My closest childhood friend died last month at age 44. She was a bridesmaid at my wedding. I delivered the eulogy at her funeral. A beautiful life only half-lived. The kind of friendship so deep we could imitate each other's mother's voices and had never kept a single secret from each other because there wasn't anything the other one didn't know already.
I am feeling everything extra hard right now. I feel tender and raw. I feel like grief grabs me out of the blue and sends me on a roller coaster of emotion at the slightest provocation.
And so I recognized the depths of grief that washed over Jane today.
There's a certain stretch of road we often drive that has flowers planted by the sidewalk that trigger a memory for Jane. Often, as we pass them, she'll suddenly exclaim, "Mama Leah has flowers like that at her house!"
Today, she saw them and then just utterly fell apart. It all came out in an incoherent rush. I miss her. I want her. I want to go to her house. I am so sad. I love Mama Leah. I want to see her again.
I was driving. She was seated directly behind me. I couldn't even reach back to hold her foot. All I could do was let her know that I was listening. It is sad. You do love Mama Leah. I know you wish you could see her again.
And then. With a keening wail I thought would send our car off the road, she cried out: She misses me! She doesn't know where I am! She loves me! And I love her! Does she want to see me?
I got the car pulled over as fast as I could. I got her into my arms. I confirmed that yes, her mother does love her and miss her and wishes she could see her. Jane let me touch her but she did not cry. Her eyes were wide and panicked. She ran through her litany of loss repeatedly without any ability to stop.
And so, finally, I had to say the horrible, crushing, killing words: Your mother loves you but her house wasn't safe so the police said you couldn't live there any more and the social workers brought you to our house and you're going to stay at our house forever because our house is safe.
It is the same script I've given her a hundred times and I can only hope it's right. It calms her; explains everything and puts it into place. It puts the blame on the house and not the people. It involves officials rather than pitting one family against another. It acknowledges that two little girls had a home and a life before they came to us.
The problem is that it uses 'safe' as a substitute for 'love'. I know Jane feels the truth intuitively and so I hate, hate, hate that script. I hate how it crushes her last bit of hope that somehow, magically, she can just go home one day and all the confusing questions will go away.
Because that question; that wailing question at the center of her broken heart: Does she want to see me?
It breaks my heart, too. And the purest truth that I want to say is always held silently deep within me: Yes, your mother wants to see you. Yes, you were wanted. Yes, you are wanted. Yes, yes, yes. But, also, no. No, she didn't get herself clean the first, or second, or third time you were taken away. No, she never attended a single parenting class. No, she never even bothered to meet with the job coach. No, the court psychiatrist said her mental illness was so great she'd likely never be fit to parent. No, she did not keep you or her other children safe from men showing up at her door offering drugs in exchange for whatever they wanted. Yes, she loved you...but no, actually, she didn't. She couldn't really love you and never, ever will. So now you've got me. And I'm sorry that I will probably never be enough to make up for this deep of a wound. I am so deeply, incredibly sorry.
This all played out in the potholed parking lot of a dumpy convenience store on our way to the park. I held her in my arms at the open door of the mini van while Kate and James, still strapped in their car seats, with the AC blowing on their faces, kept their eyes glued to the Curious George cartoon playing on the screens. It was surreal. So much emotion trembling through Jane's little body in my arms. And I'm looking over her shoulder at Kate's blank face wondering what she's hearing and understanding.
Jane is experiencing a death. Kate is watching Curious George. James is...? I don't know how much he can even begin to fathom. Selfishly, I hope not much.
But the question of Kate still lingered in my mind so that night I asked her. During our evening rock-a-bye time she was starting to settle into my lap when I brought up what happened with Jane today. Her eyes snapped open and she stared, hard, into my eyes. If she hadn't had that keen of a reaction I'd have dropped the topic but she stared at me, clearly wanting to talk about it.
Then, she sat up, put her arms around my neck, and did something she'd never done before. She leaned in until just the tips of our noses were touching. She was so close she was just a blur filling my entire field of vision.
I held very, very still and waited. She held very, very still and waited.
Finally, I asked:
"Do you love Mama Leah?"
"No," a whisper but with one firm shake of her head.
I waited. Let her grief, and her acceptance, roll through the room.
"Do you love me?"
A tiny nod of her head, and then she tapped her index finger against my chest to point at me and said, "Dis one".
I waited again. Let my mind explore all that Jane had said this afternoon, and then asked one more question: "Do you want to live at Mama Leah's house or this house?"
Once again, she brought up her finger, tapped me gently and said, firmly, "Dis one."
Then she laid down, snuggled into my arms, closed her eyes, and let me rock her to sleep.
I am feeling everything extra hard right now. I feel tender and raw. I feel like grief grabs me out of the blue and sends me on a roller coaster of emotion at the slightest provocation.
And so I recognized the depths of grief that washed over Jane today.
There's a certain stretch of road we often drive that has flowers planted by the sidewalk that trigger a memory for Jane. Often, as we pass them, she'll suddenly exclaim, "Mama Leah has flowers like that at her house!"
Today, she saw them and then just utterly fell apart. It all came out in an incoherent rush. I miss her. I want her. I want to go to her house. I am so sad. I love Mama Leah. I want to see her again.
I was driving. She was seated directly behind me. I couldn't even reach back to hold her foot. All I could do was let her know that I was listening. It is sad. You do love Mama Leah. I know you wish you could see her again.
And then. With a keening wail I thought would send our car off the road, she cried out: She misses me! She doesn't know where I am! She loves me! And I love her! Does she want to see me?
I got the car pulled over as fast as I could. I got her into my arms. I confirmed that yes, her mother does love her and miss her and wishes she could see her. Jane let me touch her but she did not cry. Her eyes were wide and panicked. She ran through her litany of loss repeatedly without any ability to stop.
And so, finally, I had to say the horrible, crushing, killing words: Your mother loves you but her house wasn't safe so the police said you couldn't live there any more and the social workers brought you to our house and you're going to stay at our house forever because our house is safe.
It is the same script I've given her a hundred times and I can only hope it's right. It calms her; explains everything and puts it into place. It puts the blame on the house and not the people. It involves officials rather than pitting one family against another. It acknowledges that two little girls had a home and a life before they came to us.
The problem is that it uses 'safe' as a substitute for 'love'. I know Jane feels the truth intuitively and so I hate, hate, hate that script. I hate how it crushes her last bit of hope that somehow, magically, she can just go home one day and all the confusing questions will go away.
Because that question; that wailing question at the center of her broken heart: Does she want to see me?
It breaks my heart, too. And the purest truth that I want to say is always held silently deep within me: Yes, your mother wants to see you. Yes, you were wanted. Yes, you are wanted. Yes, yes, yes. But, also, no. No, she didn't get herself clean the first, or second, or third time you were taken away. No, she never attended a single parenting class. No, she never even bothered to meet with the job coach. No, the court psychiatrist said her mental illness was so great she'd likely never be fit to parent. No, she did not keep you or her other children safe from men showing up at her door offering drugs in exchange for whatever they wanted. Yes, she loved you...but no, actually, she didn't. She couldn't really love you and never, ever will. So now you've got me. And I'm sorry that I will probably never be enough to make up for this deep of a wound. I am so deeply, incredibly sorry.
This all played out in the potholed parking lot of a dumpy convenience store on our way to the park. I held her in my arms at the open door of the mini van while Kate and James, still strapped in their car seats, with the AC blowing on their faces, kept their eyes glued to the Curious George cartoon playing on the screens. It was surreal. So much emotion trembling through Jane's little body in my arms. And I'm looking over her shoulder at Kate's blank face wondering what she's hearing and understanding.
Jane is experiencing a death. Kate is watching Curious George. James is...? I don't know how much he can even begin to fathom. Selfishly, I hope not much.
But the question of Kate still lingered in my mind so that night I asked her. During our evening rock-a-bye time she was starting to settle into my lap when I brought up what happened with Jane today. Her eyes snapped open and she stared, hard, into my eyes. If she hadn't had that keen of a reaction I'd have dropped the topic but she stared at me, clearly wanting to talk about it.
Then, she sat up, put her arms around my neck, and did something she'd never done before. She leaned in until just the tips of our noses were touching. She was so close she was just a blur filling my entire field of vision.
I held very, very still and waited. She held very, very still and waited.
Finally, I asked:
"Do you love Mama Leah?"
"No," a whisper but with one firm shake of her head.
I waited. Let her grief, and her acceptance, roll through the room.
"Do you love me?"
A tiny nod of her head, and then she tapped her index finger against my chest to point at me and said, "Dis one".
I waited again. Let my mind explore all that Jane had said this afternoon, and then asked one more question: "Do you want to live at Mama Leah's house or this house?"
Once again, she brought up her finger, tapped me gently and said, firmly, "Dis one."
Then she laid down, snuggled into my arms, closed her eyes, and let me rock her to sleep.
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