Heartbreak #4829

The school psychologist has a voice like a child. She sounds much too young to be telling me that the classroom teacher has asked her to do an assessment of Kimani’s mouthing behaviors so that a formal plan of action can be created to discourage such things as eating the wood chips on the playground.

It never ends... the things that don’t happen for her as they are supposed to. These things, they jump out like a springing puppet in an old-fashioned jack-in-the-box. The twisted metal handle with the wooden knob is always turning, the song of simple notes is always playing... always, always, always... and then BOING! Heartbreak #4829. (But really, who's counting?)



She is not delayed. She is detoured. She will not be coming back around this way. She tromps on delicate feet into uncharted territory. Her tiny fists are balled up. If you were to pry them open, you would find the hearts of her parents, crushed, one in each hand.

Reclaiming the Forest in Me

This week, one of my Artist Way tasks was to take a walk. Simple enough, eh? Oh yeah, and I am supposed to write a list of affirmations so I figured I would mulitask by saying positive things to myself as I walked. I did not choose to walk on my quiet dead-end street. Instead I suited up—to thwart the ticks—with white socks pulled over pant legs, old sneakers, and a long white tank shirt, and headed for the woods out back.

As a child I played almost everyday in the woods that surrounded our home. I was an Indian who had a bent stick tied with string for a bow and skinny straight sticks bundled together for arrows. I led imaginary hunting parties all through those acres of forest and creek. We caught crayfish, snuck up on deer and squirrels, and fought encroaching white men. If I close my eyes I can still see each rise and fall of the forest carpet that lay next to the creek. Plush browned pine needles, years and years worth, made the path soft under my bare feet. I know where all the good stepping rocks are as far up and down that lazy bubbling creek as my territory goes. I know where there are skeletons of animals, trees, and even a mill from yesteryear. That forest is etched into my being... (I am a beautiful Eastern White Pine tree that sprouted in its shadow so many moons ago.)

The woods I enter today I am not known to. As long as we have lived here, I have never ventured back beyond our land line. It doesn’t look like the forest I grew up in. The trees are mainly tall oaks and the floor is wet with rain water that has nowhere to go and suffers a swampy existence beneath dead scalloped leaves and rotted acorn tops hidden deceptively under the Trillium and Fern that are rampant here. After wandering twenty yards or so beyond what’s mine, I am stymied and cannot see a clear path to follow. (I am brave and will go forward regardless of the obstacles.)


A vision of my inner self floats out over the green blanket which is also floating, a foot or so above the muck. “I am inside myself,” I think. I can see that there is a small brown knoll of pine forest across the fifty yards of skunk cabbage that indicates there is standing water out there. I have no galoshes, thus I cannot cross. Just like my writing mind... I can see the story on the other side but I am not equipped to cross the bog of my brain to get there. I am stuck creatively and I am stuck in real life at the edge of a swamp. Many great oaks have fallen here, unable to withstand the mire. (But I am a pine tree, strong and flexible.)

 I carry on in my efforts. Invisible and impossibly long spider web trails connect one baby oak to another, tearing and sticking to my arms and face as I pass through. One single bright red berry on the ground calls to me... an offering of hope from a tiny plant that seems barely able to hold it up. There is a long downed oak that runs far out into the expanse of giant bulging green leaves. Perhaps it can serve as a bridge. Its dark slippery bark is still soaked from days of heavy spring rains. Ten or so steps along it I realize that I do not have the balance I took for granted thirty years ago and there is no choice but to turn back. Headed toward home, I veer off to try one more way that might take me around the deeper areas. It leads to a tree that succumbed to an ice storm last winter, its roots reaching absurdly toward the sky. (I, too, will reach toward the sky.)

I remember thinking when that tree fell I would take my boys on a little hike to see it after the winter passed. There could be a squirrel's nest in it—like the one I found in a fallen tree when I was a little girl—or maybe a large bird nest... that of an owl or a hawk. Today I could not even get around it’s roots without stepping in a gloppy mess, so I opted to wait for a drier period... maybe the high heat of summertime. (I am a talented writer and my time will come.)

That was it. From there I headed into my neighbor’s backyard, enjoying the flowers of the season all the way home. Perhaps there should be some disappointment for not making it over to explore the other side of the woods but I don’t feel that. I simply feel a powerful urge to buy a pair of knee high water boots. (I will do what it takes to live my dream.)

Creative Aspirations

I like to think that I am creative and that I have some talent as a writer. (I think I am funny too, although you’d never know it from reading my blog.) For as long and as far back as my memory goes, there is an immutable urge to write something good.

For a while I worked on an adventurous tale of deception, desire, and magic set in 14th century Romania and France (though France wasn’t France back then.) The story was born on my couch just before I started grad school. After a minor surgery, I was stuck there on that couch recuperating for days. Once I ran out of magazines to read, bingo lottery scratch off tickets to scrape, and movies I’d rented... there was nothing left to do but watch t.v. Very late on one of those confinement nights, a movie started and it looked like it was going to be good... there was real potential bubbling in that cauldron and then it turned out to be The Beastmaster or something or other like that, and I was disappointed. So I asked myself, “What story would you have wanted to hear?” I scribbled the answer down in a green spiral notebook and that became my project for a time.

I never finished writing that story. Life got in the way... grad school, a husband, a bunch of kids, and then I changed. Once that happened, a magical story didn’t seem appropriate anymore.

But now that I am bored out of my mind cleaning up poop, cooking dinner, washing clothes, and reading A Mother for Chocofor the zillionth time... I find myself percolating with an itch to write. It isn’t that simple though... I mean, I can’t just sit down and do it... I feel like I need some foreplay or something.

As all this was going ‘round in my brain, I stumbled on a FB post by LL Barkat referencing an invitation to participate in a virtual book club experience where the selection is Julia Cameron’s The Artist's Way. I have that book. It was a gift from my Artist Aunt. I remember really liking the idea of the book way back when but never actually doing more than one or two of the “tasks.” I ran out to the garage and dug through five or so plastic bins of books until I located it. I am ready.

Next Wednesday I will begin a journey to “recover my creativity from a variety of blocks, including limited beliefs, fear, self-sabotage, jealousy, guilt, addictions, and other inhibiting forces, replacing them with artistic confidence and productivity.” Ok, my dear aspiring writer friends... do any of those blocks apply to you? Want to join the quest to “connect your creativity with the creative energies of the universe”? If so, check The Artist’s Way out of your local library or buy yourself a copyand meet me over at the Tweetspeak Poetry blog on May 23rd.

The Day I Dreaded

When the phone rang at 11:07 a.m. and the caller ID flashed “Private” on the screen, I was not surprised to hear the pediatrician’s voice saying hello. I had just been on the phone with her office to ask for vaccination info for camp forms. So although a call directly from the doctor herself was not necessary, it was not alarming.

“Hi there,” she said softly, “I need to talk to you about Masha’s lab results.”

Instantly I felt sick to my stomach and braced myself to hear her say that the CBC was bad and Masha has Leukemia.

“Remember I ordered an HIV screen because she is adopted? It came back positive.”

She continued on... explaining antibodies tests and actual virus tests... Masha’s blood had failed the virus test even though the antibody test came back negative. Could I take her into the hospital for further testing... here is the phone number... they have her records and they are waiting for her. My composure stayed steady on the phone as my brain repeated over and over, “It’s not a death sentence anymore, it’s not a death sentence anymore, it’s not a death sentence anymore.”

As an eighties girl, I was wide awake when AIDS made its public debut. Within a couple years the disease traveled from the drug and homosexual male communities into dentists’ offices and blood transfusions. We were all appropriately terrified of the mysterious disease that had no cure and eventually ended in death. Those who had AIDS or its precursor HIV became pariahs.

Before we hung up, our pediatrician gave me one small drop of hope in the words, false positive. Maybe, just maybe, this was all a big mistake. I pushed the call disconnect button and burst into tears.

It is doubtful my husband understood much of what I sobbed into his ear but the HIV part got through to him and he was home with me within a half hour. Together we cried and wondered how on earth this could be possible. She came from a wealthy family who had other children before and after her, so it is doubtful it was transferred to her perinatally. She had never been in surgery so a transfusion was unlikely. What other possibility was there... bad vaccination practices at the orphanage?

Jumbled. That is how the thoughts come in times like this. I remembered a bad bite on Masha’s back last year... the dental indentations had looked suspiciously like Kimani’s mouthful of teeth and now I worried if HIV could be transmitted through a human bite. Maybe it wasn’t Kimani who bit her... maybe I would have to tell the school and they would tell the other parents... and as if Down syndrome were not enough to get in the way of her up-and-coming social life, surely HIV would be. Who in their right mind invites Typhoid Mary to their kid’s birthday party? Kimani had meningitis, Masha has HIV, and what’s on the agenda for Autumn... Leukemia? WTF? This is why I avoided getting their labs done... this is the day I dreaded. The enemy I can’t see is the one who has had the most power to destroy my babies.

My best friend was at my house in a matter of moments after my call to her. She would babysit for us so that when Masha came home from school, her father and I could whisk her off to the hospital to meet with the infectious disease specialist. Putting her in her carseat I started crying all over again... she just seems so strong and healthy... She asked me if I was hurt and she leaned in to kiss me. It is ok to kiss her I reminded myself... HIV is not a booger disease and a little bit of runny nose or wet lips was not going to make me get it. Oh my god, I don’t want to be afraid to love on my daughter.

 

The little old lady “bug” doctor, the same one who hovered over Kimani in PICU trying to pinpoint the force that was sickening her week after week, walked into the room and said, “Well hello. I know you but who is this little one?” Introductions and explanations were made and then she reviewed Masha’s translated medical record. There it was. Anemia. The doctor explained that in some countries blood transfusions are given to anemic children.

The needle jumped up a notch... this whole time bits and pieces of information pushed the line of fear up or down on the graph in my heart. The doctor explained all of the tests given for HIV, and that there are two different strains and that Masha had actually not yet been tested for the virus itself (the needle dropped down a notch). In fact they would be drawing blood to do that test right after our meeting. The results would take a week and she herself would call us to deliver them. She took my hands in her cool, bumpy grandmotherish hands and looked me in the eyes. “Deep in my heart I think this could be a false-positive but if it is not, you must remember that it is not the end of the world for her. This is a chronic disease and we can treat it.” I felt my cheek muscle tense up and wiggle but I did not cry. I held on to those two words that might possibly erase this whole thing... false positive.

For the next couple of days I couldn’t help but remember how I'd had a similar bit of hope while pregnant with Kimani. They didn’t know for sure if she had Down syndrome, and I had held fast to the word “maybe.” And then there was the hope that the meningitis had not caused brain damage...

On Friday, Dr. L. called with the good news that Masha is fine. Her specialized blood test for the Human Immunodeficiency virus was negative. This chapter has a happy ending.

School Pictures

Remember last year’s school picture? I am still ashamed of my initial reaction to it. I don’t know... if one of my other children brings home a crappy school pic I either laugh it off or shrug it off because it has no connection to anything emotional to me. But with Kimani everything is tied so tightly to my heart strings.

After school on the Thursday before spring break I was cleaning out the backpacks, Masha’s first, and there it was, the heavy crisp white picture envelope. I couldn’t wait to see my little cutie looking all schoolgirlish. Hmm, I was not bowled over. “Cute, but next time I need to do something different with her hair,” I thought.





Kimani’s backpack could have been sitting in a snake nest at that moment for all the hesitation I was feeling. Oh, dang it.... just open it and look. And when I did I caught a tiny woosh of air in my throat, followed by that strange muscle tightening that tells me I might cry. “She’s so beautiful,” my eyes said and all the rest of me agreed.

She Kissed Me

The first kiss... an unusual milestone to record. I don’t see a sticker for it in the baby calendar and yet I have faint memories of all my other babies kissing me sometime in that first year. Looking back I see that I never wrote it down in their baby books. I suppose that without prompting, I took it for granted.

I have been kissing Kimani since the day she was born. I can’t help myself. She is silky-skinned and delicious. For the most part she does not tolerate my advances. She turns her head, pushes me away, squeals “Nooo, noooo.” I have stopped taking it personally, maybe even stopped yearning for her to let me. But I have not stopped doing it... pressing my lips into her bare skin.

I haven’t stopped asking for kisses either. It is not like I beg everyday or anything but I do make it a point to request a kiss from her now and again. The answer is always no. That refusal hurts worse than most anything else in my world right now.

What is a kiss anyway? An expression, a communication, a message... a simple act that represents something else. The gesture is lost on her as are most things that come in disguise.

Autumn kisses me everyday, whenever she can, all day long. When I lift her out of her crib, smackeroo... she plants one on me. While she is sitting on the potty she leans in and “Muah” gets me. When I enter a room, whoosh... she blows one to me. I remember when they handed Autumn to me in that little office space of baby house 1 in Vorzel... I pulled her close and kissed the side of her face. Though she did not kiss me back, she has been making up for it ever since she figured out what kisses are for.

Truth be told though, a thousand baby kisses cannot make up for one Kimani kiss, one simple kiss that would mean so much.



On Friday, March 30th, in the late afternoon, I stood next to the kitchen table with my husband. We were looking at something I can’t even recall when I felt a tug from behind on my shirt. Kimani was in her highchair and she was pulling at me, with both hands. I turned toward her and leaned down a little to see what she wanted. She reached up and grabbed a fistful of my hair and then yanked me down close to her. Then she opened her mouth and tipped her face up to me. She kissed me... not once but twice.

She kissed me. She kissed me. She kissed me. She kissed me. Like a teenager swept away by love’s first touch, I hooted and hollered it, “She kissed me, did you see that? She kissed me!”

My God, I am so thankful... she kissed me.

Our Only Begotten Daughter

Like the aligning of distant planets prior to a cosmic event, bits and pieces of a revelation concerning Kimani line up inside my head.

For a long, long time I have wanted to know for what purpose it serves God to have allowed Kimani to get meningitis. There is no answer that satisfies. And since those cursed days of July 2008, I wander... lost in sorrow and anger.

Recently I heard an interview with musician Jeremy Camp where he talks about his wife’s attitude toward her terminal cancer. He recounts that she said, “If my situation brings one person to God, then it is all worth it.” The bitter voice inside my head replied, “Yeah, but would you say that if it was your child?”

I couldn’t.

The interview left me with that sole thought... what about when its your child instead of you. What Christian can answer me that?

Holding the book One Thousand Giftsin my hands, I read Ann Voskamp’s initial answer, “No, God, Your plans are a gutted, bleeding mess and I didn’t sign up for this and You really thought I’d go for this?” and a tear splashes down darkening a small spot on the page. I have been saying that very thing to God.

I have been saying no. I have been screaming NO! I have taken a stance, “No God, there is nothing, no reason good enough for letting Kimani be brain-damaged by meningitis.” In my anger, I have shown how ungrateful I am.

It is written in Genesis (a book I was made to reread this week for a class I am taking) that God said to Abraham, “Take your son, your only son Isaac, whom you love, and go to the land of Mori'ah, and offer him there as a burnt offering upon one of the mountains of which I shall tell you." Gen. 22:2. For those of you who aren’t up on Genesis, Abraham went but God spared Isaac at the last minute. In modern times who would obey that call from God to accept that their own child is the sacrifice? Not me.

Except for one little problem. It is already done, and my refusal of this as part of God’s plans for me has ruined our relationship. I can no longer participate in the Eucharist, the “Thanksgiving”, the communion with God. I am not able to “give thanks in all circumstances; for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus for you.” as instructed in 1Th 5:18.

I ask myself, “Is she no longer a reason to bow down in thankful praise?” That is the message I got from Ann... that the way back begins with “Thank you.”

So today I begin my journey back, “Thank you God for her beautiful blue eyes.”