Wordless Wednesday: (I have no idea)

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Fish and Lessons

“Call 911, Mommy! Call the Police!”

I could tell what was going on inside my daughter’s tiny body: her heart breaking, her mind racing for a solution. What do you do when the world falls apart?

Goldy had disappeared. Nowhere to be seen in his bowl, or behind his plant, or burrowing in the violet gravel she’d chosen in the hot, smelly basement pet store.

I’ve joked about goldfish dying, pets as mortality lessons, but seriously? I didn’t want to cope with another loss. Not yet.

Maybe Goldy had jumped out? I remembered a terrarium pet frog from long ago. I figured I’d look outside his bowl first. There was a chance, and aren’t Betas pretty hardy? Maybe he’d still have one breath left. It would be traumatic but it was worth looking first. Certainly before calling 911.

I rustled among the papers outside Goldy’s bowl. Many pieces of orange and red notepaper, some taped to his bowl so he could learn from them: because she was going to teach him tricks.

My daughter noticed that he could easily do two moves: swim straight, or turn around. Because “we don’t understand fish language,” she’d write him some notes: sequences of dashes and circles in crayon, the little square instructions taped on his bowl, facing in. “That way he can study while we sleeping. It will be easier for him to remember his instructions.”

Later, she said, she’d put on a show. She visualized the playroom with every chair in the house, all the way to the back wall, even some behind the couch. “And we’ll invite everyone we know, who loves Goldy, and all the kids from kindergarten, to see our show.”

I tore the notes off the fishbowl. He really wasn’t in there. Gathered up all the papers around it, gently, holding them together in one hand. Not there either. The shelf below? On a box of puzzles? No. Maybe behind the shelf – is it carpeted back there? A few inches of room. Definitely no fish there either.

“Mommy! You have to call 911 NOW!!!!!” She’d been crying at me the entire time.

How do you explain to a 6-year-old that you can’t even call about a missing person for 48 hours? I mean, that’s real life. I know because I see it on TV. Never mind a fish… it would break her heart to know that the official world that’s there to protect us didn’t give a crap about a missing pet fish, at least, not unless it was very very large and carnivorous, possibly not even then unless it were able to walk on land.

She jumped up and down, so angry at me, and sad, and I didn’t know what to do. One last ditch… pick up the treasure chest ornament. Maybe he’d gotten way under there…. I was sort of right. His tail, a swash of delicate Siamese fighting tail, wiggled from a crevice behind the hinge. He was head first in a fishy crawlspace, possibly not even stuck. Gently I raised it higher, tried to help him swim out.

He was out, and alive, and fine. My child and I cried in relief and hugged each other. A near-miss, to me; to her, proof that Mom is still powerful enough.

But our bodies are still mingled and kid logic’s still intact. This week she’s mad at me because I said I love her more than I love Goldy. Also, she loves fish sticks more than Tater Tots. Why? “Because… Goldy is a fish and I love him.”

P.S. Mr. Fresh told a cop friend, who said, if this ever happens to you, DO call the police (after you look for the fish). If they have free time, they will send an officer over for a civics lesson your kid will never forget. (I’d suggest calling the local number, not 911)


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On the Floor

I never thought I had PTSD from my loss because Gavin died so slowly. You know how they say, “at least you had a chance to say goodbye.” And now that I’ve met women who saw their husbands killed in car accidents, or had to order the ventilators turned off, or woke up to find a heart attack in progress, I don’t feel I have much to compare.

He dissolved before my eyes, but it was so gradual, it was easy to think I wasn’t paying attention.

But every time there’s a pencil on the steps, or a piece of paper on the carpet, I get a tinge. I pick them up compulsively, or bark at my child. We can’t have things on the floor, I go straight back to protection mode. Protecting my husband, now gone four years, from a fall that would break his spine.

Without telling the whole gory story – because there’s a lot of detail, and it is truly the tale of the end – I’ll tell you that Gavin spent his last year in some fear of falling and damaging his spine, which despite advanced medical care and a hugely traumatic surgery, was in danger of collapse for nine months, mostly spent at home with a toddler underfoot.

Underfoot is the trick. If you’ve had a toddler, you know how it’s a constant game of blocks and balls, and every piece of junk mail that becomes an object of fascination. There was always something on the rug, on the hardwood, on the busted up kitchen vinyl that we so wished to fix. Always something to pay attention to, a falling hazard, a risque de tomber.

And this, it turns out, is PTSD. Still alert, still snappy about anything on the stairs, even in our new house. Always looking down. This is PTSD, an everyday thing. Not as hard to get as you might think.


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The Widow's Mite = the Widow's Might

The parable of the widow’s “mite” (a small, rough-cut, nearly worthless coin) from the Gospels tells is usually mentioned in the context of fundraising and commitment. The story is that after all the wealthy and middle-class members of the church donate gold and silver from some portion of their income, perhaps even the glorious tithe (10%!), a destitute widow at the end of the line hands over two tiny pennies – all that she has. In this interpretation, it’s the person who has nothing who is generous, giving literally her last coin. (The story’s also interpreted lots of different ways, including as a justification for anti-Semitism ... hey, not everyone chooses to play nice with the Bible).

I've seen this happen, and I've done it myself. Folks who are poor often have no trouble giving – those who have, understand how to “spend” some on one thing, some on another, building a reasonable budget from categories. Those who have nothing know that things and categories are irrelevant. They’re grateful, and they have, literally, nothing to lose.

And so, a few weeks ago as I consulted with my own minister about the call I heard to serve in Unitarian Universalist ministry, to lend my skills and gifts to the church which has given me so much, and to which I’ve given fairly substantial financial gifts (when I was facing bankruptcy and radical economic straits myself), I found that she and I had come to a fork in the road.

She mentioned she was stunned to see three young widows in her own flock who’d gotten as far as I had. One was ordained last year, the first from our congregation to complete her training and don her own mantle; another enters seminary this fall, and I was at that moment sitting with her in a restaurant trying to find whether this direction is the one that speaks to me most clearly, the one where I can have the biggest impact.

My beloved minister marveled at the phenomenon. Of how many people called under her gaze? -- not dozens -- three have been women, widowed young. She wants to get us all together for a lunch or something, so she can observe, what is it that unites us? What is it about the three of us that makes us all think this next journey should be the one to develop us? Because ministry is a very difficult path. In a recent sermon, she called ministry hard, thankless, unremunerative work that asks us for our strongest effort, for sacrifice, for stretch and reach and flexibility.

But see, I don’t find us three remarkable at all. Because the young widows and widowers I know are extraordinary, unlike anyone other group of people I've ever met. Not only are we deep and hilarious, we have perspective, we’re tough, and like all mothers, we’re tender and warm at the drop of a hat. We expect hats to drop, and the second shoe, too. We love fiercely, we’ve learned what works for us, and we brush off difficulties more easily than we did when we were young. We’re hopeful and we are pretty sure things will never be as bad as they were. We’re always moving forward, even when we’re nursing injuries. I think of young widows as momma wolves.

I know the other two widows in this clutch and we’re all quite different in most other ways. We’re united only by loss, and thus by our stage of life.

Of course, I’ll plan the lunch, it will be fun, and I’m sure I’ll learn something. But I’m not surprised at all to find widows on this road.

With this emptying of her pocket, the widow’s mite becomes the widow’s Might. When she has nothing left, still she digs deep. She's already given her all, and found out there’s more. Something that’s been there, all along, that she can see once there’s no more static. We each find something different, but we’re all changed radically after loss.

Maybe breaking has helped us to tune in to the pain of all the world. Maybe we learned to rise back up, singing. Some find they have the power to lead others to light. The widow is sure she can hold her child through a dark night and laugh as the dawn comes. Grief has forged us and we burned until we began to shine.

A widow has found the riches within her, invisible to others. And sometimes, she may be moved to share, knowing that if others haven’t been tested yet, they might need to see that penny as proof. (And fortunately, they can buy one on QVC...)


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Your Birth Story, Part 4: Afterbirth. Reflections.

(Part one is here)

And this, dear daughter, is where the part of your birth story that’s addressed to you ends: “It was the best day of our lives for your Daddy and me, although you’re even more fun to be with now, six years later.”

But, dear readers, the story wouldn’t be complete without the “boring grown-up stuff.” Readers, you know how the first chapter ends and you understand that parenting is complicated. There’s no way for me to experience the story without reflecting on the monstrous loss that was to follow.

Gavin was diagnosed with a stage 4 cancer before this child could stand: at seven months. That shock and stress, the barbaric surgeries, the chemicals, the invisible and then precipitous decline, and his departure are intermingled with all my experiences of parenting her from first crawl, to walking, learning to speak, far into weaning and potty training.

So I wonder, how would the day of your birth have felt if we had known what was brewing, or how things would turn out?
That thirty months later, my husband of nine years, my partner for fourteen, would be gone, leaving me with his child, alone?
That he’d welcome our girl onto the planet only to leave it himself?
That likely, as he witnessed her crowning, his body was home to a cancer that was bound and determined to spread everywhere, destroying everything, top to bottom, as he walked and breathed?

Because the tumor, in November, was 14 cm long. For his cancer, it had to have been there a while.

Would we have felt differently? Would we have made different decisions?

Of course not, we’d both have said. Not from the time of her birth, or from any time in the pregnancy. Getting to that point was the victory in what we’d hoped was the one and only great fight of our lives.

But what if we’d known before we conceived her? That question, no one asked, thank God. We wouldn’t have answered. But now, I wonder.

In the shock after diagnosis, we said several times, Thank God she’s here, because we never would have had the strength to go through fertility treatment once the cancer showed up. Our cups ran over with that cancer gratitude.

Sugar, little one, you were the best thing that ever happened to us. I hate to say that the cancer was the worst thing and point out that it had surely already arrived. I hate to put you opposite the Beast. But the cancer and the child were so close. It’s hard not to draw a line between them, to pose them as two ingredients in a crazy, non-returnable gift basket.

A year later, in the heart of the battle, I suggested we have another child. Our girl was learning so much, to speak, catch, run. She brought us so much joy, redeemed every minute, gave us an excuse to go on. He shook his head, sadly, shrugging away discussion.

So I think this would have been another situation where we disagreed. Another one where we couldn’t talk about it, where there was no chance of reconciliation, just the sure knowledge that the distance between us was growing and, one day soon, it would span the worlds.

TO BE CONTINUED

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Hard times

Dear readers, I’m having a hard time posting lately. Recent writing has dredged up ugly stuff, about my husband's death, about the miracle of my daughter’s birth, about who I used to be. I’m working on about a million things and seeing hope and horizons everywhere, but I’m tired. And everyone’s been sick.

None of it's a surprise, but this stuff is hard to do.

I told my church that my resolution in the New Year was “I will no longer apologize for who I am, and also, I'm gonna stop pretending that I like pie.”

But I am sorry to be slow. These are heavy topics, and even though I’m so much better now, and in love, and I have a happy healthy child ... there is a lot going on under the surface and I only have a grip on a little bit of it.

Please be patient with me. The two dozen half written posts (and the end of my daughter’s birth story) are good stuff, even if I end up publishing them in imperfect form.

(Now there’s a resolution. To accept imperfections in myself and others!)

(Maybe you should be praying for me instead?)

Musical Monday: Show Me by the Pretenders

This song dates from college times, when I never dreamed I'd even want a child. It's such a vision of transcendence amid the awful world, a song that welcomes imperfection with open arms:

"Welcome here from outer space
The Milky Way's still in your eyes..."

It helped me ring in my daughter, so hard to imagine after so many years of work trying to make her real.
And now it strikes me so sad that I describe Gavin's death as him "leaving this world."

And it's that part of my story that I'm up to: comparing the in and out, the birth and the death. Heavy-handed, yes, but for me, at least this song evokes happy tears.

Your Birth Story, Part 3

(Part one is here)

It was hell. I know this part of your birth took about two hours but it seemed like maybe 5 minutes, like a night of blackout drinking, compressed or nonexistent with a few highlights that would make good stories later.

In the middle of the screaming, the pain, I was positive that I’d be ripped apart. My comfort was a confidence, the kind that you summon at the darkest moments, that millions of women survived this every year. Sure, I’d split in two, even through the bone (I tried to remember the top view of a pelvis. How big was it? I could only picture dinosaurs). But this happens all the time so medical science must be able to repair most, if not all, of the damage, right?

In my madness and confusion I may have asked again about the possibility of a C-section, only to be rebuffed, again, possibly even affirmed: “You’re doing great.” It’s a damn good thing I wasn’t in charge, I probably would have ordered the child killed half way through.

I had to push. Nothing from childbirth class had been useful thus far, my insanely irregular contractions left my good breath training crying in the dust. But this part would work the way we'd been taught, mostly.

“I want you to breathe, and when I tell you, push out for a count of four,” said Dr. K, who’d put on scrubs at last. It hurt like hell and I visualized the tear through bone and muscle and skin, and whatever else kinds of tissue exist. My goal was a healthy child, pure and simple, though I also hoped to be around to meet her.

We did the four count a bunch of times, I have no idea if it was two sets or a hundred.

But I know the last one I was getting pretty exhausted. I felt I was at the end, that I couldn't go on; that I was inadequate, that maybe I could try a little harder. Or perhaps, I lost the ability to count. All I know is I exhaled for FIVE and whoosh!!!! My daughter zoomed out like a torpedo. The doctor barely caught her. I saw the baby flopping like a fish in the doctor’s tense hands above the “medical waste”-red-marked trash barrel that had been rolled to the butt end of the birthing bed.

Our girl was fine, despite her inelegant exit (entrance?). Gavin got a peek as she was whisked away for a bath and various grooming exercises. I imagined the baby being shown to me, ten minutes later, after my serious stitches were finished (note the absence of any anesthesia), covered in mascara and rouge with a nicely curled wig. Later of course we'd find, as we grew into her, that those eyes, those cheeks, that nose, those lips, she was Greta Garbo, only smaller.

"Perfect" means past, finished, complete. Cooked.

A little rosy burrito, packaged in the hospital’s neutral, striped blanket, tighter than I’d ever seen anything, pink and raw. She looked around with a bright right eye, left one loosely closed. Mine? Ours? They say no, you don't own your child. Out. She was out, eight years of struggle, delay, our medical odyssey ended with one squirt.

Gavin cried and held her while my nethers were sewn. He said over and over, “She’s so beautiful.” Then he’d glance at the frankenwork in progress on my body and look back at the charming burrito. It was no contest.

Our baby girl was safe. We were sound. Everyone had a job to do and they were busy. Something had happened and the surprises, we expected, were all over.

Thank God.

When they did hand her to me, whenever it was, I passed out.

A bit later, they tried again, to take a picture, but my arm fell and I blacked out again. I had dangerously low blood pressure.

Gavin held her tight in his arms. I rested in a hangover from psychosis and a broken body. No one expected me to do anything. Yeah, sure, I was happy, but it’s not like we didn’t believe we’d end up with a baby. I was relieved the ordeal was over. We could figure out what the hell had happened later. Or not.

Eventually we got a picture, our fresh child in the cradle of my arms, satisfied. My hair somehow looks less crazy than it does today, and Gavin is leaning in to me with his hugest smile. The girl he called “Popeye” is small, a bundle of newness. It’s a lovely archetypal souvenir of that day and everything that has happened since.

And, then, I slept.

TO BE CONTINUED

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