Ellie Update

It was an exciting 24hrs for Ellie. First CT scan, first ambulance ride, first staple to the the head. Truly, she thought this whole skull fracture thing was one big vacation. It's not an exaggeration that Joe and I were way more traumatized by this whole event than she was. Just look at her smiling face.

Ellie was disappointed there were no lights and sirens to accompany her ride.

She mostly dozed on the way there - waking to ask the occasional question.

It looks like a spiritual moment, but really it's Joe applying numbing cream to her wound while they both watch cartoons in the Emergency Room.

Happily tucked into bed, with her best buds and a cup of apple juice (at 11pm - why not?)

Check-out time found her lazily playing on Dad's iphone - a luxury if ever there was one.

After writing my cathartic essay and wandering the hospital halls for a little longer, I was finally able to sleep on the convenient (though highly uncomfortable) pull out couch in her room. Early in the morning I heard her voice as she woke up, "This whole TV is for me!" She was totally digging the big screen and would have liked to stay in her cozy hospital bed all day, but wouldn't you know it, less than 24hrs after checking in, we were on our way home!

Thank you to everyone for your thoughts and prayers on Ellie's behalf. We've appreciated so much the phone calls and emails and dinners brought to our house. We're so grateful that everything turned out as well as it did. Her recovery has been nothing short of miraculous. She doesn't suffer from any lingering concussion symptoms and hopefully a follow up x-ray will show that her little bones are going back together just the way they should. Truly, we are very blessed and have been enjoying quiet time as a family even more now that we've had a glimpse of what might have been.

I'll be back blogging soon - I've got lots of posts planned that don't involve any sort of trauma at all. Won't that be a nice change around here?

Writing through Trauma

I was laying next to Joe on the pull-out sleeper, feeling his body jump in the way it does as he drifts away. I had been curled next to Ellie in her hospital bed, but found that I couldn't sleep as I was tempted to constantly open my eyes and watch her gentle, steady breathing. So I came to sleep with Joe in hopes that the familiarity of him next to me would help calm my nerves, firing like live wires throughout my body. No luck. I was just laying there, squeezing my eyes shut as the memory of her accident played again and again.

She's alright now. She's alright.

But still.

I haven't cried yet. That's why I'm here, rocking back and forth in the lactation room's glider, hiding out for some peace and quiet, typing this all out in hopes that the tears can come and that after the tears I will have rest. Joe said he sobbed on the way to Upstate hospital - a 1.5 hr drive from our home in Ithaca to Syracuse, NY. I couldn't sob then. I was in the back of the ambulance, stroking Ellie's hair and making small talk with the paramedic about the life of a first responder, asking the occasional question about what a depressed skull fracture actually meant for my daughter. Of course, she didn't have many answers. I'd have to wait until we got there - until the neurosurgeons took a look at her. In the mean time I clung to the hopeful information that her CT scan was clean: No signs of swelling or bleeding, the midline of her brain not showing any indication of severe trauma.

But still.

The doctor at Cayuga Medical Center back in Ithaca had rushed in to say that she had a fractured skull and that transport to a hospital with pediatric trauma care would be necessary. He mentioned neurosurgery and that they might need to lift that part of her skull back into place. That's when the tears first threatened to spill over. But I kept them back. Made all the necessary phone calls, made the plans that would get us through the next few days in case we were in Syracuse for long. Joe went home to gather our things and make arrangements for Wren's care. The ambulance came and I rode along with Ellie - who charmed the driver with her sweetness and told the paramedic how thrilled she was for the opportunity to "see the world." When we got here to Syracuse I started to feel more at ease. The doctors here are very comfortable dealing with her kind of injury and Ellie seemed even more alert and responsive than she had in the hours just following her accident. Still, I carried the weight of worry over my four year old having surgery until I finally couldn't wait for neuro any longer. I looked at the pediatrician handling her care and said, "So do you think this is a surgical case?" He seemed almost shocked by the question. Of course not! This was such a small fracture, her vitals were great - it would be very surprising if she went into surgery. And so I felt at ease for the first time since I saw it.

But still - I saw it.
I saw the accident and I keep seeing it every time I close my eyes to sleep.

Now that take-care-of-everything-so-her-child-survives-Mom is retired, the scared and traumatized part of me begins to awaken. I wish I could un-see it. But I saw her careening down the hill in the cemetery. I saw her face so full of glee as I chased after her runaway disc sled, desperate to stop it. She was laughing, blissfully unaware of how dangerously fast she was going - completely incapable of shifting her weight in such a way that would steer her safely through the curve. She went faster and faster down that hill as I screamed for her to hold on because my brain couldn't think of a way to yell for her to bail out - not a way that would have made any difference to her. And when she spun around, she faced me as the back of her head slammed into the stone outcropping of a platform - part of a grave marker, I think. One minute she was moving so fast, so fast down that hill. And suddenly all the force stopped for a split second as her body was folded forward by the impact and she flew a yard to the right. I saw her tiny, limp body fly through the air at a sickening angle before landing face first in the snow.

In that moment my entire being was filled with dread - horror landed in my stomach and stopped my world from turning, though my feet were still hurtling me toward her. She's gone. In a flash. She can't have survived that. I saw it with my own eyes and now my daughter is gone.

She wasn't moving. Joe and I got to her at the same time - he from the bottom of the hill and I from the top. It was only seconds after impact, but still, she hadn't moved. We rolled her over and saw her eyes, already open, staring blankly at the sky. We called her name, asked if she could hear us. She started to blink and cry. In that moment, when I saw that she was conscious, that she had movement and vocabulary, the most terrified parts of me went deep inside and the logical parts took over. Get her inside. Remove her hood and hat, register surprise to see so little blood. Insist that we go to a medical facility immediately. She needs a CT, she needs a CT. I told the doctor at the urgent care that the accident I witnessed was severe. Even though she wasn't vomiting and had even pupils, I insisted that the speed she was traveling and the fact that she took the force of impact solely on her head warranted a CT scan. He agreed and informed me that unfortunately, they couldn't do the scan at that facility. Thus began our travels to Cayuga Medical Center for the necessary image and then on to Upstate Hospital in Syracuse for further treatment.

And now, we....what?
Relax isn't quite the right word.
Celebrate doesn't match my mood.

Cry.

I cry with relief that my baby is OK. I feel gratitude that all she needed was one staple and 24 hours of observation before being released. I cry because my hands still shake and I continue to play that video of her in the moment of impact. I cry because she's going to be well, and I cry because she hurt. She's small and innocent and vulnerable and I cry that I didn't protect her from this.

Then maybe I'll sleep. Some more rocking, some more crying - and maybe sleep will come.

Beautiful Heart

In the days following Mom's death, grief was a physical presence. It stuck in my bones, made my head foggy and clouded my eyes. Then planted itself firmly in the center of my chest. A sorrow so immense flooded my heart that I wasn't sure I would survive it. I still remember the searing pain and the ache of a stretch I thought I could not bear.

Over time the waves of grief have subsided and sadness trickles out bit by bit. My heart is now soft; broken-in and aged by this process. This once new and tidy heart is replaced with a bigger, doughier version. The stretching that was so very painful has given me a heart with more room. More room for sadness, yes. Also more room for joy. As anguish recedes, beauty can now seep in. And the chambers of my broken-in heart can hold more of everything than they could before. There is room for the painful memories. And there is room for so much more love than I ever imagined.

I love more, because I have lost.

I laugh more, because I have cried.

I notice more, because of my pain.

I feel a profound joy, as intense as my grief.

I think this is what it means to have a broken heart. A broken-in heart. One more capable of love than it was before. One that is big enough to receive all the joy and pain there is in life. One that has learned how to mourn and thus learned how to live.

When Christ said that we must have a broken heart and a contrite spirit, perhaps He was telling us of the process we would all undergo to have our hearts broken-in. Only then could they be big enough to receive all that life has to fill them with.

After so many tears, so much pain, so much stretching - I feel myself ready to receive. May my broken-in heart hold an abundance of beautiful things and may it always be a soft place for others to land. Amen.

On Your Half Birthday

Oh Wren-bug, what a force of nature you are! I can't believe how quickly you are growing and so I tried to get some photos of you to commemorate this milestone. But, aside from a single photo included in this post, you refused to be distracted from you work. Couldn't bother to look up at me at all. It is so typical of you to be completely engrossed in your work and absolutely determined.

Sometimes I feel like I have two different daughters who both answer to the name Wren. I like to think of you as Stinker Wren and Sweetheart Wren. So here is a little update of both of those girls.

Stinker Wren:
- gives everyone a crazy glare from under furrowed brows
- continues to eat a vast array of non-edible items
- beats up on Ellie all the time. Seriously, that girl is kind of scared of you.
- refuses to eat vegetables except for very special ocassions
- watercolors inside her mouth
- has a determination that will not be swayed. (eventually this will be a great asset, but since you are a toddler, it's going on the stinker list)
- sits by the door and cries hysterically after Dad leaves the house (see above trait)
- has pooped on me more than I ever imagined a child would
- insists on doing everything herself and throws a massive fit every time I change a diaper or buckle a seat or fasten a shoe. EVERY TIME.
- walks around like she owns the place with a big gut in the front and arms swinging side to side
- spends a lot of time in time-out. It's becoming quite the game of cause and effect.

Sweetheart Wren:
- gives the most amazing kisses. Multiple kisses, without being asked - it's a heart melter.
- talks up a storm with adorable phrases like, "Oh, my" and "I want stah-bellie!" (strawberry)
- pretends to be a dog by crawling on the ground, barking and panting
- still wraps her tiny arms around our necks and legs to give big hugs
- is smart as a whip and tries her best to keep up with Ellie
- waves goodbye when we say goodnight and smacks her lips for one more kiss
- sings softly to herself in the backseat
- pushes her face right against mine and giggles from the gut
- loves to tickle people and brush hair
- squeals for Dada when he gets home - makes him feel like a total rockstar
- signs "again" every time she likes something. How could I not accommodate?

Remember how you stood alone on that beach forever while we all called your name?

Absolutely refusing to come until you were good and ready - that's the stinker I love.

Dearest Wren, on your half birthday I hope you know that I love you with my whole heart. You fill our lives with joy and adventure and more laughter and head shaking than we ever anticipated. Stay the course my little firecracker - it is a thrill to watch you grow. Big smooches forever!

Where I've Been

The short answer: psychotherapy.

The slightly wordier answer: I've just been trying to live my life. To really be present. After I wrote that post on the anniversary of Mom's passing, I just wasn't really sure what to do with this blog anymore. Do I want it to be about my adorable daughters and all the wonderful ways we spend our time? Do I want this to be a place where I can write down my thoughts and process emotions? What about sharing recipes or bragging about my DIY accomplishments? Yikes - do I consider sharing thoughts about spirituality and the route my inner life is taking?

See, I keep things pretty compartmentalized in my mind and I was starting to go crazy trying to figure out what needed to go where all the time. So I just took a break from blogging. I took a break from Facebook (which is ongoing and I love it, except that I never know about babies or birthdays, but that's really all I miss), and I tried to just live for a while. What would it be like to live life without sharing it online?

I started writing longhand everyday and found it difficult and refreshing.

I worked through The Artist's Way program and it is seriously life changing.

I gave myself more time to fiddle around with stuff. Watercolor here, birdwatching there, walks in the woods just for fun.

It's been great. And I didn't let myself feel any guilt about this blog. I know, I know, it takes a special kind of person to feel guilt and pressure over a blog which they have created and which has no monetary value or deadline or anything. I am that special person - able to feel guilty about just about anything. Like I was saying, I didn't let myself feel any guilt about blogging. I waited until I really wanted to share things again. And now it's happened. I think I have things to share. I think I'm learning better how to give myself a break and really love this life I'm living. And I miss writing here, so I'm back.

Here's to less compartmentalizing. If I want to write about suicide and depression and other mental health issues, I will. If I want to just share photos of my adorable daughters and say nothing about heavy topics, I will. If I want to show you guys how amazing I am getting at embroidery and tell you about my latest bird sightings or just dump things out of my head so my thoughts will be quiet, I'll do that too.

This blog is a record of my life. And life can be messy and unorganized. I'm trying to be OK with that. Here's to the freedom to write (or not to write) and the joy that can be found when we just slow down enough to be.

I love these photos of the girls getting in touch with nature during our family reunion in Oklahoma.

They are such good role models for me.

Still here....feeling it out.

I've been meaning to post here for weeks now. An explanation for my drop off from this blog, a couple essays I've written that I think aren't half bad, a shout out just to say, "Hey, we're in Seattle this summer!" But after a full day of being a totally rad parent - I am just spent. Every. Night.

Seriously, have you ever tried to be a great parent all day long? It really takes it out of you. Personally, I don't have energy for anything other than watching Netflix and staring blankly around the room.

For family night we read articles from The Friend magazine while driving to Green Lake Park. I took some photos and decided to just dump them here because they make me happy. Hope you enjoy. I'm off to collapse into bed. Gotta keep my strength up for the kick-ass job I plan on doing tomorrow.

My girls and their pageant waves.

These two have been especially adorable lately.

I love my family. The end.

Her Suitcase (written yesterday)

Me and my siblings sorting through Mom's things before the funeral

None of this makes sense...trying to rescue her from among the filth. Her helmet, her make up, her sobriety chip, her grocery list. None of the clothes smell like her. Everything worth saving fits in one carry-on suitcase. Is this all that's left of her life?

 - from my journal after collecting her belongings-

And so it happened that everything in that suitcase became a representation of her. A symbol of my loss. A reminder of her suicide. For the last year I let a simple piece of luggage become a tomb of sorts. Stuffed full of anything I had thought to grab from her hotel room that night, it was a chaotic jumble of painful memories that haunted my closet.

Like my thoughts and feelings, her suitcase is more organized than it was last year. I can go through it without falling into the darkest of pits - though many things do still bring me to tears.

Today, on the anniversary of her passing, I looked through those few belongings again and had a number of different reactions:

I felt grateful to her for writing my birth story.

I felt angry as I witnessed her last writings disentigrate into meaningless babble. So angry that mental illness took her from me.

I felt incredibly sad to read the list of things she wanted for her life - an ambitious list written just weeks before her death.

I felt loved and absolutely torn apart to read the wishes my 16 year old mother wrote for my own life. She wished for me a life of love and abundance. She said that she enjoyed carrying me for nine months and that she would enjoy loving me for the rest of my life.

Those words stuck in my gut today.

Today I decided to move my baby book from her suitcase into my own hope chest. Decided to work some of the clothing items she had purchased for the girls into their rotation. Decided to throw away some of her well meaning gifts that I knew we would never use. I snuggled her girlhood bunny and listened to her voice in a book she recorded for Eleanor.

Today I hugged a suitcase and wailed against the heavens that there wasn't more of her left for me.

Today I stood up to that shrine and began to take it apart.

Just like this grief, her life, and her death - I'm learning to unpack it a bit at a time. I'm learning how to work pieces of it into my life instead of keeping it sealed in the closet forever.

Today I am grateful that I don't hate that suitcase as fiercely as I did one year ago.
I'm grateful to feel my heart healing, in the tiniest and most significant ways.
And that's what I thought about today.

Thinking Back

Tonight I am remembering where I was a year ago.

(And the thoughts are not easily expressed, but here they are anyway)

Ft. Tryon was awakening to spring with cheerful daffodils and the tiniest buds on the trees. Ellie collected eggs in my purse and greeted the Easter Bunny with gusto. I held our new daughter on my chest while our slightly older one hid under the table and opened her eggs in secret, eager for the candy inside. We were on an outing as a family of four - celebrating with friends and neighbors the newness of spring and the upcoming Easter holiday. Feeling good just to be together.

I look at the girl in these photos - a mother of two, yes, but still just a girl of 25. I see her and think, "She was so happy. And tired. And blissfully unaware of what was about to happen."  

Is that why it happened? Because I let my guard down? Because I was enjoying my life? Should I have known that innocence like that can never last?

Of course not. But those are the questions I have when I see these photos.

Worn out from my newborn baby, I hadn't yet known the exhaustion of grief.

Still changing and adjusting to our new life, about to be knocked to the ground with the hardest news.

I've looked at these pictures a lot in the last year. There I was, the day before my world came crashing down.

 Those beautiful cheeks, that cheesy grin - the moment I took this photograph I thought of my mom, knew how much she would love it when I sent it to her.

My heart was so full on this day. And the next day it was broken. These photos still leave me with a strange mix of emotions: A longing for the days before pain was visible in my eyes, sadness for the girl who doesn't know what is to come, anger for the babes that would witness their mother's consuming grief. There is also a sense of wisdom and peace. A feeling that I am so far removed from the girl in these photos. So changed. And that isn't such a bad thing. Growth means change.

Tomorrow marks a year since Mom died.

I've had a year to live this new version of my life. I've had one year to think about the effects that her life and death have had on me. At this point in the journey I think I will pause and try to write a bit about what it all has meant to me thus far. Not to memorialize her, per se, but to check in with where I am. To write a bit about the things I've been avoiding writing about for the last months. To try to organize some of my thoughts - while understanding that none of them are finished. The emotions are still shifting and probably always will.

One year is not the end of my journey, but it does seem a good time to look back and reflect.