Mommy...?
Yes?
Mommy???
Yes? I'm in here.
(panicked) MOMMY!?!?
(louder) I'm in here! You okay?
I dreamt that you died.
(arms flew around this nugget, in a polar bear hug) I'm not dead. I'm here.
We stayed wrapped up for several minutes, until the fear washed away, until the assurance that I'm still here settled in. It was beautiful and magical. It was powerful. This kid has been difficult for me to reach lately. I know that phases come and go, but this one seemed to linger. In this single moment, it was like a light in the darkness rose up to say "Keep going. You're getting through. Even if it doesn't feel like it."
I told that child of mine I will never go away. Even when my body does, my heart will always be with you. Come what may. Because my heart beats in yours. My blood runs in yours. My breath inhales and exhales in yours. Even when the moment comes that you can't see me, put your hand on your chest and know that I'm there.
Oh how Love can heal our hurts and chase away our fears!
Friday, January 22, 2016
Tuesday, January 19, 2016
Illness
Legs bare, a sheet draped over, prodded and poked, tears falling. Falling like waterfalls that I couldn't stop.
Fear is the most powerful and dangerous of experiences. I have had my fair share, to be frank.
I have walked a path like this before. It's become familiar, how it winces and pulls. The angst is almost like an old friend, rising up out of a photo album saying well hello there!
I turn away because I'm not interested. I plug my ears and I hum my tunes and I cry because I just.can't.ignore you. I rationalize and I google search because it's all going to be nothing. I know this. I believe this.
But what if I'm wrong?
So.what. If I am then my body will die, and a phoenix will rise out of the ashes, just like the last time. I carried death around in my body, on my soul, in my uterus for seven and a half months. I sobbed unstoppable tears when death was taken out, and the alarms dinged and the crash cart came the night that baby left me for good. I died on that hospital table. I died over those seven months. I died in the aftermath of watching and grieving and aching and wondering what have I done? over and over again. Out of the ashes of that mother frenching nightmare rose three magnificent as all freaking might, phoenixes. They are my fire birds. They are my miracles. I died, so they could come.
Whatever this is, this infection, this war that my body may or may not be waging on itself, this source of pain... it will.not.win. So I say so what to it. I scream it and I cry it and I whisper it. Because the truth is, I'm afraid of it. Stupidly so. I'm afraid of the unknown. I'm afraid of the silences that are bombarding me at every turn. I'm afraid of the imaginings dancing around in my brain. I'm embarrassed by my fear, my inability to control my imagination, my breakdown. but it's a part of my story so it must be shared.
We are all waiting. Eager for a phone call that we hope will say It's just a fluke infection and everything is good! I'm hunched over from the probing, dosed up on ibuprofen and heating pads just to get through my afternoon.
My body has been my "enemy" before. I survived. Whatever my lot, thou has taught me to say it is well, it is well with my soul.
Fear is the most powerful and dangerous of experiences. I have had my fair share, to be frank.
I have walked a path like this before. It's become familiar, how it winces and pulls. The angst is almost like an old friend, rising up out of a photo album saying well hello there!
I turn away because I'm not interested. I plug my ears and I hum my tunes and I cry because I just.can't.ignore you. I rationalize and I google search because it's all going to be nothing. I know this. I believe this.
But what if I'm wrong?
So.what. If I am then my body will die, and a phoenix will rise out of the ashes, just like the last time. I carried death around in my body, on my soul, in my uterus for seven and a half months. I sobbed unstoppable tears when death was taken out, and the alarms dinged and the crash cart came the night that baby left me for good. I died on that hospital table. I died over those seven months. I died in the aftermath of watching and grieving and aching and wondering what have I done? over and over again. Out of the ashes of that mother frenching nightmare rose three magnificent as all freaking might, phoenixes. They are my fire birds. They are my miracles. I died, so they could come.
Whatever this is, this infection, this war that my body may or may not be waging on itself, this source of pain... it will.not.win. So I say so what to it. I scream it and I cry it and I whisper it. Because the truth is, I'm afraid of it. Stupidly so. I'm afraid of the unknown. I'm afraid of the silences that are bombarding me at every turn. I'm afraid of the imaginings dancing around in my brain. I'm embarrassed by my fear, my inability to control my imagination, my breakdown. but it's a part of my story so it must be shared.
We are all waiting. Eager for a phone call that we hope will say It's just a fluke infection and everything is good! I'm hunched over from the probing, dosed up on ibuprofen and heating pads just to get through my afternoon.
My body has been my "enemy" before. I survived. Whatever my lot, thou has taught me to say it is well, it is well with my soul.
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