Recent Headlines from the Garden

The Garden.  AKA:  the cemetery.

We've been calling it 'the garden' because it's just easier to say to our little ones that we're going to the 'garden' instead of the 'cemetery'.  And I like how Levi asks me sometimes if we're going to Elliana's garden, or if we're going to Hobby Lobby to pick out new flowers for the garden.  :-)

The weeping willow flowers are gone.  They've been replaced with a much smaller arrangement of bright spring-colored flowers.  I miss the cascade.

The newest 'neighbor' has her stone.  A little girl named Gracie.

I didn't realize that people use cemeteries for exercise and dog-walking purposes.  It caught me off guard for a while.  I think I'm used to it now.  And I don't find myself the least bit self-conscious when those dog-walking exercise people walk past me as I'm making new flower arrangements for Elliana's vase.  I don't care if I look crazy.

And that's so not me.  I have always cared if I look crazy.

Not anymore.

And... I hesitate to share this headline publicly.  But I will.

*Big Sigh*

I don't *think* it's printed anywhere in our cemetery guidelines that peeing on the grounds is prohibited.

Because for a brief moment, which felt like an eternity, I was certain that we were about to be fined.  Or imprisoned.

I was brushing off Elliana's stone while Seth and Levi 'played' around me.  And I remember hearing Seth say, 'Mom, I need to go potty.'

I had my back to him, so I just said, 'OK, Seth.  I'll take you in just a - '

I turned around, and I was looking at my 2-year-old's BARE BUTTOCKS.

(Whispering as loudly as I could, hoping that no one else had seen him or could hear me)  'Oh NO, Seth!  Stop!  You can't do that here!  Pull your pants back up!'

But it was too late.  The stream of pee had already started, and MY SON WAS PEEING IN BABY LAND.

At least he's only 2.

And at least he was peeing in the hedges.

But OH.MY.WORD.  Talk about complete and utter humiliation.  I was absolutely mortified.

I wonder, though - do you think Elliana and Jesus were laughing?  :-)

Can't Think of a Title, So We'll Just Call This 'Today's Blog Post'

The mess has gotten larger.  The project, bigger.  But the energy is gone.  As of about 4:45pm today, my energy (or perhaps it was more of a 72-hour adrenaline rush associated with my intense desire to completely destroy something) is gone.

I'm noticing a bit of a 'pattern'.  Down time = the deep ache.

As long as I keep going, as long as there's somewhere I have to be, someone I have to converse with, something I have to do, someone I have to tend to, the deep ache subsides.  But the moment any of those things stop, the deep ache returns.

So... do I just keep myself busy ALL THE TIME and never, ever think about Elliana or feel the deep ache again?

And if I don't keep myself busy all the time, what do I do when the deep ache returns?  It's not like I can push 'pause' on the kids and go play the piano or go to the cemetery.  Or go throw beer bottles.

I've recently learned that there's more than one kind of grief.  There's 'grief', and there's 'complicated grief'.

And I think that's all I want to say about that today.

I guess the good news is this:  after I've completely destroyed something (like the overgrown bushes and great big mound of weed-covered dirt in my back yard), it usually results in a completed project.  I tear something up, I clean it up (with Jason's help), and usually whatever I tore up looks better than it did before I destroyed it.

So eventually, when I'm done with my current project, I'll have 4 freshly painted/decorated, completely rearranged, and extremely organized bedrooms.

Let's hope the energy (or adrenaline) returns quickly.

Wish me luck.

Another Simple Comment

I taught some piano lessons today.  Which meant that a few students had to actually walk into the disaster area that is currently my living room because of my attempt to 'clean out' my bedroom.

The last student of the day had to sit on the couch and wait for a minute or two while I finished up the previous lesson.  When she sat down next to me at the piano bench, I apologized for the mess she'd had to look at.

This sweet girl, just 8 years old, without any hesitation at all, said, 'Oh, it's ok.  I was actually just looking at that picture of Elliana.  That's a picture of her, right?  She has so much pretty hair.'

It brought tears to my eyes.  But it was ok.

It helps for people to say her name.  To look at her picture.  To tell me they're looking at her picture.  It helps.

Sweet little LL, thank you.  When most of my thoughts were consumed with remembering the last few hours I had with her, your simple comment *helped me*.  Just by looking at her picture and saying her name.

You made my day.  :-)

A Simple Comment

One simple comment sparked a flame in my head today.

Today.  May 5.

I thought maybe today would be easier than the 5th day of past months.  But the heaviness - the deep ache - settled over me this morning.  Nothing in particular brought it on.  It just came.  It does that.

One simple comment today.

I told someone I was having a hard day today.

Her kind, simple comment:  'Everyone has days like that.'

This is what I've been telling myself today so that I won't throw tea glasses, vases, and beer bottles:

She was trying to be understanding.  Sympathetic.  She was trying to help me believe that I'm normal.  That I'm not crazy.  She was being kind.

But this was my instinctive response:

No.  Everyone doesn't have days like this.  My day has been hard because my daughter would have been 8 months old today.  My day has been hard because I let a song lyric make my sorrow feel cheesy and easily 'fixed'.  It's been hard because my little blond baby girl isn't riding in the van with me and her 4 older siblings.  It's been hard because I'm remembering the scary hours of that day, 8 months ago, that led to the decision to deliver her.  And it's been hard because delivering her led to the decision to stop the efforts to revive her, and that meant saying goodbye to her.  No.  Everyone doesn't have days like this.

I.  Miss.  Her.

I felt like tearing something apart tonight.  It was too dark and too late to break out the chainsaw, go out back, and start tearing down some trees.  And I think I should probably take a friend with me if I actually go throw a bunch of glass bottles at the rear of a vacant building I scoped out today for glass-shattering.  (Yes, I really did that.)  So instead, I took everything that either didn't belong in my bedroom or I didn't want in my bedroom and threw it out in the living room.  Now there's a huge mess in my living room.  A HUGE mess.

I wish grief were a little cleaner.  And easier.  And politer.

Everywhere

She's everywhere.  And yet, she's not here.

It's so odd to me how a person who was only *here* for a little over 3 hours gave me so many memories and completely changed my life.

*****

We went to the beach over the weekend.  We took a route that we've used more than once before.  On our way there, we had to make a couple of stops.

One of these stops was a gas station/Subway combo store.  One of the kids required... some cleaning up.  Which needed to be done in the parking lot.  (It's a long story - which I won't share here.)  After Jason and I got the 'cleaning up' done, I went into the gas station to wash my hands.  As I was walking out of the gas station, the aroma of Subway sandwiches triggered a memory.  It caught me off guard, and almost stopped me in my tracks.

At that moment, I remembered - I've been here.  We stopped here last summer, on our way to the beach.  Just a few weeks after that 18-week ultrasound.  I remember walking into this gas station.  I remember ordering a veggie sub (because pregnant women aren't supposed to eat deli meat) from that Subway.  I think I even remember exactly which vegetables I had on that sandwich.  I remember how much my heart just hurt.

*****

Yesterday, I took Levi to his 5-year-old check-up (almost 5 months late).  While we were sitting in the waiting room, he saw some wheelchairs folded up in the corner.  He asked what they were and why people needed them.  Then he asked, 'Mom, have you ever been in one of those before?'

Immediately, I was 'in' October 8, 2012, being wheeled out of the hospital to go home - without my daughter.

*****

I took the kids to the pool for the first time this summer.  I didn't expect it to be hard - other than running into people that I haven't seen or talked to last summer.  That's just... difficult.  Awkward.

When I stood beside the pool, last summer became like yesterday.  Sitting on the edge of the baby pool, watching the kids play, feeling Elliana move and kick.  Standing in the shallow end of the big pool with my phone sitting nearby, waiting for a phone call from the doctor with test results.

*****

She's just... everywhere.  It's beautiful, and painful, all at the same time.

Let Me See Redemption Win

I really, really wish Facebook would stop suggesting that I like some stupid post about birth defect lawsuit information.

*Big sigh.  And a few tears.  And maybe a couple dozen beer bottles thrown at the house.*

The song that I just started listening to a few days ago has been stuck in my head all day.  And it hasn't taken me to a good place.

I'm trying to get a different song stuck in my head.  It's not a *happy* song, but at least it has a little hope.

No musical analysis this time.  Just a song.

'Worn'

Let me see redemption win
Let me know the struggle ends
That You can mend a heart that's frail and torn
I wanna know a song can rise
From the ashes of a broken life
And all that's dead inside can be reborn
'Cause I'm worn

Let me see redemption win.

Can this - **THIS** - be redeemed?

Minor

I love songs in minor keys.  A friend was telling me about her passion for minor keys not long ago - the same friend who reminded me that 'music expresses that which cannot be put into words and that which cannot remain silent'. 

A couple weeks ago, I couldn't stop playing the piano.  I played Chopin, Beethoven, and one other composer (drawing a complete blank right now) over and over and over.  All pieces in minor keys.

I've recently heard a song by the artist, Plumb, that captures so much of what I think/feel/wonder.  It's in a minor key.  I've listened to it so many times that I've sort of started analyzing it.  

This is one of those times that I'm rolling my eyes, thinking that I drive mySELF crazy sometimes.

My thoughts surrounding this song:

**Well, first I need to say - the first time I listened to it, something about the chorus reminded me of 'Phantom of the Opera'.  It was odd.  Glad to get that off my chest.**

The song:  'I Want You Here'

It's haunting.  The honesty of the lyrics.  The movement of the piano.  The 'pain' in her voice at times.

I think strings might possibly be the most mournful sounding instrument.  Piano can sound very sad - its music can definitely make me cry - but a violin or a cello... those instruments can just mourn.

My ear strains to hear the electric guitar playing those sixteenth notes after she sings the phrase 'I want you here'.  There's an intensity to it that draws my ear... and my heart.

The way she sings 'God, help me' - the first time, it almost sounds like she's buried under something.  Each plea becomes clearer, and then you realize she's asking Him to just.help.her.breathe.  

An ache so deep that I can hardly breathe.  

That's it exactly.  An ache so deep, that at times, it's hard to breathe.

I remember her hands.  So small.  And her feet.  So perfect.