D.O.A.

When I was 15 years old, I killed myself. One could say it was accidental but then one might be lying. Looking back, it must have been a very upsetting and even humiliating experience for my mother. Sorry mom.

Why did I do it? Oh, what a complicated question to which there is no simple answer.

The door was open. It has always been open for as long as I can remember. And one day, I just stepped through it.

I have been asked what I saw on the other side and the answer is nothing. Perhaps an overdose of drugs and alcohol blots out the shining light...

I saw nothing, but I learned something... Death answers to God.

(God was kind enough to remind me of this yesterday at our staff picnic. A friend mentioned that he had once died... and suddenly I recalled a day long ago, a day I had almost forgotten, a day that taught me that God calls the shots, not me.)

The Open Door

I feel this poem...

Death Barged In
by Kathleen Sheeder Bonanno

In his Russian greatcoat
slamming open the door
with an unpardonable bang,
and he has been here ever since.

He changes everything,
rearranges the furniture,
his hand hovers
by the phone;
he will answer now, he says;
he will be the answer.

Tonight he sits down to dinner
at the head of the table
as we eat, mute;
later, he climbs into bed
between us.

Even as I sit here,
he stands behind me
clamping two
colossal hands on my shoulders
and bends down
and whispers to my neck,
From now on,
you write about me.

(From Slamming Open the Door by Kathleen Sheedar Bonanno. Copyright © 2009 by Kathleen Sheedar Bonanno. Used without the permission of Alice James Books and so I hope you go buy a copy so they don’t send me to prison. All rights reserved.)

She knows what I know, only she knows it better than I.

Death opened the door and I cannot get it to close all the way.

It doesn’t seem to matter that Kimani is a healthy 25 lbs. of sheer power and joy. It doesn’t matter that she has 21 signs and says things, and can almost walk. It doesn’t matter that when she eats peaches or berries or watermelon that the sweet juice bursts forth and trickles down her chin. Even her wild laughter cannot bolt the lock.

I can see him, I see the shadow he casts from that thin crack of space where the door is still slightly ajar.

“Go away,” I yell at him pushing hard against the smooth cold wood. My efforts are futile and he is nonplussed, still tossing golden coins in the air.

The B-Side of Summer

I used to love my flowers. They reminded me of summertime, carefree days and warmth. But now my brain has tangled them with imagery of my baby suffering. I can no longer disassociate this blooming flower...



from these bruised flowers.





And when the hot sun, that I used to love, beats down on me I think of how her mouth and nose looked when I would come back in the mornings. No mercy from the imaginary sun that dried her lips into rock candy and caused her nose to bleed.





The smell of fresh cut grass tells me that today there may be some skin missing or an infection brewing.





As I watch the ants coming and going, all over their little hills,



I see the needle pricks. Once, after her surgery, I counted 47 holes in her wrists and upper inner thighs... and then I stopped counting. With nothing left to hit on the outsides, it went in under her armpit.





I debate whether I should destroy the pictures and burn her accoutrements. Will summertime return to me anew if I do?



Maybe you should talk to someone my husband says. That is why I write, I say.

Can a Broken Heart Forget?

Two years ago last Friday she came and rocked my world. I had already been around the block a time or two. Lived through parents’ divorces, beloved boyfriends cohorting with best friends, surgeries, and plenty of bad news. But as Hillary Johnson put it, I had never really learned to cry.

Oh, but I did learn how then. I learned that nothing, nothing hurts like losing a child. In the end, as you know, we got to keep her. But there is this little part of my heart that doesn’t believe it, that can’t trust it, that won’t let me forget.

A Very Special Gift

Ruby’s big brother Grady has an amazing ability to draw. He has decided to use that talent to help save Yana, a little girl in an Eastern European orphanage who has a family committed to her. Grady is donating a custom 5x7 single subject drawing to the winner of Yana’s 100 Good Wishes fundraiser.

Here is how it works. Donate any amount to Yana’s 100 Good Wishes fund and you will be entered to win. Once the 100 wishes are filled, Lisa (Yana’s mama) will put all the donor’s names it a hat and select a winner. The winner gets to send a photo to Grady and he will create a gorgeous, one-of-a-kind graphite pencil drawn replica of it. This gift is valued at $100.

Don’t miss your chance to win something special from this up and coming amazing artist. Check out more of Grady’s work on his blog, The Way of the Pencil.

Straight from the Horse's Mouth

800 children and only 40 childcare providers, whew. No wonder they only get one or two diaper changes a day. Pay close attention to the part about what happens to the children with Down syndrome. This is why we are saving Mallory and Peach.

Dear Anon, Now That You Mentioned It

I’ll speak to your comment (left on my last post) in the order that you mentioned your concerns.

1. As far as I know there are no children in this country dying of starvation and dehydration tied to metal cribs in mental institutions. If I am wrong, and you know this for sure, please hang up and dial 911 and direct the authorities to the scene of the crime.

I have not forgotten the children in my own backyard, I just haven’t seen any there that need me to adopt them the way these girls do.

2. I wish the US made that its calling. If so, the world would be a better place.

3. There is a waiting list to adopt a child with Down syndrome in the United States. There are over 200 families waiting at any given time. Most of these babies don’t even make it into foster care and are snapped up right at their hospital of birth.

4. If you have a bed and food, and medical insurance, you should adopt those children that you know need it. Saving a child’s life has nothing to do with national borders. If you and everyone who felt like you do adopted a US child out of foster care, well we wouldn’t even need foster parents anymore! I look forward to following your adoption blog, please post a link for us.

5. It is actually 25 thousand dollars, plus 5k more for the second one.

6. We can afford to raise two more children. Our finances have been gone over and proven to an accredited agency that has recommended us as being able to provide a good home and a bright future to two more children.

7. We do not have 30 thousand dollars laying around, ‘tis sad but true. If you donated, we’d get it faster though ;-)

8. The worst kids of all? As judged against what criteria? Well, no worries, we had to prove that we carry private health insurance before we were approved to adopt... so your precious medicaid system is relatively safe from my little raiders.

9. Thank you for bringing this all up and giving me the opportunity to talk about these things.

Anonymous is not alone. Anonymous is not the first person to hint around (ok, so anon didn't hint) that what we are doing... well... might cost American taxpayers money someday. Money taken away from you by our gov't and spent on people with special needs. Well, yeah, the possibility is there, and I’m sorry about that. Hopefully our trust will always provide for our girls, but if it doesn’t, I ask you now to forgive me for saving their lives.