Is it weird that when reading other blogs (about any topic) I check to see what they were doing on November 10th 2007? 

driving

I do my grieving while I drive.  Alone with my thoughts, I don't have the pressures of home with me - tasks to complete, undone chores, visual reminders of my internal chaos.  So, in the relative inner quietness of me-in-car-mode, I think.  And write letters in my head.  And grieve. 

It took me a long while to realize that I would often do this about five minutes away from my destination.  Highly illogical, as it has me arriving blotchy faced and teary eyed.  Incidentally, I HATE crying in public.  Or in front of anyone, even my closest friends and family. 

But I finally figured out why my heart picked this timing:  five minute installments were perfect for me, apparently.  My heart knew what I could handle.  I am rather in awe of this intelligence  (I never would have been smart enough to plan mini-grief sessions)  but I'm slowly discovering that my heart and body know exactly what they are up to.   And I am learning that it feels good to listen.

russian sage

It's been a rough week.  And once again, when I have an extra sad Paige week, one or more of my family members is also. And so here I am, checking to see if this week is an anniversary of anything extra hard; bad prognosis, turn for the worse.  That sort of thing.  It hurt hurts.  Quite badly, actually.

I just read over a bunch of posts from September of 2007, two months before Paige died.  How I had the presence of mind to write coherently is beyond me. It's hard to tell if it's a specific anniversary.  I guess I'm sad just because. 

A few weeks ago I dreamed of her again, which I do about every month or two.  This time we were in the "middle room" of my childhood house, and Paige was there.  I got to hold her, and she told me she loved me.  And then something in the room - invisible to me - caught her attention, and her face keep looking left, then right, as though there were a stream of people passing.   I think she said, "Guys!" And in the dream I figured out that they were male angels.  And quite a few, too; probably fifteen of them.  They had arrived to take Paige back to heaven.  It was a nice visit, though.

Friday Ponderings

I am sad. It's hard for me when people post things online about their little girls. I want mine back! My daughter lived in the present with great gusto. I wonder - what would happen if I chose to live like that?

Autumn Afternoon

august 15

wednesday

Sunday Afternoon

Is it weird that I miss Paige's oncologists?

I miss the nurses, too. They got to know Paige so well, and they worked so hard taking care of her, and us. So many of them have moved on to other hospitals, so even when I take my trip up to the hospital for the first time since Paige died, I won't get to see all of them. That will be a big trip, even with 1/4 of the special people there.

Mostly I want to talk to the nurse Michael. I stubbornly refused to learn any of the nurses names for a long time after Paige's diagnosis, and I would refer to them based on some fact I remembered about them; a hobby they had, a physical trait. But not their names. My own way of refusing to look the situation (or the people involved) fully in the face, I suppose. After many times of referring to Michael as "silly guy" (he WAS often silly; Paige knew who I meant), he looked at me and said, a little steel-ily, "My name is Michael." After that, I worked hard to remember the names of the nurses. He was a ballast; good at seeing the big picture, and able to communicate with me on a parent to parent level, which I needed.

I also miss one of the doctors. He was the first voice of authority to say that he agreed with us that something was wrong, when we kept bringing Paige up to Dartmouth and she wasn't getting better.

And then there was ninny doctor, who was abrasive and a little mean, and before the diagnosis made Paige walk across the floor on legs that were hurting her so badly that she had hardly walked for days. "See, she can walk when she wants to - she's fine. Go home," after Paige hobbled towards me, crying, and collapsed in my arms.

(Note added: It took me about two and a half years to forgive him. There was a handful of people that angered, hurt or upset me during this whole experience. I finally got to the place this autumn where I was ready to let go; not to pretend it didn't happen, but to let go of my resentment and anger towards them.
I didn't do this in one sitting - I spaced it out over a couple of weeks. And after all the rest were done, I realized that I needed to forgive ME. To let go of the blame and shame and regret of all the ways I felt I had messed up and wasn't the parent I could have been. It's pretty hard to forgive yourself. When resentment starts to pop up again, or self-blame, I remind myself by repeating, "_______, I forgive you." Forgiveness is a challenging topic, and an even more challenging practice. The Aramaic [language Jesus spoke] translates the word forgiveness to untangle a ball of yarn. One of Dartmouth's chaplains shared that with me. It has been a tremendously helpful analogy.)

But the kind doctor, who walked down long hallways with us so we could find one of the departments we had never been to, was gentle, and caring. And to hear him say that he thought we were right was like a breath of fresh air. Not a relief to hear that she was sick, but a relief to feel like we were being listened to; that maybe now some progress would be made in helping her get better.

Oh the kaleidoscope.

Dancing Music

Last Saturday was Peterborough's Children and the Arts Festival. Ben had Luke for the day, and I wanted to pick up something at my parent's house, which is only about three miles away in my same town.

Alas, detour due to the Festival's puppet parade that was taking place on the main road. The puppets are very creepy. People wear robed costumes and huge paper mache heads (of Obama, Ghandi, that sort of thing) which stick up about 8 feet in the air. And then the costume-wearers glide down the parade route, looking ghastly. If one headed in my direction, I do believe I would run. Anyway, I was detoured, so I parked my car, and ended up spending the next FIVE hours walking around downtown Peterborough, enjoying the festival.

One of the first things I came to was a large tent with a steel drum band. The music was very Caribbean, and fun, and upbeat. There were probably 15 players, mostly under the age of 18. The music was just lovely. I chatted with a woman who happened to also play, and I asked her lots of questions, like - how does one metal drum get so many tones? She explained in great detail, and when she finished, I said that my son would love this.

And then I thought, Paigey would love this. And I spent the next 15 minutes crying. Tears streaming down my face crying. Face scrunched up crying. Shuddered inhalation before resuming crying crying. Families milled around. Children ran by. A few people danced. There were lots of toddlers. Lots of little girl toddlers.

I miss my Paigey.

to canon

Yes, I realize that I have canonized my girl. Don't mind too much. Memories and pictures and imagination are all I have left.

Magnificent

Let’s make this one Magnificent
Shall this soul be a boy child, or a girl child?
The mother wishes for a girl

Shall we make her
A princess? A world changer? A mother?
Yes. All three.

Then let’s give her the gift of joy;
every day will be a gift

And boldness;
she will go ahead of those around her

And great love;
many will cross her path

And laughter;
without it the darkness would be too great

And song and dance;
expressions of Our own creativity

And a big voice;
so many will hear

And a gentle heart;
little ones will follow in her steps and she’ll Mother them with her little hands

And great strength;
to fill out All her days.

Then let us bless this little girl
And with our benediction name her Paige.




kh
May 2 2009

of stone and God thinking of me

I stopped in at a marble tile and counter company yesterday. Just to look and see what they might have for lovely stone for a possible memorial for Paige. As I drove up the long driveway, I could see hundreds of huge counter top slabs, some 10 feet long and just as tall, lined up like dominoes, making an "S" through the large yard. Did they carry memorial stones? No. She gave me the names of a couple local monument companies. "Hmm" I said. "But who wants to go to a monument company? They're way too gloomy and funeral-y." She told me that some people buy slabs like this to make into flush monuments. "Good." I said. "I'll look around."

Paige loved rocks. She loved throwing rocks. I love looking at rocks. When I was a little girl, one of my favorite summer pastimes was sifting through the sand by the side of the road, looking for tiny garnet fragments. I went panning for gold in Vermont one summer and found hundred and hundreds of marble-sized garnets. I design jewelry, and love buying and owning and sorting and touching all of the various stone beads, more than I like making anything. And so this yard, filled with hundreds of slabs of granite, marble, and all kinds of amazing conglomerations was wonderful. And sad.

I found three I loved. One had garnet pebbles all throughout, another had a background that was a blue/grey/almost purple. (I was on the hunt for something in the purple family. It was my favorite color to dress Paigey in.) The yard attendant came out to help me, and when I told her I was looking for something purple, suggested I might like something called "blue eyes." I did. It was gorgeous, and had amazing iridescent bluish lavender spots.

On the way into the showroom to write down my favorites, I said, "She was two." And started to cry. The attendant touched my back sympathetically. When we stepped inside, I heard the most beautiful piano music playing. It was Billy Joel. Playing "Goodnight My Angel" the song we had at Paige's memorial service.

A teary week

I cried a bunch this week. The latest time was this morning when the guy who bought my old volvo towed it away. That's the car I used to drive Luke and Paige to preschool in, back when Ben was in Iraq. A perceived link to Paige gone. And so I cried.

luke

Monday the 10th was the one year mark of losing Paige. A few days before, I was talking to Luke, and explained that on Monday it would be one year since Paige had died. I expected him to say something serious or sad; sometimes when we talk about Paige, he gets teary and says, "I'm starting to cry."

This time, to my surprise he said, (with enthusiasm) "She must have had the funnest year ever!" It made me smile.

My adorable baby

A chance to help

A family that lives near us had a tragedy earlier this year. Their third grade daughter was killed in an accident at home. Through their grief the parents created an amazing foundation that helps other parents going through the death/illness of a child. Check them out, the site is jaidensangel.org

They have all my respect, and I hope I can meet their family some day. I know that we would have fallen apart if it hadn't been for the amazing support of our family and friends during Paige's illness, and then after her death. They did so much for us. Jaidens Angel provides that kind of support to families who perhaps don't have the strong network that our family had.

We're doing ok. I think that Luke and I should re-enroll in grief counseling. Time is passing, but not the grief. It seems like I'll have to wait so long to see Paige again. I feel silly, telling the same stories, recalling the same memories, but they're all I have. I don't know what's she's like today, how perhaps she has grown and changed.

I can't wait to see her again.

An August afternoon

Friday afternoon

Ben and I are going to make a container for Paigey's "dust" (as Luke calls it) at the Sharon Art Center, where they have generously donated clay and studio time. We are going to make the vessel on the potters wheel, and then glaze it ourselves, probably with lots of pink and purple. As of now, we are planning to have her buried in Dublin, in a small cemetery, but Luke is adamant that he wants to make her a rainbow colored box for some of her dust, and keep it in his room. So I think we will involve him in some of the process, and he can make a container too.

I was thinking today, after our conversation about dust, about how when it's my turn to die, (which won't be till I'm 90 I hope!) I will be so much less afraid, knowing that at the end of the unknown and mysterious journey, I get to see Paige! A bizarre thing to be thankful for, that Paige is in heaven to greet me and make death easier (for me and a lot of us who love her, I think!) but that's how I see it. She is such a warm sweet memory to me, like wearing a pink cozy fuzzy backpack in front of me over my heart, like a baby carrier.

I dream about her frequently, which I love.

So I will now wrap up my very random post. Thank you to everyone who still reads this.