tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-99991442024-03-13T03:04:08.727-07:00Mother in ChiefDriving to playgroup, but driven to workMother in Chiefhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10096344221710006618noreply@blogger.comBlogger543125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9999144.post-55910374395507813162024-03-08T11:29:00.000-08:002024-03-08T13:08:41.201-08:00Grief and the slow erasingJust like I’d done dozens of times, I’d clicked “Add to cart.” No big deal. Only this time it felt profound. And after fretting about it for ages and wondering what slippery slope I was stepping onto, I clicked the button. What purchase could cause such internal turmoil? A twin-sized duvet cover patterned with whimsical pink and blue and gray unicorns with rainbow-colored manes. It’s for the little one’s fifth birthday.<div><br /><div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj13vNSoCrwUa1-IjXtntyQJofItiR8_zVFe9uYyQHu_ViLjkLo1AQOpawmftA34B2R-o6BtiKlvDZkjqN9-ctI931CZXaXcx7v576eLlWy5_ifq94BWLZ4Y_BciBArwWcPOJQpXyBRGSdoAimodCIcinV6aIvXVzfeeOhT2H0z6rXjm_v6Vw/s612/Riley%20in%20the%20rain.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="612" data-original-width="612" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj13vNSoCrwUa1-IjXtntyQJofItiR8_zVFe9uYyQHu_ViLjkLo1AQOpawmftA34B2R-o6BtiKlvDZkjqN9-ctI931CZXaXcx7v576eLlWy5_ifq94BWLZ4Y_BciBArwWcPOJQpXyBRGSdoAimodCIcinV6aIvXVzfeeOhT2H0z6rXjm_v6Vw/s320/Riley%20in%20the%20rain.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Delighted in the downpour</td></tr></tbody></table></div><div>She will love it. She loves unicorns and rainbows and flowers and fairies and mermaids and princesses and dresses and tiaras and beaded necklaces and pretty much anything that is pink or red or purple or sparkly or glittery, even though I’ve provided her with trains and Matchbox cars and trucks and shovels and so many things that are green.</div><div><br /></div><div>Green was Riley’s favorite color. And I have lots of green things. I was even given green blankets when she was born because she was born in grief’s wake for my boy who loved the rain and green and Matchbox cars and trains and Tabasco and garlic and olives. And, although she loves olives and garlic, and garlic-stuffed olives, and she liked Matchbox cars and trains for a while, she’s her own person with her own interests. That, and through preschool and transitional kindergarten, she’s been exposed to kids with Frozen backpacks and twirly dresses and sparkly blankets that look like mermaid tails. And so when she’s in the bath, she asks me to comb her mermaid hair and she pretends that the washcloth is her tail.</div><div><br /></div><div>The hard part isn’t that she likes different things from Riley, although I really, really did enjoy putting elaborate train tracks together for the months that she was into that. We’d roll our wooden trains over the bridges and through the tunnels just like I did when Riley was small. The hard part is that I wanted to breathe life into Riley’s things for longer. I wanted her to pick up where he’d left off and in using his idle things, give me another chance to be with Riley in my thoughts as I remember the hours we did those things together when he was alive. In fairness, at 11, there weren’t many train tracks or cities drawn on cardboard for Matchbox cars to roll along.</div><div><br /></div><div>For the 18 months he lived in this house, he had a green duvet with different colored green dots all over it. He picked it out at IKEA when he got his very own bed. For a long time, my boys shared a queen bed and a single queen blanket. But when we moved into this house, I took them to the store and that’s what he chose. His brother chose something gray with bright orange and red swirls. And Riley’s green duvet has been on his bed in his room since he died. It’s been mostly idle.</div><div><br /></div><div>Before the youngest came along, I would lie on his bed and smooth my face into his green pillowcase and hug his Freddies. And after she was born when she was nursing several times a night, I would sometimes sleep near her in his bed with the green sheets. It’s been her bedroom her entire life, more than three times longer than it was Riley’s room, even though I still call it Riley’s room. And once she switched to a big bed, it was Riley’s bed she began sleeping in and Riley’s duvet she’s been sleeping under.</div><div><br /></div><div>It's her room; it’s Riley’s room. Riley’s treasures and belongings are still there, but there are so many other things there too. Sometimes it’s hard to remember which is which and what belongs to whom. And, of course, she says things like, “Mom, Riley says I can play with his marbles” which makes his things her things too.</div><div><br /></div><div>She didn’t ask for a different duvet. She never said she didn’t like the green one. I just want her to be seen as a separate person and to acknowledge her preferences. So, because her fifth birthday is today and she loves all those pink things, I decided to get her that new duvet cover – the one that matches her interests. I suppose I’ll fold up the green duvet and the green pillow case and the green sheet and put them in the closet near Riley’s medicine that is in a ziplock bag, with Riley’s clothes that are still hung, and next to his socks and pajamas – things I’d hoped she’d wear when she was big enough. Though she probably won’t. She’ll have shirts and pajamas covered in rainbows and fairies and mermaids. </div><div><br /></div><div>This shrinking or contraction after someone dies happens all the time. Out with the old, in with the new. Making space for whatever is next. She didn’t ask to fill Riley’s shoes, not that she could. You cannot replace a person with a different person. It’s just another shift, another goodbye. Another folding of time.</div><div><br /></div><div>Riley's green things will be mine to visit when I need to time travel and be with my boy and his beloved things. I cannot help but wonder what will be put away next and what shift will happen that will make his life less visible. It all feels like a slow erasing. </div></div>Mother in Chiefhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10096344221710006618noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9999144.post-55949601816896194442024-02-28T12:11:00.000-08:002024-02-28T12:11:15.181-08:00Grief and alternate realityIt was a white legal-sized envelope like any other. It had fallen through the mail slot just like any other. It had my name on it. It was from a charity that we had donated money to. The day I opened that letter, the sun had shone down on the driveway as I left the house to walk the youngest to school. We held hands. We talked about flowers, then sang about them in a song we took turns making up verses for. We waved to the bus driver who trundles down our street each weekday morning.<div><br /><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8_CopI9AbF8AuGzSi8Auf6qf0H12dKkxSp0F9p9C398F77CBP42UDe0sSS20jnignzynHKFmHr4WSrwGQzwNp4ul9FMCkyTEkIVoZdGF7BvWYozvpQ1LbNx4hh1e2mJunTYoeRryIXLh0u9Fk32KWgKrGVhJAqzb75LjaM01_uLtPjTmoUQ/s1507/Riley%20glasses.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1463" data-original-width="1507" height="311" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8_CopI9AbF8AuGzSi8Auf6qf0H12dKkxSp0F9p9C398F77CBP42UDe0sSS20jnignzynHKFmHr4WSrwGQzwNp4ul9FMCkyTEkIVoZdGF7BvWYozvpQ1LbNx4hh1e2mJunTYoeRryIXLh0u9Fk32KWgKrGVhJAqzb75LjaM01_uLtPjTmoUQ/s320/Riley%20glasses.jpg" width="320" /></a></div></div><div>The day that the letter landed on the entryway floor was a day sandwiched between the holidays of thanks and gratitude and celebration surrounded by family and friends. All days are hard, but those weeks of cheer and joy are especially hard because I don’t feel cheerful on the inside. I don’t feel grateful on the inside, even though I have things to be grateful for.</div><div><br /></div><div>The letter didn’t arrive until after lunch, though. I only grabbed it after the little one’s nap on my way to give her a bath. She bubbled in the water while I sat with my laptop perched on my thighs. There were email messages to reply to. There were Breaking News messages from news organizations I subscribe to. When I was done replying to or scanning through the messages, I put the warm device on the floor next to me. I picked up the stack of mail. There were catalogs and fliers and bills. And this letter.</div><div><br /></div><div>As I read the words – this near-form letter from this charity – my boy's name stood out. “Thank you so much for your generous year-end donation in memory of Riley Norton,” it said. It occurred to me that whoever typed this letter typed a multitude of others, replacing the name of the donor and the name of the person honored or remembered through the gift for each one.</div><div><br /></div><div>He was just a name to them. A name to type, then forget. The admin typing up the thank-you letters has no idea he’s an 11-year-old boy. My 11-year-old boy. Nor do they care. I’m sure little, if any, thought is given to these names. These dead people. If they were curious, I wondered how likely it was that they would have found him online.</div><div><br /></div><div>I retrieved the laptop from the floor and opened Google. I did a search for <i>Riley Norton died</i>. The first result was for a man of 85 who lived in Utah and died in 2019. There were some results relevant to my boy's life and others connected to old men. I went back to the first result, the one for the 85-year-old man. I read that Riley Norton's obituary and stared at that Riley Norton's photo. The old man had an oblong face and white hair. Could this have been my boy? Could this have been my boy’s alternate reality if he had been born with a working heart and the privilege of long life? </div><div><br /></div><div>As I stared at the photo, I squinted a bit and tried to see my boy in this old man’s face. <i>Loving husband, father and grandpa</i>. Then my vision blurred as I thought about my boy as an old man with grandchildren. Or perhaps the blurred vision was me thinking about how my boy was never the granted opportunity to be an old man with grandchildren. Or even a teenager with a job or a girlfriend. So much lost opportunity. So much lost. For him. For me. For his siblings. For his grandparents. For his friends and classmates and teammates. Thinking of all of the things that would never happen felt like every single life experience had been sucked from a jar with a giant syringe. I'm not sure if thinking about this alternate reality felt good or bad. </div><div><br /></div><div>As I wiped my face and stared into the middle-distance, the little one in the bath said she was getting cold. I closed my laptop and tried to shift my thoughts to the present, even though the present is informed by the past -- by Riley's life, his death, and grief. Every single day. I pulled her from the water and toweled her off. Then I got her dressed in pajamas and went to the bedroom she shares with Riley's things. Afterward, I picked up the letter and put it into the folder with our tax documents.</div><div><br /></div></div>Mother in Chiefhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10096344221710006618noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9999144.post-24111063695315460802023-10-12T11:32:00.007-07:002023-10-12T14:03:04.299-07:00Grief and milestones<div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9B-t_HLs_YjKPn32Pi4l7j827V000aA7kXR2qTuBmC23NKR5Z3MvDzyY4wp-q8_WhqoaFA-lhU_3jkpy1-9Fx65ytoBjYaiKzQdLsqO_YvisQmGMqEdmCgmgvEwbswrGdKJFiL4M1SiSrHIj7HjzKkrki8s4xtV5Z0Rm4Vta9XW39xC6Gnw/s4719/Galante_72.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3146" data-original-width="4719" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9B-t_HLs_YjKPn32Pi4l7j827V000aA7kXR2qTuBmC23NKR5Z3MvDzyY4wp-q8_WhqoaFA-lhU_3jkpy1-9Fx65ytoBjYaiKzQdLsqO_YvisQmGMqEdmCgmgvEwbswrGdKJFiL4M1SiSrHIj7HjzKkrki8s4xtV5Z0Rm4Vta9XW39xC6Gnw/s320/Galante_72.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo credit: Jina Morgese, Ember & Earth</td></tr></tbody></table>I hemmed and hawed. It would be our 10th wedding anniversary, then a few weeks later, it would be my 50th birthday. These are big milestones. Weighted. They are time markers. They are accomplishments. They are heavy with grief. I wanted to honor them, though. </div><div><br /></div><div>Attorney Friend, who now lives near the west coast of Florida, had offered to keep the four-year-old for three nights while we acknowledged these days, just the two of us. We jumped at the opportunity. We had only had one night away from the four-year-old since she was born. It was the night after a bear broke into our vacation rental. Our college-aged daughter was fortuitously visiting, so we left the small one with the big one and we drove away. When we got there, we screwed plywood over a smashed front door, cleaned up bear poop, made nail boards to deter other bears from getting too close to our house, and drove soiled rugs to the dump so that our tenants could move back in. </div><div><br /></div><div>So we would be in Florida. We would have an alternate reality for three nights. One in which we had childless lives. I rented a hotel room on the water in Sarasota, a short walk from St. Armands Circle. There would be warm water to swim in, white sandy beaches to walk along, and tables at restaurants to eat at that didn’t include a high chair and a small voice singing “Let it Go.” There would also be cocktails and dresses and late nights staring at the stars and into each other’s eyes. </div><div><br /></div><div>And I wanted to have our photos taken to commemorate it all. When I told Attorney Friend my plan, I couldn’t articulate why I wanted photos. “Why wouldn’t you want them?” she asked, as if the answer was obvious.</div><div><br /></div><div>At the time, it wasn’t obvious for me. It was just a feeling. Or I just hadn’t found the words to articulate it. But I wanted framed photos on the wall that documented our love, the years we’ve held each other through joy and death and birth and graduations.</div><div><br /></div><div>Photos have been difficult since Riley died. So many things have been difficult. The idea of smiling was difficult. The idea of smiling so that someone could capture it in a photo felt paralyzing. How could I smile? How could I feel joyful? I certainly wouldn’t want anyone to see the smile or to see the joyful photos because I wouldn’t want anyone to think that I’m done grieving. I’ll never be done grieving. And if your child hasn’t died, what I’m saying might be a difficult concept to grasp. </div><div><br /></div><div>But I still wanted that photo. I realized I wanted it because I want to make a conscious effort to honor the good as well as the pain. The pain is easy. The good is much more challenging, though not less deserving. I would need to let my guard down, though. And I figured a photo of the two of us would be easier than a family photo of our lopsided family where someone will always be missing.</div><div><br /></div><div>I sent an email to a Sarasota-based photographer. It said, “Our 10th wedding anniversary was 8/3 and I'm turning 50 on 9/15. I have shied away from photos since our 11-year-old son died in 2014. That said, I'm hoping to be able to relax and just celebrate our relationship. And I'm hoping you can capture the love and not the pain that is part of who we are.”</div><div><br /></div><div>I had to share about Riley because I need to live authentically. To not share it would be to deny all of the grief that now lives in my DNA. And it would be easier if she knew. I wouldn’t need to pretend that I wasn’t struggling. Because I would be, especially if she didn’t know. And in the moment, it would be harder to explain the tears that are always just below the surface.</div><div><br /></div><div>“It would be an honor to photograph you and your husband, and I thank you for sharing your story with me,” she replied. </div><div><br /></div><div>And as soon as I confirmed the date and time of our photo shoot, I began questioning the decision. Anxiety built and I started worrying about dumb stuff, like what I would wear and if I’d look old. </div><div><br /></div><div>When the day of the photo shoot finally arrived, we’d already been at our hotel for two nights. We’d had time to swim and nap and see the <i>Barbie</i> movie. That day, we went to lunch and on our way back, we stopped at the Daiquiri Deck and had afternoon slushies. I had two – it was happy hour after all – and it was coffee-flavored and tasted like boozy coffee ice cream. The bartender gave everyone jello shots. I pushed mine to Adam while a football game blasted on the large-screen TV over the bar. </div><div><br /></div><div>On our tipsy walk back to the hotel, I dragged my feet through the surf and stumbled and giggled and slurred my words. As Adam napped, I went to the ocean knowing this was my last chance for an afternoon swim. As I watched hundreds of silver fish dart around my legs, I did some math and realized that it must be getting close to her arrival. When I got back to our hotel room, I only had 30 minutes to shower, dry and style my hair, do my makeup. It was probably just as well because I didn’t have time to fret or second-guess my outfit.</div><div><br /></div><div>When we got to the lobby, she smiled at us. “You guys look amazing,” she said, which I imagine she says to all of her clients. </div><div><br /></div><div>“Thank you for coming. I’m really nervous,” I said as my voice broke. </div><div><br /></div><div>“It’s going to be okay. We’re going to focus on the love between the two of you,” she said.</div><div><br /></div><div>“It’s just that pictures are hard for me since my son died,” I said, as I waved my hands in front of my eyes so that tears wouldn’t smear my mascara.</div><div><br /></div><div>And for the next 40 minutes, she had us hold hands and kiss and walk and stand in the water. Adam spun me around and dipped me and I wanted to weep at the enormous love I feel for him. He has loved me on all of the days. And he “<a href="https://sixhens.com/two-planes">knows that nothing – not dancing or laughing or drinking or orgasms – will change grief. A temporary reprieve is just temporary. Grief is always coursing through my veins. Always will be</a>.”</div><div><br /></div><div>At the same time, so is love. And now I have these beautiful photos documenting it.</div>Mother in Chiefhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10096344221710006618noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9999144.post-64987377803216535702023-06-15T14:38:00.002-07:002023-06-15T20:47:06.244-07:00Grief and effort<span id="docs-internal-guid-59da8a52-7fff-1554-09f5-022d31449c7b"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCf8zC6ucL9QyuCz9XpQKJLe1d-1dJVrWZfbasSkAIq0oFadAyEzbWTviYvEHVJKTrkteFQ8HrPw5_z6FxcU83P3FCEaT257JzauzansDFwSXH-r2T5KzEbW1OV44foOpbQdMr96cH3ILFDjPrwm0AKrEc0nI3PwWDahQlORdCHrteVDQ/s640/IMG_1218.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCf8zC6ucL9QyuCz9XpQKJLe1d-1dJVrWZfbasSkAIq0oFadAyEzbWTviYvEHVJKTrkteFQ8HrPw5_z6FxcU83P3FCEaT257JzauzansDFwSXH-r2T5KzEbW1OV44foOpbQdMr96cH3ILFDjPrwm0AKrEc0nI3PwWDahQlORdCHrteVDQ/s320/IMG_1218.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">A child's hand pushed the bathroom door closed -- loudly. I feel this from the other side of the wall and I am awake. This is my alarm seven days a week. As we approach the summer solstice, this alarm is earlier and earlier each day. I roll toward the clock and know it will be earlier than I want it to be. My eyes open. It is 6:17 am. Chirping eases its way through the slider and into my ears. My lids fall shut, I roll onto my side, then pull the duvet up enough to cover my eyes and side of my head.</span></span><div><span><span style="font-family: times; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span><span style="font-family: times; white-space-collapse: preserve;">As I wait, an image appears in my head. I’m running. </span><span style="font-family: times;"><br /></span></span><span style="font-family: times;"><br /></span></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">I've been running in my dreams. Fast. Long distances. Marathons. Legs effortlessly gliding across concrete and payment. I can feel the ease of moving as my legs stretch from front to back and my arms swing in sync. The breeze flows through my hair and flaps the sculpted edge of my black shorts. The effortlessness of it is what I keep going back to. </span></span></p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">Because my dream running is nothing like my actual running. In real life, I lumber. Trot. My arms go numb as I unconsciously bend them too close to my torso and reduce circulation. It requires tremendous willpower, this running. Especially when pushing a stroller. But I can run. One step, one block, then another and another. It's powerful to go four miles, six miles. For Riley’s birthday this year, my husband and I ran 11.5 kilometers – one for each of Riley’s 11.5 years. I always love the run after it's done. But never during. It’s just hard. Despite that, I vow that I will run 11.5 miles in honor of his 21st birthday next year.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">It will be very hard. Everything has been hard. Since Riley died. </span></span></p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">There is another clunk as the child closes the door to the bedroom that she shares with Riley’s things – his stuffed penguins and picture books and lego creations and clothing. My finger presses the power button on the monitor and it comes to life just as she turns on her overhead light. I see a striped zebra, two pink and white unicorns, a cat pillow, Riley’s green dotted duvet. I cannot see her, but I can hear the turning of library book pages. </span></span></p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">Are things as hard as they were last year, two years ago, five years ago? As I wonder, I am transported into our family minivan on our way home from the grief group we took Riley’s siblings to. In the group, they draw pictures of Riley, write messages to him and put them in bottles, talk to other children who also lost siblings or parents or other important people in their lives. They also play dress up and laugh and eat cookies. I ask them how grief feels for them. “Sad, sometimes,” they say. </span></span></p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">“For me, it feels like I’m wearing a heavy cape. It’s hard to move. It’s hard to do anything. Because everything feels so heavy,” I say.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">But now I’m running effortlessly in my dreams. I’m not sure if I'm running away from something or towards something. Maybe it's neither. </span></span></p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">Just then, the handle on my bedroom door rattles, then opens. She steps across the threshold and pushes the door closed. “Good morning,” she whispers, as her hand gently cups my face. My eyes open. She’s wearing a pink party dress and holding one of the unicorns from her bed. “I was talking to Riley and he said he would like me to play with his marbles.” I think of the coveted tin of marbles he bought with his allowance shortly before going to the hospital that last time. </span></span></p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">“We will, sweetheart,” I say, as she wanders over to dad’s side of the bed. </span></span></p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">I can’t help but wonder if my subconscious is pointing out that I can move again, that I am moving. Volunteering at my daughter’s preschool, coaching writers, editing manuscripts, sending queries to agents, applying for jobs. Even though I didn’t think it was possible, I am living and grieving, grieving and living. I would not say it’s effortless. But I’m doing much more than I ever thought I’d be capable of. I’ll probably grapple with this for a long, long time. I squeeze my eyes and wetness drips onto the pillow. Then I throw the duvet back and push myself out of bed. </span></span></p></div>Mother in Chiefhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10096344221710006618noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9999144.post-17045253445058490922022-11-29T22:10:00.003-08:002022-11-30T11:32:01.906-08:00Grief and The Question<span id="docs-internal-guid-1e419685-7fff-2df1-53ec-197c9596279c"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline;"></span></p></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs4r9qiQlDmO2B2aAgLD5tH4g6DoDtfSiBsdbtrzDVBYyp6M8ykYf9Ck1nYWOLN1meleAg7lQ1Eq0rqogViZovcjlb3PZ43kqnPi7JAxK9P6vJ8x8qRafzXDfMycKACY6bqKt2GBcU3JGjpPfOJsDiHUNnOKGtLQM2sHfxEvPvRTgtOUw/s1100/IMG_2229.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="text-align: left;"></span></a><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; text-align: center; white-space: pre-wrap;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs4r9qiQlDmO2B2aAgLD5tH4g6DoDtfSiBsdbtrzDVBYyp6M8ykYf9Ck1nYWOLN1meleAg7lQ1Eq0rqogViZovcjlb3PZ43kqnPi7JAxK9P6vJ8x8qRafzXDfMycKACY6bqKt2GBcU3JGjpPfOJsDiHUNnOKGtLQM2sHfxEvPvRTgtOUw/s1100/IMG_2229.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibRh2eRNjzbdQr5T-cbpKiw_kTEK7lUX1IpS7B_-a_jTWT6uCdUNckcsHT8qPkfewljx2f4oHrtSVAD26Hk-3ygkQo2E4Wt7DWsEH-XBYVODB9DN5RSscE9wG0rK7VwMVVRcdf1xqvvRorQtBny7AAMDkMQVLpq-I2B0lDXOVBs5gjoVE/s828/IMG_2222.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="701" data-original-width="828" height="271" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibRh2eRNjzbdQr5T-cbpKiw_kTEK7lUX1IpS7B_-a_jTWT6uCdUNckcsHT8qPkfewljx2f4oHrtSVAD26Hk-3ygkQo2E4Wt7DWsEH-XBYVODB9DN5RSscE9wG0rK7VwMVVRcdf1xqvvRorQtBny7AAMDkMQVLpq-I2B0lDXOVBs5gjoVE/s320/IMG_2222.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /></span>The question was already rumbling in my stomach when my thoughts rose into consciousness this morning. I rolled from one side of the bed to the other as the uneasy feeling lingered. My husband had already gone to a meeting. I inched to his side of the bed, rested my head on his warm pillow and waited. Waited for the right answer to appear.</div><div><br /></div>The sun had yet to color the sky, but I could sense movement from the other room. The preschooler was awake, needing the bathroom. “I had a thought that turned into a dream,” she said, as I tucked her back into bed. “What was that?” I asked. “Me getting into the car to take dad to the airport with you.” I smiled at her as I pulled the blanket around her shoulders. “That’s a nice dream,” I said, "but dad isn’t going to the airport for a long time and so you need to go back to sleep." As soon as I got back into my room, she was sitting up, waiting for it to be time to get up for real.<div><br /></div><div>Even as I showered, as I dressed, as I pressed my foot into the gas pedal, I was still wondering about the question. And the answer. You see, I was going to talk to a woman I went to graduate school with that night. She had read all about Riley’s hospitalizations and surgeries when I wrote about him more than a decade ago. I cannot even recall the last time I saw her, probably at graduation. Or shortly after at a party at her house in San Jose. I can’t remember if she was at his memorial. If she was, I certainly haven’t seen her since then.</div><div><br /></div><div>But when we talk on the phone, I will say hello. She will say hello. Then she will say, “How are you?” And I have no idea how to answer that question, especially when asked by someone I haven’t talked with in so long. Someone who hasn’t witnessed the howling, the blood-shot eyes, the twitchy version of myself that exists when I leave my safe bubble at home, when I venture into the world. The half-eaten version of me, even though I look <i>normal</i> on the outside. Or <i>normal</i> enough. The mom of a 3-year-old.</div><div><br /></div><div>This woman didn’t witness all the months when I didn’t leave my bed. And after that, when I didn’t shower or comb my hair and wore the same thing for six or seven days in a row because I didn’t know how to get dressed. The woman who cut off all of her hair to look ugly, hoping to match how I felt on the inside. When we talk, this woman will hear the fast-forwarded version of me. The one that can talk on the phone, the woman who has taught creative writing and who founded a literary magazine in grief’s wake. The one that lights up talking about narrative arcs and creating three-dimensional worlds.</div><div><br /></div><div>And all this thinking about the different versions of me since Riley died in 2014 makes me wonder how I got here. How did the accumulation of time and space from Riley’s death allow me to do those things, to get to the place where I can wonder how I should answer that question. Early on, that innocent question felt so offensive. It doesn’t anymore, and when I’m at the checkout counter, I can say, “Fine, thanks. How are you?” But wondering about it in the context of this pending phone call feels splintered. And strange because I am different from before Riley died. And I am different from the time just after Riley died. And I’m different from before the baby was born. I’m still broken, like a bone fracture that wasn’t set and the malunion impairs function longterm. I’ll always be broken, impaired. But I’m also other things. And I won’t necessarily cry when I talk about Riley.</div><div><br /></div><div>As I downed a hot cup of tea in the moments between scratching things off the to-do list, I figured it out. When she asks the inevitable question, I will say, “I’ve been wondering how to answer that question all day.” Because it’s the truth.</div>Mother in Chiefhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10096344221710006618noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9999144.post-17562727889958014772022-10-18T22:25:00.000-07:002022-10-18T22:25:11.522-07:00Grief and meaning<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/IPufySRdJA4" width="320" youtube-src-id="IPufySRdJA4"></iframe></div><br />Riley's death took eleven years, but we saw it and feared it and anticipated it from the moment he was diagnosed as a newborn. His eighth anniversary is October 20, and in trying to understand the passage of eight years without him, I had a thought the other night when I was driving. I wondered if all the joy Riley felt in life – despite multiple heart surgeries and long hospitalizations – was his attempt to teach me. Perhaps he was showing me that if he could feel joy despite what he'd been through, then perhaps I could eventually feel joy despite what happened to him.<div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The idea that I could live a joyful life feels improbable, even though if you spend time with me, I will let my guard down from time to time and smile with my children or my husband or a friend. People have often told me that Riley would want me to be happy. There have been times when I”ve wanted to punch those people in the face. How could they possibly know what Riley wants? I now realize that those kinds of comments are that person wanting me to be happier because it will make my grief easier for them. You can’t move someone along in grief. Everything in grief has to be innate. You cannot make someone feel something other than what they are feeling. So maybe Riley would want me to be happy, and maybe he would like that I’m still so broken all these years later. Maybe he would find my brokenness refreshing in a world desperate for Hollywood endings.</div></div><div><br /></div><div>So my thought is a work in progress. It just seems messed up that the 11-year-old boy would need to be the teacher. And because humans are meaning-makers, I’ve been trying to make my thought mean something. But it's equally possible that it means nothing. Our therapist said time and again that our minds are full of thoughts, many of which are not true. This might be one of those examples. Riley’s life and death wasn’t a lesson, even though I went to a "healer" at one point who told me that Riley and I made an agreement to have this life experience together. She also told me that his final surgery failed because there was nothing else for him to learn from this life. </div><div><br /></div><div>So for now, I'll think of his laugh and his loud voice, his love of garlic and Tabasco, his floppy hair, his love of baseball and reading and maps. I will think about how he hummed while doing his math homework and how he really wanted to learn to play the viola when he came home from the hospital. I will also think of how it will start raining soon and everything will turn green. And I will think about how he would love that. The rest of it, I'll just keep thinking about. </div>Mother in Chiefhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10096344221710006618noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9999144.post-89641723112438610122022-10-04T14:19:00.006-07:002022-10-05T21:11:40.114-07:00Grief and making space<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4xnnSdJwAZ1sHpflrlJe6h9G8Tv4DsgllezRNzIvFpTiMskWWlJlA3xZdF4qWq9XkJbUN1SjKzpQAvwy48Ema9KPWtRQSZJQoso2a-3hm1cUJ88TR8EpGH-vaHZo2DK0yxPySbPDwWDwGL4JnRCjwGEPzM-AlfsAmtlWDALYmu6zMhwg/s640/IMG_3880.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4xnnSdJwAZ1sHpflrlJe6h9G8Tv4DsgllezRNzIvFpTiMskWWlJlA3xZdF4qWq9XkJbUN1SjKzpQAvwy48Ema9KPWtRQSZJQoso2a-3hm1cUJ88TR8EpGH-vaHZo2DK0yxPySbPDwWDwGL4JnRCjwGEPzM-AlfsAmtlWDALYmu6zMhwg/s320/IMG_3880.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>Sand wedged itself into the spaces between my socks and my shoes as we walked along the path near Secret Beach. Sage held the leash and led the dog to the place where we play fetch as sand seeped into her shoes as well. “Can we go in the lake today?” she asked.<p></p><p>The air had turned cool and my daughter didn’t quite understand why I wouldn’t let her take her shoes off and run into the blue water like we had done countless times over the summer. As we walked along the beach, we noticed sticks and pinecones and shells grouped together in collages at the lake’s edges. My daughter reached for pieces of the abandoned artwork. I redirected her, asking her to find her own sticks for her own art. </p><p>She galloped off, looking for treasures to pile and sort and push into the sand. Twigs and bark and tiny shells that we’d pretended were soup bowls and plates and forks became the foundation for our project. A row of sticks here, a group of pinecones there. She continued to gather and add to our project as I added my own touches. It morphed into a heart – most things do. One of the larger pieces of bark became a tool to flatten the sand. From there, I wrote “FOREVER RILEY” around the outside. </p><p>“What does it say, mom?” she asked. I felt a small amount of shame as I told her what I’d written. It was just the two of us. We were collecting bits of nature and making art together, and yet, Riley was there. He’s always there. </p><p>After I told what it said, she responded, “I’m going to write FRANKLIN over here.” She proceeded to drag her own branch through the sand to include the scratchings of one of her imaginary friend’s names.</p><p>Trying to parent my dead child and my living child is like trying to unravel strings of tangled Christmas lights. These two humans are connected and yet they are separate. In that moment, I was reminded of a <a href="https://www.nytimes.com/2020/02/13/opinion/losing-a-child-death-of-child.html">piece that Jayson Greene did for the <i>New York Times</i> in 2020</a>. It was about introducing his son Harrison to his beloved daughter Greta who had died 15 months before he was born. It was about imagining the language he would need to explain to his son why he has a sister who isn’t here to play with. It was about wondering when the question would come up. “We’re on his timeline,” he said. I'm on Sage's as well. </p><p>I'm also in her reality. This childhood is hers, too, even if an 11-year-old boy is also permanently lodged into my reality. I realized that next time we play at the beach and make art, I need to write SAGE in the sand. I need to let some moments be just about her, about us. She will grow up in Riley’s shadow no matter what. But I need to make an effort to let the sun shine just for her some of the time. </p><div><br /></div>Mother in Chiefhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10096344221710006618noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9999144.post-50875034258403406112022-09-22T15:19:00.005-07:002022-10-13T11:23:47.927-07:00Grief and an unexpected find<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTDFzRqTYm12fWlTNA5ZDk0L7bqt_PWzxLZ57_IdNKJC5RpqvfJI4O97jlNFJjnvlDW8hcnT-D9OT-oj9w_ok8x-11K2-giZycI7NIpOgCavDheFhBFHoTFuo_4CAo8FTkQyQrpycNmDUeO4M5VUjsng-foxcFt_-SqvkkiKE9Aulodlw/s640/newIMG_3941.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTDFzRqTYm12fWlTNA5ZDk0L7bqt_PWzxLZ57_IdNKJC5RpqvfJI4O97jlNFJjnvlDW8hcnT-D9OT-oj9w_ok8x-11K2-giZycI7NIpOgCavDheFhBFHoTFuo_4CAo8FTkQyQrpycNmDUeO4M5VUjsng-foxcFt_-SqvkkiKE9Aulodlw/s320/newIMG_3941.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>As I silenced the Dyson, I looked toward the canister layered with gray – dust, hair, topped with a fine layer of fluff. There were also a few colorful tiny beads that had fallen into the carpet fibers years ago. They were now mixed with remnants of what I would empty into the trash. But as I looked at the pile of gray, my mind knew what was also there. Riley. Pieces of my 11-year-old boy’s skin, hair, and probably a few nail clippings that had fallen to the floor. </div></div><p></p><p>You see, I moved his bed today. It was the first time I moved it since we put it in his bedroom nine years ago. And I had not vacuumed underneath it since then. For the last three-and-a-half years, he has been sharing a room with his baby sister. She’s running out of room in her crib at the end of his bed, and soon she’ll be using his bed with the duvet patterned with green circles. In preparation for the change, the room needed cleaning. HIs backpack is still under his desk. His water bottle is still tucked inside with the remains of the water he took to school on his last day of school. His daily calendar on his side table still says October 8, 2014. </p><p>After he died, I left everything in its place, yet over the years, his room has also become a dumping ground for all of the things that I have collected, for all of the things people have given us. There is a giant green paper lantern from his memorial at the elementary school he attended for five years. There is a jar of post-it notes with words of kindness written on them from his classmates from the first anniversary of his death. There are rolled up banners in the closet and t-shirts hanging on the walls from the charity runs that his classmates organized each year until they graduated from high school. </p><p>His bed still has the sheets that he slept on the last night he slept in this house. His pillow case has not been washed. His beloved stuffed penguins wait for his return, their black heads resting on his pillow. </p><p>As I moved the bed frame, I was confronted with the piles of his art from school that I’d hoarded over the years, yet never hung on the walls to enjoy. Each precious piece made during school art classes encased in folders made from large pieces of construction paper. They are all priceless, irreplaceable. Part of me doesn’t want to open those folders because once I do, I will have seen every last piece of art that he made. It’s possible that there won’t be any other opportunities to see things he’s made that I’ve never seen before. </p><p>The room was left in disarray when I went to pick the three year old up from preschool. Seeing all of Riley’s stuffed animals in a big pile on the floor, she said, “Move all of this stuff out of here.” I hadn’t expected that request. “No, I’m just cleaning. They will go back on the bed once it’s made again.” She asked why. “Because you’re still sharing a room with Riley and these are his things.”</p><p>She was satisfied with my reply as I closed the door for her nap time. The Dyson is still full of dust, though, and I like imagining the physicalness of Riley. His hand in mine. His arms around me and mine around his torso. His weight in my lap. The shape of his ears, the boney boy knees, his nibbled cuticles. Along with a few hair clippings, some baby teeth, and his ashes, there isn’t anything else. LIke the art that I’m apprehensive about looking at, knowing there won’t be more in the future, I’m apprehensive about emptying the dust into the trash. It feels like a last gift. Or an unexpected hello from my boy. </p><p>I will empty the canister when she wakes. In the meantime, I will open the pouch with his hair in it, brush it against my cheek, and try to remember how it felt all those years ago when I hugged him, his mop in my face and in my eyes. Exactly where it should be, even though if he were still alive today, it would likely be my hair in his face and my cheek on his chest as the boy would have grown into a man.</p>Mother in Chiefhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10096344221710006618noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9999144.post-54424302578379637492022-02-13T14:15:00.000-08:002022-02-13T14:15:11.614-08:00Grief and a success<span> </span>After several failed attempts, I finally ended up walking with Auditor Friend. Her daughter was one of Riley’s classmates starting back in kindergarten, and her family has donated copious amounts of time planning and organizing the Riley Run each year. Aside from hashing out details for the annual charity runs in her kitchen a few times, I barely knew this woman prior to our walk. I was looking forward to knowing her more.<div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjcf61jdesXWYaR-AWh7aHd8V_aeO8XaNXRBlP4_2zYW5LppiSdqqnlm5DIH2KD9Sf5mhYPYZXGn6Rmv7TeAx0XA8wjEgsH8ia490RrLGG6n5bU6UazvdpVlU15cOTTUJi7iVRYnxl_N0a7noGs0iIkuw5oFbRsFw-P8srdwZnzAd4VA0A=s1999" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="1999" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjcf61jdesXWYaR-AWh7aHd8V_aeO8XaNXRBlP4_2zYW5LppiSdqqnlm5DIH2KD9Sf5mhYPYZXGn6Rmv7TeAx0XA8wjEgsH8ia490RrLGG6n5bU6UazvdpVlU15cOTTUJi7iVRYnxl_N0a7noGs0iIkuw5oFbRsFw-P8srdwZnzAd4VA0A=s320" width="320" /></a></div><span> </span>We marched from her house along familiar streets in our neighborhood. They were streets that held the weight of hundreds of runners wearing green in honor of Riley over the years. We talked about her daughter who would soon be heading to college. We talked about what it was like to see Riley’s peers heading to college. We talked about lots of other things, like her son, where she grew up, how she met her husband, what she dreams about doing after her youngest launches in a few years. Then we circled back to life in Tahoe. I told her the story of my neighbors who invited us to their party. I told her about how I wait for people to hurt me, knowing they usually do.</div><div><span> </span>She listened patiently, then after a few moments, “Would it be okay if I offered a suggestion.” I said yes. “Is there a way you can tell people ahead of time, so that you aren’t waiting for them to hurt you?” she asked cautiously.</div><div><span> </span>For so many years, it was hard to even say out loud that my son had died. The words like broken glass in my mouth, I said it only when it was required. The thought of saying it preemptively felt like putting the glass in my mouth.</div><div><span> </span>Or would it be?</div><div><span> </span>Shortly after that walk, in an attempt to meet my 10th-grader’s friend’s moms, I invited two strangers over for sangria on a Friday night when my son was inviting his friends over for a movie. For safety, I also invited my son’s stepmom, whom I adore and another friend, who is another mom in this circle.</div><div><span> </span>I decided to try out Auditor Friend’s suggestion.</div><div><span> </span>“I have sweaty palms as draft this message, but it’s important for me to let you know ahead of time that my son Riley, Carter’s older brother, died when he was 11. Carter was 8 at the time. I don’t know who knows this and who doesn’t know this, and when we talk about our families on Friday, I will talk about Riley. And I might cry. I’m telling you this so that it’s not a surprise if you didn’t know.</div><div><span> </span>This is my first attempt to temper the social anxiety that has come alongside grief by being proactive. For nearly seven years, I’ve silently panicked while waiting for it to inevitably come up. But after talking with a friend the other week, she helped me come up with this plan to see if this is a better approach. Sorry for the long explanation and for understanding. I hope I haven’t scared you off.”</div><div><span> </span>And I didn’t scare her off. Rather, it opened the door for a calming exchange about Riley. “I know about Riley, and I think of him whenever I walk by his memorial on Pulgas Ridge. I just wasn’t sure if it was appropriate to bring him up. I am glad you did and are, and by all means, cry on Friday! I’ll be right there with you.”</div><div><span> </span>When she arrived that Friday night, I gave her a big hug. She hugged me back and gave me flowers. It was better than I had hoped. I go back to what my stepdaughter told me a few years ago… “There are probably a lot more safe people out there, if you’d only give them the chance.” Now I just need a crystal ball to know which are which. <br /> <br /><br /></div>Mother in Chiefhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10096344221710006618noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9999144.post-83454546594062370982022-01-20T14:28:00.003-08:002022-01-20T14:34:48.291-08:00Grief and innocent neighbors<span id="docs-internal-guid-b368bc55-7fff-7e47-a153-51a17c221073"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjHn95fqBXEv8n-cBVnicfol1tAsAehLTA06jWWLKpwiW70zC9zy7Q5X89uxjsSxW7e0YM5JtbTYPxwMSTTw9RftKVGhBShczpiIykfgyA9CIAXKltK9N5IQHtEne2FZ8zDkGeO5ODg6MQ1hdNJA3a4ire25nF6l1UskEipkgyL3YxZi3k=s640" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjHn95fqBXEv8n-cBVnicfol1tAsAehLTA06jWWLKpwiW70zC9zy7Q5X89uxjsSxW7e0YM5JtbTYPxwMSTTw9RftKVGhBShczpiIykfgyA9CIAXKltK9N5IQHtEne2FZ8zDkGeO5ODg6MQ1hdNJA3a4ire25nF6l1UskEipkgyL3YxZi3k=s320" width="240" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">For most of the past year, we’ve been living in Tahoe. We ran away just like so many others when covid sent us all inside, making it socially acceptable to stay away from people. We’ve been wanting to run away since Riley died more than seven years ago.</span></span><div><span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; text-indent: 36pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span> </span>As hot summer nights turned into cooler autumn breezes, there was an invitation from our Tahoe neighbor. We'd seen him in the yard every so often. We'd exchange niceties. And now there was an invitation. He was throwing a surprise birthday party for a friend. We didn’t know the friend, we barely knew the neighbor. But on the night of the party, we took a giant jug of sangria and a bag full of ice cubes in the shape of teeth to their backyard which connects with our yard. There were chips and salsa. A net was set up in the yard. Other neighbors were playing badminton. There was another toddler with a truck. More guests appeared, more sangria was poured, and the tightening in my chest began. Then the guest of honor was surprised with a dozen people he didn’t know.</span></span></div><div><span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; text-indent: 36pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span> </span>Eventually it was the baby’s bedtime. I volunteered to take her home and get her into bed. I appreciated the break – being in a group is like being surrounded by fire because someone would eventually ask how many kids we have. It seems to be such an innocent question. And our neighbors had clearly seen the teenagers coming and going. Just never all at once in a way that would make counting them up easy. Not that you could count up how many kids we have just by looking at the ones standing and breathing in front of you. My family isn’t that straightforward.</span></span></div><div><span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; text-indent: 36pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span> </span>After she was settled, I went back to the party and sat next to my husband. The group was smaller now. The guest of honor, his sister, our neighbors. I pushed my hands into my legs that rumbled with anticipation, trying to lessen the rumbling. I swallowed more gulps of sangria. My husband rubbed my back, then looped his arm through mine. I waited for this group of innocent people to hurt me. They always do. Not intentionally, but it hurts just the same.</span></span></div><div><span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; text-indent: 36pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span> </span>“So, how many kids do you have over there?” he asked. And there it was.</span></span></div><div><span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span> </span>I went with the line I’d learned in my bereaved parent support group. “Well, for most people, that’s an easy question, but in my family, it’s more complicated,” I stumbled. “We have four big kids, but my 11-year-old son died seven years ago. So we have three living kids, plus the baby,” I managed as I wiped tears from my cheeks.</span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; text-indent: 36pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span> </span>Wide eyes stared, unsure of what to say when confronted with grief. I’m always good at ruining fun with my reality. Then after a moment, our neighbor broke the silence with, “So you guys want some more sangria?” Everyone said yes, except me. I stayed for another few minutes before excusing myself to be closer to the baby. Adam decided to join me. We said goodnight and walked back home. And just like that, I didn't ever want to see them again.</span></div>Mother in Chiefhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10096344221710006618noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9999144.post-46811794063818851112021-02-23T14:05:00.001-08:002021-02-23T14:07:08.127-08:00Grief and the woman on the phone<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMKD3h-SorNIu2AdkLv7is6FuBvE3czUw7UNIupo0NpPDaBxqlc0HL_w_w0lGp25gKsVeEJYwJdFGBf9FO64CHmzqpuQmeRP5ztgY21qQBwov_uGhsx6ZslFqC2DbS1-9ZAg/s599/IMG_2213.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="271" data-original-width="599" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMKD3h-SorNIu2AdkLv7is6FuBvE3czUw7UNIupo0NpPDaBxqlc0HL_w_w0lGp25gKsVeEJYwJdFGBf9FO64CHmzqpuQmeRP5ztgY21qQBwov_uGhsx6ZslFqC2DbS1-9ZAg/s320/IMG_2213.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My email signature</td></tr></tbody></table>There was a woman’s voice on the other end of the call. Far away from Lake Tahoe, somewhere in Florida. I figured our connection was a mistake of the internet as I looked for a contractor to replace some doors at our house. But she was part of the call center, probably working from home during the pandemic. She was helpful and offered to set up an appointment for someone to come take a look, take some measurements. The appointment was set, then after talking it over with my husband, we changed our minds. We wanted a local shop with a showroom, where we could go look at doors and feel the difference between wood and fiberglass. I emailed to let her know that I called the Sacramento office and canceled. That would have been the end of it, but she followed up.<br /><br />“On another note; I noticed the bottom of your email.<div><br /></div><div>My heart sank.<br />I am so, so sorry for your loss.<br />My heart goes out to you.<br />No parent should ever lose a child.<br /><br />My prayers go out to you and your family.<br />May little Riley rest in<span id="docs-internal-guid-fd61e63a-7fff-b693-97be-19f735d5e80f"> peace until you meet again.”<br /><br />This woman in Florida is the first person to ever respond or even mention the words that finish every single email that I have sent for more than six years. The first time. In more than six years. I've often wondered if the words were really attached to my messages and I've looked at my sent mail to verify its existence. And there it is. Every. Single. Time.<p dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><br /></p>As time goes by there are fewer and fewer times when people ask about him and fewer and fewer opportunities for me to talk about him. I responded with a thank you. I thanked her for bringing him into the moment for me. I thanked her for taking a chance. I told her that Riley loved maps and baseball and Tabasco. He loved telling jokes, the color green, and sitting in my lap. I told her that he was the love of my life. And while her email brought fresh tears to my eyes, I assured her that her message did not make me sad. <br /><br />Silence is what hurts. </span>Acknowledgement is what heals. A bereaved parent needs a lot of acknowledgement. We need to hear our children's names said aloud. Or typed in an email. This faraway woman helped my broken heart feel slightly less broken. Her note definitely did not make me sad or remind me that Riley has died. I'm acutely aware of his death and absence practically every minute of every day. Rather, her mentioning him made him alive. And I thanked her for her the gift.</div>Mother in Chiefhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10096344221710006618noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9999144.post-53771138076724301942021-02-01T13:47:00.002-08:002021-02-01T15:27:12.178-08:00Grief and finding unlost<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuBH2Rx4ZdiI7ZkYtUnCY_hfq_e73hRtoMVusvuQbXqk4C5jSxKCzfUm8TofSDwqTxN8TMgIFhbrngGGeX5qdOtkbfbK7-atLS7s1AjQXyPpq69Z3eGn76bTa9UI-abBsSgQ/s1280/IMG_3662.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuBH2Rx4ZdiI7ZkYtUnCY_hfq_e73hRtoMVusvuQbXqk4C5jSxKCzfUm8TofSDwqTxN8TMgIFhbrngGGeX5qdOtkbfbK7-atLS7s1AjQXyPpq69Z3eGn76bTa9UI-abBsSgQ/s320/IMG_3662.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;">I sometimes try to count the days that Riley has been dead. Sometimes they are on the tip of my tongue. Sometimes they are shouted into my head over and over like an alarm, blasting without an off button. Sometimes I walk the streets and imagine he is walking beside me. Sometimes I can only see him lying in the hospital bed cut and stitched and bleeding because the stitches can’t stop the bleeding. When I see the tears drip from his eyes with the ventilator preventing him from telling me how much it hurts, it burns. An all over burn that starts in my forehead and simmers through each of my limbs until they stop working and I crumple onto the floor again. Sometimes he is the sun blinding me with a beautiful dream that I once had. It’s about a baby who came into my life and made me a mother when I was just 29 years old. He was perfect and imperfect and no amount of love or medical attention could make the imperfections go away. This dream is punctuated by months of nightmares all seemingly separated into years. This beautiful imperfect and perfect boy smiled and laughed and read books and arranged elaborate traffic jams on the coffee table. He learned to walk and then when a long hospitalization took that ability away, he learned to walk again. He learned to ride a bike the summer before he started kindergarten. He made friends and loved school, but struggled with PE and came up with excuses as to how to avoid participating. He was thirsty, he said. Again and again he’d get a drink of water.</span><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">Today I know that it's been six years and three months and 12 days since he died, but I cannot tell you what time of day he exhaled for the last time. I don’t know how I cannot know that detail. I remember the day, the hours of removing life support bit by bit hoping that his heart would be able to beat on its own, enough to give him more months and more years of being a son, a brother, a friend, a classmate, a teammate.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">It’s been all of these years and yet the pain is just under the skin like a bruise that can be felt at any moment. I just watched the trailer for a movie being released in February. It’s called <a href="https://www.focusfeatures.com/land">Land</a>. This new movie was advertised to me when I was searching for a mushroom risotto recipe. The protagonist's hard, lost face reminded me of mine. So I clicked the link and was taken to the movie trailer's web site. I clicked play. She had moved to a remote cabin, presumably to escape the pain of grief’s jaws around her heart. There were flashes of a child, flashes of a former life. Another character finds her freezing and starving and eventually asks her what she wants her life to look like now, in the aftermath of the grief. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">His question was a sucker punch to my own existence. It is a question I started asking myself a few months ago. I asked myself how I would change my life. If I could make any change, what would it be. How would it look? Who would I be? Because I don’t know who I am, even though there are many labels that give names to characteristics that make up parts of me. Wife. Mother. Reader. Writer. Friend. Person who likes walking. Person who has a dog. Person who drives a minivan. I had stopped going to my moving meditation dance class long before covid took everything away. But sometimes I dance in the kitchen. But who do I want to be and what do I want my life to look like. I have no idea. Anything I choose to do, any changes I make to my life will be made in a world without Riley. I don’t want to change in any way that he wouldn’t recognize me. Don’t put that on me, he whispers into my ear. I will always recognize you no matter what you are doing or where you are.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Riley isn’t coming back into my life in the way that I so desperately want him to be in my life. He is so present, in nearly all of my thoughts every single day. I can take him anywhere I go, but I have to choose where to go. The days become nights; the nights become days. The hair I chopped off after he died has grown long again. Time continues. The calendar swings from one calendar page to the next. Old calendars are replaced with new ones. The years come and go. I am the same. So much of the time I just want to go backwards. But the backwards I want to return to has an alternate ending. One where he is alive and thriving. </span><span style="font-size: large;">I am lost without him. And yet, I am the only one who can make me unlost.</span><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></div>Mother in Chiefhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10096344221710006618noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9999144.post-14362207987367706102021-01-18T13:40:00.000-08:002021-01-18T13:40:07.258-08:00Grief and physical artifacts<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8xNdCUI7hJILvIrKP2fpiKlgn0FSwAx57PKvAw6m6ThuKj6P1ZGcVxF96ZKf2wwZAVMEOM8JaoN3J7VGF7ik5xn4-LB4xD-5aNQ9BMmWz0ET8oR7f89I0iiHt8qJaAgw2aw/s640/IMG_2154.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8xNdCUI7hJILvIrKP2fpiKlgn0FSwAx57PKvAw6m6ThuKj6P1ZGcVxF96ZKf2wwZAVMEOM8JaoN3J7VGF7ik5xn4-LB4xD-5aNQ9BMmWz0ET8oR7f89I0iiHt8qJaAgw2aw/s320/IMG_2154.jpg" /></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;">I opened a tiny ziplock bag today and rubbed a tiny bundle of Riley’s hair against my face. I inhaled deeply and hoped to find his scent. It wasn’t there. I then pondered how I could fasten the clump of blond strands to my own hair. I thought I might be able to attach it to a barrette or a bobby pin. A blond streak in my brown tresses. The only physical things I have from him are these little bundles of hair tied with ribbons and a collection of baby teeth. Whenever I get these little bags of hair out of my box of special things, I am reminded of that fact. Hair and teeth are the only physical artifacts from his body and this life. I suppose there is also the box of his ashes that lives on a shelf in his bedroom. But the ashes are unrecognizable. I can’t look at the ashes and see him. But the hair -- his bright yellow hair -- is seen in all of the pictures I have. And the teeth are in those photos, too. At least in the photos when he let his guard down and smiled without caution. Smiled with teeth. And then with this reminder that there are the only bits of my son, my mind whirs and sputters as it tries to make sense of his physical absence from his clothes, his bed, his room, the dining table, our car, his shoes, the couch, my arms. </span>Mother in Chiefhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10096344221710006618noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9999144.post-10376954154623583152020-04-30T11:30:00.000-07:002020-04-30T11:30:05.651-07:00Grief and After Life<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://resizing.flixster.com/WmzYsqiCd7hM3eXZBoDQzEFEcRY=/206x305/v1.dDs0Mzk3Mjc7ajsxODQxMDsxMjAwOzY0ODs5NjA" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="305" data-original-width="206" src="https://resizing.flixster.com/WmzYsqiCd7hM3eXZBoDQzEFEcRY=/206x305/v1.dDs0Mzk3Mjc7ajsxODQxMDsxMjAwOzY0ODs5NjA" /></a></div>
<span id="docs-internal-guid-ca7c9e40-7fff-3382-1824-df9cd60148d8"><span style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11.5pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I've watched the first season of </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11.5pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eIGGKSHMQOM">After Life</a></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11.5pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eIGGKSHMQOM"> on Netflix</a>, and it is probably the most accurate depiction of grief I have seen. My fear for the second season is that things get better and he finds happiness, blah, blah, blah... But hopefully it will be more like real life, that if he does fall in love, he will carry on grieving his dead wife. You can't replace a person with a different person. Because grief would be part of that new love or new marriage or new baby. Things are complicated because grief and love and life are complicated. It's all messy and I'm a mess and my shattered self will always be a mess, even if it doesn't look that way when you see me walking through the grocery store or hiking in the hills with my big, jovial family. Life after a significant loss is like a bone that has healed incorrectly. There will always be pain. Even as I love my other children and love my husband, I will ache for my missing son until I turn to ash. If you decide to watch this, have tissues nearby. And I don't think the trailer does it justice.</span></span>Mother in Chiefhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10096344221710006618noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9999144.post-58171325917656503632020-03-13T11:04:00.001-07:002020-03-13T11:04:31.503-07:00Riley Run 2020 is canceled<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbWp2dzbcEP73JFs4Eo0ieUPuxrWhkCql26zWRRLvZiiNpRoGzVXkEVI1IGDwEqz7HpVCZG0ekzZc-KWE6retoNymr13Di58DrQjoTRtO7RyPPI6d53SUYVHTNzCZO51YJNA/s1600/74C41868-30C9-46CE-AA49-BDD81BB38CFC.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbWp2dzbcEP73JFs4Eo0ieUPuxrWhkCql26zWRRLvZiiNpRoGzVXkEVI1IGDwEqz7HpVCZG0ekzZc-KWE6retoNymr13Di58DrQjoTRtO7RyPPI6d53SUYVHTNzCZO51YJNA/s320/74C41868-30C9-46CE-AA49-BDD81BB38CFC.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
Given the current pandemic, this should come as no surprise. It's a disappointment, none the less. We'll be back next year. It will be the last Riley Run. Here is the message from our amazing run coordinators:<div>
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<span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Hello Riley Run supporters!</span><div style="background-color: white; font-size: small;">
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<span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Unfortunately, but not surprisingly, we were notified by the City today that the Riley Run has been cancelled due to concerns around the coronavirus. While we are disappointed that we won't be able to officially gather to honor Riley on the 19th, we don't want anyone's health to be jeopardized.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"> <br />Along the same lines, we won't be printing shirts this year. If you have donated and would like a refund, please let us know and we will get your money back to you quickly. If not, your donations will be sent to Camp Taylor and Children's Heart Foundation in Riley's name as they are every year. </span><div style="background-color: white; font-size: small;">
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<span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">If the timing works out and it is more safe to gather, we would love to reconvene maybe without the run, but we will play that by ear at this point. </span><div style="background-color: white; font-size: small;">
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<span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Thank you for continuing to support Riley and his family. We have a wonderful community and we feel lucky to be part of it.</span><div style="background-color: white; font-size: small;">
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<span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Megan and Cassandra</span></div>
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In the meantime, think of Riley on April 2. It would have been his 17th birthday. Thank you to all who signed up for the first time, thank you to all who have been supporting us year after year. We are grateful for your love.</div>
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Suzanne, Riley's mom</div>
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Mother in Chiefhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10096344221710006618noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9999144.post-28535921656531848802020-03-12T11:17:00.000-07:002020-03-18T11:46:47.442-07:00Grief and the little sister<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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It was a year ago last Sunday that they cut her out of me. A silver scar across my abdomen is the proof. I barely acknowledged the pregnancy, so it was equally strange to have a baby cut from my body and handed to me. A daughter, the doctor said. And there she appeared around the paper divider and into my line of vision with a mess of brown hard smeared across her head. <br />
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And now she is here already a year old. She lives in our house. She sleeps in Riley’s room. She holds Riley’s things while she nurses in the chair next to his bed. She reaches for the things hanging on his walls when I change her diapers. She is the sixth chair at the dining table, once balanced with four school-aged kids and two adults, only to be completely unbalanced after Riley died. His empty seat. His voice not heard. His laughter gone. And now there is a high chair at the table. It is not a replacement. Only a different kind of chair holding an entirely different child. Even though all of the seats are full, the table is still unbalanced. It will always be unbalanced. And I will always be unbalanced, even though my arms are full right now.<br />
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She cannot replace him. I never thought she would, but it was my fear. That somehow holding her and hugging her and nursing her and reading to her and feeding her and bathing her and loving her, that somehow, somehow she would rub away his memory that is seared into my heart -- my Riley-shaped scar. But that isn’t the case. I didn’t know what it would be like, but it isn’t like buying a new gallon of milk to replace the empty gallon of milk or getting a new candle after the wick is gone on the other. I haven’t stopped thinking about him. He is in my thoughts just about every waking minute of every single day. Maybe more intensely now. Now that I spend so much time in his room surrounded by his things. As I remember him at one month old, six months old. As I think of his weight and remember marveling at his tiny body, my first baby born. <br />
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Sometimes I call her Riley by mistake. Sometimes I wish she were him and that she would grow at high speed and become the nearly-17-year-old young man that he is supposed to be. But most of the time, I try to focus on appreciating her. It’s a messy, imperfect approach to living in a seemingly impossible world where she is here and he is not. It’s not her fault that <a href="http://www.motherinchief.com/2014/10/eleven-and-half.html">her 11-year-old brother died</a>. It’s not her fault that she was born. Yet here we are. <br />
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She is goodness in an abyss of pain. So I work on telling myself that at every chance. I want to make sure that I flip to the things that she is, instead of the things that she isn’t. I want to strengthen the neural pathways of love and appreciation for this being that has come into our lives unexpectedly. Here are some of my appreciations: I appreciate that she is an excellent sleeper; I appreciate that she is generally good natured; I appreciate that she will happily sit and play on her own while I make dinner; I appreciate that she will contentedly be in the carrier on my back while I do the things that need doing; I appreciate that she lets me hold her; I appreciate hugging her; I appreciate that sometimes she hugs me back. I appreciate that she continues to wake up even when my mind says that she will not. I appreciate that she didn’t die the night she choked on her dinner and was rushed to the ER. I appreciate feeling her weight and her warmth on my lap and in my arms and across my chest. I appreciate seeing her torso rise and fall on the monitor. I appreciate her tiny hands that reach for mine. I appreciate her eyes that look for me. I appreciate her cries that indicate her aliveness. <br />
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When I’m holding her and hugging her, I feel slightly less sad. This doesn’t mean there is less grief. It just means that the grief is being temporarily combated with this 19-pound force of love. It’s an internal battle sometimes to let it feel like love and not betrayal. But I hear his voice saying, “Love her like it’s me because she’s part me because she’s half of you.” It’s flawed 11-year-old logic, but I think what he means when he whispers those words into my head is that it’s okay to love her because he loves her, too. Of course he does. He was an amazing big brother. And she is his tiny sister, who already knows his name and waves when she sees his picture. Mother in Chiefhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10096344221710006618noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9999144.post-83861853805787713222020-03-10T12:23:00.000-07:002020-03-11T15:29:29.463-07:00Grief and sales pitches<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuqBj2Z7bhIfWRc9icwtBmjqjG-KCLr9yirAWZWh5ExBwgZC4u48Az5vam3L2AmksTG5vMu94A-DCrYG2bLaa-hrWX7xSZshbRckcKVVlNxn97328eaSDzzDAF8ZB9mZ5R9w/s1600/Team+Riley+shirt.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="960" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuqBj2Z7bhIfWRc9icwtBmjqjG-KCLr9yirAWZWh5ExBwgZC4u48Az5vam3L2AmksTG5vMu94A-DCrYG2bLaa-hrWX7xSZshbRckcKVVlNxn97328eaSDzzDAF8ZB9mZ5R9w/s200/Team+Riley+shirt.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="background-color: white; color: #1c1e21; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, system-ui, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">Riley Run 2020! To get this year’s shirt, register by March 19. To register, send email to rileyrun1101@gmail.com OR leave a comment saying you want to sign up. </span><a class="_58cn" data-ft="{"type":104,"tn":"*N"}" href="https://www.facebook.com/hashtag/only2runsleft?source=feed_text&epa=HASHTAG" style="background-color: white; color: #385898; cursor: pointer; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, system-ui, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 14px; text-decoration-line: none;"><span class="_5afx" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; unicode-bidi: isolate;"><span aria-label="hashtag" class="_58cl _5afz" style="color: #365899; font-family: inherit; unicode-bidi: isolate;">#</span><span class="_58cm" style="font-family: inherit;">only2runsleft</span></span></a><span style="background-color: white; color: #1c1e21; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, system-ui, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 14px;"> </span><a class="_58cn" data-ft="{"type":104,"tn":"*N"}" href="https://www.facebook.com/hashtag/wewanttoseeyou?source=feed_text&epa=HASHTAG" style="background-color: white; color: #385898; cursor: pointer; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, system-ui, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 14px; text-decoration-line: none;"><span class="_5afx" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; unicode-bidi: isolate;"><span aria-label="hashtag" class="_58cl _5afz" style="color: #365899; font-family: inherit; unicode-bidi: isolate;">#</span><span class="_58cm" style="font-family: inherit;">wewanttoseeyou</span></span></a><span style="background-color: white; color: #1c1e21; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, system-ui, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 14px;"> </span><a class="_58cn" data-ft="{"type":104,"tn":"*N"}" href="https://www.facebook.com/hashtag/bringafriend?source=feed_text&epa=HASHTAG" style="background-color: white; color: #385898; cursor: pointer; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, system-ui, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 14px; text-decoration-line: none;"><span class="_5afx" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; unicode-bidi: isolate;"><span aria-label="hashtag" class="_58cl _5afz" style="color: #365899; font-family: inherit; unicode-bidi: isolate;">#</span><span class="_58cm" style="font-family: inherit;">bringafriend</span></span></a><span style="background-color: white; color: #1c1e21; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, system-ui, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 14px;"> </span><a class="_58cn" data-ft="{"type":104,"tn":"*N"}" href="https://www.facebook.com/hashtag/centralmiddleschool?source=feed_text&epa=HASHTAG" style="background-color: white; color: #385898; cursor: pointer; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, system-ui, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 14px; text-decoration-line: none;"><span class="_5afx" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; unicode-bidi: isolate;"><span aria-label="hashtag" class="_58cl _5afz" style="color: #365899; font-family: inherit; unicode-bidi: isolate;">#</span><span class="_58cm" style="font-family: inherit;">centralmiddleschool</span></span></a><span style="background-color: white; color: #1c1e21; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, system-ui, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 14px;"> </span><a class="_58cn" data-ft="{"type":104,"tn":"*N"}" href="https://www.facebook.com/hashtag/sequoiahighschool?source=feed_text&epa=HASHTAG" style="background-color: white; color: #385898; cursor: pointer; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, system-ui, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 14px; text-decoration-line: none;"><span class="_5afx" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; unicode-bidi: isolate;"><span aria-label="hashtag" class="_58cl _5afz" style="color: #365899; font-family: inherit; unicode-bidi: isolate;">#</span><span class="_58cm" style="font-family: inherit;">sequoiahighschool</span></span></a><span style="background-color: white; color: #1c1e21; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, system-ui, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 14px;"> </span><a class="_58cn" data-ft="{"type":104,"tn":"*N"}" href="https://www.facebook.com/hashtag/carlmonthighschool?source=feed_text&epa=HASHTAG" style="background-color: white; color: #385898; cursor: pointer; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, system-ui, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 14px; text-decoration-line: none;"><span class="_5afx" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; unicode-bidi: isolate;"><span aria-label="hashtag" class="_58cl _5afz" style="color: #365899; font-family: inherit; unicode-bidi: isolate;">#</span><span class="_58cm" style="font-family: inherit;">carlmonthighschool</span></span></a>Mother in Chiefhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10096344221710006618noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9999144.post-18758273764126171272020-03-05T21:51:00.000-08:002020-03-11T15:27:03.564-07:00Grief and parents of San Carlos<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Parents, this is for you... Many of you know Riley’s story because you follow my blog (even though I haven’t written in a few months). Since his death, you’ve learned about him and his love of Tabasco. You’ve also learned about a mother’s suffering through my words and stories. You might recognize me at Trader Joe’s. You might have seen me walk around school with a hat pulled low over my eyes. I c<span class="text_exposed_show" style="display: inline; font-family: inherit;">an tell you that while most of the time, I move through the world with trepidation, the day of the year when I feel the most alive is the day when I’m surrounded by people who are thinking about Riley with me. That feeling happens at the Riley Run. That’s when I look out at all of the faces (maybe with tears in my eyes), and feel my boy’s essence in all of the faces looking back at me. There are only two Riley Runs left — only two. Come. Bring your kids. You don’t have to run. And maybe we’ve never met or maybe we haven’t seen each other since his memorial. Or maybe you only learned about his death after the fact. And maybe I wont recognize you (or your kids because they’ve grown up so much since 2014), but come anyway. To be honest, marketing the Run is my least favorite thing because it makes his death feel like a sales pitch. But I need you to come. It’s only $25, and it benefits some worthy charities. But those couple of hours fill my broken mama heart for a little bit. Can I count on you? It’s April 19, at 4pm. To learn more or register, send an email to: rileyrun1101@gmail.com.</span></div>
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Mother in Chiefhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10096344221710006618noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9999144.post-21179528794288434422020-03-03T14:23:00.000-08:002020-03-11T15:24:22.138-07:00Grief and peers wanted<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBcVjY-8oHAPp6sVzx1Oz54tcID2-OpTAlK453T9uwToTAFEjuuSL_fLBM6MlcK5cpqypIfbaLh0r7-3Oml09x6-RGqYR8mbR1tgzlbMzhwxwnP6pjoc1AcWMjKkjmRfF-mw/s1600/Wooden+Heart.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="960" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBcVjY-8oHAPp6sVzx1Oz54tcID2-OpTAlK453T9uwToTAFEjuuSL_fLBM6MlcK5cpqypIfbaLh0r7-3Oml09x6-RGqYR8mbR1tgzlbMzhwxwnP6pjoc1AcWMjKkjmRfF-mw/s320/Wooden+Heart.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="background-color: white; color: #1c1e21; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, system-ui, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">You knew him... You were in the same classes; you played baseball on the same team (or on opposing teams); you played music together; you ate lunch together; you walked the same streets; you played at the same parks. Come remember him with us at the Riley Run (no running required). April 19, 2020. For info or to register: rileyrun1101@gmail.com</span>Mother in Chiefhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10096344221710006618noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9999144.post-66605413707609024412020-03-01T19:52:00.000-08:002020-03-11T15:21:28.524-07:00Grief and Riley Run 2020<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit2zCs-V5ud4gwDQFPzDZIcJuMNi3CP6KREVFJZR8ZoJpgKkxQt3u3Xg0T-GUYT1CckefKSS5gik6S78BA0wNS2nhUFqTKJT-IS1bUbcLFMVVlWZb4TUs8A4J7pXUuS1MdeA/s1600/Swirls.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="960" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit2zCs-V5ud4gwDQFPzDZIcJuMNi3CP6KREVFJZR8ZoJpgKkxQt3u3Xg0T-GUYT1CckefKSS5gik6S78BA0wNS2nhUFqTKJT-IS1bUbcLFMVVlWZb4TUs8A4J7pXUuS1MdeA/s320/Swirls.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #1c1e21; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, system-ui, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">The Riley Run is coming (No running required!) Save the date... April 19, 2020 </span><a class="_58cn" data-ft="{"type":104,"tn":"*N"}" href="https://www.facebook.com/hashtag/rileychallenge?source=feed_text&epa=HASHTAG" style="background-color: white; color: #385898; cursor: pointer; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, system-ui, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 14px; text-decoration-line: none;"><span class="_5afx" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; unicode-bidi: isolate;"><span aria-label="hashtag" class="_58cl _5afz" style="color: #365899; font-family: inherit; unicode-bidi: isolate;">#</span><span class="_58cm" style="font-family: inherit;">rileychallenge</span></span></a><span style="background-color: white; color: #1c1e21; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, system-ui, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 14px;"> </span><span class="_5afx" style="background-color: white; color: #385898; cursor: pointer; direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; font-size: 14px; text-decoration-line: none; unicode-bidi: isolate;"><a class="_58cn" data-ft="{"type":104,"tn":"*N"}" href="https://www.facebook.com/hashtag/wewanttoseeyou?source=feed_text&epa=HASHTAG" style="background-color: white; color: #385898; cursor: pointer; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, system-ui, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 14px; text-decoration-line: none;"><span aria-label="hashtag" class="_58cl _5afz" style="color: #365899; font-family: inherit; unicode-bidi: isolate;">#</span><span class="_58cm" style="font-family: inherit;">wewanttoseeyou</span></a> </span>Mother in Chiefhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10096344221710006618noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9999144.post-71088230010880764982020-02-26T14:49:00.000-08:002020-03-11T15:18:03.995-07:00Grief and stones<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQyBAfur4O_TS0HXnFhwFxB88kbtkwxjY_pmWiVwWD86f_7GVGY7nAHkDOBcFsI0rnYrlKO5ujy5xK8RNRwA_XLUaBwddecHRS7lUpRiP4h847_JDmPxrxQ-xnKLolplSkBw/s1600/Fireplace.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="960" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQyBAfur4O_TS0HXnFhwFxB88kbtkwxjY_pmWiVwWD86f_7GVGY7nAHkDOBcFsI0rnYrlKO5ujy5xK8RNRwA_XLUaBwddecHRS7lUpRiP4h847_JDmPxrxQ-xnKLolplSkBw/s320/Fireplace.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #1c1e21; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, system-ui, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">Originally intended for the garden, I couldn’t actually put them in the garden because I feared rain and sun would make them fade over time. Already fearing Riley’s memory would fade with time, I needed these to stay vibrant. So, since Riley’s memorial five and a half years ago, these stones have lived in a wicker basket in the corner of my living room. Today, I decided to use them to cover the cement patch in front of my fireplace... holding each one, reading it as if for the first time, and placing them where they can be admired. I don’t think I’ll want to repair the cement patch any longer. I wish I’d thought of this sooner. Can you see yours? </span><a class="_58cn" data-ft="{"type":104,"tn":"*N"}" href="https://www.facebook.com/hashtag/rileyforever?source=feed_text&epa=HASHTAG" style="background-color: white; color: #385898; cursor: pointer; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, system-ui, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 14px; text-decoration-line: none;"><span class="_5afx" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; unicode-bidi: isolate;"><span aria-label="hashtag" class="_58cl _5afz" style="color: #365899; font-family: inherit; unicode-bidi: isolate;">#</span><span class="_58cm" style="font-family: inherit;">rileyforever</span></span></a>Mother in Chiefhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10096344221710006618noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9999144.post-51517319533341933632019-10-30T17:36:00.000-07:002019-10-30T20:50:45.148-07:00Grief and sibling trauma<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizB6Lo3ESxNNFMily_3AFWfuWwvsk5EkAZUR_vpyBtRV_nWTeFrkiiwdc7PGiRpMs6fDabzE9HCCHvTnhy3UaCZ2Ygo3ptK4JbUFsWL4PGS8J5x4hcCQzxeUnXd6Ka55Eang/s1600/IMG_6425.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1440" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizB6Lo3ESxNNFMily_3AFWfuWwvsk5EkAZUR_vpyBtRV_nWTeFrkiiwdc7PGiRpMs6fDabzE9HCCHvTnhy3UaCZ2Ygo3ptK4JbUFsWL4PGS8J5x4hcCQzxeUnXd6Ka55Eang/s320/IMG_6425.JPG" width="287" /></a></div>
As we walked home from the frozen yogurt store last week, my son pointed out some Halloween decor at the end of our street that he liked. There were some scruffy black cats and pumpkins and a scarecrow. My neighbors were offering a gentle version of the holiday that's become anything but gentle. When I asked what he liked about them, he basically said that they weren't upsetting like some of the other stuff. When I asked him what he meant, he had a hard time articulating what he was feeling, but it was obvious to me. So I helped him make sense of his feelings as best as I could without putting words in his mouth. <br />
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He is also traumatized by the holiday gore lining our streets. <br />
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He's seen postoperative pictures of Riley. And he lived with his brother's scars -- the six-inch scar down his torso and the holes from the stitches and the puncture wounds from drainage tubes. All of those scars were familiar to him because that's all he ever knew of his brother who endured six open-heart surgeries during his lifetime. He is familiar with <a href="https://www.drugs.com/cg/steristrips-aftercare-instructions.html">Steristrips</a> holding skin together over wounds. He is familiar with bandages from blood tests. He spent time with his brother in the hospital when he was a baby. He lived with his brother and the aftermath of those long hospitalizations for all eight years that he was lucky enough to have an older brother. So seeing the undead around town with bloody incisions and gaping wounds and bandages is upsetting. He knows what those are in real life. He doesn't want to be reminded of them on the streets of our town. It reminds him of the trauma in his own family. It reminds him of his dead brother. I'm sure he imagines what his brother looked before he died. And afterwards. Those images probably look like the worst of what Halloween offers.<br />
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The bloody clown emerging from the gutter is not on display this October. And I have avoided the house near school, the one that incorporated their son's imaginary death in their decor last year. As a result, I don’t know what decorations, if any, they’ve put out this year. But I’m very much on edge as I move through town this time of year. And apparently, I'm not the only one. <i><a href="https://stillstandingmag.com/">Still Standing</a></i> just published a slightly altered version of my piece from last year. <a href="https://stillstandingmag.com/2019/10/29/this-halloween-is-it-fun-to-pretend-your-child-has-died-because-mine-really-did/">Read it here</a>.Mother in Chiefhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10096344221710006618noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9999144.post-50015035683749315412019-10-19T23:25:00.000-07:002019-10-20T07:32:34.635-07:00Grief and flashbacks<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgW2eqIKb0Zo20NgOW8o0woPH1M0KrajS4VJtICLFUyhBO17JgiXWAUearCbSkTIEIuawiu5BkGlkuy-KrhE3HTRbaq2t9APFQz11x7HzAuwF1iBpeUhNBAGWw8ENJ7tlfX4dmb9w/s1600/giraffe.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgW2eqIKb0Zo20NgOW8o0woPH1M0KrajS4VJtICLFUyhBO17JgiXWAUearCbSkTIEIuawiu5BkGlkuy-KrhE3HTRbaq2t9APFQz11x7HzAuwF1iBpeUhNBAGWw8ENJ7tlfX4dmb9w/s1600/giraffe.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<span id="docs-internal-guid-e35ce8bb-7fff-d9e3-9e05-b75a7240613b"><span style="color: #1c1e21; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">How do you go to bed the night before your child will die? </span><span style="color: #1c1e21; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Is he cold? </span><span style="color: #1c1e21; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">How do you brush and floss? </span><span style="color: #1c1e21; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Is he in pain?</span><span style="color: #1c1e21; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> How many sleeping pills do you take? </span><span style="color: #1c1e21; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Does he know that he’s dying? </span><span style="color: #1c1e21; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">How many minutes beforehand do you take them?</span><span style="color: #1c1e21; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> Is he scared?</span><span style="color: #1c1e21; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> Do you look at Facebook before you begin all of this or do you wait until you’re closer to turning off the light? </span><span style="color: #1c1e21; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Does he know that you went home? </span><span style="color: #1c1e21; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Do you send a message to tell people that your son is actually still alive even though someone has posted that he has died? </span><span style="color: #1c1e21; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Does he know you're coming back?</span><span style="color: #1c1e21; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> In that email, do you tell them that while he is still alive, he probably won’t be this time tomorrow? </span><span style="color: #1c1e21; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Does he know the surgery failed? </span><span style="color: #1c1e21; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">How do you undress and climb onto the cold mattress? </span><span style="color: #1c1e21; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Does he have brain damage? </span><span style="color: #1c1e21; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">How do you sink your head into the pillow and pull the blankets over? </span><span style="color: #1c1e21; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Is he angry? </span><span style="color: #1c1e21; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">How many minutes will it take before the sleeping pills paralyze the limbs so that the shaking stops? </span><span style="color: #1c1e21; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Has he heard you screaming? </span><span style="color: #1c1e21; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">How many more before they punch you into blackness to make the hours pass? </span><span style="color: #1c1e21; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Does your screaming scare him? </span><span style="color: #1c1e21; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">When the alarm knocks the blackness aside, how many seconds will it take before nothingness is replaced with knowing your child will die today? </span><span style="color: #1c1e21; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Was it wrong to let the kids see him?</span><span style="color: #1c1e21; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> How do you push the blankets back? </span><span style="color: #1c1e21; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Does he feel trapped? </span><span style="color: #1c1e21; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">How do you lift your head from the pillow? </span><span style="color: #1c1e21; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Has he wanted to die? </span><span style="color: #1c1e21; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">How do you raise your body from the mattress warmed from the hours of nothingness? </span><span style="color: #1c1e21; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Does he blame you?</span><span style="color: #1c1e21; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> Do you see if anyone has responded to the email that you sent last night? </span><span style="color: #1c1e21; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">How much is he aware of? </span><span style="color: #1c1e21; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Do you do that now or do you wait until you’re ready to turn the light on? </span><span style="color: #1c1e21; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Did you ask the right questions? </span><span style="color: #1c1e21; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">How many minutes before you take the Ativan? </span><span style="color: #1c1e21; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Did you choose the wrong hospital?</span><span style="color: #1c1e21; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> How many anxiety pills do you take? </span><span style="color: #1c1e21; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Did you choose the wrong surgeon?</span><span style="color: #1c1e21; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> As you wonder how many to take, will you also calculate when you’ll be able to take the next dose? </span><span style="color: #1c1e21; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">How did you let this happen? </span><span style="color: #1c1e21; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">How long will you stand in the shower before you remember to wash? </span><span style="color: #1c1e21; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">What should you have done differently?</span><span style="color: #1c1e21; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> How will you comb out the knots and style your hair? </span><span style="color: #1c1e21; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Does he know that he will die today? </span><span style="color: #1c1e21; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">How will you decide which skirt to wear? </span><span style="color: #1c1e21; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Which blouse to wear? Which boots to wear? </span></span><span style="color: #1c1e21; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 16px; font-style: italic; white-space: pre-wrap;">Did someone make a mistake? </span><span style="color: #1c1e21; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Will you brush? Will you eat? How will you walk out the door and get into the car? </span><span style="color: #1c1e21; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Will he be relieved? </span><span style="color: #1c1e21; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Will you notice all of the other cars rushing to work or to school? </span><span style="color: #1c1e21; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Does he know that you want to die and be with him?</span><span style="color: #1c1e21; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> Will you need to lean on your husband as you walk toward the hospital and into the room where the machines that have been keeping him alive will be turned off? <i>Does he forgive you? </i></span><span style="color: #1c1e21; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Will you recognize the sounds coming from your body? </span><span style="color: #1c1e21; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 16px; font-style: italic; white-space: pre-wrap;">Does he know that you love him? </span><span style="color: #1c1e21; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">When the machines are quiet, h</span><span style="color: #1c1e21; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">ow will you walk away? </span><span style="color: #1c1e21; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 16px; font-style: italic; white-space: pre-wrap;">Does he know that you will always love him? </span>Mother in Chiefhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10096344221710006618noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9999144.post-12768987458509147072019-10-07T23:40:00.000-07:002019-10-08T10:41:52.080-07:00Grief and October<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirOrKUZEyMNc3r2BBMrDorWv-6nBTsLh5YK7j12lmJd9bRpCgW-qfkZGHGvf-xxE1Dl4nXvFrjmcSq3qHtB9b759fN5NG5XFf-bO1izFXVqEtGcJS1D0hSKN_X8JOdD8GOww/s1600/Riley+preop.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirOrKUZEyMNc3r2BBMrDorWv-6nBTsLh5YK7j12lmJd9bRpCgW-qfkZGHGvf-xxE1Dl4nXvFrjmcSq3qHtB9b759fN5NG5XFf-bO1izFXVqEtGcJS1D0hSKN_X8JOdD8GOww/s320/Riley+preop.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
I’ve been anticipating you the last several weeks and here you are. You just show up and expect everyone to get excited about fall sweaters and boots and thick socks. You’ve been pounding on the windows trying to get my attention and I’ve done my best to ignore you. You’re not good at taking a hint.<br />
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You punt the sun up into the brisk morning, and then speckle the sky with pink and orange clouds as the sun hangs in the west. It gives everything a warm and cozy glow. I hate it when you try to be cute. It doesn't suit you, and you can’t fool me. Yes, you bring pumpkin spice and pumpkin pancakes and cinnamon brooms because you want me to like you. But I don’t. I never will. I know who you really are.<br />
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You stand up a little taller than normal because you carry all of the lasts like badges sewn onto your freshly ironed shirt. His last day at school. His last puzzle. His last joke with his best friend. His last family dinner. His last middle-of-the-night picnic (something we did before every hospital visit). His last words to me (I love you, too, mom). His last hug. His last surgery. His last day. His last breath. And with all of those lasts and this death, you rally humanity to celebrate death and gore and blood and the stuff hospital nightmares are made of. Skeletons hang from trees. And tombstones appear in front yards. And bloody severed limbs lie on seemingly-normal neighbors' front steps. It’s all part of the festivities, you say. Lighten up, you say. I can’t lighten up. I have no interest in your kind of fun. Death isn’t fun. Or festive. Or light.<br />
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As I walked the dog around the darkened streets tonight, I couldn’t remember if Riley’s last day of school was today or tomorrow. I should know. If he had a pre-op day, then his last day of school was today. If he didn’t have a pre-op day, then his last day was tomorrow. Why can’t I remember if he had a pre-op day. My feet take me past his school and the gate that he exited through on that last day. I pause by the wall next to the playground across the street. That was where I waited for him after school that day, where I waited every day. Riley’s best friend rolled his backpack for him. There was an awkward, “Well, I guess I’ll see you sometime” goodbye between them, since we weren’t sure how long he’d be in the hospital postoperatively.<br />
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All of the images start lighting up. They've been on stand-by all these months waiting to affront me. I keep them close to the surface. Why should I forget. I wouldn't want to. It was part of his story. It's who he was. It's what happened. But most of the time, there is a sheen covering them so that I can drive. So that I can shop for groceries. So that I can cook dinner. So that I can play games with my other children. So that I can kiss my husband like I mean it. But this time of year, the sheen is scratched away. All the rawness is exposed. And there's <a href="http://www.motherinchief.com/2019/10/grief-and-wtf.html">something about this fifth anniversary</a>.<br />
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That last day at school plays in my mind as I stand by the wall next to the playground. I start imagining alternate endings. I hate the forever of this ending. It makes it hard to breathe. My lungs keep insisting on pulling in air, but my throat tightens. I open my mouth because getting oxygen into my bloodstream has become a conscious effort instead of an unconscious reflex. My heart bangs on my ribs. It happens a lot this time of year. Fuck you, October. And then I back away from that scene. It's late and my feet start taking me home. </div>
Mother in Chiefhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10096344221710006618noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9999144.post-70402392793357973992019-10-02T10:30:00.000-07:002019-10-02T10:33:30.212-07:00Grief and WTF<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjznq_-RMKJAHkyevLs4ZQykR0T-Pp7Msfv62Vcd_DYiB_3ZfN-mYf7dg5LpF0eodEt2-aWm_40oXCj_VldNZybdXTBW5SXgcceQqnpYIahpLA_ciSmPMWyjdXW_nrsw88aYQ/s1600/8B3D4396-F647-4988-BC57-EC126AA46FB2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="640" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjznq_-RMKJAHkyevLs4ZQykR0T-Pp7Msfv62Vcd_DYiB_3ZfN-mYf7dg5LpF0eodEt2-aWm_40oXCj_VldNZybdXTBW5SXgcceQqnpYIahpLA_ciSmPMWyjdXW_nrsw88aYQ/s320/8B3D4396-F647-4988-BC57-EC126AA46FB2.JPG" width="320" /></a>Riley would be 16 ½ today. Instead we’re 18 days away from the fifth anniversary of his death. And to be clear, him being dead for four years, 11 months, and 12 days really is no different from him being dead for five years. The pain of grief is unchanged, really. A handful of days or months really doesn’t change the pain of living without him.<br />
<br />
But it’s those shifts in time that change the language I use to talk about how long he’s been dead that make it harder. Even though it’s just a word: <i>one</i> versus <i>three</i> versus <i>four</i> or <i>five</i>. Five is all the fingers on one hand. It's all the toes on one foot. It's the number of points on a starfish. Clock numbers are five minutes apart. A musical staff has five lines. Five can be all of those things. But it can't be the number of years my son has been dead. It can't possibly be the number of years that my lungs have continues to inhale and exhale. It can't be the number of years my heart has continued to beat after his stopped beating. It just can't be. <br />
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Five feels like bus coming toward me while I stand on the street and watch. It’s not coming fast. It’s inching toward me. It has been every day since he died. But it’s getting closer now. I could smell the exhaust if the wind were pushing it the right way. I won’t move; I’ll stare it down, just like the others. And when it finally reaches me, the grill will push into my torso until I fall to the ground and it rolls over me. Crushing me all over again. Because this bus isn’t the first vehicle to run me over. That first month. The sixth month. The first year. And so on. But five has a new kind of meaning. Half a decade. I can’t help but say, WHAT THE FUCK. </div>
Mother in Chiefhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10096344221710006618noreply@blogger.com0