Fly, Fly
Little wing
Fly beyond imagining
The softest cloud, the whitest dove
Upon the wind of heaven's love
Past the planets and the stars
Leave this lonely world of ours
Escape the sorrow and the pain
and fly again.
Fly, Fly
Precious one
Your endless journey has begun
Take your gentle happiness
Far too beautiful for this
Cross over to the other shore
There is peace forevermore
But hold this memory, bittersweet
Until we meet
Fly, Fly
Do not fear
Don't waste a breath, don't shed a tear
Your heart is pure, your soul is free
Be on your way, don't wait for me
Above the universe you'll climb
On beyond the hands of time
The moon will rise, the sun will set
But I won't forget
Fly, Fly
Little wing
Fly where only angels sing
Fly away, the time is right
Go now, find the light
--Celine Dion
I meditated almost two hours this morning. I cried during much of it. Today is my birthday. I asked for healing and acceptance in my meditation. I bought a bunch of tulips, and daffodils, and a little flowering campanula plant with purple blossoms.
There is a thick blanket of snow outside, and snow still falls. But the sky is growing brighter, I heard a robin's chirp, and the nuthatch visited my feeder again.
Monday, March 31, 2008
Saturday, March 22, 2008
Tests and Omens
This morning I had my hair cut, then visited the hospital phlebotomy lab for a blood test. I'm taking the "Clomid Challenge."
I assume the terminology refers to something medical--I haven't bothered to look it up yet--but that name makes it sound like I myself am being challenged. It feels that way too.
My cycle started Thursday. On a side note, as Felix's tumbling class got underway I slipped out to a clothing store I like nearby and happened to buy a RED pajama top and a pair of fleecy, fuzzy RED flip-flops, totally unconsciously, as if the newly pubescent girl inside me were celebrating her initiation into womanhood or something.
Anyway, my period started Thursday, so I called the OB to get some fertility drugs. On Friday I had an ultrasound to make sure I had no cysts on my ovaries. They were fine. I was given directions and prescriptions for blood tests on days 3 and 10, taking Clomid days 5 through 9, testing my urine for signs of LH hormone that indicates when I will ovulate, etc, etc.,etc. To give us a better chance of conceiving, they will also do an insemination.
"What a nuisance," Dan said. But I still appreciate that it gives me a sense of control, even if it's illusory.
So today I got my first blood test. As the phlebotomist was finishing up, a music-box lullaby played over the loudspeaker. "Awww, a baby was just born," she said with a smile. They play the lullaby whenever there's a new arrival in Labor and Delivery. I thought, I wonder if they played it when Elise was born.
And I thought, I am going to take the timing of that song as a good omen.
I assume the terminology refers to something medical--I haven't bothered to look it up yet--but that name makes it sound like I myself am being challenged. It feels that way too.
My cycle started Thursday. On a side note, as Felix's tumbling class got underway I slipped out to a clothing store I like nearby and happened to buy a RED pajama top and a pair of fleecy, fuzzy RED flip-flops, totally unconsciously, as if the newly pubescent girl inside me were celebrating her initiation into womanhood or something.
Anyway, my period started Thursday, so I called the OB to get some fertility drugs. On Friday I had an ultrasound to make sure I had no cysts on my ovaries. They were fine. I was given directions and prescriptions for blood tests on days 3 and 10, taking Clomid days 5 through 9, testing my urine for signs of LH hormone that indicates when I will ovulate, etc, etc.,etc. To give us a better chance of conceiving, they will also do an insemination.
"What a nuisance," Dan said. But I still appreciate that it gives me a sense of control, even if it's illusory.
So today I got my first blood test. As the phlebotomist was finishing up, a music-box lullaby played over the loudspeaker. "Awww, a baby was just born," she said with a smile. They play the lullaby whenever there's a new arrival in Labor and Delivery. I thought, I wonder if they played it when Elise was born.
And I thought, I am going to take the timing of that song as a good omen.
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
Still Here
Felix had his Tuesday morning swim lesson today. Most of the children in the class have a younger sibling, so Elise's absence looms as I sit around the pool with the other mothers. Last time when I sat near 3 others as they talked about their multiple children, I read a book and discreetly stuck my index finger into the ear that faced them.
One of the women lost a 20-week old baby last summer and is 21 weeks pregnant. Her son is in Felix's swim group and is about the same age as Felix. I've spoken a little bit to her about the pain of Elise's death, thinking she could probably relate, but she never talks about the baby who died, maybe because it died from complications of Trisomy 13. I don't even know if it was a boy or a girl.
This morning the first thing she told me and another woman with a 3-year-old daughter and 6-month old son on her lap was that at her ultrasound, she found out that this baby was a girl. I was genuinely happy for her, and happy that the baby is all right. She and the other mother went on to chat about the age differences between their children, what a challenge it is with two little ones, etc. etc. etc. I turned away to watch Felix and discreetly stuck an index finger in my ear.
Then I went into the empty women's locker room and said out loud, "Elise, you are still our daughter, and you are still Felix's little sister. Others have forgotten you, but you will always be our baby." Later I said out loud again, "Elise, we can only see what's in front of our faces, and sometimes we even miss that. Our world here is so limited, we only acknowledge or speak about those who are here with us in our tiny little plane of existence. I know you are with me even when these poor eyes can't see you."
One of the women lost a 20-week old baby last summer and is 21 weeks pregnant. Her son is in Felix's swim group and is about the same age as Felix. I've spoken a little bit to her about the pain of Elise's death, thinking she could probably relate, but she never talks about the baby who died, maybe because it died from complications of Trisomy 13. I don't even know if it was a boy or a girl.
This morning the first thing she told me and another woman with a 3-year-old daughter and 6-month old son on her lap was that at her ultrasound, she found out that this baby was a girl. I was genuinely happy for her, and happy that the baby is all right. She and the other mother went on to chat about the age differences between their children, what a challenge it is with two little ones, etc. etc. etc. I turned away to watch Felix and discreetly stuck an index finger in my ear.
Then I went into the empty women's locker room and said out loud, "Elise, you are still our daughter, and you are still Felix's little sister. Others have forgotten you, but you will always be our baby." Later I said out loud again, "Elise, we can only see what's in front of our faces, and sometimes we even miss that. Our world here is so limited, we only acknowledge or speak about those who are here with us in our tiny little plane of existence. I know you are with me even when these poor eyes can't see you."
Thursday, March 13, 2008
Changing Into Wine
Monday afternoon, I found out that a very sweet couple, friends from the university who are generous, lighthearted and of course, love children, lost their baby at 25 weeks of pregnancy. Her name was Isabella Ann. Her heart stopped beating, so delivery was induced, and she was born the night of March 9th.
Her mother, my friend Barbara, called last night after I'd left a phone message and some flowers. Just 2 weeks earlier, she had called me after we hadn't seen each other for a couple of months. She was saying her husband Robert happened to be in Japan, and recommended a book she'd been reading called Spirit Babies.
When we spoke last night, she related all sorts of meaningful coincidences with Isabella's death: that she'd been reading this book avidly, which talks about connecting with the baby you are trying to conceive, the one you are pregnant with, and even the ones you've lost; that she never quite brought herself to think she was "out of the woods" even when her doctor assured her that she could be more at ease now that she was past the first trimester; that Robert arrived home from weeks in Japan that Friday, and they went to the hospital the next day to find that Isabella's heart was no longer beating.
I'd been struggling with vulnerability again, not wanting to see another friend's new daughter, feeling like every pregnant woman or ones with second babies were in my face. I go into Victoria's Secret on a Wednesday noon, I'm the only customer in the store, a hugely pregnant woman walks in. I wanted to throw the bra and panties I'd been carrying at her and stomp out the door. But today I had a massage with a woman who'd been treating me since Elise died, and she gently told me to let "the story" go, the rational side of me that kept searching for reasons. She didn't say what kind of reasons, but my thought was about the reasons for Elise's death, for Isabella's death, for why we haven't had another baby, why others get to have theirs with them.
When I got up from the massage table, the bitterness had evaporated. This evening I picked up a book of Rilke's prose and poetry and opened it to a random page, only to come across this from The Sonnets to Orpheus:
Silent friend of many distances, feel
how your breath enlarges all of space.
Let your presence ring out like a bell
into the night. What feeds upon your face
grows mighty from the nourishment thus offered.
Move through transformation, out and in.
What is the deepest loss that you have suffered?
If drinking is bitter, change yourself into wine.
In this immeasurable darkness, be the power
that rounds your senses in their magic ring,
the sense of their mysterious encounter.
And if the earthly no longer knows your name,
whisper to the silent earth: I'm flowing.
To the flashing water say: I am.
Her mother, my friend Barbara, called last night after I'd left a phone message and some flowers. Just 2 weeks earlier, she had called me after we hadn't seen each other for a couple of months. She was saying her husband Robert happened to be in Japan, and recommended a book she'd been reading called Spirit Babies.
When we spoke last night, she related all sorts of meaningful coincidences with Isabella's death: that she'd been reading this book avidly, which talks about connecting with the baby you are trying to conceive, the one you are pregnant with, and even the ones you've lost; that she never quite brought herself to think she was "out of the woods" even when her doctor assured her that she could be more at ease now that she was past the first trimester; that Robert arrived home from weeks in Japan that Friday, and they went to the hospital the next day to find that Isabella's heart was no longer beating.
I'd been struggling with vulnerability again, not wanting to see another friend's new daughter, feeling like every pregnant woman or ones with second babies were in my face. I go into Victoria's Secret on a Wednesday noon, I'm the only customer in the store, a hugely pregnant woman walks in. I wanted to throw the bra and panties I'd been carrying at her and stomp out the door. But today I had a massage with a woman who'd been treating me since Elise died, and she gently told me to let "the story" go, the rational side of me that kept searching for reasons. She didn't say what kind of reasons, but my thought was about the reasons for Elise's death, for Isabella's death, for why we haven't had another baby, why others get to have theirs with them.
When I got up from the massage table, the bitterness had evaporated. This evening I picked up a book of Rilke's prose and poetry and opened it to a random page, only to come across this from The Sonnets to Orpheus:
Silent friend of many distances, feel
how your breath enlarges all of space.
Let your presence ring out like a bell
into the night. What feeds upon your face
grows mighty from the nourishment thus offered.
Move through transformation, out and in.
What is the deepest loss that you have suffered?
If drinking is bitter, change yourself into wine.
In this immeasurable darkness, be the power
that rounds your senses in their magic ring,
the sense of their mysterious encounter.
And if the earthly no longer knows your name,
whisper to the silent earth: I'm flowing.
To the flashing water say: I am.
Monday, February 18, 2008
How to Thrive
"I grieved deeply when you passed away...My feelings came from deep in my body. Even though I could control them, they shattered reality, if you know what I mean. Reality has remained broken ever since. And oddly enough, it feels more real that way. So I don't bother to mend it. I just don't care anymore if nothing makes sense."
--Ingmar Bergman, Fanny and Alexander
I just read a short story called "Colorless Paintings" by Sata Ineko (Sata is her surname), a Japanese writer. I've been trying to pull myself out of self-pity, and so I picked up this piece to read from the short story collection The Crazy Iris and Other Stories of the Atomic Aftermath.
The narrator has a Chinese friend who was in Nagasaki at the time the atomic bomb was dropped on the city on August 9th, 1945. A few years after the war, her friend writes in a letter to the narrator, "Today again my friends went to the [anti-nuclear] meeting. I envy them and am suddenly irritated. Looking back, I feel that as foreigners we are much freer now, without the kind of restrictions that were placed on us in the past. We are free now from the feelings of humiliation that were unconsciously instilled in us from the time we were children. As long as we keep up an interest in the things around us, we can maintain a balanced outlook on life."
I am not so self-absorbed as to compare my tragedy with the scale of those who not only suffered the atomic bombings, but also happened to be Korean and Chinese colonial subjects inside Japan at the time. My point in quoting this passage is the line "As long as we keep up an interest in the things around us, we can maintain a balanced outlook on life." Everyday life's little interests and even tasks can be a salvation from the darkness and cruelty of this world. They are part of what keeps me going. I can name dozens of other blessings that keep me going too.
The loving comments posted and sent by amazingly supportive friends, for example, even when they're chastising. In fact, they are right to criticize my jealousy of 2-children friends. I probably chose the wrong term when I said I could not "relate" to them. I should have said I'm "burning with envy and bitterness." I know it's not right, and not good for me. And I should tell these friends how I'm feeling. Communication is something I work at daily. I need to work harder. I tend to project my pain onto others, to make it their fault. It's nobody's fault. I'm stuck in an emotional rut, or at least I was last week when I wrote that entry.
So back to counting my blessings (despite the cliche, and despite the fact I don't want to be told to do it, I can do it myself, to quote my 3-year-old): My loving husband, my sweet son. Our community near and far, singles and marrieds, breeders and non-, our families who count Elise as their own too. The fact that the sun has come out to play today for the third day in a row in the middle of a graaaaaaaay winter.
And the fact that Sata's writing has inspired me to dig out another of her story collections from the basement for reading, to start translating more Japanese fiction, to write more of my own stuff. I can do these while sitting at a desk we set up in a newly-tidied room, and every so often I can gaze up from the keyboard to admire three lovely frames of Chinese embroidery that we inherited from Dan's lovely grandmother Louise. She is another story of how to endure and thrive.
--Ingmar Bergman, Fanny and Alexander
I just read a short story called "Colorless Paintings" by Sata Ineko (Sata is her surname), a Japanese writer. I've been trying to pull myself out of self-pity, and so I picked up this piece to read from the short story collection The Crazy Iris and Other Stories of the Atomic Aftermath.
The narrator has a Chinese friend who was in Nagasaki at the time the atomic bomb was dropped on the city on August 9th, 1945. A few years after the war, her friend writes in a letter to the narrator, "Today again my friends went to the [anti-nuclear] meeting. I envy them and am suddenly irritated. Looking back, I feel that as foreigners we are much freer now, without the kind of restrictions that were placed on us in the past. We are free now from the feelings of humiliation that were unconsciously instilled in us from the time we were children. As long as we keep up an interest in the things around us, we can maintain a balanced outlook on life."
I am not so self-absorbed as to compare my tragedy with the scale of those who not only suffered the atomic bombings, but also happened to be Korean and Chinese colonial subjects inside Japan at the time. My point in quoting this passage is the line "As long as we keep up an interest in the things around us, we can maintain a balanced outlook on life." Everyday life's little interests and even tasks can be a salvation from the darkness and cruelty of this world. They are part of what keeps me going. I can name dozens of other blessings that keep me going too.
The loving comments posted and sent by amazingly supportive friends, for example, even when they're chastising. In fact, they are right to criticize my jealousy of 2-children friends. I probably chose the wrong term when I said I could not "relate" to them. I should have said I'm "burning with envy and bitterness." I know it's not right, and not good for me. And I should tell these friends how I'm feeling. Communication is something I work at daily. I need to work harder. I tend to project my pain onto others, to make it their fault. It's nobody's fault. I'm stuck in an emotional rut, or at least I was last week when I wrote that entry.
So back to counting my blessings (despite the cliche, and despite the fact I don't want to be told to do it, I can do it myself, to quote my 3-year-old): My loving husband, my sweet son. Our community near and far, singles and marrieds, breeders and non-, our families who count Elise as their own too. The fact that the sun has come out to play today for the third day in a row in the middle of a graaaaaaaay winter.
And the fact that Sata's writing has inspired me to dig out another of her story collections from the basement for reading, to start translating more Japanese fiction, to write more of my own stuff. I can do these while sitting at a desk we set up in a newly-tidied room, and every so often I can gaze up from the keyboard to admire three lovely frames of Chinese embroidery that we inherited from Dan's lovely grandmother Louise. She is another story of how to endure and thrive.
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
Second (and Third) Chances
One thing I don't think I've mentioned in here is that Dan and I have been trying to have another baby. We've been trying since June, and next week I'm going to try the fertility drug Clomid. I think one of the reasons I've been avoiding writing in here is because I'm having a hard time with the constant failure to get pregnant, and Elise's role in that. I thought I was dealing with the stress of grief well, but I can't help thinking that our inability to conceive means I'm not coping well.
No less than 12 people who are either friends or acquaintances have had babies since we started trying to get pregnant again. Most of these babies are second children. If we don't manage to have another baby, I can see my relationships with two-children friends begin to deteriorate further. Not all of them: there are some who struggled with infertility before their children came along who understand, or some who are just the sensitive type. I don't begrudge them their children; I simply don't relate, and it takes effort from both sides to relate, and I'm too tired to try to help them understand me.
To get started on the Clomid, I had an exam and history with a certain OB's Physician's Assistant the other day. After the visit, I felt deflated and depressed. She treated my pregnancies, including Elise's birth, as purely clinical events. This is how part of my visit went:
"So you have one living child and one that was stillborn. How may weeks into the pregnancy?"
"Thirty-three."
"And did they find anything wrong with her?"
"Nothing. An autopsy was done, and also my placenta and the umbilical cord were fine as far as they could tell."
"No chromosomal abnormalities?"
"No. With both my son and daughter I had a nuchal translucency that showed no risk of defects."
"And was it a vaginal birth?"
"Yes."
"You were induced?"
"Yes."
"Okay...and the medications you're taking..."
"An antidepressant, Lexapro 10mg."
"Nothing else?"
"Prenatal vitamins, herbs." I've been taking the Lexapro since August, and had taken it before when my son was born and I had postpartum depression."
"Were you taking it at the time you got pregnant with your daughter?"
"No. I was off it for most of 2006, until my daughter died."
I took strange comfort in the extra notes she jotted down about these. How pathetic is that?
No "I'm sorry for your loss" or "That must have been so hard." It was as if we were talking about having my appendix out. She was a pleasant person in every other way, but perhaps hadn't much experience with traumatic events in patients' lives, and so probably didn't know how to treat Elise like a child of mine who had died.
The other day I was talking with the very nice gal who waxes my eyebrows, and after she'd talked about having her twins by C-section six years ago, she asked if I gave birth to Elise. When I said yes, she said, "God Marilyn, that must have been so hard." But I said I was glad I could give birth to her naturally because it felt like an affirmation of her life, and that I was glad to birth her in the same way I had Felix, instead of having her be just a clinical procedure.
I ask myself why I haven't written in my blog for so long, and I think it's because I haven't written about wanting another baby. Our lack of success seems tied up in my emotions over Elise, even though it's felt numerous times like I am clearer and more accepting of her death as time goes by. I know that recovery from my grief doesn't mean I'll forget her. I know and accept that the pain of her death will always be with me. I am ready to move forward, and have been for a while. I talk about her to others when I feel they will listen respectfully.
As far as I can tell, I don't feel as if our desire for another baby is a betrayal of her. But I seem to feel that our inability to conceive is connected to her. My doctor says it's probably the stress still. I've felt stuck also in not doing any creative pursuits I dream about. Some more stuff inside me needs to be expressed, emotionally and spiritually, but it's hard and it's scary.
The puttering and restless wandering around the house is just like I was feeling last year, in the first months after Elise died. I've come full circle again, revisiting those times unconsciously, which is probably what I need to do. But I really, really want to take that giant step forward and have another baby. In the meantime, I've picked up my guitar again, and last night Felix and I made our own Valentines for his schoolmates: I cut out red, purple, and pink hearts from construction paper, and had him squirt gobs of glitter glue on them and pile on the heart-shaped sparklies. It felt like an act of love.
No less than 12 people who are either friends or acquaintances have had babies since we started trying to get pregnant again. Most of these babies are second children. If we don't manage to have another baby, I can see my relationships with two-children friends begin to deteriorate further. Not all of them: there are some who struggled with infertility before their children came along who understand, or some who are just the sensitive type. I don't begrudge them their children; I simply don't relate, and it takes effort from both sides to relate, and I'm too tired to try to help them understand me.
To get started on the Clomid, I had an exam and history with a certain OB's Physician's Assistant the other day. After the visit, I felt deflated and depressed. She treated my pregnancies, including Elise's birth, as purely clinical events. This is how part of my visit went:
"So you have one living child and one that was stillborn. How may weeks into the pregnancy?"
"Thirty-three."
"And did they find anything wrong with her?"
"Nothing. An autopsy was done, and also my placenta and the umbilical cord were fine as far as they could tell."
"No chromosomal abnormalities?"
"No. With both my son and daughter I had a nuchal translucency that showed no risk of defects."
"And was it a vaginal birth?"
"Yes."
"You were induced?"
"Yes."
"Okay...and the medications you're taking..."
"An antidepressant, Lexapro 10mg."
"Nothing else?"
"Prenatal vitamins, herbs." I've been taking the Lexapro since August, and had taken it before when my son was born and I had postpartum depression."
"Were you taking it at the time you got pregnant with your daughter?"
"No. I was off it for most of 2006, until my daughter died."
I took strange comfort in the extra notes she jotted down about these. How pathetic is that?
No "I'm sorry for your loss" or "That must have been so hard." It was as if we were talking about having my appendix out. She was a pleasant person in every other way, but perhaps hadn't much experience with traumatic events in patients' lives, and so probably didn't know how to treat Elise like a child of mine who had died.
The other day I was talking with the very nice gal who waxes my eyebrows, and after she'd talked about having her twins by C-section six years ago, she asked if I gave birth to Elise. When I said yes, she said, "God Marilyn, that must have been so hard." But I said I was glad I could give birth to her naturally because it felt like an affirmation of her life, and that I was glad to birth her in the same way I had Felix, instead of having her be just a clinical procedure.
I ask myself why I haven't written in my blog for so long, and I think it's because I haven't written about wanting another baby. Our lack of success seems tied up in my emotions over Elise, even though it's felt numerous times like I am clearer and more accepting of her death as time goes by. I know that recovery from my grief doesn't mean I'll forget her. I know and accept that the pain of her death will always be with me. I am ready to move forward, and have been for a while. I talk about her to others when I feel they will listen respectfully.
As far as I can tell, I don't feel as if our desire for another baby is a betrayal of her. But I seem to feel that our inability to conceive is connected to her. My doctor says it's probably the stress still. I've felt stuck also in not doing any creative pursuits I dream about. Some more stuff inside me needs to be expressed, emotionally and spiritually, but it's hard and it's scary.
The puttering and restless wandering around the house is just like I was feeling last year, in the first months after Elise died. I've come full circle again, revisiting those times unconsciously, which is probably what I need to do. But I really, really want to take that giant step forward and have another baby. In the meantime, I've picked up my guitar again, and last night Felix and I made our own Valentines for his schoolmates: I cut out red, purple, and pink hearts from construction paper, and had him squirt gobs of glitter glue on them and pile on the heart-shaped sparklies. It felt like an act of love.
Thursday, January 17, 2008
Wordless Connection
Another gray day among many this winter, but at least we are getting some snow out of it today: sequin flakes are parachuting out of a windless sky. I'm clinging to the fact that each day brings a minute's more sun.
Considering the Seattle-like gloom though, I'm feeling pretty steady, if scattered. I haven't had any emotional crashes since the holidays, but even if I did, they are part of going along with what life brings.
One thing I did that brought some catharsis was to send out an announcement to academic friends and teachers about resigning my job. I heard from people I hadn't been in touch with for a while, and people I was sure had heard about Elise's death but hadn't contacted me. I'm trying not to dwell on those I thought I would get a response from but haven't, because people drift in and out of my life and bring me experiences and memories I can still savor, even if we never meet again.
I haven't written in here in a long time. Writing is not part of my days lately, I think because things feel so transitional, it seems I just have to hold on and go along even though the road is so twisty, there's no point in trying to see around any of the corners. I can't stop to process, but somehow this doesn't seem wrong or disturbing. I write in my journal, but that's about it. Otherwise, I talk with Dan, with some friends, read and watch movies. And of course, talking with Felix is always a treat, with those big brown eyes gazing earnestly into mine.
Speaking of wordlessness, a friend last night was saying how much she loved After Life: she said she especially loved the scene where one of the characters, an 18-year-old girl who is a trainee at the way station for the dead, stomps around on a rooftop angrily kicking and throwing snow after she realizes the young coworker she's infatuated with is leaving the way station. She expresses powerful emotion unusual for her in that scene, and with no words. Most of the memories the dead choose to take with them to the afterlife have no words either.
The most comforting part of the film for me in my relationship with Elise is the experience of a teenage girl who thinks at first she wants to choose a memory from a trip to Disneyland. When her advisor at the way station sits her down to point out that dozens of people have thought they wanted to choose a memory from Disneyland, the teenager goes back to the drawing board. Towards the end of the film, she runs excitedly to tell her advisor she's chosen a memory from her childhood: one where she is lying with her head in her mother's lap while her mother strokes her hair, and the little girl lingers in the comfort of her mother's scent and the sound of her heartbeat. Elise felt the warmth of my body, the whoosh of my heartbeat and the sounds of my voice, her papa's, her brother's. We were important to her, as she was and always will be to us.
Considering the Seattle-like gloom though, I'm feeling pretty steady, if scattered. I haven't had any emotional crashes since the holidays, but even if I did, they are part of going along with what life brings.
One thing I did that brought some catharsis was to send out an announcement to academic friends and teachers about resigning my job. I heard from people I hadn't been in touch with for a while, and people I was sure had heard about Elise's death but hadn't contacted me. I'm trying not to dwell on those I thought I would get a response from but haven't, because people drift in and out of my life and bring me experiences and memories I can still savor, even if we never meet again.
I haven't written in here in a long time. Writing is not part of my days lately, I think because things feel so transitional, it seems I just have to hold on and go along even though the road is so twisty, there's no point in trying to see around any of the corners. I can't stop to process, but somehow this doesn't seem wrong or disturbing. I write in my journal, but that's about it. Otherwise, I talk with Dan, with some friends, read and watch movies. And of course, talking with Felix is always a treat, with those big brown eyes gazing earnestly into mine.
Speaking of wordlessness, a friend last night was saying how much she loved After Life: she said she especially loved the scene where one of the characters, an 18-year-old girl who is a trainee at the way station for the dead, stomps around on a rooftop angrily kicking and throwing snow after she realizes the young coworker she's infatuated with is leaving the way station. She expresses powerful emotion unusual for her in that scene, and with no words. Most of the memories the dead choose to take with them to the afterlife have no words either.
The most comforting part of the film for me in my relationship with Elise is the experience of a teenage girl who thinks at first she wants to choose a memory from a trip to Disneyland. When her advisor at the way station sits her down to point out that dozens of people have thought they wanted to choose a memory from Disneyland, the teenager goes back to the drawing board. Towards the end of the film, she runs excitedly to tell her advisor she's chosen a memory from her childhood: one where she is lying with her head in her mother's lap while her mother strokes her hair, and the little girl lingers in the comfort of her mother's scent and the sound of her heartbeat. Elise felt the warmth of my body, the whoosh of my heartbeat and the sounds of my voice, her papa's, her brother's. We were important to her, as she was and always will be to us.
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