Monthly Archives: October 2013

men

lunita corazon

They say men grieve differently, they just do.

But why?

And I don’t mean why, as in why can’t he just grieve my way already?

OK, yes, that is exactly what I mean.

He supports me. He hangs up the prayer flag I sewed with our boys. But I had to ask him three or maybe seven times.

And he never makes flags, or clay anythings or watercolors. He doesn’t have any jewellery or key chains.

He grieves. I know. In the quiet of his heart, without needing a circle of women to hear his pain. Without the need to write about it or talk about it or become any kind of dead baby activist. In his heart, his daughter is dead. He doesn’t need to do anything or paint anything to feel it or heal it.

Boys go to Jupiter to get more supider. Yes! Yes! Some days it just gets the better of me. To me his lack of journaling is insensitive. And I try to understand. Most days I do. I understand his grief and his process and I respect the world out of him. But other days, why can’t he just grieve like I do? It would feel so nice to not only be supported, but to actually go hand in hand, watercoloring the world with love and healing and our baby girl.

Maybe it would hurt less.

And if anyone reads this, just so you know, he is actually one of the good ones. A great one. The perfect one and only for me. I really am my best me with him. But losing our baby girl, it’s polarizing. In some ways it has brought us closer, intensely closer. And in other ways, like in the stupid stubborn way he won’t just heal his broken heart the way I say, it pulls us apart. And the distance is immense. And it is so lonely. And so hard.

Is it so hard, I ask you, men, to paint a frikin watercolor heart?

Wicked and Painful Riddles

 

My therapist kicked my butt today.

She’s not really my therapist. She’s my ethioterapist. I don’t know, they work with kinesiology and your pulse, maybe crystals and color filters and Chinese medicine. She’s some sort of medical intuitive witch. The good kind of witch, the healing kind.

And she didn’t kick my butt. Not really. But she said things. Things other than you’re doing magnificently, you carry your grief with such love, you are healthy and wonderful and practically perfect and oh my aren’t you pretty. Anything other than that tumbles me right over.

So my therapist kicked my butt today.

She said my husband and I, we are not connecting. I intellectualize my pain. I grieve exuberantly, outwards, big. He grieves inwards, intellectually withdrawn, quietly emotional. We meet in bursts, little effervescent moments that are so deep and ridiculously lovely and painful and true. But then there’s the rest of the day. And he doesn’t paint with me and I might talk too much.

She also said I’m not letting myself feel sadness. Well of course I’m not. If I were to feel the full blow of this thing, I would never get out of bed. I wouldn’t shower, I wouldn’t talk. I certainly would not be with other people or be much good for my kids. And I would not put energy into activism and art and traffic signs. That could be life, forever. So I plough on through. I accept the pain as part of who I am now, and I do one little thing at a time. I follow through, I brush my hair, I organize things and take meetings and play with my kids.

But the pain is sneaky and brutal. It whacks you out of nowhere. Especially on October 15th and birthdays and due dates and weekends. It just knocks you over and there is no more air and the tears come in gushes and they sting.

She also said I’m hanging on to my pain. Because I feel that the pain is keeping me close to Luna. That I am not fully feeling the love. And I guess I am. I am scared that if I let go of the pain, that maybe I will forget about her. That if the sting is gone, then maybe there isn’t anything that strong to hold me close to my baby. Maybe if it stops hurting I’ll forget. And I’ll brush my hair and my teeth and go about my day and not even think of Luna. I would rather be in pain, deep down, quietly inside, and feel connected. What if plain old love is quieter, gentler? What if I feel it less?

Stupid woman, I think she saw right into me. The whole messy indescribable thing.

I don’t have many answers to this. Mostly this is about questions and riddles and pain.

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Álvaro’s mom

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Álvaro’s mom goes to my bereavement group. I don’t know what her name is, I just know her as Álvaro’s mom. I think it might even make her happy that I’m too rude to remember her name. It’s another opportunity to hear her beloved boy’s name. We don’t get too many of those.

Álvaro’s mom, she gave me the ribbon. I added the flower. Pink, because Luna is a girl. I’m a mom to a girl now, too. Sometimes I forget, with all the fart jokes and drops of pee on the toilet seat.