Tonight's picture was taken at the Los Angeles Zoo in March of 2003. Mattie was 11 months old. This was Mattie's first big plane trip out to California to visit my parents. He handled flying and traveling quite well, as long as we brought a ton of things to entertain him. He NEVER slept for the entire 5 hour plane trip. His favorite parts of a plane trip were (and ironically they are all the parts I highly dislike): taking off, turbulence, and landing. In tonight's picture, you can see one of Mattie's favorite modes of transportation, sitting in a backpack on Peter's back. Mattie was always fascinated by animals, and truly was in awe of the petting zoo.
Poem of the day: The Pit by Lana Golembeski
Sadness permeates my soul
It fills every part of my body
I feel the pit in my stomach
As reality roars in my ear
I cannot bear the truth
I hide from it
Under the covers in my bed
In the busy-ness of my work
But the truth is relentless
The absence of [his] presence
Fills my soul with pain
I miss [his] smile and [his] laughter
[His] presence follows me everywhere
And the emptiness of reality fills the air.
I think our grief is ever present, as the poem indicates it does permeate your soul. There is always an underlying level of grief to everything Peter and I do now, however, in addition to this feeling, we sometimes feel the intensity of grief. The intensity comes back and forth on us, just like waves come crashing onto the shoreline. Peter and I are currently being hit by a wave, and it truly feels during these times as if we could be carried out to sea, or in other words, we feel powerless. Powerless in a sea of hopelessness, in which we do not see an end to our pain and our heartache. Fortunately this intensity isn't experienced every day, because it would make it almost impossible to function and live. I can't even pinpoint what causes these intense waves of grief, they are unpredictable, but I do know that Peter and I have felt this way before, since Mattie's death.
I spent some time visiting Mary, Ann's mom, in the hospital today. Mary did not seem like herself this afternoon, and was excessively tired. As we were chatting yesterday, I could tell that Mary wanted to have her nails done, so today, I gave her a manicure and pedicure. I have had the opportunity to get to know Mary's nurse over the last three days. Mary is fortunate to have the same nurse assigned to her for three days in a row. The consistency of this is beautiful. Her nurse is lovely and diligent, and apparently Ann and Mary tell me that the nurse inquires each day about when I will be visiting Mary. In fact, before I left tonight, Mary's nurse asked if she would be seeing me tomorrow. After my experience in the hospital with Mattie, I have a great admiration for nurses, and I appreciate their efforts, their knowledge, and their sensitivity, and perhaps this level of appreciation (though not consciously expressed) is felt.
Mary enjoyed getting her nails done, and while holding her hands to give her a manicure, I realized without looking at her face, that her hands reminded me of my grandmother's. My grandmother was a special person in my life, and she died in January of 1994. My lifetime friend Karen wrote me an e-mail about my connection with Mary a few months ago. Karen knew that I was in college when my grandmother suffered a stroke, and she wondered if a part of me is trying to provide Mary with the social and emotional connections I wish I could have provided my grandmother years ago when she was sick. After all, my grandmother lived in California with my parents and I was in college in upstate New York. Karen's e-mail registered with me, but frankly I did not think much about what she was saying until I noticed Mary's hands today.
Ann was visiting her mom while I was there, and I have noticed that Mary loves listening to Ann and I talk. She is usually very alert, engaged, and processing everything we are saying. I think this stimulation is so wonderful for Mary, but it also tells me about the importance of social connections in women's lives. Before I left tonight, Mary wanted to let me know that she heard what Ann and I were talking about and that she wants very much for me to be happy. She told me she strongly feels that I can achieve happiness again, but that I have to allow this for myself. That was an interesting comment, because that is indeed a component of my problem. I shy away from thinking about happiness because I feel this tarnishes Mattie's memory and his suffering. Perhaps it is just too soon for me to even talk about potential happiness, but I am very cognizant of the guilt that arises within me with the mere mention of the topic.
I would like to end tonight's posting with a message from my friend, Charlie. Charlie wrote, "Mattie's death is certainly not a "bump in the road" and none of us would ever suggest that it was. I can think of few events more life changing than the death of a child for a parent. The change in the world is so profound that it takes a significant amount of time just to figure out who you still are, let alone what you want to do. You need to be kind to yourself as you struggle to figure out where all these pieces go. I understand what you said about Mary and the assisted living center. We tend to treat aging adults like children; we speak to them in childlike tones, we don't respect their knowledge and experience and we "do for them" as we do for children. As a result we disempower them, and cause them to do much less for themselves than they otherwise could. And most of the time it is unnecessary; we just do it out of convenience to ourselves. We forget we will be there someday and if we don't change the way these places operate, we will be subject to it ourselves. My instructor said something yesterday that resonated with me as we closed our session; we always say: "the light in me, honors the light in you." Then she said, 'But remember to honor and respect the light within yourself as well; give yourself no less love and compassion than you give others.'"
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