Pitiless, The Mercy Of Time
By Mr Lady | April 9th, 2009 | Category: BN Channel Overcoming Adversity, Friday 1 | No Comments »
{Originally published at Her Bad Mother}
When a family loses a child, we feel it. Whether or not we knew that family, whether or not we knew that child, we feel it. We feel it because the shockwaves of that loss – that loss as felt by the mother, the father, the family, the friends, the community, that loss as felt by the world, because surely the earth itself shudders, a little bit, when one of its flowers is cut too soon – the shockwaves of that loss reach into our very souls, to the furthest corners of our souls where we keep, hidden in the dark, away out of sight, our worst fear. And the shockwaves of that loss – snapping, lashing, electric – light up those dark corners and awaken the beast of our fear and we tremble.
We tremble because we know. Every single one of us has imagined what it would be like to lose a child. Every single one of us has lived and relived this imaginary terror. Each and every one of us has held our children in our arms and felt the warmth of their breath on our neck and had a single, heart-stopping thought: what if? And then we’ve all squeezed our children more tightly and waited until our hearts resumed their beat before letting go, a little sadder, a little older, a lot more grateful for the time that we have.
So when someone runs out of time, when someone is forced to really let go, let go let go let go, we know. And our hearts stop for them, for knowing.
My heart stopped today. I am sadder, older, more grateful, now that it has resumed its beat.
Requiescat in pace, Madeline Alice Spohr. Your home, now, is timelessness.
Our Time in Eden
By Megan Jordan | April 9th, 2009 | Category: BN Channel Overcoming Adversity, Thursday 1 | No Comments »{Originally posted on Slouching Past 40}
How does it happen that a sixteen-month-old girl with eyes that managed to reflect all of the abundant colors of the ocean at once and with a smile containing such joy that strangers couldn’t help but smile with her, a girl with all of it before her (only 500 days under her belt, give or take), might be here one moment and gone the next?
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I do not know. I am one of the lucky ones. My son comes home with a sore throat and later spikes a fever. His temperature soars, and I fret. I take him to the doctor, who diagnoses strep throat and hands me a prescription for penicillin. Eighteen hours and three pills later, my child looks and feels remarkably better. He is no longer pale with a slightly greenish cast. He is not hot to the touch. Fatigue does not ring his eyes. I can’t believe how well this medicine works!, he grins. I could almost have gone to school today! And then he glances at me. Worry has crossed his face. He amends: Well, not almost… I’ll be ready tomorrow, though.
All of us wanted Maddie’s story to go like this, and most of us expected that it would.
But a few of you know better. Experience has taught you different and cruel lessons. You were cast out of Eden some time ago. The rest of us bite our lips and hold our children closer, huddling up against one another, afraid that we, too, might be called on, might have to forsake the complacence we clutch as tightly as we do those children of ours, might have to bump up against the fact that our children are mortal, no different from us, from our parents, from their parents and all the parents before them, too. What hubris we show when we congratulate ourselves on how well we’ve managed to protect our offspring when the reality is that we have so little to do with it.
Shock
By Jen Playgroupie | April 8th, 2009 | Category: BN Channel Overcoming Adversity, Jennifer (Playgroups are no place for children), Wednesday 1 | No Comments »{Originally posted on Joy Unexpected}
I can’t sleep.
My friend’s baby died today.
Her baby died.
I had read that she has been taken to hospital by ambulance. I was worried, so this afternoon I sent her an email.
Just catching up on what’s going on with your baby girl. I’ve been so busy and wrapped up in my stupid little world.If you need ANYTHING, please don’t hesitate to call me. I’m only an hour-ish away.
Thinking of you all.
She wrote back and said she was worried. Maddie was breathing really hard and the doctors didn’t know why. She was scared, but glad she was being monitored so closely.
I remember feeling worried, but thinking they would figure out what was wrong and she would get better. She had to get better.
Then, tonight, I clicked over to her blog and read this.
My husband was sitting here on the couch with me when I read it. I threw my laptop down and just shouted “NO! NO!!”
I started to shake. I was in shock.
I then called a couple of friends who are also friends with Heather and we sobbed together in disbelieve.
It’s unreal. I still can’t believe it.
Every time I close my eyes to try to sleep, I think of Heather. I think of the last time I saw her– we were at the LA food bank, volunteering our time. She was so kind and wonderful to be around. Towards the end of the day, she got a phone call from her babysitter. Maddie had a fever. I saw the worry instantly sweep over her face. I told her it was okay if she needed to leave. I could just feel the love she had for her baby girl in that moment.
