Saturday, May 8, 2010

Saturday, May 8, 2010 -- Mattie has been gone 8 months as of today.

Today marks the eighth month that Mattie has been gone from our lives. Seems like a challenging day in and of itself, but then throw in Mother's day tomorrow, and it is quite the picture of grief here. Somehow on anniversary days like today, that serve as a further reminder of Mattie's passing, I feel the need to post a baby picture. This picture is not one I would typically post because I feel it shows the aftermath on me of 36 hours of labor, an emergency c-section, and being pumped up with all sorts of narcotics to manage pain. Nonetheless, Peter did capture, I feel, the love between Mattie and I right from the very beginning. You can see that Mattie had his little eyes open, and despite being heavily medicated (so much so, that Peter tells me stories about me hallucinating and having slurred speech), I can still recall that feeling of becoming a mother within the hospital. 


Poem of the day: Grief by Rani Turton

Grief, don't stand near my bed tonight
I've had enough and more than I can bear
Last night was the worst: I could feel you
Watching me whilst silently standing there.
Now tell me, grief, are you friend or foe?
What is it about me that attracts you so?
Is it for my beauty, my wit or my fragility
That you stand there clothed in such simplicity?
You knew that yesterday was a hard day.
I had a certain difficult role to play;
Grief, as I suddenly felt you in my room
Ah! I actually felt the weight of your gloom.
Now I know that you are more than a presence;
I even think you sense my absence;
I almost think I'll wait for you tonight:
Grief, please do step into sight.
 
I began the day in what I would call a funk. I wasn't sure what I wanted to do, and for some reason was also affected by the amazing amount of tree pollen everywhere. So between crying and allergies, my eyes are simply swollen. Peter could see that staying home most likely wasn't going to improve my mood, so he suggested we take a walk by the Potomac River, and have lunch outside. I gave him a hard time, but I eventually went on this journey. It took me a while to re-engage and want to talk, but I did throughout lunch. Being by the water is something that I find therapeutic even with the traffic of Washington, DC around us.

When we got home, I began balancing Walk related items and laundry. While I was in our complex's laundry room, I met a woman who was in her 70s. I never saw her before, but she started talking to me. She told me about her three children and her grandchildren. I listened to her stories and her struggles in life. After which, she then asked about me. She wanted to know about my children. Loaded question! I told her I had a seven year old son, who died of cancer. She was visibly shocked, but continued talking. As she was talking she began to cry. She said that in the short time I was talking to her, she could tell I was bright and a kind person (always can use a nice compliment especially when I am down), and how deeply sorry she was for my loss. She then gave me a big hug. She continued talking and encouraged me to think about having more children, since she said that she could tell I was supposed to be a mom. I thanked her for the lovely compliments but told her I am trying to deal with my current loss and therefore making any important life decisions is not easy for me right now. She understood. She told me she used to work in a law office in DC. Every so often a woman would come into the office to meet with a lawyer, but she said the woman always looked sad, or angry, and simply not pleasant to be around. One day, she told me that she got talking with this woman and learned that this woman lost her son seven years ago in an accident. The woman's life was NEVER the same. Seven years later the toll of this loss remained on this woman's face and personality. The interesting observation that this lady made today, was when she said to me..... "you don't look like her. You smile, you listen to others, and you appear happy." She wanted to know how I could appear this way, and yet feel deeply inside? Excellent question, from a complete stranger!!!! The irony is this lady has been in our complex for 20 years. We have lived here 15 years, and yet I have NEVER seen her before until today. So the question is, was I meant to bump into this lady today?! Something tells me.... yes!

At dinner tonight, Peter and I were talking about all sorts of things. I am not sure what got him onto his high school experience, but I heard one story that I hadn't heard before. In high school, Peter was involved with his choir and an a cappella singing group. His school also performed musicals every spring, and he was typically cast as the lead in every musical because Peter really has that good of a singing voice. Any case, one spring Peter auditioned for a part in the musical Pippen. He wanted the part of Pippen in the play, because Peter thought since the musical is entitled Pippen, that therefore meant Pippen was the lead role. Peter was devastated when he wasn't cast as Pippen. Those of you who know the play, know that Pippen IS NOT the lead character! Peter must have looked so upset and dejected, that the musical director (who I hear was a NO nonsense kind of person) came up to Peter and told him that she cast him in the right part and that he needed to have faith in her decision. He did not know what she actually meant, until rehearsals and until he read the play and realized that he actually was given the lead part. Peter was trying to make a point to me that teachers are vital parts of our lives, and they sometimes see things within ourselves that we can't see. Yet they not only see potential, but know how to nurture it, and help it grow. Maybe being an educator myself, hearing Peter's reflections tonight impacted me and the role I have served for years. It is unfortunate that I don't know this musical teacher, because I bet she would have liked to know that she inspired Peter through that play to have confidence in himself and his abilities. Which brings me back to the story I just told you about with the lady in the laundry room. What we say to one another can impact a life for the good or for the bad. Words can have lasting effects, and on a bad day, a kind word can change a person's outlook and feelings.

Later in the day, Ann called me. She was persistent today because I hadn't answered her other calls, and she was worried about me. Naturally I do not want her to worry, so we did land up chatting. She was reflecting on the time she and I spent with Mattie's head of school yesterday, and she said that she and Bob can see happiness in my future. She knows I can not right now, but wanted to know what my reaction was to the fact that others could. What she was trying to tell me is there is hope, there is always hope, and not to forget that. Clearly if anyone else told me this, I most likely would be very upset. But Ann did not tell me this to make me upset. She is telling me this because deep down she truly believes this, and wants me to know that it is okay if I can't see it, or feel it, but that she is here to remind me. She respects that the journey of grief is on my timeline, not anyone else's. Respecting me and my timeline means a great deal to me, because forcing me to do something or feel something I am not ready to do, isn't helpful, but instead brings about further grief.

I would like to end tonight's posting with two messages. The first message is from my friend, Charlie. Charlie wrote, "It is very difficult to return to a place where you were happy after suffering a significant loss and know that the person who you once were, is no more, and will not return. That's not to say you won't recover your focus, your interest and desire to be a part of the university but it will take time and patience. You may also find yourself more sensitive and less willing to dissemble. Death does that to us, it awakens us to feelings we would rather not admit into our awareness. I know this weekend is terribly difficult for you and I won't try to minimize what you are probably feeling. I just want to say that I am so sorry that Mattie could not conquer this disease and therefore be here to spend Mother's Day with you. I do think if you leave yourself open you will have experiences that tell you he is with you in spirit; I hope you receive those messages and that you will share them in Sunday's blog. It sounds like you picked out the perfect tree and location for Mattie's memorial. I am happy to read that Mattie will be with his friends in spirit as they play, shading them from the sun. As you cope with this weekend, know you are in the hearts and prayers of many who care deeply about you. I hold you gently in my thoughts."

The second message is from my colleague and friend, Susan. Thank you Susan for this meaningful message, which got me to pause and reflect on my role as a mother. Susan wrote, "I've been thinking about you alot - probably because my "new normal" in the last (almost) two years has been to start my day by reading your blog. I awakened at 3:00 this morning with thoughts of what this weekend signifies - the celebration of Mother's Day, and how this might be for you. I know that no one can take the pain away for you - it's a long (permanent?) and arduous process, but I just wanted to share some thoughts with you. My definition of mothering includes being a nurturing woman, which is the process of caring for and encouraging the growth or development of something or someone, and providing care and affection. I believe that "mothering and nurturing" is behaving in a manner that makes this place a better, safer, healthier world for all of the earth's children. In my mind, if you are a Mother once, you are a Mother always. It just is. Our hearts tell us so. It's an esteemed title that we WON'T give up. It has permanency attached to it. My two sisters-in-law have both lost young sons, age 18 months and five years old (cancer). They might be the first to tell you they are STILL those children's mothers. No one else will ever be in that role with those children, my two nephews. Children are lifelong (our life) residents in our hearts, permanent fixtures in our daily existence. No matter what. It's forever. And I would like to add one more thought - aren't you still nurturing, mothering, caring for Mattie by caring for ALL children through your blog and your foundation? Haven't you chosen to devote a significant portion of your life to making this a better place for ALL children with osteosarcoma who may someday be treated effectively? Unequivocally, yes! Now THAT'S a Mother! I know you can't physically hold his tiny hands, but emotionally his hands will be wrapped in yours for always, and the future will show us that you have ABSOLUTELY made a difference, both in Mattie's short but powerful life, and in the ongoing work of your foundation. This is part of your legacy even though it wasn't in your original plans. "Happy Mother's Day, Vicki. You truly deserve one of the highest titles that can be bestowed upon a woman. You have my utmost admiration."