Pete and I made a pact a few years ago, long before Ellie and Owen had joined our family, we would try hard to not over indulge our children. This rang particularly true around the Christmas season. We refer to it as the gluttony of Christmas- where present after present is opened without a second glance. Where the importance of the gift is lost under the sheer volume of presents. Our goal is to never have that scene played out in our own living room.
This year, as we shopped for Ellie, we kept our gift goals in mind: something you want, something you need, something to wear, something to read. We did pretty good and only fell about four gifts over this mantra. It took restraint for most of December and then a little bit of UPS luck in the days leading up to Christmas to regain the perspective we held strong all month.
On the Friday prior to Christmas, Pete and I had a moment of weakness as we watched our daughter respond to the siren call of the Disney princesses on TV. The Disney Princess Dream Castle, the gift Ellie had repeatedly and joyously proclaimed, "I want that for Christmas!" As we watched our daughter stare enraptured at the TV, Pete and I quietly agreed. Ellie deserved the Disney Princess Dream Castle. We deserved to give it to her. Our resolve was broken and the hunt for a $150 piece of plastic became the mission. We involved family members in the search and stalked UPS up until Christmas Eve awaiting the arrival of the revered castle. But it didn't arrive on time. And Ellie has never mentioned it. Her playroom is so fully stocked with great new toys she has forgotten all about the castle. When she opened her gifts on Christmas morning it took over two hours. Not because of the quantity, but because each one was so thrilling for her we had to open the gift and play with it briefly. This is what we want our Christmas mornings to be like. The Disney Princess Dream Castle arrived today, and we will return it without Ellie ever being the wiser.
Christmas is a tremendously difficult holiday to celebrate when one of your children is missing. Pete and I put intentional thought into how we wanted to include Owen in our holiday traditions. On Christmas Eve, Pete, Ellie, and I visited Owen's hospital to drop off a donation and give thanks. On Christmas day, Pete and I walked the beach holding Owen close to our hearts. That night, we released a lantern into the sky, all the way to Heaven, each taking a turn to say what we missed most about him. I am not able to express the grief Pete and I feel without Owen here. To say I miss him is like saying I enjoy eating brownies. Words will never be able to fully express the extent of my emotions.
A few weeks after Owen passed away, my brain started to shift into overdrive. Pete and I wanted to have our kids close together in age, hence Ellie and Owen were only 16 months apart. If Pete and I were going to add to our family, where would the age gap fall? Mental calculations became snippets of conversation which led to my days being consumed with trying to decide which path our family is supposed to take. Do we pursue adoption? Foster adoption or private? Do we pursue having another child, but eliminate one of us genetically? Do we eliminate me or Pete? If we eliminate Pete, do we gender select to ensure that Owen's disease wasn't x-linked inherited? How long does the adoption process take? How long does IVF take? Enough.
Why is it about gaining and adding? Our family of three is doing pretty well. Maybe I should be focusing more on the child I have instead of dreaming of the child I think I need. Ellie wanted the Disney Princess Dream Castle, but she didn't need it. She has enjoyed every gift she received. The Disney Princess Dream Castle is a reminder to me, a lesson I needed to revisit, that in life you don't get everything you want. Within that story, Ellie is the reminder that you can find joy in what you are given. There is no need to always be looking for more; be happy with what you have.
I am not one for resolutions, but I will be thrilled to say good-bye to 2013 and all of the bad news it has brought this year. My goal for 2014 is to focus on my amazing family of three. Will there be another child in our future? Maybe, but for now we need to enjoy we what have and not what we want. If Owen has taught me anything, it is life is fleeting. We spent two years making memories with our sweet guy and now it is time to make more memories with our amazing daughter.
Thursday, December 26, 2013
Thursday, December 5, 2013
A Castle on a Cloud
About a year and a half ago I imposed the 'happiness' rule for myself. The basis of this rule is as follows: idle time will be filled only with happy topics. Gone were TV shows like Dexter and Breaking Bad and replaced were shows like Big Bang Theory and Parks and Recreation. The same applies to the books I read at bedtime. As I searched the library for 'happy' stories I realized I had a whole series in my house I could re-read. The Harry Potter series is one of my favorites and evokes many happy memories of my college years as I would devour each book as it became available.
Having young children only affords me reading time before bed. This translates to averaging two pages each night, nodding off to sleep about one and a half pages into the story, and then needed to re-read at least one page from the previous night to remember what was happening in the story. At this pace, it will be a long time before I finish the series and need to look for another 'happy' book. Owen passed away as I was delving into book five, Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix.
At the end of book four, Harry witnesses the death of one of his classmates, Cedric Diggory. As expected, watching a peer die is a traumatic event. Harry feels isolated from his friends; it is hard to resume a carefree lifestyle after baring witness to such a tragic event. Owen has been gone for almost two months. Around me the world continues to move forward, but I remain consumed in the grief of missing my sweet baby boy.
I think about Owen frequently, I cry about Owen daily. I field questions from Ellie ranging from sweet stories about how she plans to go to Heaven and marry him, to asking when she is going to get a disease and go to Heaven. In our house, Owen is still very present. His cape hangs on the wall in Ellie's playroom (the room we had picked out to be his bedroom). Last night we put up our Christmas tree and it is adorned with many of his cherished ornaments, pictures, and hand and foot print from last year. His stocking is on our ottoman as I type this: do we hang it next to ours over the fireplace? Ellie averages two family drawings a day from preschool and Owen is always featured in them. He may not physically be present in our house, but he is still my little boy. He will always be a part of my life.
Watching Owen die, sitting next to him during his last few days on Hospice, having doctors explain what happens as the body slowly shuts down, changes your view on life. I find myself silently impatient when I hear people complaining about trivial things. My problems are no more important than the next person, but it is frustrating to see people focused on things that really do not matter. It is as though I am now viewing the world through a tinted lens, they are definitely not rose colored, but the view is different. When Harry returns to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry the next term, he is shocked by what he sees. After attending four previous years and riding in seemingly horseless carriages, he now can see the carriages are pulled by Threstals, animals invisible except to those who have witnessed death. I am experiencing my world differently now as well.
Pete and I had the opportunity recently to watch a production of Les Miserables. Our niece, Holly, was playing the role of Cosette and we were gifted tickets to watch her performance. She was outstanding. I have seen Les Mis at least five times and love the music and story. This was my first time watching it since Owen has died. Much like Harry, I was surprised by what I saw. Watching Fantine die, witnessing her anguish about her inability to help her child was heart wrenching. I could relate to her desperation. She sold her body to make money to help her child. There were no limits to her love for Cosette. I cried openly as she begged Jean Valjean to care for Cosette with her last breaths. I was shocked by how much this scene moved me. I have watched it passively numerous times, but for the first time I felt connected to Fantine and knew her feelings of helplessness.
As I collected myself, the play progressed and then Cosette was singing her solo, "A Castle on a Cloud". As I listened to the words, ones I have heard numerous times in the past, the tears returned:
I can clearly see Owen in his castle on a cloud. My sweet boy who struggled so much for two years, is now at peace in his castle. I can envision him clearly playing with the boys and girls, enjoying an endless room of his favorite toys. His pain is gone, crying is not allowed, he is happy and whole. It is everything a mother could wish for, except how I yearn for the castle to be here and not in Heaven.
The pain of missing Owen is consuming. I am shocked by it. After a two year journey with a chronically ill child, I naively assumed my anticipatory grief would ease the pain once he was actually gone. Pete and I both feel it continues to be more painful the further we move away from October 16th. The weight of his body is no longer fresh on my arms, the warmth of his delicious cheek is no longer present on my lips. It is becoming harder and harder to conjure the feelings of his physical presence which means the reality is here. Owen is gone.
Owen is where he should be, I do not wish for him to be back with our family. We miss him so much, but it is comforting to know he is not feeling any pain. Ellie continues to struggle with the concept of Heaven. She often looks to the sky and asks us questions of where it is located and why we cannot go and visit Owen. Above those clouds, there is a mysterious place she is desperate to explore; she misses her brother. Ellie often looks to see if Owen is poking his toes down at her and I pretend to look with her. It has become a bit of a game for us, but now my eyes search with a new purpose. Maybe someday I will catch of glimpse of Owen in his castle on a cloud.
Having young children only affords me reading time before bed. This translates to averaging two pages each night, nodding off to sleep about one and a half pages into the story, and then needed to re-read at least one page from the previous night to remember what was happening in the story. At this pace, it will be a long time before I finish the series and need to look for another 'happy' book. Owen passed away as I was delving into book five, Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix.
At the end of book four, Harry witnesses the death of one of his classmates, Cedric Diggory. As expected, watching a peer die is a traumatic event. Harry feels isolated from his friends; it is hard to resume a carefree lifestyle after baring witness to such a tragic event. Owen has been gone for almost two months. Around me the world continues to move forward, but I remain consumed in the grief of missing my sweet baby boy.
I think about Owen frequently, I cry about Owen daily. I field questions from Ellie ranging from sweet stories about how she plans to go to Heaven and marry him, to asking when she is going to get a disease and go to Heaven. In our house, Owen is still very present. His cape hangs on the wall in Ellie's playroom (the room we had picked out to be his bedroom). Last night we put up our Christmas tree and it is adorned with many of his cherished ornaments, pictures, and hand and foot print from last year. His stocking is on our ottoman as I type this: do we hang it next to ours over the fireplace? Ellie averages two family drawings a day from preschool and Owen is always featured in them. He may not physically be present in our house, but he is still my little boy. He will always be a part of my life.
Watching Owen die, sitting next to him during his last few days on Hospice, having doctors explain what happens as the body slowly shuts down, changes your view on life. I find myself silently impatient when I hear people complaining about trivial things. My problems are no more important than the next person, but it is frustrating to see people focused on things that really do not matter. It is as though I am now viewing the world through a tinted lens, they are definitely not rose colored, but the view is different. When Harry returns to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry the next term, he is shocked by what he sees. After attending four previous years and riding in seemingly horseless carriages, he now can see the carriages are pulled by Threstals, animals invisible except to those who have witnessed death. I am experiencing my world differently now as well.
Pete and I had the opportunity recently to watch a production of Les Miserables. Our niece, Holly, was playing the role of Cosette and we were gifted tickets to watch her performance. She was outstanding. I have seen Les Mis at least five times and love the music and story. This was my first time watching it since Owen has died. Much like Harry, I was surprised by what I saw. Watching Fantine die, witnessing her anguish about her inability to help her child was heart wrenching. I could relate to her desperation. She sold her body to make money to help her child. There were no limits to her love for Cosette. I cried openly as she begged Jean Valjean to care for Cosette with her last breaths. I was shocked by how much this scene moved me. I have watched it passively numerous times, but for the first time I felt connected to Fantine and knew her feelings of helplessness.
As I collected myself, the play progressed and then Cosette was singing her solo, "A Castle on a Cloud". As I listened to the words, ones I have heard numerous times in the past, the tears returned:
There is a castle on a cloud,
I like to go there in my sleep,
Aren't any floors for me to sweep,
Not in my castle on a cloud.
There is a room that's full of toys,
There are a hundred boys and girls,
Nobody shouts or talks too loud,
Not in my castle on a cloud.
There is a lady all in white,
Holds me and sings a lullaby,
She's nice to see and she's soft to touch,
She says "Cosette, I love you very much."
I know a place where no one's lost,
I know a place where no one cries,
Crying at all is not allowed,
Not in my castle on a cloud.
I like to go there in my sleep,
Aren't any floors for me to sweep,
Not in my castle on a cloud.
There is a room that's full of toys,
There are a hundred boys and girls,
Nobody shouts or talks too loud,
Not in my castle on a cloud.
There is a lady all in white,
Holds me and sings a lullaby,
She's nice to see and she's soft to touch,
She says "Cosette, I love you very much."
I know a place where no one's lost,
I know a place where no one cries,
Crying at all is not allowed,
Not in my castle on a cloud.
The pain of missing Owen is consuming. I am shocked by it. After a two year journey with a chronically ill child, I naively assumed my anticipatory grief would ease the pain once he was actually gone. Pete and I both feel it continues to be more painful the further we move away from October 16th. The weight of his body is no longer fresh on my arms, the warmth of his delicious cheek is no longer present on my lips. It is becoming harder and harder to conjure the feelings of his physical presence which means the reality is here. Owen is gone.
Owen is where he should be, I do not wish for him to be back with our family. We miss him so much, but it is comforting to know he is not feeling any pain. Ellie continues to struggle with the concept of Heaven. She often looks to the sky and asks us questions of where it is located and why we cannot go and visit Owen. Above those clouds, there is a mysterious place she is desperate to explore; she misses her brother. Ellie often looks to see if Owen is poking his toes down at her and I pretend to look with her. It has become a bit of a game for us, but now my eyes search with a new purpose. Maybe someday I will catch of glimpse of Owen in his castle on a cloud.
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