Relics

I was decluttering a purse (again) when I came across a ratty, folded piece of tape with two small knots of brown hair in it.  When it dawned on me what I was holding, it took my breath away for a second, but it didn’t knock me sideways as I imagine such a discovery would’ve a few months ago.  Instead of losing momentum and being overwhelmed by memories and grief, I simply set the tape aside.  Careful not to accidentally throw it away with all the old receipts and bits of trash from my purse, I continued decluttering.  I then placed that piece of tape in our Ella memory box.

When Ella went back to the hospital for her second and final time, she had a full head of wavy brown hair.  Little girl had some awesome hair, and I had looked forward to watching it grow in, curious to see what it would finally be like – straight, curly, kinky, soft, coarse?  Who knew?  I just knew that she was a beautiful baby, and her sweet head of hair added to her beauty.

But spending most of her time in bed, in a hospital bed no less, wreaked havoc on her hair.  We were never 100% sure, but we believed that the stress of hospitalization and probably the variety of medicines she took greatly contributed to her hair loss.  She started losing almost all of her lovely hair until all that was left on her head were wispy strands.  To add insult to injury, the hair she did have on the back of her head developed knots that were too far gone to comb through.  Those knots had to be cut out of her hair.  That’s how Ella came to have her first haircut, and that’s why those knots were saved in a ratty, folded piece of tape.

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While we were at the hospital with Ella, my husband and I were required to wear purple plastic wristbands, labeled in permanent marker with Ella’s patient ID number.  The bands identified us as parents of a patient.  We also had similar wristbands as residents of the Ronald McDonald House, though they were yellow.  We wore these bands for the entirety of Ella’s hospitalization.  By the time we were finally home, the wristbands were pretty worn.  Months had passed since the bands were first placed on our wrists, so the colors were faded, the edges rolled, the ID number no longer quite as clear or dark.

My husband and I had worn similar wristbands during Ella’s first hospital stay and had removed them upon bringing her home.  We were finally home with our sweet girl, and even after those “short” five weeks at the hospital, the bands were nothing to look at.  A bit on the ragged side and no longer needed, we didn’t give their removal a second thought.  We wanted to get on with the business of living at home as a family and no longer needed to be easily identified as PICU parents.

Unlike our homecoming that first time, we didn’t immediately remove the bands after Ella died, when we were finally home again but without our baby girl.  In those first days upon our return, we were still too shell-shocked and too numb in our grief to think about something as trivial as wristbands.  When we did finally think about it and talk it over together, both my husband and I had already privately decided that we weren’t ready to cut off the bands.  We weren’t ready to remove that symbol of Ella’s life at the hospital, to remove the outward signs of our roles as parents of a sick child.  We weren’t willing to let go of something, even a small, dirty, seemingly insignificant sign, which represented the place that had been her home and the time that had been her life.  We wore those bands when she was alive.  To cut them off would be to acknowledge how unnecessary those bands would forever be.

My husband and I wore those wristbands for several months following Ella’s death.  The yellow RMH band was amazingly sturdy, lasting through all manner of activities, but the purple PICU band took a beating.  It peeled, its layers separated and the formerly purple shade replaced by a paler, discolored version of itself.  We tried to use tape and glue to keep our bands together.  Toward the end, my husband’s band finally gave up the ghost; mine was held together by paper clips and sheer willpower.  Those raggedy wristbands had surprising staying power.  It was only after both of my husband’s wristbands had finally fallen off in October, well over a year after they were first placed on the wrist, that I considered removing mine.

October was a rough month from start to finish for my husband and me.  Not only was I dealing with my second cold of the season, but I was also grappling with a frustrating bout of writer’s block.  In addition, my husband and I were bracing ourselves for two anniversaries, the one-year anniversary of Ella’s adoption day and the ten-month mark since her death, anniversaries that happened to sandwich my husband’s birthday.  Last year I had jokingly told my husband that I got him a daughter for his birthday, so how could he ever top that?  This year we didn’t feel much like celebrating any of it.  To top it all off, we were mentally preparing ourselves for a return to the children’s hospital where Ella died.  It was a lot to handle mentally, emotionally, and spiritually, all in one very somber month.  It was only when we as a family decided to return to the hospital for a service of remembrance that I considered removing the wristbands.

Surprisingly, my boys had more of an issue with the removal of my wristbands than I did.  They knew that I had been thinking about obtaining a more permanent reminder of my sweet Ella, so they didn’t want me to remove the bands until that reminder was in place.  It was time, though, and my decision was made.  I brought scissors in the car, and I cut the bands off during the drive to the hospital.

 

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There are so many reminders of my sweet Ella in my everyday life.  There are so many things that keep memories of her so close to the surface, whether it’s something as obvious as her picture on the fridge or something as subtle as a random line from a random song on the radio.  There are so many reminders; yet there are so few relics.  There are so few things that she touched or that touched her, so few things that were strictly Ella’s or here because of Ella.  And it is because there are so few that it was difficult to let go of one, even a ratty plastic wristband or knotted hair in a folded piece of tape.

When you can’t hold your little girl anymore, you cling that much tighter to what you can hold – the reminders that you keep around you, the items that touched her and that were a part of her short life, the relics that didn’t go into the grave with her.  You cling to them, and you try to be grateful for them because they give you something of her being that is tangible - annoying in their seeming insignificance, invaluable only to you, painful because they are not her, but tangible nonetheless.

Perhaps the wristbands were less relics and more reminders.  Perhaps…but the relics we do possess have value beyond measure.  We will be eternally grateful to the two off-duty nurses who came to the hospital on the night Ella died not only to offer their condolences and say good-bye but to take time to make molds of Ella’s little hands and feet.  Such poor substitutes for her sweet, graceful hands and her cute, kicky feet, but we are so grateful for those substitutes!  We are so thankful for the nurse who not only accompanied Ella’s sweet body to the morgue but who made sure to obtain a lock of her hair for us.  I’ll never be able to brush her hair or put big, pink bows in it, but I have a lock of hair from her beautiful head.  I am grateful for those relics, even if they stay packed away in a memory box for now.  I might not look at them often, but I know that they are there.

Yet when I look at any of Ella’s old clothing, I will probably always experience a twinge of regret.  All of her dirty laundry was cleaned shortly after we came home.  Such a simple task, doing the laundry, but when you’ll never again be able to soak up the scent of your baby, such an oversight is lamentable.  That’s why the jacket I was wearing when I held her for the last time won’t be washed or worn again, the small stains from her tears and her boogers still on the shoulders from when I held her most of her last day.  That’s why the shirt my husband was wearing when he held her for the last time still hangs unwashed and unworn in his closet.

And that’s why Ella’s beloved daddy blankie was not buried with her but instead remains in our room on my pillow, so I can hug it to myself, so I can cover my face with it to try to figure out why in the world she liked to sleep that way, and so I can kiss it goodnight as I whisper a prayer to my saint.

Thinking about all of this and writing it down - exposing all of this to you - makes me wonder if I’m not taking it all a bit too far.  Am I going overboard in my attachment to things, or is this the norm?  Is this just a part of grief – the desire to hold on to everything, to cling to these relics as though they’re life preservers, to assign value simply because of who touched them rather than because of what they are?  Is it wrong to be so materialistic when the materials you covet are the ones your daughter touched?  If it is wrong, I don’t plan on being right.  I don’t plan on letting go of these relics anytime soon.

As the first anniversary of Ella’s death approaches, I’m sure I’ll be thinking more and more of the reminders and relics we have from her too-short life.  The grief I thought I had under control is much closer to the surface now, and I have at times a tenuous grip on my emotions.  But I’m trying to be understanding and patient with myself.  I’m not necessarily embracing it, but I’m not hiding from it nor am I hiding it from family.  When the topic of Ella came up in conversation at the dinner table causing more than one of us to cry, we talked through the tears, unembarrassed to still be so sad and to cry so easily.  When I sobbed in my bathroom the other afternoon for missing Ella so desperately, I welcomed the long hug and the comfort that my 11yo offered instead of hiding the sadness or isolating myself until the ache subsided.  And when I cried during Mass on Friday, I didn’t try to stop the tears; instead, I let them flow and cried out to the only One Who can heal this pain, “Oh my Jesus, I miss her so much!”

I cling to the relics that I have from my sweet saint.  For today it is enough to know that they are there for the holding if the need arises, if the heartache lessens enough for me to see that small hand mold and to touch that sweet foot mold, if the memory of saving that silly knotted hair brings a smile rather than a tear.  Perhaps one day I’ll decide that the worn out wristbands, long removed from my arm, can finally be thrown away, having served their purpose but no longer needed.

These relics are temporary, treasured only for as long as her memory is alive.  But the one relic of my sweet Ella’s life that I’ll treasure more than any is one that I may not be able to see or touch but can most certainly feel.  I will treasure the intangible relic that was her love and that is my love for her.  A love that powerful and that deep and that true does not end with death.  A love like that is.  It doesn’t become worn with age, and unlike the relics that remain in Ella’s memory box, it can be freely shared and felt by others.

The love that my sweet saint blessed me with is truly the finest treasure of all and is the only relic that I’ll be able to take with me when I see my Ella again.

 

St. Ella, pray for us!

Bad Memory

My 8yo does not like Granny Smith apples.  He says that they are too tart and sour.  My husband and I like them, though.  My husband eats them whole and unpeeled while I eat mine peeled, cored, and sliced – the better to dip them into the peanut butter jar!  I have a Granny Smith apple a day with lunch, so apples are always in the house.  But my kiddo much prefers the sweeter red delicious variety.  He asked me to buy some for his school lunches, and since I want to encourage healthy snack choices, I said I would get some.  He asked me to buy those red delicious apples several times over the course of a few weeks.  It only took me three trips to two different stores to finally remember to get them. 

I’ve never had a fantastic memory.  Even way back when – before marriage, before kids, before Ella – my memory was average at best, and then after kids came into the picture, I just started blaming my bad memory on them!  When I try to recall life events, I have to first remember where I lived when the event took place and then figure out the year and/or grade I was in to help connect the dots and fill in the blanks.  Maybe this is a problem all military brats deal with – having to catalog memories by which duty station or state you lived in at the time?  Anyway, for childhood memories, I can at least rely on my sister’s excellent memory to help me out.  My sister can very clearly and specifically remember events from when she was a toddler.  She even remembers when I was an infant, and she was only two and a half years old at the time!  I, on the other hand, can barely remember last week…or yesterday, if I’m going to be honest. 

I can’t remember to buy the apples my son asks for.  In the time it takes me to walk the 17 steps from the first floor of our home to the second, I forget why I’m making the trip.  As soon as I step away from the computer, I can’t remember to respond to emails or messages.  If I don’t write it down, type it as a note on my cell phone, or make a list and then make another list that I’ll actually read, then I just plain don’t remember anything anymore.  My memory has always been just slightly less than good.  On a scale of one to ten, my memory was meh.  But since Ella died, it’s gone from bad to wait….what was I talking about? 

My memory is shot to hell, yet I can remember every blasted detail of Ella’s last days and of the weeks that preceded and followed her death.  It’s a slightly cruel twist of fate that those memories are the ones in the forefront of my mind and in such bright and vivid Technicolor.  It’s unfair that all of the good memories of her short life are overshadowed by the overwhelmingly bad memories, the painful memories, the whyGodwhy? memories.  It’s just crap that so many tears follow so closely on the heels of such fleeting smiles when I do try to recall some good times.  It breaks my heart that, though I can’t quit staring at her pictures on the fridge, in the bedroom, on the computer, or on the visor in the car, I feel guilty for wondering if my trying to remember the good times does more harm than good, and if all of the reminders – the sweet, gorgeous, beautiful reminders – just amplify and intensify the pain that would be there anyway. 

My day-to-day memory is shot all to hell, but my Ella-centric memories are beyond intact.  I remember the specific names of the eight different things that were wrong with her heart, and I could point out or even sketch where they would be on a diagram of a heart.  I remember all of the medicines that Ella was on throughout the months of her care, and I even remember some of the dosages.  I remember the room numbers of all of the rooms Ella was in for the 5+ months she was hospitalized, and I remember the patient code I had to use to get into the PICU.  I remember the names of all of the doctors, nurses, therapists and support techs that took care of Ella.

I remember the not-so-calm before the storm, the time before it really hit the fan.  I remember when the decision was made to try intubating and sedating my Ella.  I remember trying to catch my breath while crying and telling a doctor to not leave Ella’s side while I quickly took a restroom break.  I remember the look on one particular nurse’s face when she and I made eye contact in the hall as she hurriedly grabbed something from (what I guess was) the crash cart, the strained, shocked look of holy shit - NOT this, not now, not her!  I remember looking into the doctor’s eyes when she said that the medical team was doing compressions and that though the doctor wasn’t crying, her eyes were moist and red-rimmed.  I remember the crowd of doctors and nurses in the hall because there was only so much space in Ella’s room.  I remember walking into her room and seeing that she was surrounded by so many doctors and nurses.  I remember hearing someone say loudly, “It’s the mom!  Mom’s here!” and sensing that they were making way for me while I focused on getting to Ella.  I remember the weight of her when I scooped her up into my arms, not waiting for anyone to clear lines or clean up.  I remember that in the middle of Last Rites during the Litany of Saints, the doctor who had placed his stethoscope on Ella’s chest looked up and shook his head.  I remember just kissing her sweet head over and over and over again and feeling her temperature slowly slowly slowly cool. 

I remember so much.  I remember it as though it were yesterday, as though I just left the hospital a moment ago, as though I just buried my sweet baby girl.  I remember every moment, but I can’t remember to buy a bag of damned freaking apples. 

Earlier this year I read a couple of posts by Catholic blogger Jennifer Fulwiler.  She wrote about witnessing her neighbor’s grisly and fatal motorcycle accident and about learning how to handle and process that incident.  In her piece Therapy and the Spiritual Life, Fulwiler explained why she chose to go to therapy.  She had been against the general idea of therapy for a long time but had gotten to a point in the post-trauma grieving process when something had to give.  I read the blog post with great interest because I could relate to the information she presented about how the brain actually changes due to trauma.  It just made sense that the brain would store traumatic memories differently and process them differently than it does the “normal”, non-traumatic memories.  The information that Ms. Fulwiler provided shed some much appreciated light on why my memories of everything involving Ella’s death have yet to make the leap from present tense to past.  I haven’t made the decision to transition from cheap therapy to professional therapy for a variety of reasons, but my eyes and my mind have certainly been opened to the benefits offered by the latter. 

I have a bad memory except with regard to the stranglehold my brain has on all of the bad memories.  But for as wretchedly painful as it is to relive the events of Ella’s death, I’m not sure that I’m ready to let them go.  I’m not sure I could let them go without feeling like I’m letting her go all over again.  I will be ready one day, I think.  I’ll be able to see pictures of her sweet face with a tear-free smile on my own.  I’ll be able to watch the video of her saying “mama” without desperately keening for her.  And instead of being resentful because of the short time I had with Ella, I’ll be able to be grateful for the time I did have with her here on earth - the eight months and seven days I had with the most awesome baby on the planet. 

One day I’ll be able to live with the bad memories because I’ll be able to make my peace with them.  I will truly be able to make peace with God’s will in all of this because His will is perfect though my understanding of it is not.  In the meantime, I’m hoping and praying for a peace that surpasses all understanding, but I have to admit…some days I’d settle for a resignation that numbs even a little bit of this heartache.

St. Ella, pray for us!

In Appreciation of Nurses

She treats your daughter like gold because she truly enjoys caring for her.  She goes out of her way to help with bath time even when your baby isn’t her patient that day.  She gives your daughter a silly nickname because your stinky little girl earned it.  She introduces your baby to Stevie Ray Vaughn music and wagon rides.  She sews a cozy blanket for your baby’s crib.  She knits cute, wee baby booties.  She brings in cute, girly sheets and soft blankets for your baby’s hospital bed because she knows that the hospital room is home for the time being.

He takes time to explain so many foreign medical terms to you and your husband, and then he explains them again and again and again because you just don’t understand.  He becomes instant family because he’s a friend of a friend of yours, a touch of the familiar in such an unfamiliar place.  He checks in on your daughter whenever he gets a short break from his job because he loves seeing her sweet smile.  Before his shift starts, he also comes to hold her and help feed her.    

She takes an interest in your entire family and remembers everyone‘s names.  She chats with your boys and makes them laugh because she knows it’s hard for them to spend another weekend at this hospital with their ailing sister.  She brings you a Mass schedule, a map of the area, a list of weekend activities for the family.  She does the pickle dance for your daughter and the bacon dance with your son.  She talks college football with your husband, and she takes all of your gentle kidding because she knows it’s all in good fun.  She prays over your baby and for you and your family because she knows that it’s been incredibly tough.  She teaches your boys the important life skill of making fart sounds with just a straw and an armpit.  She hugs you because it’s obvious that you NEED a hug, and she accepts a hug from you on a rough day because she understands that sometimes human touch is the best medicine. 

They buy your little girl a sweet Halloween outfit because when they see it, they think of her and just know she’ll be the most adorable lady bug in town.  They bring in clothes, both brand new and hand-me-down, because every little girl should be stylishly dressed and pretty in pink.  They get pit bull fierce while advocating for your child’s care, and they have your baby’s best interests at heart.  They comfort you when you’re scared out of your mind, and they joke around with you when you‘re about to crack from the tension.

They come to the hospital in in the middle of the night on their day off because they’ve heard the horrible, heartbreaking news.  After taking care of your baby for months and months, they can’t help but cry over her with you, anointing her head with their tears and kissing her one last time.  They mourn with you because your sweet daughter stole their hearts in such a short time.  They make a mold of your daughter’s hand and of her foot because they know you’ll need to see them and touch them again one day. 

He helps you bathe your sweet girl for the last agonizing time.  He makes sure you have a lock of her hair, and then he doesn’t leave your daughter’s side when she’s wheeled away for the final time.

She texts you just to see how you’re doing, to make sure you know she’s there if you need her, to say she’s still praying for you.  She helps organize meals for your family during your time of need.  They leave messages on your FB wall and write emails to say they’re thinking of you.  So many of them send cards and private messages.  They visit you on their days off.  They attend your baby’s wake and funeral Mass, and they come from one hour away, two hours away, five states away to be there. 

And though life goes on and there are others to care for, they take time to hang your daughter’s picture in the nurses’ lounge because they miss her sweet smile and will never forget her.

They are nurses. 

They don’t just have a job; they have a vocation, a calling that many of us are unwilling or unable to answer.  Being a nurse isn’t just what they do.  It is who they are.  They don’t leave their work at the office at the end of the day because so many of them carry their work home in their hearts.  They mourn the gut-wrenching losses as deeply as they celebrate the heartwarming triumphs.  They work so hard every day for people they’ve just met, for people who probably don‘t know how hard the work really is, for people they may only see for one 12-hour shift.  They further their educations because they know that there’s more for them to learn.  They want to know all there is to know so that they’ll be better able to help their patients.

My daughter lived for eight months and one week.  She spent a total of five months and three weeks of her life in the PICU, so that meant that I spent five months and three weeks in the PICU.  The nurses we encountered during that time were without a doubt the kindest, most compassionate, most professional people I have ever met.  They were genuine and caring - truly the salt of the earth - and they became my friends and my family.  I knew that if I left for the night to stay at the Ronald McDonald House, my sweet baby girl was in the best hands - hands that loved her, cared for her and did their best for her.  Because of those nurses, my boys will know that, after G-o-d, m-o-m and d-a-d, some of the most important letters in the alphabet are RN.

I can’t speak for all nurses when I say this - heck, I can’t speak for any nurses because I’m not one - but I truly believe that to the best nurses out there, all patients are heart patients, no matter what ails them.  The best nurses, like the ones who cared for my daughter, don’t just mend the booboos you can see or treat the illnesses you can diagnose.  The best nurses truly tend to the hearts and souls of all of their patients and their patients’ families, and they do so with their own open hearts and with their own caring and compassionate souls.  At least, that’s what they did for me, and I know that that’s what they did for my daughter. 

The healing hands and caring hearts of nurses truly do the work of God here on earth.  May God watch over all nurses everywhere, and may He bless them always.

 

St. Ella, pray for us!