Old problems in the new year

Wherever you go, there you are. 

This is not just geographical. It applies to time, too. You are never going to escape your problems. Some problems can be solved, some can be celebrated, some can just be carried with you. But none are going to magically go away. Yes, we'd all love to have an easier year with more of the good times and less of the hard. Wishing will not make that happen. I daresay praying will not, either. So what are you going to do with the problems that all followed you into the new year? Can they be solved? Can you celebrate them? Or are you just going to have to carry them? For now I'll be the one you see with their arms full. 

I don't know what is going to happen this year. Neither do you. 

A Christmas Story

I have a friend who is all the best things: funny, kind, generous, smart. She has also led a medically complicated life. That's not the most important thing about her, but for this story it's a detail that I will include. 

My friend has sent me money for the last few years to do something for a charity for her. She gives me some parameters and I go to work doing whatever she said. This year she sent me $300. She told me to sponsor a foster child for Christmas with $100 and to do something amazing with the rest. The sponsoring a kid part was easy. I tried to figure out what to do with the rest with my friend in mind. What is the beat of her heart?

I spent $50 on socks for homeless people, donated to a church that I know is dear to her that does monthly brown bags of food and supplies for homeless folks. Great. Perfect. I still had $150 left. I tried to figure out what group of people is overlooked and could use a little extra. The answer to that is young adults who have aged out of foster care. The outcome for these young people is not great. The cards are stacked against them and they have no resources. So I decided to do food baskets for local emancipated youth to help stretch their food stamps and budget this month. A friend helped me organize a food collection. My plan was to use the $150 to finish up the 20 baskets the Independent Living Supervisor told me they'd need. Except the response to the food collection was absolutely outrageous. People signed up and gave tons of non-perishable foods. The baskets were breaking they were so stuffed. And I hadn't spent a penny of my friend's money. Amazing. 

I still had $150 left and Christmas was days away. A child in foster care had their Christmas wish granted, 50 homeless (more like houseless) people would have fresh, clean, dry socks, and 20 young adults had baskets of food. I can't tell you that I prayed about the rest of the money because I'm not doing much praying these days. But I know a mom of a medically complicated young adult who has had a rough go of things over the last few years. She's weathered all of the bumps and curveballs, most of which she never ever expected. And it seemed like just the right thing to give the rest to her to let her know that she and her family have not been forgotten. So I did. 

And that is a Christmas story that happened this Christmas season. Because a funny, kind, generous, smart friend of mine told me to "do something amazing" with some money. I didn't really do a whole lot, except for having big feelings about it all. But amazing things happened. 

Thank you to my friend for giving me the opportunity to see the goodness in others, and thank you to friends that helped make all those things happen. 

Christmas

Not surprisingly this is the most rotten Christmas of my life. My most fervent wish was to not be home for Christmas, but between jerry getting sick and my grandmother passing away suddenly two days ago, we cancelled our Christmas avoidance trip. So I got wake up in my own house, in my own bed, without my little man. We haven't opened presents or even eaten. You can only watch so many episodes of downton abbey in a row before you get a headache. For me it was seven. 

I went to my favorite Christmas Eve service yesterday, put on by three churches, in a parking lot downtown. One church is Lutheran. One church is non-denominational. And one church is sponsored by the Episcopal diocese, but made up of homeless folks who meet for worship and fellowship as often as any other faith community. So the Christmas Eve service in a parking lot is fairly barebones and a hodgepodge mix of people. To me it's much more representative of the body of Christ than any one church I've been to. 

I was challenged by a story the pastor told about the worst Christmas ever. The worst Christmas ever was when nothing looked like it should- the decorations, the presents, the people. But that worst Christmas ended up being the most like the very first Christmas. Fear, humiliation, exhaustion, pain. 

********

This is my worst Christmas. Every single moment is excruciating. Also, some good things have happened. I have received some incredibly thoughtful gifts that have also made the world a better place for someone. A friend made a donation in Eli's honor to provide medical help for mothers and babies in developing countries. This is especially dear to me because so many times I thought to myself and said that the only reason Eli made it into the world and then through babyhood was due to modern medical advancements. Had we lived somewhere with no resources he would have probably died during birth. If not then, then as a baby. I am so thankful I got to have him long enough to get to know him. 

Eli's aunt and uncle made a donation to Samaritan's Purse to provide sports balls and equipment to a school in a developing area. It makes me so happy that there are some kids who get to run and play the way Eli always loved to. 

My parents made a donation to World Vision to provide soccer balls and to give a family three ducks for eggs to eat and sell. Eli loved the soccer league he did. He loved going to feed the ducks. These were things he did with pure joy. They are now painful, but precious memories.

I'm so glad the love we have for Eli is fueling joy and hope for other people around the world. 

Today is still completely rotten. My sentiments can be summed up with eff you. I pretty much hate everyone and everything. And also I'm thankful Eli's love continues to go on and is changing the world little by little. 

Reality of suffering

Eventually someone you absolutely cannot live without will die. And you will keep living. We like to banish the thought from our minds because it is so terrifying. When we see someone suffer the loss of one they cannot live without we say to each other, "I can't imagine!" and "It's so awful, I can't even think about it." And yet it will happen. You will not have to imagine it. You will not have a choice to banish the thought from your head because it will be constant. It will be your life. The knowledge that your person is gone will not leave your mind. I don't forget Eli is dead because there is not a single moment I am not thinking about him. No matter what I'm doing- watching a movie, trying to read, walking the dog, running errands, having a conversation- it is always in addition to thinking about Eli. 

I read something recently, intended for bereaved parents, that said, "We are not here to suffer." As in we are not on earth to suffer. I've been thinking a lot about that. Because I do kind of think we are here to suffer. Suffering is a constant in the lives of humans. Some of it is obviously brought on by our fellow man. Some of it is less clear as to its source. But it is suffering all the same. If you don't have much suffering in your life, congratulations, you win the modern civilization lottery. But just keep living and suffering will come, I promise. 

I was recently accused by someone I'm very close to of "trying to save the world". We were cross with each other so my immediate response was along the lines of, "Somebody has to, we're surrounded by assholes." Not my best moment. But I knew then and I know now I'm not trying to save the world. Some suffering can be put off, but none of it is altogether avoidable. No one can be saved from it. Loving people in their struggles and suffering is maybe the best we can do. We're going to suffer. We're going to face things we think we can't survive. What helps is a hand reaching out to hold onto when you can't see through. It doesn't fix anything, it doesn't make anything better, it just reminds you you're not alone, that someone cares. 

Don't be so afraid of suffering that you can't reach your hand out to someone who needs it. 

I was the one

I was the first one to know he was coming, the first to see the test result, "pregnant", the first to feel the ice of fear shoot down my spine. I was the one who felt his gymnastics and his hiccups as he grew and played in my belly. I was the one who labored with him for 17 hours and pushed him, launched him, like a man out of a cannon, from my body. I was the one who fed him, in seemingly a million different ways, just to get something, anything into his tiny tummy. I was the one who cried when he cried and laughed when he laughed. I was the one who gently covered his little bottom in balm when he had a rash. I was the one who sang songs, who paced and bounced for hours, to try to calm his discomfort. I was the one who made food from scratch and calculated calories and fat of every single bite, trying to get just a little more in him. I was the one who got up every night, over and over, to feed him and comfort him. I was the one who bathed him, washed his hair, kissed his feet, and made raspberries with him. I was the one he feel asleep on in the grocery store, strapped to my chest. I was the one who cheered endlessly at his every attempt to take a step and another step, as though he was discovering a new scientific element. I was the one who took his temperature, even though I already knew he had a fever. I was the one who begged him to just watch TV for 10 minutes so I could shower or eat or think. I was the one who drove him to swimming lessons every day for 8 weeks so he wouldn't drown. I was the one who read him bedtime stories. I was the one who planned his birthday parties. I was the one who took pictures endlessly (though now I would say not nearly enough).
I was the one who held him in the ER. I was the one who slept in the hospital bed with him. I was the one who took him to clinic appointments and at home cared for the line they put in his arm. I was the one who gave his medical history over and over and over and over and over again. I was the one who told him what would happen at the next procedure. I was the one who watched his spirit crumble when he realized he wasn't strong enough to run and play with his brother anymore. I was the one who told him the doctors were going to take his teeth out. I was the one who planned the tooth fairy party for after the surgery. I was the one who saw his tears for the frustration they were when he couldn't say words correctly without teeth. I was the one who cried and screamed in my car until my voice was hoarse, so he wouldn't have to know how angry and scared I was. I was the one who held his hand, who hid under the covers with him so we didn't have to see our reality. I was the one who lost my mind at doctors and nurses and policies that weren't helping him. I was the one who told him how much I loved him and how happy he made me. I was the one who told him he won the battle, but his body was tired and needed to rest. I was the one who kissed him and wiped his tears. So I was the one who laid next to him when his heart slowed to a stop.

Sucker punch

Today I'm angry. I like to think I'm angry at dumb people, but I'm not. I'm angry at grief. 

The last few weeks had been a tiny bit better. Not better, really. But I was more functional. Not spending as much time in bed, unable to get up and do the things that needed doing. It didn't feel particularly good or enjoyable or even like hope, but it was some minuscule movement in that direction. 

Connor died this week. Much the same way Eli did. And that deep grief that I had been given a small reprieve of came back to sucker punch me and hold me under. I sort of saw it coming and that didn't even help. 

I try to under commit to things. Expectations are the kryptonite of the grieving. But life has just happened this week and I have failed at all of it. I haven't been accountable in my parenting at all. I have just plain not showed up for several things. I have summoned the energy for things that it turns out I had wrong on my calendar. All this failing is pissing me off. 

I was talking with a fellow grief friend today. We were talking about this notion that "it's never too late to start over". I would like to start this day, this week, over. But grief has me so far down I can't even reach the surface to try once, much less again. My friend wisely shared that the whole "starting over" thing doesn't apply to death or grief. You just do what you can do. That's it. 

She's right. I just wish I could feel more like a person right now.