Tonight's picture was taken in the spring of 2007, during Mattie's 107th day in the block room at the Resurrection Children's Center (RCC). Behind Mattie, you can see his teacher Kathy, and to the left you can see Zachary, Mattie's close buddy, at the Lego table with Mattie. Mattie flourished at RCC, and now that I look back on the whole experience, I know I made the right choice to select a co-op preschool, in which parents are required to actively participate in the classroom and at the school. This gave me priceless time to spend with Mattie and to interact and to get to know his friends. The irony was during Mattie's first year at RCC, he was in the Pretend room with Margaret and Lana. I always noticed that during open room time, when the children could freely move about to different classrooms, Mattie avoided the block room. I never really understood why, but I knew whatever was in that room, Mattie had to be introduced to it and to overcome his fears. The following year, Mattie entered the block room, and Mattie acclimated to it beautifully. In fact, it was hard to imagine that he ever avoided the room to begin with, since the room was about science, exploration, hands on activity, and BUILDING! Mattie was a master builder in many ways, and I will never forget the nurturing teachers Mattie had and the support they gave me then and now.
Poem of the day: Grief Lasts by Charlie Brown
On the surface
I may look fine
Surrounded by
All that is mine
But look closer
And you'll see
What's really important
Eluding me
My son, my child
Is gone from my life
No more a mother
Pain cuts like a knife
Surrounded by his things
His clothing, his toys
I'm still losing the "feel"
Of my little boy
In my home I'm surrounded
By all of his "stuff"
And memories come unbidden
Grief makes life tough
Hugs and kisses
I can no longer feel
Sometimes I wonder
Which world is real?
I may sound fine
But the grief's all inside
And if you are patient
I won't need to hide
If a friend to a griever
You are willing to be
Just come and sit
And grieve with me.
Today is day five that Peter is in Rwanda. He wrote to me to let me know that he was invited yesterday out to dinner with a colleague. Peter assumed, like our American dinners, that this was going to be a working dinner. To Peter's surprise the dinner was simply that, a time to socialize and connect and to watch the World Cup game with a colleague. I continue to be in awe of what Peter and in essence I am learning from his trip thousands of miles away. Rwanda is considered a developing nation, yet, in many ways, the culture is far more advanced in terms of understanding the importance and value of social connections. I think this trip came at an important time in our lives, and I enjoy hearing about Peter's experiences and insights each day. I joke with Peter, because each day I ask him to share with me his, "thoughts from Rwanda!"
When Charlie sent me this poem today, it instantly resonated with me. Grief lasts! A great title, because in two words it was able to capture my feelings. In particular two lines jump out at me. The first one is, "I'm still losing the feel" and the second is "Which world is real?" The greatest fear in dealing with grief is "losing the feel." As each day passes, the tangible Mattie becomes more foggy. I find myself desperately grasping to remember his voice, how he called me, and what it was like to hold his hand, or give him a hug. Mattie was a very affectionate child. He liked to hold hands with me, and was always telling me he loved me and out of the blue would give me hugs. I did not ask him for these things, he simply did them. We were incredibly close, and it is heartbreaking to know that this closeness is gone from my life. Such love, respect, and innocence can not be replaced. Some days I wonder if our intense bond with each other was because I was raising an only child, or did we simply understand each other so well because we were so alike? I really don't know, but I do know not having this force in my life is a loss beyond explanation. Charlie's line, "which world is real," is a question I ask myself during certain points during this grief process. As I was telling Ann today, for my mental sanity there are times during the day, where I try to busy myself with a task to simply push myself into my current world, a world without Mattie. Yet as soon as I come home and see Mattie's pictures and things, I am instantly transported back to my reality. The mind is funny that way, in a way it shuts down at times because living in intense grief each hour of the day is emotionally impossible.
I did some chores this morning and then headed to Ann's house. I wanted to plant some flowers in her garden, and today I had the pleasure of finding dwarf sunflowers to add to her flower beds. When Mattie was sick, many people would bring me sunflowers, and these sunny and happy plants made me feel better. In a way planting the sunflowers today is a reminder of the hundreds of people who reached out to my family during Mattie's illness. For every meal, every toy, every listening ear, and every act of kindness, I have recorded them all in my head. The sunflowers that I planted today represent all of you, and like our beautiful community, I hope these sunflowers thrive in Ann's garden year after year.
I had the opportunity to spend time with Ann's children today. They taught me a family card game, and they were quite patient as I was trying to figure this all out. Not only were they good teachers, but they gave positive feedback along the way to me. To me that whole interaction was fascinating, because to teach someone a game or a task requires a certain level of maturity and a certain amount of concern for the individual you are working with. Any good educator is probably nodding in agreement with the notion I am expressing. A lot can be learned about children in how they play a game or explain it to someone else. So I saw a very mature side to these children today and I told them numerous times how I was impressed with how they were teaching me. Ann and I also had the opportunity to see Mary together today. Mary remembered our fun last night quite well, and I was so happy she did! Tanja and I were still talking about this comedy show last night through e-mail today.
I had dinner with Ann and her family tonight. Dr. Bob introduced me to their iPad, and after working on it a while I was beginning to get the hang of this touch screen system. Bob made an interesting comment, in that he said the iPad allows for a group of people to socialize around the technology. That caught my attention, because he is correct. If I were working on a desktop or laptop, it is hard to move the screen around for others to see. But with the iPad, it is light, and has no wires or plugs. So literally, it is almost as easy as passing around a sheet of paper for others to see. Peter is the technologically savvy one in our family, but even this tool caught my attention.
After dinner, Ann suggested we go for a walk. Our last walk, weeks ago, practically wiped me out physically for a week. So I told her I couldn't do her neighborhood hills, until I got into a better walking routine. So we walked to St. Stephen's track tonight and walked around the track. As odd as this may seem, walking on this track reminds me of Mattie. It almost seems like I am visiting a special place touched by Mattie when being on the track. I am not sure why I never acknowledged this feeling before, but it struck me tonight once our walk was over. During our walk, Ann asked me how I would counsel myself, or maybe someone like myself. It was a good question, and humbly my response now is that prior to experiencing Mattie's loss, I most likely wouldn't have grasped the profound and intense feelings of losing someone so close to you. I naturally understood death associated with age, but I never personally felt traumatic grief. I am more humble now, because in reality there is nothing a mental health professional can do to help someone in my position. The best possible thing one can do is to listen, be there, not be judgmental, and though we all have the need to instill hope in others going through pain, this forced hope can be received as disingenuous and also inappropriate. I do not know how I will find hope again (but I have to find it for myself, it can't be given to me), I don't know when it will be time to give away Mattie's things, and I don't know what my next year holds for me. I simply don't know, and I have to be okay with this honest answer right now.
However, walking at night after dinner, reminded me of my summer vacations to Italy. Like Rwanda, Italy also operates at a different pace. I recall as a child after having dinner, my family and I would walk the streets of Sorrento, passing people and shops. At night, the town came back alive and though I was walking on the streets of Alexandria tonight, I find it funny that the memories of a happier time popped into my head.
I would like to end tonight's posting with two messages. The first one is from our friend and Mattie's oncologist, Kristen. Kristen is a new mom, her son was born in the end of May. Kristen wrote, "As my Tuesday runs into Wednesday I want to let you know I am thinking of you. Parenting is a difficult skill which you both demonstrated during the most strenuous of times with amazing grace. Everyday I so much appreciate all you did for Mattie. Thinking if you on this day and everyday."
The second message is from my friend, Charlie. Charlie wrote, "As we've been discussing over the past few days, Peter is seeing first hand what the human connection means during his time in Rwanda. I see it in my work at school. My students are all from other countries where the physical and emotional connection seems to be stronger than it is in the US. What I've found is that it is critical to help my students connect somehow to someone in the first week of school or they drop out. The connection can be to me, the counselor, or to one of their teachers or to another student, but it has to happen quickly or the student feels isolated and leaves within a couple of weeks. I've adjusted a number of things since I started as the counselor to try to make that connection happen and it usually does, but sometimes it fails and I mourn the departure of those students and their lost opportunity for an education (and I hope they will try again). The US has become a very impersonal place; we no longer seek to do business with those we have personal connections with; we rarely hug or shake hands or make any physical contact. That used to be a big part of any encounter between friends and even business associates. Now I notice that many people have lost the skill or never learned how to properly shake hands and it makes me wonder what else we will sacrifice to the technology of doing business at a distance. I am glad that Junko is in your life and that she understands how to "sit in grief" with you and allow you to be where you are on the path. It is truly a wonderful gift. And speaking of gifts, what you continue to do for Mary is definitely a gift and I hope that the joy you give her comes back to you a hundredfold. I have to say I love Nancy's poem and I am pleased by your courage in posting it; I hope that it will become truth for you. I hold you gently in my thoughts."
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