Some Thoughts

My mood's been heavier the past few days. Does this ever happen to you?

It started as I read "Comfort" by Ann Hood. It was all I could do to make it through this memoir about a mother whose six year old daughter, Grace, died suddenly from a virulent form of strep. There were several moments when I wanted to quit the book entirely; it was just too disturbing and hit a bit too close to home. After all, I have a daughter, Emma Grace, who is seven. In the book, Grace had an older brother, Sam. My Emma also has an older brother, Sam. And the parallels didn't stop there.


When hearing about this kind of tragedy, it is human nature to separate oneself from those experiencing the tragedy by playing out all the ways that it could not be you; could not be your child. In this case, I could not do that. There was no earthly reason for this little girl to die. She did not die from some obscure disease in some far away country. Nor did she die from the neglect of her parents. The fact is, that could be my daughter. Any of our daughters.


And I kept reading...when I would read this book at night, I would have to go lay with Emma for awhile, just to assure myself that she was safe in her bed, and breathing.

And I kept reading. It was compelling. And I knew there would be something to get out of it.

And I kept reading and through my own tears realized that what I could get out of it was seeing my own children through different eyes and relating to them in different ways. I remember one quote of the book that I kept re-reading. I don't still have the book for the exact quote, but the gist of it was that the afternoon of the night that Grace died, her mother was carrying her and smelling her hair. She did not know that would be the last time she ever did that. And it was. And I learned that every chance to listen to, smell, watch, or engage with my kids or my husband or my mom or my dad or my best friend might be it. We all know this to be true, intellectually, but living it moment to moment is an entirely different way of living and of seeing the world.

After reading "Comfort," it wasn't long before Tim Russert died suddenly. His story was so haunting because, again, it could be any of us. If this family-oriented man who had money, success and the best doctors could drop dead, so could I. Or my dad. Or anyone.

This week, I learned that the 13 year old sister of a friend of Sam's had been diagnosed with cancer. One day she was playing in a soccer tournament and had back pain. Within the next week she was hospitalized with a rare form of cancer and had 13 months of chemo ahead of her.

There are a million of these stories going on at any time. I know that. Mostly I exist knowing the reality of suffering and death, but not carrying it around with me like a companion. Like all of us, I move in and out of the denial surrounding death. When I am particularly death and suffering-conscious, I always come back to the same places of comfort and realization:

1. This moment is all there is. Truly. Notice, accept, appreciate.
2. I will be okay if tragedy strikes. I have the strength and the support.
3. Amazing growth comes from suffering.

This week I have an ultra sound on my liver because I have high bilirubin levels. I am sure this is contributing to a feeling of things being out of control. I do better when I accept that life is uncertain and that suffering is an inevitability. The resistance and need to control all aspects of one's life is often what causes so much heartache and stress. It is amazing what happens to you internally when you surrender to the moment and to your current circumstances.

Sorry for the heaviness. I guess a blog reflects the many different moods and places you find yourself in on a daily basis. So this has been today's mood. Tomorrow might be farts.

Ghosts

Look how Photo Booth turned my kids into ghostly creatures. Freaky, to say the least.