Tonight's picture was taken after Mattie's sternotomy. We took Mattie outside to get some fresh air. Peter and I sat in this same location yesterday as we awaited for the "Time of Remembrance" ceremony to begin at the Hospital. However, unlike in June of 2009, there were only two of us sitting in this garden instead of three. As I look at this picture, I remember the feeling of being SO naive. Naive in the sense that I thought we removed every tumor within Mattie's body, and that he had a real chance at survival. Technically all the tumors that were detectable to the human eye were removed, but that certainly did not mean the cancer was wiped out at the cellular level. Clearly it wasn't! I want you to take notice of what was in Mattie's lap. It is a huge rock! He claimed this rock during our walk through one of Georgetown's gardens. Typically I don't allow him to take a rock, but this rock seemed important to him, and under the circumstances, I figured Georgetown would understand. Well this rock remains with us today. We use it to prop our front door open in the spring and summer months. It serves as a wonderful door stop, and when I see it, it reminds me of that walk we all took together that day at Georgetown Hospital.
Hymn of Promise by Natalie Sleeth
In the bulb there is a flower; in the seed, an apple tree; in cocoons, a hidden promise: butterflies will soon be free! In the cold and snow of winter there's a spring that waits to be, unrevealed until its season, something God alone can see. There's a song in every silence, seeking word and melody; there's a dawn in every darkness, bringing hope to you and me. From the past will come the future; what its holds, a mystery, unrevealed until its season, something God alone can see. In our end is our beginning; in our time, infinity; in our doubt there is believing; in our life, eternity. In our death, a resurrection; at least, a victory unrevealed until its season, something God alone can see.
This hymn was sung yesterday at the Georgetown University Hospital's "Time of Remembrance" ceremony. The music itself wasn't as memorable to me as the words. The words struck a chord with me because I relate to the bulbs, the seeds, and the hidden promises. Perhaps the outcome of things are only "something God alone can see." Yesterday's service was a message of promise and hope, and even a day later I am reflecting upon it, and its impact on me.
I continued talking about this ceremony today with my friend, Christine. We met each other for tea, and because Christine had to return to work, we tried to limit our time together. But that is not something we are good at, mainly because we enjoy chatting with one another. Our boys brought us together, and though Mattie is not with us, our friendship remains. To me that is rather unusual, since friendships established through children, do not always remain once the children migrate away from each other.
Christine and I talked about the challenges of parenthood, the challenges of being a teacher in today's society (where I feel teachers are no longer given the respect and authority they need to manage their own classrooms), and the generational differences we see between us and our children. In a way, when we were growing up, parents set expectations and the family's agenda, and the children in many ways followed the guidance and direction of their adults. In today's generation, parents are jumping through all sorts of hoops to meet their children's expectations, their needs, and their social calendar. I am not saying one philosophy is better than the other, but I do wonder what the long term ramifications are for raising a society of children who are used to getting what they want and when they want it? Christine and I discussed the importance of being able to occupy one's self without outside stimulation. This is definitely something that was expected of us when we growing up, and yet we won't tolerate this for our children. In a way, sometimes being bored stimulates one's creativity. Without having the chance to be bored, we lose the art form to self soothe and to develop and explore various interests. I told Christine I was listening to the radio this morning and the host had a travel agent on the air. The agent was encouraging people to drive to their Thanksgiving destination this year rather than fly. She said traveling by car now is SO much easier than when she was a child. Why? Because now you can plug the children into their iPods and DVD players. I get what she was saying, but I did not like the visualization. In fact I found it disturbing. The message this is sending is on a family vacation, instead of talking or even playing games together, we are spared this hassle because we can all plug into our own devices and have solitude. All I can say is wow, because it speaks volumes to a culture in which we rather be isolated and connected to things rather than people. In my perspective that is never a good sign.
I reflected on the ceremony at Georgetown with Christine, and as we were talking we discussed Mattie's several visits to her house when he had cancer. Mattie was unable to climb up and down her stairs and had trouble keeping up with her children while he was there on a play date. Somehow in a very subtle way, Christine became Mattie's legs that afternoon. She was sensitive to how this made him feel, and together they had fun with her role, rather than Mattie feeling inadequate in any way. What I distinctly felt from Christine today was that she tried very hard to earn Mattie's trust and respect, and some point during that afternoon together, she got it. In a way I could sense this connection with Mattie touched her deeply, as she can vividly reflect on what Mattie felt like when she picked him up. Very light and bony. In many ways, toward the end, Mattie was a skeleton of his former self. When you pick up a child who is so emaciated, it is hard to keep it together and not fall to pieces. But Christine did not. Instead she normalized things for Mattie and she gave Peter and I eight hours away from our caregiving responsibilities to plant our garden.
In many ways talking with Christine today about Mattie helped me see that I am not alone. Christine was able to verbalize how she and her family feel about Mattie's loss, and she did this in such a way that it caught my attention, because from my perspective on many days I feel like I am the only one (other than Peter and our families) who struggles with these feelings. When I feel like I am the only one feeling this way, I tend to keep these personal feelings to myself, because I figure no one will get them or appreciate them. So for me it was a morning of connecting with a friend and being understood.
I had the opportunity to see Ann today and heard all about her family trip and got to see some wonderful pictures. We chatted about her mom, Peter's birthday, and the ceremony at Georgetown. While addressing the audience at the Hospital yesterday, I could see that what I was saying caused others to take notice and for some to cry. As I was telling this to Ann, she did not seem surprised by this at all, since apparently while expressing emotions I have been told I pull on people's heart strings at times. Ann could see that telling Mattie's story yesterday was empowering for me, which is when she said... that is why you have to write a book. Ann and I reflected upon the time Mattie when had his first and only sleepover in his life, at her house. In a typical sleepover fashion, all the kids landed up staying in the same room. The only difference was Ann was in the room sleeping as well. In the middle of the night, Mattie whispered to Ann to get her attention, so as to not wake up the other kids in the room. He wanted her help going to the bathroom and he also wanted her to give him medicine. I think what struck Ann and I both with Mattie's behavior was his sensitivity to others even when he was so uncomfortable and in pain. I can picture these moments that Christine and Ann described to me today, and I guess what I most appreciate is that these memories exist and that they are willing to share them with me.
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