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A Lasting Darkness
When the power went out for two days last week, I was forced to not only live like a pioneer woman, bond with my children and eat nothing but dry cereal all day long (really, I am ASHAMED. The sugary goodness of the Fruit Loops call to me in times of crisis), but I was forced to reexamine my life and mull over the choices I have made. I had nothing better to do at the time, courtesy of the black out.
Since my son died 18 months ago, I have tried to fill my life up, tried to quiet the noise that rages inside my head during my waking hours. I knew I was doing this, but I seemed unable to stop. The pain was too great. The first four months after his passing, it simply hurt to breathe. I sat on the couch where him and I would snuggle and watch soap operas I mean, the birds outside our window and I would breathe him in, knowing how blessed my life was, how full. Suddenly, I was alone on this couch, and my life was obscenely hollow.
I knew that I was sinking deeper in my grief every day and I was harming my older children by just sitting there in my blanket of sadness. When a family friend tossed me a life line and offered to put me to work, I reluctantly grabbed it. I didn’t want to work, I didn’t want to see people and have to explain all over, everyday, and endure their looks of pity and sympathy. But I didn’t want my kids to grow up and tell their spouses and children about how the death of their little brother wrecked their mother, their family.
So off to work I went. And it was bloody hard work too. Working at green house is physical. But I was surrounded by friends, and I found that it actually helped to tell people my story. It was cathartic, and I was healing. When that job ended, as all seasonal jobs must, I took in my nephew, The Worm. It was now summer break, and I was surrounded by my kids and a four month old Worm, and life was too busy to have time to break down.
Except that is what I did. I barely remember the summer, the heat, anything. I remember changing diapers and smelling the sweet spot on the side of The Worm’s neck and wishing for the millionth time that it was Bug I was smelling. But the demands of an infant and two active children didn’t allow for me to wallow in my misery for long. Soon autumn rolled around and when the kids went off to school I filled up my days with blogging and reading blogs, and the Worm.
Every day seemed a bit better, a bit brighter. I was starting to untangle my sadness. I was able to remember how to feel joy and not just pain, remember how to love, not just my children, but myself. I was able to forgive myself for the ultimate mommy failure: The death of her child.
Intellectually, I knew I was not responsible for the death of my kid. I did everything possible to prolong his life and make it the best little life possible. But while my heart was secure in the knowledge that I loved him enough, gave enough, sacrificed enough, my brain would not stop with the What If’s.
Busying myself helped quell those nasty little What If’s. I barely wrestle with them anymore. They have been mostly banished to the great outdoors, along with my fear of spiders and mice. I try not to worry about any of them anymore. But then suddenly, I lost the Worm, when my blog became public. Family politics prevailed and my sister and her child were caught in the middle. Now I was truly alone, since those first four months of Bug’s passing.
I thought I was coping well; I was still being funny, I was still blogging. My kids were reasonably happy, my dog well fed. But I was still doing what I had been doing after the first four months. Busying myself to avoid my grief. I focused on my friends, my blog, the upcoming adoption. Anything but me. After-all, how many times can a person wonder if this pain will go away?
Turns out, a lot.
The power outage took away all my distractions. I had no computer, no telly, no music and no phone. I was stranded in my drive way, unable to leave or have anyone enter my snow covered home. While I sat there and tried to entertain my kids with endless rounds of Scrabble and Monopoly, I wondered what life would be like with Bug if he was still alive. Would he still walk? How tall would he have grown? Would he be able to sit on a chair with out me having to strap him in? Would I still want to adopt a new child? The questions raced through my mind, until I was desperate to drown out the noise.
Sitting there, with my kids, trying to make sure they didn’t maim one another, I talked to them. And listened. I heard how much they missed their brother still, and I realized, it wasn’t just me struggling with this heavy bundle of pain. They talked about how scared they were bringing in a new little kid, wondered if they would love it, worried that I would be so busy with the new child that I wouldn’t have time for them. They remembered how much time I spent on Bug; they haven’t forgotten all the things they missed out on because of their little brother.
They worried they wouldn’t be a part of our new family. I listened, and I tried to reassure them, but when they lost interest in what ever game we were playing and wandered off to wrestle, I sat back and examined what they said. I worry too. I worry I won’t be able to love a new child the same way I loved Bug, I worry I may resent the new child and the constraints he or she will place upon me with their needs. I worry I want to adopt to try and fill the vacant hole Bug’s absence has created in my life.
Boo feels the same way. The closer the adoption creeps towards us, the colder our feet become. Is this normal? Are we just psyching ourselves out? I have voices screaming inside my head, all arguing over top of one another, clamoring to be heard. I don’t know which voices to drown out and which to heed.
I fear ramming a child down my kid’s throats and having them resent me forever more, repeating the cycle my own mother and I seem trapped in. I don’t want to hurt my children by placing my own needs before them. Being a parent means sometimes letting go of your personal dreams and doing what is best for your children. Is this one of those times, one of those dreams?
I am listening to the quiet now. Trying to sort out the voices, the doubts, the fears. I am trying to face my grief once more, while marveling at the lasting power of this pain, this sadness. I wonder how long will it be before I can remember my child and all I gained and derived from him with out succumbing to the overwhelming sadness and hurt of his absence.
I am very aware I am standing at a crossroads, and the direction I take will not only impact my life and my husband’s, but that of my children as well. I must not sacrifice my family as they are now in an attempt to recreate the family I had once. I must honor all of my children, not just the ones who passed.
So I must busy myself once again. But this time, instead of filling my hours trying to avoiding my feelings and fears, I’m going to try and embrace them. Maybe, finally, I will know what direction I am supposed to go.
April 23rd, 2007 at 8:34 am
I have just gone back and read all the archives. I don’t have the right words, but I didn’t feel right just lurking. I am thinking about you today.
April 23rd, 2007 at 8:45 am
I too, had a special needs baby, and he died over 23 years ago. Sometimes when I read these Bug posts of yours, I can still smell my son. Which is a grateful and surprising memory. Without the pain, I might add.
And then you go and say something like “the ultimate failure of motherhood - the death of my child”. And there is a sharp intake of breath because I remember how much I wrestled with the very same thing, despite knowing in my head that I wasn’t a failure, it wasn’t my fault, I’d done my best, etc. I also remember the guilt I felt at missing the … status? I had for being a special needs mom. The kudo’s I got from every Tom, Dick and Harry. I was GOOD at taking care of him, and I missed that, as much as I missed him.
All I can say is that bitch of an adage I HATED being told at the time … “Time does heal”. Altho, heal isn’t really the right word. Time puts everything into the right place is more like it.
Thanks for posts like this. I’ve linked my Jacob blog instead of my ‘normal’ daily blog in case you’d like to read about him. I think I need to make a blogroll in that blog for blogs like yours.
April 23rd, 2007 at 8:53 am
I have nothing of importance to say, but like Joy said I dont feel right just lurking. I hope you do find what you and your family need and they both co-exist.
April 23rd, 2007 at 9:04 am
I’m sure all these fears and conflicted feelings are normal. … Every single scary stinking one of them. All of these choices are hard. But I am also sure that whatever decision you make will be the right one.
April 23rd, 2007 at 9:29 am
You will know when the time is right, and when you do, you will feel it. That’s all I can say — other than I think you are an incredible mother. Incredible.
April 23rd, 2007 at 9:47 am
Big hugs and a sqeeze of your hands from a friend in Alabama. Christi
April 23rd, 2007 at 10:10 am
I’m so sorry. I’m not really sure what to say but like OTJ, it didn’t feel right to *not* say something. I’m guessing that your doubts are normal considering what you’ve lost. I think you’re incredibly brave to even contemplate opening your heart to a new child after losing your bug.
April 23rd, 2007 at 10:14 am
You put your thoughts into feelings so well…
It’s hard for me to know what to say, because ultimately this decision is one you have to make with yourself and your family. I do think that there will come a time when you’ll know what you want to do, and there is no doubt in my mind that you’ll make the best decision for you and your family.
Not an easy one to come to, however, and I wish you luck and peace, my friend.
April 23rd, 2007 at 11:03 am
Wow, T. Just wow.
Your insight into your motivations is awe-inspiring.
I hope you come to a decision that values the needs and wants of every single member of your family, tough as that sounds to achieve.
(hugs)
April 23rd, 2007 at 12:26 pm
I remember what I was like for the first few years after Katie was diagnosed. I never stopped moving because I thought if I stopped moving, all the pain would catch up with me at once and I would drown in my own tears.
But I am learning to slow down and listen to my soul, what it’s trying to tell me, if only I would listen.
As for questions about adopting another child, only you can answer those and I don’t even think there are any right answers. You’ll make the right choice, no matter what you decide. It’ll be right for your family.
You made my cry again but I don’t mind. It’s good to have a cry.
April 23rd, 2007 at 12:33 pm
Thinking of you….and sending a few prayers your way.
April 23rd, 2007 at 1:09 pm
I’m speechlees, you certainly have the power to make a person think.
Hugs!
April 23rd, 2007 at 1:37 pm
T, dear one, I am thinking of you today. After reading this post, my chest just compressed like a vise was being screwed tighter and tighter. It was hard for me to breathe for a while. No, I wasn’t having a heart attack. What I was having was sympathetic pains. And, I wish I could take your pain away with my magic motherkitty fairy wand.
I am so sorry for what happened with your family after your blog became public knowledge. I didn’t realize that your sister and her baby were entangled in this mess. I have wanted to ask if your relationships were easing up and the problems resolving, but I now realize that they haven’t.
As far as your children and the new baby are concerned, you will know what the right decision is as soon as you have the baby in your arms. And, your children will know also that your love for them has not dimmed one iota because of a new baby in the house. Lucky you getting a second chance.
April 23rd, 2007 at 1:42 pm
You are so amazing. I can tell you’ve already put so much thought into this and I’m sure that you’ll come to the right choice for your family. Your kids are lucky to have such a thoughful and caring mother. You know, adoption is huge undertaking. I would be worried if you didnt find yourself having some fears and concerns! I’ll be thinking of you.
April 23rd, 2007 at 2:15 pm
Tear jerker doesn’t even begin to cut it.
I’m not going to try to convince you that adopting a child is the right thing to do, but I suspect you feel like most mothers expecting another child - wondering how you can possibly love another child the way you love the child(ren) you already have; wondering where time with them will go; where time for yourself will go; wondering what it will do to the family dynamic and if you shouldn’t just leave well enough alone.
Having another child is always scary. But man oh man, you deserve that baby as much as that baby deserves you.
April 23rd, 2007 at 2:41 pm
Before we get to this post. Glad you have your electrical back and you have a stunning tattoo and a beautiful ballerina neck.
now.
Only you and Boo know which way to go. I doubt you will be in the same trap with your children and resentment as you were with your mother. From what I read of you, you bring much that is loving thoughtful intelligent and funny. Real. not perfect. Probably hideously flawed in many ways. In short. human. And from what I read of your mother, she fell short of many of these qualities but I do not want to disrespect her as she is your mum after all.
Maybe you are trying to fill a hole. maybe not. I cannot help but think that your family has so much love that you have the privilege of being able to share it out.
Hope the way becomes lit.
Thinking of you…and Bug.
April 23rd, 2007 at 3:07 pm
Your blog is always the first one I look for, every single day, because your writing has an impact on me. A great big hug from over here.
April 23rd, 2007 at 3:55 pm
Maybe it’s time for a family heart to heart. Put it all on the table and see what everyone else is thinking…
I’m sure if it’s not the right time for everyone there will be a child waiting for you when the time is right.
I just wish all the other birth mothers to these children felt about their children like you did Bug and considering adoption wouldn’t even be an issue.
Love ya, T.
April 23rd, 2007 at 4:17 pm
Before hitting your site today, I had been barely reading the posts…I have a cold and I can’t think or read straight.
I read your post.
My heart breaks again.
My heart goes out to you on your continuing journey…a journey that should NOT be filled with such pain….
We are there for you….whatever that means.
April 23rd, 2007 at 4:45 pm
I echo what Kimmy advises. I think all four of you need a family meeting. Fric & Frac will gain even more respect for you by including them in the decision. In the end I have no doubt you all will clearly see the direction which will move you forward.
As always The Wahs from the South are keeping y’all in our prayers.
April 23rd, 2007 at 4:47 pm
Not sure what to say. If we were friends, I would just sit with you…and listen.
April 23rd, 2007 at 6:03 pm
T. you fill an amazing amount of space with energy and presence and bawdy iconoclasm and i’ve wondered how much of you there is to go ’round because from way out here you seem infinite. but i know no one is infinite, and have figured it’s probably it’s the love for Bug leaking out of you, needing expression, that’s actually filling up all that space. (that and your obvious, genuine coolness).
when you pull back from all you’re putting out, what’s really there speaking to you?
there’s no wrong answer.
but i really wish i lived closer so i could drive over with a nice bottle of something and put my feet on your table. because you deserve all the love you’re getting out here.
April 23rd, 2007 at 6:26 pm
Feeling the quiet, embracing the quiet, LISTENING to the quiet - that’s the greatest and scariest thing that there is.
It will guide you, I know.
xoxo
April 23rd, 2007 at 6:40 pm
Hoping you find the answers you need.
April 23rd, 2007 at 6:45 pm
Bless your heart(s).
Listen - a wise woman once told me this (when I was at a crossroad of indecision):
There are no questions in your heart, and
there are no answers in your head.
I’ll keep you in my prayers - that the doors that should be open with open and doors that should be shut will shut.
Take care xo
April 23rd, 2007 at 7:01 pm
It takes a great deal of courage to face your feelings and your pain. I have no doubt that your heart will tell you the path to take.
April 23rd, 2007 at 7:02 pm
I don’t know what to say, my friend. I don’t know whether to tell you to follow your heart or your head. But I do know that things happen for a reason. So don’t squash any of those thoughts but listen to all of them.
Big squishy hugs to you.
April 23rd, 2007 at 9:13 pm
You’re amazing, in a multitude of ways. I hope you feel secure choosing whichever path you do, I hope you feel peace and calm and confidence. I wish those things for you.
April 23rd, 2007 at 10:20 pm
As always your honesty and insight is gripping my heart and taking me back to my sad places (in a good way though)
Your post made me think of a U2 song - Yahweh -
“Still waiting for the dawn, the sun is coming up
The sun is coming up on the ocean
This love is like a drop in the ocean
This love is like a drop in the ocean
Yahweh, Yahweh
Always pain before a child is born (or adopted)
Yahweh, tell me now
Why the dark before the dawn?”
When I was wrestling with the death of my baby someone who had experienced it told me that “it gets worse and then it gets better, but only if you let it get worse”
It was true for me - I had to let the feelings come over and over and over and now they are still there but they aren’t as intense and suffocating.
Hang in there - its almost gardening season - then you will have something to keep your hands busy while your heart heals.
April 24th, 2007 at 12:36 am
I…yeah. What you said. I heart you so very much.
April 24th, 2007 at 5:26 am
This was post is both heart-wrenching and beautiful. I’m so sorry you have to go through this, but I think it is wonderful that you are willing to share your experiences with us. I know it helps you to write it and get it out there, but I believe there are so many other people reading it who will benefit as well. Just as MsShad’s experience and advice above, coming from someone further along on a similar journey, may help you, your words may help another. I feel that somehow they have strengthened me and made me understand others and feel compassion just a bit more.
I was so glad to hear what MsShad said about time putting everything into the right place. I’ve never lost a child, but I have lost people I love and I’ve always doubted that time *heals*. I still have some pretty deep pangs when I think about my dad, and he died 24 years ago. When I think of him, there is sadness, but there is something more now, too, and “putting everything in the right place” seems to sum it up well. In addition to the sadness and longing to see him and have my kids know him, there is the happiness of my memories of him and the things he taught me. There is also the knowledge that one day I will see him again. There is perspective.
Whatever you decide on the adoption, I’m sure you will continue to be a wonderful mom to all of your kids. I don’t think there is a right or a wrong answer. You are strong and you obviously love your family very much. I don’t believe adding another child to your family (or not adding another child) would diminish your love or how you show it for your husband and other three children one bit. Like someone else said, this is a concern parents and siblings have each time a new child is expected. Good mommies have hearts big enough to love (and show that love to) all their children equally. Make no mistake about it, you are a *great* mommy.
April 24th, 2007 at 6:47 am
I could say alot, but in the end, it all sums up to this.
Your a smart lady chick. You love that husband and those children of yours to distraction. Whatever you and Boo decide to do, will be RIGHT and it will feel so for all of you.
I would imagine it is scary for all of you, for many reasons, even if this child weren’t a special needs child, it would be scary. No less so then birthing another. Second guessing it I think is possibly more normal then if you didn’t, it shows you understand your limitations, and instead of seeing this adoption through the rose colored glasses, you see it for what it really is. A lifetime changed. That’s healthy. And good.
Tell the voices to speak one at a time hun, and listen. You’ll get there whatever you four decide to do.
April 24th, 2007 at 7:32 am
I too have read all of your archives and your missingmybug website.I’ve been lurking, reading, waiting for the right time to post.
Today is that day. I don’t have much to say. I can’t say I know how you feel. And I don’t have any profound advice.
I’m simply posting to say that I’m thinking of you. Hoping and praying that you find what works for you and your family because really…they are who matters. Not me, not the others who read your blog. Just you, Boo, Fric and Frac.
=)
April 24th, 2007 at 7:51 am
I think a family meeting is in order, babe.
April 24th, 2007 at 7:52 am
What a lot to think about. I see the “waiting children” websites, and so many of those kids have special needs and disabilities, and someone like you with experience and a heart for caregiving would be so beneficial to them. What that child would bring to your family is bonus.
Rest assured, your heart will tell you what’s “right” for your family in the long run. Until then, we’ll keep thinking of you and praying for you while you do the hard work of sorting through it all.
April 24th, 2007 at 7:54 am
Good Morning,
I just want to tell you that I understand completely what you are going through. I wrote to you a few months ago and told you my story. I too filled my life with a lot of work after my son died. I couldn’t stand the empty spot. I was amazed to learn that people considered me almost manic during the early months of my grief. I have learned to live with the hole in my heart and to enjoy the quiet. I read once where someone said that losing a child is like cutting a leg off a table. You don’t replace the leg, just learn to keep the table propped up. You are an incredible woman and a loving mother. I love reading your blog and enjoy your wit and wisdom. By the way, I have been considering a tattoo too, I’m just not certain what I want. It is going to be my reward for losing 20 pounds.
April 24th, 2007 at 9:08 am
Hey lady. I cannot even imagine what you are going through–but I can say that it all seems all too understandable. To question your motives, to ask yourself why. And this does not mean that you have to let doubt creep in and take over. Like you say–you need to confront these feelings to know that when you make the decision, finally, it will be the right one.
I’m glad the power went out. Seems like you needed that quiet.
April 24th, 2007 at 12:41 pm
Sorry I haven’t been around much lately, T. I’m glad you got your power back and I’m glad that you had the reflection time you needed, even if it was painful to get it.
I cannot offer anything but my friendship and sincerest wishes for peace, but those I give freely and abundantly.
April 25th, 2007 at 6:23 am
I have read this posting a few times now. My heart goes out to you and your family. Friends lost their 16 year old son to suicide 3 weeks ago. I am going to forward this to her in time as I think she will find some comfort in your insights. She has 2 younger children and I just don’t know how she gets up in the morning and moves forward, but she will, she has too for the boys.
April 25th, 2007 at 1:48 pm
Hang in there, T.
Have a family meeting… get it all out there in the open and then make the call.
I’m with you, either way, pal.
GF
April 25th, 2007 at 4:27 pm
I’m late to comment on this amazing post, T.
18 months is such a short time, really, in the grand scheme of things. I don’t know if I’m repeating or not, b/c I didn’t read all the comments but I’m so sure that your feelings, thoughts and fears are all natural. I think that people have those thoughts even when having multiple biological children.
At the risk of sounding trite, my thoughts really are with you. I so appreciate your ability to convey these kinds of thoughts and feelings.
April 26th, 2007 at 12:42 pm
T-
I have linked to this post on my site. I thank God for knowing you (well you know what I mean) and knowing I am not alone, that I am normal, that the way I feel is normal.
You capture it well. I know your words with every pixel of every letter on the screen. I know them. I live them. I feel so much better knowing, I am not the only one, and that I’m not a greiving mother who cannot move on. I have moved on, my heart is just lagging back a little. Thanks for putting your thoughts into words. It helps.
Jenn
April 27th, 2007 at 8:57 pm
First I want to say how much I’ve missed reading your blog in the last 2 months. And then I’ll tell you how awesome it is that you recognize this time as a crossraods. No matter what you decide, it will be right for you and your family. And I think it will bring you peace too.