Songs about Rainbows

A family I know is getting their rainbow baby.  I'm delighted for them.  They lost their three-year-year old in a tragic horse riding accident close to a year ago.  They're watching the date of her angelversary coming on with dread.  I hope and pray this knowledge that their rainbow baby is coming soon will help them find peace as that nightmarish day looms. 

However, I know from experience that the fear will sit beneath the surface, like a storm stirring in what seems like a gentle sea.  They've also had at least one miscarriage.  Fears of a repeat have to weigh on them as they always did on me. 

If anyone deserves the joy of a rainbow baby, it's this family that has been through so much heartache.  There was a time I would have felt jealousy over this because they are getting their rainbow, but I never did.  A rainbow baby is said to fill the big, gaping hole of loss.  That rainbow baby will never replace the lost baby, but there is healing in holding one child after another is lost. 

Or, so I hear.  I didn't really get the chance to figure that out for myself.  Alli came after my first miscarriage, so she was technically a rainbow.  But we felt strongly that she was the one we lost in the miscarriage, that she tried to come, and this was the same baby actually making it into our arms.  It's hard to quite call her a rainbow when they were both she, coming twice and leaving twice. 

I'm past envying other people's rainbows.  I've found peace in the two I can still hold, in knowing I will hold Alli and all the other angels I've lost (15? 16? 17?  I've lost count).  I'm past yearning for diapers, past feeling the pain every time I see a pregnant woman or a baby.  I'm truly happy for this family that finally has something to celebrate.  I will be praying along with them that this baby comes and stays.  It's a beautiful thing to know you have angels who love you on the other side.  However, nothing can quite replace the warm weight of a sweet baby in your arms.  In the meantime, for me, I'll look forward to the day I can hold mine again. 

Bouncing Back

Last time, I blogged about my dad.  It turns out it was probably just a seizure, and he's coming back to himself.  But he's lost enough functionality that he needs to be in a facility to help him work through walking and talking issues he still has.  His children flocked around him when we thought he was going.  And he probably registered little to none of it.  It makes me feel bad that we're not there for him now he's conscious enough to be bored and lonely.  Mom goes to the facility almost every day, but the rest of us are so busy that we don't make it to see him.  

I think that's often how it goes.  When one seems to be at death's door, everyone is there.  During recovery, people get too busy.  We are making plans to go and visit him soon, but it is harder to rearrange life when my days are far more full than they were when this started.  I was able to drop everything and run.  Now, not so much.  

It's the same story I've heard again and again.  Death or near-death comes, and everyone flocks around.  Time passes, and they stop coming.  It's not that people are intentionally skipping out to let one or a few left to pick up the pieces.  It's just that after the storm, things seem quiet.  Life goes back to normal...except for those left picking up the pieces.  I'd like to do more, to not be one of those that disappear.  I'm on my phone almost every day, supporting my mom through this, far more than I used to be.  But I'm trying to find a way to do more.  

When Elderly Parents Fade

(My family when we were young)

I've been blogging about child loss.  This week's focus will be on a different kind of loss.  A few years ago, my vibrant, hard-working father started to fade.  The doctor diagnosed him with senility.  He could no longer work as he had.  He couldn't drive as he always had.  He couldn't learn or remember.  As he walked away from his last job and mourned the loss of his license, he still tried to function and did a pretty good job.  But as the years passed, he became less and less eager to get out and about.  He'd go to movies then return to his bed, his TV, and his beloved little Pom-poo (Pomeranian poodle) we brought him and that he loved with all of his heart. 

(At the Bear Lake Beach, camping with Mom, Dad, our Pomeranian, and Dad's dog.)

A couple of years ago, we knew he was fading and took him and my mom to southern Utah, where they both wanted to go to see Zion's and Bryce.  We've taken him on a few little adventures over the years because we knew he had a traveling bone.  Over the last year, he's increasingly faded to the point that his only opportunity to see the light of day was periodic trips to the movies and walks with his dog.  On July Fourth, most of my full siblings and I got together with Mom and Dad for a barbecue.  My unstable-footed father rolled down the last two steps and broke his foot in two places.  He got out even less, mostly staying in bed. 

(Flying away for vacation)

All of his life, he longed to see Disneyland, but they never could afford it when he was young, and then through his first wife plus four kids, his brief second marriage, and his marriage with seven kids to my mom, he never could afford it.  So we, two of his daughters and our families and one of his sons and his family, took him to California.  We helped my elderly parents pay for Disneyland and their hotel.  We surrounded him with love as we celebrated his life and 78th birthday to come, doing just what he wanted to do. 

(Dad enjoying Disney with us.)

He only did California Adventure, Disneyland, a beach, and church while there, spending the rest of the time in bed.  He fell on the slick floors of the hotel a couple of times.  But he came back okay.  We got him home.  He and Mom drove up to my brother's house to pick up his beloved Pom-poo.  Mom went out for a few minutes, then she came back in to find him speaking incomprehensibly, in a way that seemed to indicate he'd just had a stroke. 

Over the last several days, he's been tested and prodded as all family that could rushed to visit, including three kids and some grandkids from his previous marriage.  We have started to pull together to support him.  It turns out it wasn't a stroke but possibly a seizure, though we're still not sure. 

(My Dad over the years)

All I know is the dad I've built a fairly close relationship over the years, the dad that went from a distant, angry tyrant, to a soft, sweet grandpa to my kids, the dad with whom I joked and played pinochle with, the dad that could be hard and sweet by turns, has become like a small child, frustrated in this shell, which is all that is left of his body.  He can't move much but still struggles to get around when the hospital staff won't let him because he could cause more damage.  He is used to being able to get out and do when he wants, even though he mostly doesn't want anymore. And now, no one can understand much of what he says.  He's stuck in a place where strange faces drift in and out of his consciousness, some of which he feels like he should remember.  He's become helpless, like a small baby, but with memories of being so much more.  It hurts to see him like this, but I'm thankful he's not gone entirely.  Not yet, but who knows what tomorrow or next month or next year will bring?  Meanwhile, my mother is left alone, trying to support him and deal with an empty house.  I'm thankful we could be there for them, but it's hard not to be able to do more. 

I miss him.  I miss my daddy and wish I'd hugged him a little more, talked to him a little more often, just given him more of myself.  I know when he leaves here, he'll go see my brother, who he loved fiercely and who died the month before Alli did.  I know his mother and several other family members are waiting to embrace his return.  But in the meantime, we'll do the best we can for him.  I just wish we could do more. 

Another Vacation without Her

It can be painful to go on a vacation, knowing at least one of your family members isn't there.  Now, I think she joins us when we go.  But it's just not the same thing when you can't hold that other family member, when you can't turn to them and point to something exciting.  I often wonder what she would be like, how she would respond.  I feel that hole in my family most keenly when I leave home. 

I miss her so much on these trips.  I'm looking forward to leaving for a while, to escape.  But I wish she could be nearby, taking it all in as well.  It just feels like all the colors are off without her.  Nothing feels right. 

Like I said, I can pray to invite her.  I truly think she will enjoy being with us when we go.  I just wish she could be visible.  One day. 

The Stork's Impending Visit (not to me)

My great niece is going to be born any day now.  On one hand, I celebrate inside because it means I get to hold a baby in pink and play with baby toes.  On the other hand, I will be praying inside, nervous the whole time leading to the birth, the time of birth, and even after baby is here.  Most people sigh with relief when a baby is here safely.  Having lost a babies in and out of the womb, I know babies are fragile in all their stages.  I'd be paralyzed with fear if it were my own baby.  Even watching my nephew and his wife, with whom I have been close for several years, bringing a baby to this earth scares me.

Babies are just scary to me for their sake.  They're scary for me for my sake, too, because I have lost too many times before.  I can't help it.  Babies equal loss to me.  I know most babies live.  This little princess will probably outlive me by many years. But just thinking about a baby makes me cry.  There was a time I envied women who called themselves "expecting" because they were pregnant.  It's been years since I've expected anything but loss, even when I was pregnant.  There was also a time I envied those with babies.  Now, I realize I don't envy any of it because babies mean fear to me.  I'm much more at peace letting other people deal with the stress.  I'll be grateful for my older kids and the chance to hold other people's babies. 

Ongoing Damage part 2

Over a year ago, my preteen girl was diagnosed with mono or a malady very like it.  It was almost impossible to wake her for school.  I had to dress her like a doll and still often couldn't wake her afterward.  Every day felt like the improv game of dead bodies where I had to manipulate a floppy person who was almost as tall as I am.  I finally just let the school know she was not coming or coming late every morning we couldn't wake her.  Summer couldn't come soon enough.  Over the summer, she got better but not all the way.  She showed every sign of chronic fatigue. 

Recently, I called the doctor's office to get some ideas of how to help my girl through these symptoms, which still haven't faded entirely.  I figured she still had the mono, which I had heard could become chronic.  When I talked to the nurse and told her my perception of the situation, she suggested good vitamins and getting her walking in the sun for vitamin D.  But the doctor said these symptoms are psychosomatic, that they have their root in psychology.  He recommended we get a therapist and/or have her work through a kids' therapy workbook. There's no pill to fix her.  There's no easy fix.  And it all started with the early trauma and tragedy of losing her sister on which the trauma of a bully, of a teacher that created an emotionally damaging environment, and other life events have only built to change her from an extreme extrovert who trusted the world to an extreme introvert drained by too much "peopling." 

On one level, she's done a lot of healing since her traumas.  She's gained a lot of confidence and self-assurance in her gifts and abilities.  On the other hand, it's hard to know how far she has to go and what being healed looks like.  All I can do is be there for her, give her those workbooks the doctor recommends since she has no interest in therapists, and help her turn toward God for the healing the atonement offers. 

Mixed Bag

                                              (A photo from Craters of the Moon last year.)

Last time, I wrote that we planned to go to a bed and breakfast to avoid being home and just feeling the pain of Alli's angelversary.  Last year, going to Craters of the Moon offered the perfect balance of get-out-of-the-house-with-the-family-and-stay-busy and time to mourn.  We ended the day looking through her baby book.  It was perfect. 

This year's trip to a lovely bed and breakfast was nice.  What with life happening, we didn't get there until late, and my acid reflux had me throwing up everything I tried to eat, my chest burning until I did.  But waking in an old farmhouse to crepes was lovely, especially when the turkey and ducks serenaded us, the cat and dog came for a visit, and the owner made us fabulous fruit crepes and orange juice.  I highly recommend the Woodland Farmhouse Inn in Kamas if someone is in that neck of the woods. 

Sadly, the experience of eating anything was marred by my acid reflux bout.  And we only made it one mile of the mile-and-a-half, steep Timpanogas hike before my acid reflux and my girl's budding heat stroke forced us to turn back.  We were so busy rushing there, rushing up the hill, and rushing to meet my nephews and niece for dessert, and taking care to eat non-greasy foods to even spare a thought for the meaning of the day, for mourning.  It was great to see family members I don't get to see often, however.  We collapsed in bed that night only to wake up to utter exhaustion and grief to double up and strike us hard the next day.  We got little done because we were still reeling from a less-than relaxing and fulfilling trip. 

I can't say I regret the trip.  But I can say I think we'll need to plan a bit better next year.  It's nice to escape, but one can't escape entirely from the grief monster.  If you hold it off, it will get you in the end.  Escape if you can, but plan time to mourn.