Namesake

Dear Wren,

I still miss you.  I think about you daily.  Your sons are doing okay.  They're keeping it together and trying to move forward in their lives.  You'd be damn proud of them.  They send me recent photos of themselves standing tall with set jaws and square shoulders.  They try to act like it hurts less..and maybe on some level it does, but in quiet moments on the phone their voices crack.  Your boys miss their mama. 

I would give anything to be able to wrap my arms around them for just one moment, but they're fighting a war no one understands in a land very far away.  We pretend it's only for a brief moment.  We pretend it's not so far away.  We pretend we aren't scared that they'll die in some horrible way in that desert.  But we all know we are lying. 

You're going to have a namesake, Wren.  This is beautiful and precious and perplexingly painful.  It hurts that there will be a baby with your name who will never be cradled in your arms.  It hurts that the only reason she's being named after you is because you died agonizingly.  I try to pretend it doesn't hurt.  After all, a baby is a wonderful addition and she is already so wanted and so cherished.  I love her very much myself, and she isn't even born yet.  Very soon, though, there will be a beautiful baby girl with your name.  For some reason I cannot explain, it makes me ache for you so much more. 

I stifle the tears, push them away, save for a few I permit to fall in the solitude of the shower.  I still miss you so freaking much, how can it still hurt this much?  It's been over three years.  I blame my hormones, PMS, my stressful job, but that's total bullshit. 

Further compounding the hurt is the knowledge that your wee namesake is not going to be the only new babe.  There's a 9th baby due in our family.  Sadie is not going to be an only child for much longer.  I wait with baited breath, hoping with everything I have that the new addition will be our ninth niece and not our first nephew.  For the sake of all of the children, I hope we don't have any boys in this generation.  Doing so will limit our girls. This is a family of unequal valuation and I cannot bear the idea that the birth of a boy will change what the elders tell our bright, darling, precious nieces about their futures.  The sky is the limit for them...but if a boy is born they'll forever play second fiddle to him and he'll have more pressure on him than any human being should.  Give us another little girl so that all my clever, funny little girlies will still feel as special and cherished as they should.  They are EVERYTHING.  Where are you, Wren?  You would have fought for them.  It's hard fighting for them by myself..  I won't give up, but for God's sake, keeping the lions at bay alone is no easy task. 

So anyway, I love you.  I wish so much you could have seen the girlies this summer with me.  Gawd, they're so big.  There is so much you would have laughed at, so much that would have pleased you in that quiet, soft, full of gratitude way of yours.  Gemma still has her attitude.  Sadie has also developed a bit of one, but she is quickly straightened out and very, very funny.  Gemma and Camille are so awesomely gentle and generous with Sadie..it's very sweet. 

Come to think of it...this time last year I was mourning that my youngest niece, my Sadie-Girl was no longer a proper babe, and lamenting that no more infants were likely to be born in our family til the girlies have their own.  Truth be told, I'm terribly excited that there will be more tiny people to rock to sleep on the porch swing of the family cabin.  I just wish you were here to rock them with me, Wren.  There's no denying that you were the baby whisperer. 

It's late and I have to grab a few hours of sleep before getting up for work.  I miss you, dammit.  I hate closing my letters to you..which is so stupid..you're already dead.  "Goodbye" should only hurt once.  So goodnight, Wren.  If you were here, you'd tell me to have sweet dreams, you'd call me the pet name you had for me and you'd insist that I rest, not to worry so much, and to get my ass into bed.  So I'm going, but I miss you.  I hate that you died the way you did.  I hate that the idea of crawling into bed without having you to stroke my head makes my eyes fill with tears.  Yet I'll go..because I have to be responsible, I have to get up early, I have so much to take care of.  So g'night, sis.  I'm sending you all my love.

The Three Secrets to Life

I am extremely lucky to be an aunt to eight little girls. Though we are related, they are not technically my nieces. Yet as far as they've ever known, they are my girls - one hundred percent.  I was instantly smitten when the eldest of them was born and I've never looked back.  It's been an awesome ride.

To say I love them fiercely is a massive understatement. I love them with a raw ferocity that overwhelms and astounds me. It is an unwavering affection coupled with feral protectiveness. It is a love that wants to propel them into healthy, happy futures and to help mold them into strong, confident people. My commitment to them is steadfast and wholehearted; I'd sacrifice anything to help them thrive.

Wren loved me the way that I love my nieces.  Both in childhood and adulthood, I could count on her to be behind me.  She taught me when to fight and when to forgive.  I went to her for advice and a sympathetic ear countless times.  Sometimes I got a pep talk, sometimes I got a kick in the butt.  I always got what I needed.  She didn't just love me and support me, she armed me with knowledge and perspective and hope.  I try really hard to do that for the girls, even though they're awfully young for some of what I preach.

Every few days or so, my thoughts return to a conversation I had with one of the girls.  In hindsight, I'm simultaneously amazed at my own wisdom and worried that a different answer might have been better.  The exchange took place over a year ago, when five year old Maura was determined to keep me from catching my flight home.  Each time I picked up my luggage and made to leave, she'd screech "I forgot something!"  Thus far she had successfully mooched extra hugs, a joke, and an off the cuff limerick out of me while her parents rolled their eyes in the background.  I was half-way out the door when she launched another offensive.  "WAIT!" she hollered in a panic.  "You haven't taught me the secrets to life!"

It worked.  Dropping my bag, I waved off her parents' objections and scooped her into my arms.  "This is important, so you've gotta listen really carefully, okay?" I asked.  She nodded solemnly.  "There are three secrets to life.  Number one, trust your gut.  Listen to your head, listen to your heart and do what's best for you.  If something doesn't feel right, pay attention to that feeling.  Other people can offer insight, but the final decision is yours.  You already have everything you need to make the right choices for you.  Trust that.

"Number two, be kind to others.  Sometimes life is hard, we can help each other.  Remember though, trust your gut first.  You don't have to be nice or helpful to anyone who gives you bad vibes."

 Maura nodded knowingly.  "Yeah, like creepy people,"

"Right.  The third secret to life is just one word: BELIEVE.  Believe in your dreams, believe in everyday magic, believe in yourself, believe in hope, believe, believe, believe.  When you get discouraged and that feels like a bunch of junk, call me.  I'll help you believe again." 

And with that I kissed her forehead, told her I loved her, and her mom drove like a crazy person to get me to the airport.  Believe it or not, I made that flight. *grin*  Barely.

Singing Sand

If you read my Impeccable Misfit blog, some of this will sound familiar.  Forgive me, I'm still processing.  Happier posts coming soon. 

This isn't getting easier.  If anything, it just hurts more.  You weren't supposed to die, Wren.  Especially not like that.  It was excrutiating to see you in immense pain, emaciated and weak, lying there limp and helpless as the cancer ravaged your body.  You were our strong one.  You, the stubborn, vibrant, independent, spit-fire.  How could anything have defeated you?  I miss your lion loyalty and rebellious spirit.  I ache for your soft-spoken gentleness; your soothing words when I'm sad or feel alone.  I grew up with you leading the way.  You blazed the paths through the deep snow, I just followed behind and used the footholds you created.  You were so powerful, so sure.  I believed everything you ever told me.  You never told me you were going to die.

Your mother blames the doctors.  Your sisters blame our society's treatment of cancer, modern medicine in general.  I blame...I don't know.  Sometimes God, except that I basically told Him to fuck off after you died.  It's hard to blame something I refuse to believe in.  I blame the gene mutation, the poisonous combination of chromosomes that you and I share.  My risk is higher than yours.  Why did YOU die?  Statistically, the cancer is supposed to hit me.  The genetic counselor couldn't even pretend to think I'd make it through life without getting it.  He kept saying "When you get cancer" instead of "If you get cancer."  I was twenty-two when I sat in that room, frozen, mind reeling, the damning numbers on the page a dizzying blur.  Those numbers were mine.  THEY WERE NOT SUPPOSED TO BE YOURS. 

I never thought you'd have the mutation too.  If you have it, it's possible your sisters do too.  It's possible your nieces do too.  Your sons?  They certainly have it and are unable to prevent passing it on to any daughters they father.  We could do this sickening dance of death again and again and again.  You knew that.  It terrified you.

I never told you I have the gene mutation too.  For a long while, I never told anyone what I learned in the genetics lab building, because it was depressing and there's nothing that can be done about it anyway.  I left the lab and dumped the test results and  pamphlets in a box in the back of my closet, unread.  I vowed that this cancer would NEVER touch my life.  I would simply refuse to permit it to.  I would put it out of my mind.  I did.  A few months later, you got sick.

You didn't tell me you were going away, I wasn't ready. There were things left unsaid. Dammit, I wasn't ready to lose you. The cancer was supposed to be in remission. We talked about the future. We planned your 40th birthday party. It never occurred to me that you weren't going to make it!  Fucking hell, Wren! Do you know how bad this hurts? Surely you must. You were the one who had to tell your children that your cancer was terminal. You were ripped away from your life and loved ones, extirpated. Your sons will get married and have children without you.  You didn't want that anymore than we did. I'm so sorry, love.  Sometimes I forget that you were heart-broken too.

Our nieces are delightful and amazing. They're brilliant, creative, kind, funny little people.  Most of them are stubborn, like us. You'd like that. That would secretly please you. I know, because it pleases me.  Sometimes, I glance at one of the girls and there it is, your grin.  It always takes me by surprise.  Once in a while, I catch a glimpse of you in my own reflection.  I'd never before noticed the similarities in our faces.  The year after you died, your mom, sisters, and I took the girls to your beach.  We taught them how to make the sand sing.  We held their hands and ran with them.  You were supposed to be the one to teach them that.  I wish you could have seen their little faces.  They were awestruck by the magic of your singing sand.

You shared my adoration of the little ones.  Loving them with you is one of the things I miss the most.  I love them extra hard now, trying to love them for both of us..trying to make up for your absence.  It hurts like hell.  The girls are the biggest source of beauty and joy in my life.  They talk about you.  They hurt too.  They don't understand why you died.  I talk to them gently, trace the freckles on their cheeks and stroke their heads.  I cheer them on until I'm hoarse.  I throw myself full-force into loving them.  I try so hard to love them for both of us.  It is both the best and the most painful thing I've ever done.  It is the one thing I am sure I am not fucking up in my life. Even so, all my love isn't enough, Wren.  I know it isn't.  My love doesn't bring you back to them.  I'm unable to give them the memories and experiences with you that they would have cherished.

But when we are sad or weary or crabby, I take them to the water.  I take them to your beach with the singing sand.  And we run, our bare feet kicking up the sand, the way you ran before.

I love you, Wren.

Chin Up

Hey Wren,

I came home from work and wrote about you, worked on a draft that still isn't quite right.  Writing about you thinking about you Trying to make sense of your death is hard.  Realizing how much you're missing out on and how much I still miss you is heart-wrenching.  It is dreadfully painful.  We still need you.  The little girlies are bigger now.  Some of them will have little or no memory of you.  I feel physically ill just typing that.  I wrote about you until I had to leave to run errands that wouldn't get done otherwise. Today I remembered the way you used to say "Chin up, little one," when I was discouraged.  I haven't thought of that in over a decade.  I needed it today.  Thanks. Miss you like hell.

Love you, Celine

PS In keeping with your "chin up" crap I ignored my budget today and bought more postcards for post-crossing and also an outrageously bright nail polish.  I cannot believe I bought such an obnoxious color.  It's all wrong for me; much too flashy for the shy, low-key girl who tries to blend into the woodwork.  I'm definitely painting my toes and maybe even my fingers.  Just for you.  Chin up.

****Edited to add pic****
Yes, i still have paint on my skin, it'll come off in the shower.  Isn't the color attrocious?  I grin like a jack-o-lantern whenever I catch a glimpse of it.  Fingers are painted too.  The last time I painted my toes and fingers was the day of Wren's memorial service.  Wren died 3 years ago today.  I'm not sad.  She's finally free from the pain.  There won't be any new inside jokes, but the old ones still make me smile.  The nail polish joke is one of my favorites, but I'm not explaining it. *grin* Next time, I'm getting a putrid purple.