Selective Memory

I'm starting to find that my memories of Vincent are increasingly divided into three categories: things I remember and recall on a daily basis, things I have already forgotten, and things I remember (and don't want to forget) yet the recalling process is painful because of the very nature of the memories.

Nine months ago this week, Vincent died.  His last few days, weeks even, are burned into my mind, easy to visualize, precious, yet painful.  I don't enjoy recalling these memories very often, I have a file of pictures on my desktop entitled "pictures to never look at" and yet sometimes I wake up in the morning and throughout the day have mini flash-backs of those very moments.

Last time to play outside

Those are also the days I cry constantly and stay in bed.  Don't get me wrong, I never want to forget any of these memories.  But recalling them regularly is painful, costly, exhausting.

Then there are things I can recall easily on a daily basis:  Vincent nursing, playing and taking baths with his brother, going to the park, watching Sesame Street, everyone eating dinner and going to the beach.

First year photo shoot by Luminosity

Sprinkled in here are memories of diagnosis, hospital stays, medical complications.  (Like that d*&% feeding pump!!)  Most of the time I can remember these easily and bring them to mind without great pain, without that sinking, suffocating feeling of overwhelming grief.

And then there are things I have simply forgotten, memories that are lost somewhere in my mind due to exhaustion, inattentiveness.  For years now I've read blogs written by moms of multiple kids, and somehow they seem to manage their farming, crafting, nursing, and mothering pretty well.  I, however, was one of those moms that felt very overwhelmed with having two children under the age of two.  Both children were in diapers, needed more attention than I could give and had difficulty eating (Vincent had GERD).  My husband was gone 3-4 nights out of the week attending grad school, and I was working as well, largely from home.  It wasn't until Vincent turned one year old that I felt I really had a handle on it, raising these two kids, crafting, cooking dinners, cleaning the house, and staying on top of work.  Vincent's first year was a blur for me of busyness, exhaustion, and overwhelming stress.

And then he was diagnosed with cancer, right after his first birthday.

There is so much I'd like to remember from that priceless year we all shared.  I'd love to be able to recall just one week of how we spent our time, loved each other, how we made it to the end of the day in one piece.  I'd love to remember that one Christmas together, that Easter season, any day trips we took.

There is so much I don't remember.

For now I'll keep recalling any memories I do have, painful or not, overwhelming or mundane.  I'll nurture them in my heart like my love for Vincent, ever flourishing.

Language, language

This morning Theo and I attended the tail end of a multi-family garage sale held at our old church.  Many of our friends were sellers there, and being generous people, tried to give us all their remaining merchandise.  I protested, repeatedly saying, "My husband will kill me if I bring home too much stuff."  Having just had a garage sale ourselves to slim down our belongings, I was hesitant to load up on more items we really don't need.

I didn't think anything of using this particular figure of speech until Theo pulled me aside and anxiously said, "Daddy would... kill you?"  Uh oh.  I guess I win the wonderful mom of the day award for thoroughly horrifying my 4 year old.  We had a short conversation on the use of language.

This episode got me examining the words I daily use, the figures of speech I employ. Theo really listens to what I and others have to say.  He asks me probing questions about conversations he's overheard between family members and friends.  He quotes me every day when he over-enthusiastically says--"That's a great idea!" (possibly my most over-used phrase EVER.)  Thankfully, as of yet he's not repeated the more unsavory words I sprinkle in from time to time.

I can no longer excuse my language with the "he can't understand what I'm saying" gambit I've used for years.  My little boy is growing up.  And I should too.

Thirty

Saturday Dan I arrived home from a short outing to be greeted by a houseful of friends yelling "Surprise!"  Together we shared a lovely afternoon noshing on food, catching up, and laughing.  I found it deeply meaningful that all in once place I could see friends from different areas of my life— individuals from various churches, our cancer connection group, family members.

at the party Saturday...Theo and I are so sweaty!  

Did I mention I'm turning 30 today?  Well, I am.  I am glad to embark on a new decade, but am also fully cognizant that I will not be sharing this one with Vincent.  I knew him, held him, kissed him and nursed him when I was my twenties.  Last year on my birthday Vincent and I were sharing a hospital bed and recording videos of us playing together. That will never happen in this decade—or this life, for that matter.

my 29th birthday with Vincent

Turning 30 feels bittersweet (at this moment, rather bitter) but Saturday while talking with friends, eating, drinking and opening presents, it was pretty sweet.  Thanks to all of you who sent messages, prayed for me, and/or e-mailed.  You rock! (Can I still say that now I've hit the semi-big 3-0?)

The Last Day

Today is our last day here in the Philippines. The last six weeks have been a fun ride, a great time of spending time with family, sightseeing, and stuffing ourselves silly with my mom's scrumptious food. We enjoyed seeing old friends both here and in Singapore, and Theo got to use his US passport for the first time.

Since this is not the first trip we've taken since Vinnie died, I'm somewhat more prepared for what it feels like to return home. It'll be great to be reunited with our wonderful family in Hawaii, but I know as well I'll be experiencing many mixed emotions once we arrive and get back to normal life.

My plan is to breathe deeply, take mini-time outs from whatever I'm doing to read, blog, bake, spend time on facebook, visit Vincent's grave.  I'm also attempting to daily practice centering prayer in the morning while Theo's at preschool.  We'll be OK.

Good Morning!

It's a beautiful day. I'm feeling one with God and the world.

Later this morning we are going to a spa.

Please don't hate me too much!

Two

Hi Vincent!  Today is your 2nd birthday.

I know you don't age in heaven the way we do here, but I do know that you still mature, that your mind and heart gradually fill and expand with knowledge and love.

As you continue to grow in heaven, know that our love for you here on earth keeps expanding and growing as well.

And tonight when we blow the candles out on your birthday cake, I'll be counting down another year until we can be together again.  Forever.

Mother's Day for the Not-OK

It's that time of year again.  Endless jewelry commercials on TV.  Flowers featured prominently in grocery stores. Greeting cards, teddy bears, and giant balloons all remind us that May is here.  Specifically, Mother's Day is upon us.

I did not want this day to come.

Not because I don't have a wonderful mom, (and mother-in-law!) which I do, but because two years ago I gave birth to a beautiful baby boy we named Vincent.  This year his birthday falls on a Tuesday.  But in 2009 he was born smack dab on Mother's Day, the best Mom's day gift I ever got.  And then lost.

Ever since Vincent was diagnosed with and then passed away from an extremely rare form of liver cancer, I have met many other families who have also lost children.  Cancer, car accidents, homicides, miscarriages, premature births and stillbirths - there are so many ways kids die.  And there are many bereaved parents out there, more than I ever deemed likely in our first-world country.  I found out that every year, between 80,000 and 100,000 children under 19 die in the U.S. (depending on the source).  That's a lot of bereaved parents, a lot of devastated moms.  I know one absolutely wonderful family that has lost three children, all shortly after birth.

Needless to say, Mother's Day is a difficult holiday for many women.  Some women have tried for years to have a baby, going through endless and expensive fertility treatments only to be continually disappointed.  Other families have faced tragic developments while attempting to adopt.  Still others have raised healthy children, only to see the relationship fracture over time.  I even have a few friends who for various painful reasons elected to have abortions early in their child-bearing years.

So as you celebrate Mother's Day this year, think about the friends you know who have experienced the loss of a child, the loss of fertility, the loss of an adoption.  If you know of a family in your church, workplace or community who has lost a child, please, let them know that you remember.  That you care.  Send them flowers or a card.  Write them a note or online message.  Whatever you do, don't tell them that their child is in a better place, or that it will all work out in the end.  Don't tell them to be happy.  Just let them know that you care, that you are honoring their child, that you remember what happened to their child.  Parents never forget.  So try to remember, for their sake.

And then they'll remember that you remembered.

Siblings

These past few weeks our three and a half year old, Theo, has been having a difficult time.  I might have mentioned recently how he talks about Vincent all throughout the day, how he wants to be in heaven too, and how he wants to see Vincent and play with him.  He's been very lonely.

Then he asks me if I can have a baby in my tummy like Aunty Marti (one of our very-pregnant friends!) Or he'll point at pregnant people at the store and say, "I want you to have a baby like them." He really, really wants another sibling.

Or a pet. 

Since the pet is out of the question (seriously folks, we're awful, awful pet people!) that doesn't leave many other options. 

Dan and I have been talking about trying to have another baby for quite some time now.  I'm finally ready to start trying, fully knowing that this potential baby will in no way ever be able to replace the ache of losing Vincent.  In fact, I know that having another child could in fact make us miss Vincent more, if that's even possible.  But it could be healing as well, holding and loving another child, knowing that our family will be less empty as our nest fills up.  We'd be able to watch the kiddies interact with each other.  And once again we would have the pleasure of squeezing two car seats into the back of our Nissan Altima.     

Our family has had many things taken from it.  First we lost Vincent, then we lost our captured memories of him on our computers and cameras.  

Perhaps it's time we started adding to our family.  

...But first I have to have a darn mammogram.  

Turns out my body has refused to accept that Vincent is dead, and each month around the anniversary of his death it starts acting crazy.  My doctor ordered a mammogram for May 9th just to be sure everything's OK.  Woohoo.  I'm 11 years away from the age of 40 and never thought I'd be undergoing uncomfortable medical procedures like mammograms at this age! 

Then again, I'm sure there are many things in each of our journeys we never thought we'd be doing.  

Easter Weekend

We had a good Easter weekend.  I needed that, especially after a very difficult week.

All week long Theo missed his brother like crazy.  Then on Wednesday we had Vincent's 5 month "angel" date, which sort of blindsided me.  Dan and I have also been trying to figure out what will happen after he completes graduate school next month.

Transitions are not fun.  Theo wants another sibling.  I want some sort of career (and maybe another kid?) Dan wants a meaningful job.  I want it to include money.  It's been tough.

Theo was absolutely gleeful on Easter Sunday.  We finished going through his resurrection eggs during the week, each containing a little object having to do with holy week and with the upcoming celebration on Easter.  Sunday morning he hunted down dozens of eggs in our house (thanks for putting that together, Aunty Amy and Popo!) and got to wear a new outfit, complete with bow-tie and matching handkerchief.

In all, it was a good few days.  Vincent got some new flowers on his grave, we got to eat a nice lunch together and have a nap at home.  Theo got to play Angry Birds to his hearts content on the ipad.  I read a bunch of books.  Dan didn't do any homework.

Hooray for happy endings!  (or I should say, beginnings!)

Oh Brother!

In this past week Theo's been crawling into our bed every night around 3:00am.  On Friday night I had a fever of over 101 with aches and pains everywhere.  Theo got into our bed, kicked, thrashed and wiggled, but we gladly put up with it as it was evident that he really needed to sleep with us.

I tend to forget that Theo's been greatly traumatized.  He's been such a resilient child, learning his letters, excitedly making new friends at preschool, happily playing and reading with me during the day.  I can easily forget how wounded he really is.  Theo's been especially needy these last few weeks, having a hard time going to sleep at night, being fearful during nap-times, talking about how he misses Vincent during the day (it used to just be part of his night-time routine).

Today we visited Vincent's grave, and Theo talked the entire way there about Vincent.  "I wish I could see Vincent."  "I really miss Vincent."  "I wish I could play with Vincent." "I wish we could be with Vincent."

It seems that the finality of Vincent's removal from our family has really sunk in.  Theo misses his brother.  I miss him too.

Torn

Last night I spent a bunch of time reading a really sweet blog written by a mom of six kids.  She's also a great photographer.  As I was reading her blog filled with references to her home-schooling, bread-making, beautifying, and crafting, I realized I was feeling envious.

You see, I really love crafty homeschooling moms, who spend their stay-at-home days educating hordes of well-behaved children, baking whole wheat bread from grain they've personally ground, beautifying their spacious houses so they look like something from an Anthropologie store, sewing gorgeous dresses and crafting cloth books and woolen scarfs while watching period dramas to their hearts content with a glass of raw milk in hand.  I love these families, and I'd love my kids to grow up this way.

But there are significant factors that preclude me from following such a path.  My husband and I are Christian egalitarians (we believe giftings and callings are not given strictly according to gender) and consequently take issue with the gender restrictions espoused by some of those I admire. This doesn't keep us from being great friends with them, just from becoming exactly like them.  I often feel constrained and concerned by their view of the world, their treatment of women.

There's also this pesky little factor called cost-of-living. I live in a semi-urban, super expensive part of the country where one spouse's middle-class income is seldom enough to meet basic living expenses if the other spouse isn't also working. No wonder so many people in Hawaii live with their parents (or homes inherited from their relatives).  Plus, I have dreams for myself.  There are skills I hope to continue developing.  I aspire to write, speak, travel.  I want to make a difference in the world, not only in my home.

It's hard for me to reconcile these two parts of myself.  I guess you could say that I'm part Stepford wife, part Eleanor Roosevelt.

Perhaps I will become a different breed of mom—one who works and stays home, votes liberal (much of the time, sorry mom!) deeply values her responsibilities in the home and sews up a storm, yet has no problem with shopping online too.  Perhaps one day I will get my chance to resurface old furniture, decorate my own house, fill it with happily learning children, and still be able to travel, speak, and write on the subjects so dear to my heart.

I'll admit this sounds highly unrealistic.   Realistic for me right now is laying in bed for hours every day, letting my sole child spend eons of time on the iPad.  What sounds realistic is snapping at my husband as he gets home from a long day.  What sounds realistic is the sound of the microwave chirping at me, reminding me the burrito inside has been warmed and is ready to be consumed.

What I want is someone to take care of me.  I wish God would appear in my house like a kind grandmother, clean it up, do my laundry, make a fantastic meal from locally grown ingredients, and then do the dishes afterwards.  I'd bare my soul talking and crying with him as he makes chocolate chip cookies and blueberry muffins.  Then we'd sit on the bar stools in the kitchen, sipping tea or coffee together (or wine if that's what He wants.)  That all sounds great.  (hmm.. It also sounds like "The Shack.")

During his dark night of the soul, the Biblical character Job, having lost all his children and possessions, challenges God to come down and answer for Himself.  Job demands an account of why God has allowed him to experience such deep, comprehensive suffering.  And when God finally surfaces, he does so in dramatic fashion, giving long-winded accounts of his creative power and accomplishments.  Job stops asking his questions when he sees the glory and wonder of God and is content to simply be in His presence.  Like Job, I sometimes wish God would show up to answer for Himself.  I have some questions too, namely, why?  Where are you?  Show yourself!  And while you're at it, can you stop by my house and make me some chocolate chip cookies?

I guess what I really want right now is to be mothered and cared for with nothing expected of me other than just showing up.  I just wish it wasn't too much to ask for.

Love Note

Yesterday we left our Chicago family at 4:00 am after a wonderful 8-day visit and headed back here to Hawaii.

Leaving them was really hard.

Growing up as a missionary kid, my family moved around a lot and "home" became whatever place our family was currently located.  We didn't own a house or have one specific place we'd stay the entire time when regularly heading back to the States for furlough.  We were simply home whenever we were together.

When I left my family in the Philippines for Bible college in the States,  I felt suddenly homeless.  It was awful.

Until I was sort of adopted into an awesome family, the Guimary family.  I had known them from my missionary kid days back in the Philippines, and I was great friends with their daughters (and then, their husbands).  They let me stay at their house for vacations and some summers.  I mooched off them for rides, meals, and laundry.  I worked at their dad's church, and he even married my husband and me back in 2003.  

Up until Vincent died, moving to Hawaii in 2004 was one of the hardest things I ever did.  

Because I had to leave the Guimary family.  

And today I had to do it again.

So to 'Mom' G, 'Dad' G, Lianne, Bill, Michelle, Tony, Nerissa, Daric, Jaelle, Laraya, Kaedyn and Javen: I love you guys!  Thanks for flying us there to Chicago, for making space in your house for us, for being great Aunties and Uncles, "Lola" and "Lolo" to Theo, and for staying up late at night crying with us. Thanks for the hugs, the understanding looks, the long conversations, the amazing food, and the effective chiropractic adjustments/therapeutic massage.  Thanks for coordinating church and school reunions, for exploring museums, IKEA, and thrift stores with us, and for shuttling around five children (all under the age of four) through downtown Chicago on the rail lines.  

You guys are awesome.  

I'll miss you all.  And Theo will miss his "cousins".  

But don't worry, we'll be back.   

Because we're family.