  It has given me great comfort in the last couple of weeks.  When I suddenly find myself missing her, I immediately recall that she is ALWAYS with me. 

As we prepare to take her remains to Tennessee for her burial, I honestly, sincerely, do not want to go.  I do not want to bury my daughter.  Neither do I want her remains sitting in a box in her closet.  It will be our first longer family trip without Ellie and the thought of doing it without her alive leaves me cold.  And yet, I know the last time we drove to Tennessee, for New Year's 2010, Ellie was not at all up for that trip.  I also knew at the time that she would want to go even if she could only spend a few minutes with all those family members she adored--Aunt Susan, Uncle Kip, Uncle Ghany, Uncle Kirk, Uncle Patrick, Great Aunt Suzanne, of course her cousins--Bella, Sophia, Dariush.  (As I wrote that sentence I wrote "adores' because it seems so strange to put her in the past tense.  I guess another thing to get used to.) 

[caption id="attachment_3749" align="alignright" width="224" caption="Lotta experiences the Science and Industry Museum her own way."][/caption]

The song that just came on the radio was, "What a Wonderful World."  Followed by "You'll be in my heart" a song I sang to Ellie when she was in utero.  I called it her in utero theme song.  More messages from Ellie it seems.

According to Ben

[caption id="attachment_3741" align="alignleft" width="300" caption="Ben and I driving the train at the Science and Industry Museum in Chicago."][/caption]

If you don't know already, Sunday was Ben's 6th birthday.  In direct proportion to the amount Ellie did not enjoy parties, birthdays, presents, Ben exuberantly embraces them all.   In honor of Ben turning 6, here are a couple of Ben stories that at least I find entertaining. 

The Courage of a Dinosaur

Every morning Ben wakes himself up to go view one of his favorite shows, Curious George.  This fabulous PBS show teaches math and science concepts within the adventures and antics of that curious little monkey.  Some mornings he will begin around 5am--"Is it time for Curious George yet?"  Then fifteen minutes later same question.  Untill finally it is TIME.  Curious George coincides with time Thom awakens to shower (usually maybe with a few snoozes).  Although Ben is afraid to go downstairs, in the dark, by himself, he is nontheless highly motivated.  In order to scare off any night time monsters that might still be lurking about in our old creepy house, Ben becomes a dinosaur, roaring and stomping all the  way down.  Strangely, I enjoy hearing his bravery every morning from the coziness of my bed snuggled with baby Lotta, knowing that all too soon this dinosaur will also become extinct.

The Value of Tights

For years, I attempted to convince Ellie of the value of tights.  "They are socks and pants all rolled into one!"  She didn't buy it.  At all.    Thom is in the same camp with Ellie regarding tights, he does not think they would be allowed if fathers made all clothing choices.  I was definately outnumbered.  Finally I gave up on them and resorted to leggings.  Several friends have handed down cutiful (cute beautiful) tights to Lotta.  While she is unable to protest their usage, I have put them on her.  Adorable.  One day as I was dressing Lotta, Ben asked what I was doing.  I enthusiastically explained the concept of tights.  He was all for them and asked when HE could wear some.  Finally all my convincing paid off.  Not in the way I imagined, but still.

New York Baby!

My brother, Kip, suggested my sister and I come to New York to celebrate our younger brother, Kirk's birthday (and not celebrate mine as I requested).  It was the perfect solution to my birthday conundrum (Ellie adored that word).

At Kirk's party, I suddenly had a moment of not knowing how to BE at a party celebrating.  I began to cry.  Honestly I do not have the energy to fake it right now.  Kirk ran over and knealt beside me.  I began to tell him how I was feeling then suddenly rolled into a Chris Farley Saturday Night Live routine--"I don't know how to smell good after traveling all day...I don't know how to not bore everyone in the room..." Kirk almost fell over laughing he was so surprised by my sudden turn around.  Then Susan and Kip came and sat on the arms of the oversized chair where I was nursing Lotta.  I felt completely safe and protected.  They were my gargoyles.  Any other time I think I would have felt shame for such an outburst afterwards.  This time it felt as though without the outburst, my siblings and I would not have had the opportunity to connect like that.  That was the real gift, feeling so connected to them.

Wangeness (weird strangeness) of Time

Recognizing that before Ellie passed, I projected myself into the future, anticipating my life without her.  Now, I attempt to push myself back to the past, a time when she was still with me.  Eckhart (author of The Power of NOW) would be so disappointed in me and my avoidance of the present.

As I face my days without Ellie, I am struck with this sudden and huge freedom of time.  And it is totally wange (weird strange) not having her to continually care for.  Especially at the end, I now recognize what a huge amount of time was involved in her care.  It did not seem so at the time, as we were just doing it, not thinking about it.  Thom too has noticed how at night he feels somewhat at a loss to what to do with himself.  (Of course I would trade all of this free time for 5 more minutes with my sunny honey bunny.)  It is not as if my days drag either, I get to the end of them and wonder where it went.  It is Monday then suddenly Thursday with me barely knowing what happened in between.  All of it a somewhat foggy blur.

All urgency is gone.  (Which may be why my laundry keeps becoming mountainous.  Or maybe its because my laundress is on another continent. Not complaining just observing.) We used to have not one but two monitors in Ellie's room.  Constantly keeping track of her condition--did we need to call a doctor, give a medication, go to the hospital?  Now everything feels as if it can be postponed if necessary.  Nothing has the same weight behind it. Everything feels so much slower.  At times, I feel as if I am standing in the middle of a freeway, all the cars racing past.  Surprisingly, I feel completely comfortable in this slower pace.  I guess, in a way, becoming friendlier with the silence.

I had dinner a couple of weeks ago with Ellie's award-winning 3rd grade teachers.  They mentioned something about the beginning of the school year.  I had this moment of panic, realizing autumn was a time when Ellie was alive.  I had this desperate feeling of wanting to be back then.  Trying to discover how to get two kids on the morning bus rather than trying to recover from this loss.  A time when I did not know that Ellie would be gone so soon.  A time filled with hope that she would actually get better.

For awhile, everything was measured by before Ellie's diagnosis and afterwards.  It feels as if that same type of life altering shift is happening now--before Ellie passed and after.  This is the new milestone.

My brilliant scientist friend, Jennifer, told me about a character in a book whose 11-year-old daughter drowned.  She survived this loss by every single day finding something to do to make herself smile in honor of her daughter.  Every day since Jennifer told me that, I have searched for the smiliest thing that happened that day to dedicate to Ellie.  Seems like a brilliant use of my time, and maybe a way to force me into the present.

Transforming the Surreal into Real

Before Ellie passed, I  pondered whether I would ever have enough love to let her go.  Last week, I suddenly felt as if I'd made a garangtuan irreversible mistake.  I wanted to shout, "NO I don't have enough love!!!!  I just want her back." In those moments of doubt, I wonder if we gave up too soon. 

Then I look back at photos of Ellie over the last few years.  I see the evidence of a little girl not feeling well for quite some time.  And never complaining.  Just feeling worse and worse.  I think to myself that we were trying to save that sinking ship for quite some time.  We were throwing buckets of water out as water gushed in through more and more cracks.  Yet, still, I long for her. 

Last Thursday as I was driving through my neighborhood, I looked up and saw Ellie's class on a field trip, crossing the street.  It was as if someone punched me in the stomache.  I was so suddenly struck by the fact that Ellie no longer has a physical body to walk around in.  I know this seems blindingly obvious.  Yet so hard to accept.  Then I jokingly asked Thom why they weren't locked up in a classroom somewhere so that I wouldn't have to be upset (I know lame joke).  I suppose these are all opportunities to slowly absorb this "information", making it all real, rather than surreal.

silence

the balloons have lost the will to float

the visitors are gone

the music has stopped

her clothes are put away, never to shine again

and i am left to make friends with the silence

Speechless Revisited

Ok so if I were truly speechless, I would have nothing else to say.  As Demetri Martin of Comedy Central would say, "Think about it."  (I adore his quirky humor and imagine my nephew, Dariush, will look exactly like Demetri when he grows up.  So for me, it is like sweet little Dariush telling me jokes. Seriously, I digress.) 

Here is what leaves me speechless.  Walking into Ellie's empty room.  The assumption that Ben is my firstborn by a stranger.  The disorientation.  No more made-up words (although I did make up "snough" this morning to describe a sneeze cough).   Ben giggles.  Listing the members of my household on a playgroup application.  Lotta smiles.   Sesame Street.  Feeling like a love-sick teenager, as if every single song is written about me and my lost love (with the exception of Brittany's new song, that would be weird).   Imagining the days, months, years without an Ellie.  This constant wistfulness.  No more big brown eyes overflowing with love.  The loudness of this silence. 

See those are a whole lot of words for someone rendered speechless.

Exactly!

Here is a poem sent to me by my grabulous sister-in-law, Sara.  It is  perfect.

Gone by Ronald Wallace

The sorrow one feels after the loss
of a father, a daughter, a wife, is so
intense it takes up residence in
the soul's house, shares its pain
with a dailiness that can seem un-
bearable as you go through the mundane
acts that keep you human,
the little rituals that keep complete

numbness at bay. God knows
you wish you hadn't had to
take in this unwelcome boarder,
wish you could send him away
and gain back your composure.
And then, the sorrow goes.

"Gone" by Ronald Wallace

Speechless

I am rendered speechless.  (Hard to imagine I know.)