There's yarn between us. We talk patterns and yarn. She is far more accomplished than me, but I'm open to marvel and learn. Kids buzz around us looking and asking. We tell little stories, exchange observations, talk parenting. We've shared a few cups of coffee over the past few months. Mary Claire plays well with her girls. My older girls babysit. I see the books on her shelf, we're drawn to common things. She's years younger. I'm closer in age to her mother than her, I'm sure. But I have many friends years older who've added so much richness to my life, it can't be a bad thing. Friendship blooms regardless of age, culture, education ....hair color! And I love meeting new people and making new friends, especially when you meet someone you just click with. It's fun getting to know someone, sharing glimpses here and there of who you are, what you're all about. And its even more fun to unlock the treasure chest of this new friend, learn more, see more, hear more. I like that! We get to know each other through our children, witness the little exchanges that outline who we are, what we're all about. Those things happen naturally and often.
But how do I tell someone that to really know me, you have to know Phoebe. ...and how do I tell someone that my precious Phoebe, my oldest daughter, is dead?
Like lots of my friendships our shared time involves our children. With long time friends, we sneak in cryptic sentences here and there tipping each other off to our particular challenges of the day, week ...always. We're good at eye movements, facial expression, hidden gestures that communicate far more than our environment allows in words. But when its a new friend, we don't share those things ...that secret language comes in time.
I'm challenged by that now because truly, this new friend's passion and interests about so many things, remind me of Phoebe, and I know Phoebe would like her. She's got nothing to prove, she's not calculating who has what, when, where, how like so many in our culture do today. And she is funny and bright and down to earth ....real. Her kids are cute and fun and funny! I enjoy my time, our time together. But she has to know about Phoebe ...because she is as much a part of me as my own hands.
But how do I say to her ..."hey, I have another daughter you haven't met ...because she died." And how do I tell her my heart limps along in this life, soaring with great joy for my precious six living, but drags and heaves with an unbearable sorrow and longing for my feisty girl. Lots of times the exposure of Phoebe just happens. Sometimes though, those natural moments don't come, and its a challenge ...because for me to be truly authentic ... you have to know my Phoebe.
Sometimes Phoebe is just too present, like the elephant in the living room, it's so apparent to me she is there, and yet unknown or unrecognized. And that's what happened to me today. It's almost like she's saying "so, would you introduce me already, you're being kind of rude Mom. How'd you like it if I did that to you?" But how do you share that when there is no natural way to bring it up?
Anyone who's lost a child knows this struggle, this particular challenge most people don't consider, because they don't have to. How do you reveal your lost child? Not to just anyone. Now its kept and considered only for people you care about and trust. Who cares about the rest. Phoebe's gone over three years now, so I don't blurt it out like I did the first year or two. Sometimes people already know and they keep it to themselves, gingerly walking around the topic because who could possibly know how to ask someone "hey, so I heard you have a daughter who died by suicide ...that must be a real drag." Or sometimes people will speak in hushed tones, touching my arm like I might break, or start sobbing uncontrollably ...and really, who wants to get that going. Even though that's so unlikely to happen.
I guess I could just say ... Hey, I really enjoy your company and I hope our friendship grows ...because your fun and interesting ...and you're interested in this middle aged, chubby momma with bad hair ...but can I tell you something that is very, very dear to me ...do you have a moment to listen?
Can I tell you about Phoebe?
She died October 9th, 2010 on a beautiful fall day while I was at a soccer game. She had gone to take the SAT at a school where she'd been bullied relentlessly the first two months of high school, and the school could not have cared less. She spent the rest of her high school years at a different school. She forgot her ID, called home, couldn't take the test without it, had to walk home. When she came home she saw that her dad and I had found pot in her backpack while we searched for her ID. We were really mad, and she knew it! The next day just the three of us were heading to Maine to visit a college that seemed a great match for her. But we never got to go with her. She just gave up on life, on herself and on us in that brief moment. She brought her own end while no one was home. And all of us died that day too. It's taken a long time to find moments of normalcy. It feels like it happened this morning ...probably always will. Feels like she might sidle on up next to me when we're chatting and add her two cents ... or more.
I miss her more than I could ever put in words, and I wish instead of getting mad about finding pot, I'd smoked a joint with her instead ...if it meant she'd stay. I wish instead of being annoyed she'd forgotten her ID, I'd said 'who cares, come along to the games with me.'
Our life shattered, my heart shredded into a million pieces and we've spent the last years building a new life without her. I know without a doubt you'd love her. She was bright and fun, adventurous beyond words. She'd show you places in World's End you'd never find on your own, and she'd marvel at the uniqueness of your own kids ...especially the fiesty. She loved the mountains, the great expanse from high up. She'd go barefoot all year round, swim in the ocean in March everyday if she could. She was a blast of a person ... She gave me a run for my money ...and she made me run further than I ever thought I could. She was only seventeen, and she must have felt unbearably alone that morning.
I wish I had stayed with her ...but how could I know?
And so we live this life, here in this place, trying to stay engaged for our kids They lost a sister that noticed the stars and the moon, paid attention to the tide, listened for the wind, thought deeply about truthfulness and being genuine. She turned a phrase faster than most. She took the fall for her friends, blaming herself for the typical teenage stuff, while her friends sat by and let her! She could read people quickly ...and oh, how I wish I'd paid closer attention! She bossed us all around and we listened. She had big, blue, beautiful eyes and a pile of hair atop her head that wiggled and jiggled. She read many of the books on your shelf and would have discussed each and every one's merits and weakness , and asked you what you thought.
You'll get to know her more and more over time. I've made other new friends since she died and lots of them feel like they really know her ...and I hope one day you do too! Because truly, knowing her will only make your life richer ...she is an extraordinary girl, forever seventeen ...forever mine.
So now that maybe you don't know what to say or how to be around me, let me tell you. Just be. Just be you. I won't break, I won't bite. Sometimes I might cry ...but who wouldn't! And don't be afraid you'll say or do the wrong thing. The people who do, don't stay. The people who are genuine about life and being who they are ...stay. I look for joy each day, and if I can't find it one day, I usually can the next. She still makes me laugh ...and I'm pretty sure she's still bossing me around ...which I love
So how's that for a segue when it doesn't happen on its own?!
Us parents who've lost a child have lots and lots of interesting challenges other parents don't. And we have to find some unusual ways to navigate through life. We can be a tough crowd, but well worth getting to know!
So I found Phoebe on this ordinary day, in the living room of a new friend. She stood across from me waving her arms, demanding to be introduced ...so here it is. You happy Phoebe?
Woven in an out of our day are the moments when God allows the veil to pull back for just a bit ...and I am most grateful!
Wednesday, January 22, 2014
Wednesday, January 1, 2014
Calendars
I wrote 2014 lots of times today. Good practice, I think. Usually it takes me a good month before I write the new year naturally. I like a simple ringing in of the new year ...no fanfare. Turning the calendar is enough for me; turning towards another new year without Phoebe leaves me empty and sad. Its not that my whole focus is on her and the absence of her. For sure, my whole life is about my family, my kids ...their nuances and growth ...the simple act of them being. I guess it might be like living with an amputation. Your whole life is so much more than the loss of the limb, and yet it permeates all of your life ...forever. But losing a child is far more than losing a limb; its more like losing part of your heart.
A new year finds us bombarded with new year's resolutions, determined hopes, plans, dreams. I join in the banter, but more for fun and lighthearted conversation than any real conviction. Several years ago I wrote a colorful note for my husband and each of my kids ...wishes and dreams for them in the new year. I'd made a nice dinner, set a festive table, each plate adorned with their personal note. Recently, those notes spilled from a box while digging through Christmas decorations. Somehow they were saved and stored away. Their discovery gave me pause, a treasured moment of remembering and rest. For that coming year, I'd dreamed Phoebe would ride some really big waves, that she would be the first one in the ocean that year, a title she proudly held for entering the Atlantic on some uncommonly warm day in March most years. There were other things too, but my wishes really spoke to who she was and the adventure she loved living ...the thrill of pushing limits that I both encouraged, cautioned and sometimes dreaded.
Now too, when I imagine that great reunion with her I see a board under her arm, her hair piled atop her head, t-shirt she's customized, shorts and her forever bare feet. Her head bends to the side and she swings the board ever so slightly in the direction she wants me to follow. Without words, I fall in step behind her, as I'd done so many times. And sure enough, she brings me to the ocean. We stand at the water's edge ...her eyes twinkle, she giggles ...'go on,' I say, 'show me what you know!' A few steps in, up to her knees she pushes the board ahead and glides her body onto the length of it. Her arms cut through the water, pulling out beyond the break. She sits on top of our board, the Harlequin, waiting for the swell. And because I can stand there and watch ...I know that I'm home.
A long, long time ago, she'd watch me surf from the shallow break with her dad and brother. She'd insist she could handle the deeper water. I knew her drive, her intensity and desire, and so I never lasted long out there alone. She'd look for an opportunity to break free from dad's watchful gaze just to get out there with me. My worry was a distraction. I'd rather push her in the shallow waves on my board than actually surf myself. And she preferred that too. I never became much of a surfer ...but she did. She outpaced her older brother on the waves, never afraid to give her all for those few moments to fly on water. Like me, he was more cautious.
I read all of those wishes and dreams I wrote for each child. Most of them speak to who they are ...still, all these years later. As a mom, it encouraged me, that I do, in fact, pay attention to each of them, their own specialness.
Often, I struggle with having missed something very great and pressing with Phoebe. It's a walk most bereaved parents carry, no matter how a child dies. Most especially though, when a child dies by suicide, parents are saddled with so many questions and possibilities for preventing the nightmare from happening. Over and over, I examine every detail and aspect to find the one thing I should have said or done that most certainly would have averted Phoebe's death. Guilt plagues us ...me. But when I stumble across something that proves I'd paid attention and noticed, I am rescued for a little while.
That's not a bad way to start the new year, to see and know I'd paid attention.
It's the fourth calendar we've changed with her gone. Neatly tucked away are the ones that capture her last weeks of dentist appointments, soccer games, practices, exam dates. On those pages she is meshed in with all the others, a choreography of details that make up the tapestry of our family life. Written so casually and without second thoughts are the details of her last moments ...before she took flight from me.
I guess that's my new year's resolution ...to recognize and witness Phoebe's taking flight. Those final moments for her could only have held a poignant, excruciating pain so intense she saw nothing but pitch black ...no light streamed in. But all of our lives are so much more than one moment ...and hers was so much more than most. Her whole life was about taking flight, soaring beyond the norm. Whatever chains bound her here, burst her free ...and she took flight home. Away from me, from us ...toward God.
For a long time, the blow of her death had me fixed on one final, impulsive, outrageous act. And that all remains true. I will never, ever glorify, or make suicide heroic. But her life, my life with her, our life as a family, is not defined by how she died ...and how each of us died a little bit too. Her life is defined in a far greater, robust way. My life, our lives were both thrilled and challenged by her ...and we still are.
For 2014 I'll embrace, even more, the way she lived ...not the way she died. And when I do that, my heart skips a beat. Phoebe could drain every ounce of energy out of me, and then in moments she could have me doubled in laughter, awed by how alive she was ...and still is.
So while I keep my front row seats with all my cherubs here, and marvel at all they are, I'll keep a watchful gaze on the waters edge, checking out the waves Phoebe might ride in on. And one day ...I might just catch a glimpse.
Happy New Year!
A new year finds us bombarded with new year's resolutions, determined hopes, plans, dreams. I join in the banter, but more for fun and lighthearted conversation than any real conviction. Several years ago I wrote a colorful note for my husband and each of my kids ...wishes and dreams for them in the new year. I'd made a nice dinner, set a festive table, each plate adorned with their personal note. Recently, those notes spilled from a box while digging through Christmas decorations. Somehow they were saved and stored away. Their discovery gave me pause, a treasured moment of remembering and rest. For that coming year, I'd dreamed Phoebe would ride some really big waves, that she would be the first one in the ocean that year, a title she proudly held for entering the Atlantic on some uncommonly warm day in March most years. There were other things too, but my wishes really spoke to who she was and the adventure she loved living ...the thrill of pushing limits that I both encouraged, cautioned and sometimes dreaded.
Now too, when I imagine that great reunion with her I see a board under her arm, her hair piled atop her head, t-shirt she's customized, shorts and her forever bare feet. Her head bends to the side and she swings the board ever so slightly in the direction she wants me to follow. Without words, I fall in step behind her, as I'd done so many times. And sure enough, she brings me to the ocean. We stand at the water's edge ...her eyes twinkle, she giggles ...'go on,' I say, 'show me what you know!' A few steps in, up to her knees she pushes the board ahead and glides her body onto the length of it. Her arms cut through the water, pulling out beyond the break. She sits on top of our board, the Harlequin, waiting for the swell. And because I can stand there and watch ...I know that I'm home.
A long, long time ago, she'd watch me surf from the shallow break with her dad and brother. She'd insist she could handle the deeper water. I knew her drive, her intensity and desire, and so I never lasted long out there alone. She'd look for an opportunity to break free from dad's watchful gaze just to get out there with me. My worry was a distraction. I'd rather push her in the shallow waves on my board than actually surf myself. And she preferred that too. I never became much of a surfer ...but she did. She outpaced her older brother on the waves, never afraid to give her all for those few moments to fly on water. Like me, he was more cautious.
I read all of those wishes and dreams I wrote for each child. Most of them speak to who they are ...still, all these years later. As a mom, it encouraged me, that I do, in fact, pay attention to each of them, their own specialness.
Often, I struggle with having missed something very great and pressing with Phoebe. It's a walk most bereaved parents carry, no matter how a child dies. Most especially though, when a child dies by suicide, parents are saddled with so many questions and possibilities for preventing the nightmare from happening. Over and over, I examine every detail and aspect to find the one thing I should have said or done that most certainly would have averted Phoebe's death. Guilt plagues us ...me. But when I stumble across something that proves I'd paid attention and noticed, I am rescued for a little while.
That's not a bad way to start the new year, to see and know I'd paid attention.
It's the fourth calendar we've changed with her gone. Neatly tucked away are the ones that capture her last weeks of dentist appointments, soccer games, practices, exam dates. On those pages she is meshed in with all the others, a choreography of details that make up the tapestry of our family life. Written so casually and without second thoughts are the details of her last moments ...before she took flight from me.
I guess that's my new year's resolution ...to recognize and witness Phoebe's taking flight. Those final moments for her could only have held a poignant, excruciating pain so intense she saw nothing but pitch black ...no light streamed in. But all of our lives are so much more than one moment ...and hers was so much more than most. Her whole life was about taking flight, soaring beyond the norm. Whatever chains bound her here, burst her free ...and she took flight home. Away from me, from us ...toward God.
For a long time, the blow of her death had me fixed on one final, impulsive, outrageous act. And that all remains true. I will never, ever glorify, or make suicide heroic. But her life, my life with her, our life as a family, is not defined by how she died ...and how each of us died a little bit too. Her life is defined in a far greater, robust way. My life, our lives were both thrilled and challenged by her ...and we still are.
For 2014 I'll embrace, even more, the way she lived ...not the way she died. And when I do that, my heart skips a beat. Phoebe could drain every ounce of energy out of me, and then in moments she could have me doubled in laughter, awed by how alive she was ...and still is.
So while I keep my front row seats with all my cherubs here, and marvel at all they are, I'll keep a watchful gaze on the waters edge, checking out the waves Phoebe might ride in on. And one day ...I might just catch a glimpse.
Happy New Year!
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