like the perpetual tears
of our Mother Goddess,
for she too is mourning
the loss of my precious girl,
but only for a time,
as she knows,
that soon Sylvia's essence,
will flow back again,
into her waiting arms,
thereby completing the cycle,
that is known as life.
It has been a week now since my precious baby girl died. Gone are the obvious signs of bodily shock, the overwhelming grief, and the unending tears. Gone is the pounding pain that has many times taken my breath away. Gone is the need to curl up into the fetal position on the floor because I am simply not able to stand. What has now taken its place is the dull ache of loss, an ache that has permeated deep into my core. It's hard sometimes for me to describe the felt sense of what that means. In suppose I could say it feels like an anchor, one that has been intrinsically tied to my heart, one that I am dragging through the depths of hell. Or I could say that it feels like a stone yoke, one that has been put around my neck, and one that is constantly in danger of causing my knees to buckle under the strain. I suppose this is an apt clinical description of depression. And I guess it is; my depression.
My parents have been amazingly support; albeit in their own quirky sort of way. My father, who is 85 and a half, wrote me an email describing my mother's reaction, quite similar to mine, after she had lost her first born. My sister Muriel died at the young age of 5 as the result of Leukemia. I remember hearing when I was young hushed conversations about it, about how my mother had a nervous breakdown shortly after my sister had died and that she had attempted to take her own life. It wasn't until I was in my early 40s that I heard the real story from my parents. And it was a harrowing one too. My sister had become ill quite early on but that the actual diagnosis of Leukemia hadn't come until quite late near to her death. And this was in the mid 50's when there was precious little in the way of effective treatment. My sister died soon after.
Mom, after her breakdown, went to live with her eldest sister for 6 months before returning home. Many say she has never been the same since.
I can empathize.
I have, over the years, become intimately acquainted with death. I saw many of my friends die. More than I can count. More than I want to count.
Death changes things.
Unequivocally.
I walked into the bathroom yesterday to wash my hands; a seemingly simple act. Looking down I saw that Dino had put on a new roll of toilet paper. Instinctively, I bent down to flip it around the other way so it fed out of the back inside of over the top. Half way down I realized, it doesn't matter anymore. Sylvia is gone.
I am in my own personal hell. Not the one I have known though, the one that is tied integrally to my abuse experiences. This is an entirely new one.
Everything I do seems to be connected to her.
From the simplest acts to the most complicated.
I guess that was what having a family meant for me. That in some way Sylvia's and her brother Lars' love for me had crept, slowly and deliberately over time, into my very soul. That in my everyday experiences they had become my partners, in many ways, my familiars.
It seems to me in the depths of my present grief that their unconditional love, the kind I got from them very day of my life, has become just as deadly as not having the love at all. I guess that is what we all risk when we choose to open our hearts to love.
My boy is curled up in his favorite chair, sleeping soundly. He looks so much at peace during this moments.
I cherished every moment with my girl. From the moment we brought them home to the moment she died. I remember the day we got them. I had gone over to Pets Unlimited to get a box to bring them back from Martinez. They had lived their first 3 months with my ex's brother and sister-in-law. As we drove back into the City over the Bay Bridge, both Lars and Sylvia kept popping their tiny heads out of the box to look around. His, all ears and tiny head; her's, with that distinctive calico coloring of soft whites, browns and blacks. I remember telling them,
"look, over there, do you see that, that is going to be your new home. Isn't it beautiful."
Both of their eyes lit up as they looked, all innocent and pure, at the lights of downtown, as they shimmered upon the calm bay waters on that cold crisp October night. It was a magical moment. All new beginnings. Love flowing. My heart wide open.
The road to that moment had not be easy for us. It had taken us some 7 years before we had become ready for new kids. For a long time we had struggled to make sense of our grief and loss after Vester had passed. Not that his death had been unexpected or untimely. He had actually lived a very long and happy life with us until he died at the ripe old age of 20.
In the later part of 2003 we had talked about the possibility of new kids discussing over and over again the fine details about what we thought would be right. We talked about how many we should get, what gender they should be, and if they should be litter mates. And as we did we were able to work through the last of our pain of losing Vester. That's why I think Sylvia's death has been so hard for me. Sylvia and Lars were not just an after thought, or a replacement for Vester; they were to be are new family.
That's was the inherent danger for me although I did not know it at the time. Of opening my heart up again, fully and unconditionally.
I had made a promise to myself that night that I wanted to create an environment that would allow Sylvia and Lars the opportunity to develop their personalities naturally to their fullest extent possible. And I kept that promise. That is why they became who they were and that is why I mourn so deeply for my precious girl now.
She was an Original.
Just like her brother is now.
I wonder though, in these quiet moments while I listen to the rain, how Lars is going to change after he has finished his grieving process. I wonder; will he unequivocally be forever effected by his sister's death? I wonder; will he ever have that look of complete safety and relaxation in his eyes, the one that speaks of a life absent of pain, danger, or loss. I wonder; will he be able to love unconditionally again without fear of losing the person he is loving?
In these quiet moments I am also asking some of those same questions of me.
No comments:
Post a Comment