KattyWilly

Halley tells a story of little birds somehow tossed from the comfort of their nest.  That safe place that mom returns to care and comfort her little ones.  I can’t help but think of my two little ones, who aren’t so little any more, getting tossed from their comfortable nest one day, and suffering injury to their little bodies, one more injured than the other.  How they desperately needed someone to rescue them and bring them to safety.

It also makes me think about the absurdity of a father struggling with the attempts at being a mother.  It doesn’t make any sense.  Fathers aren’t mothers.  They aren’t made to be mothers.  But as any parent knows they will do anything for their children.  If you child loses something , is hurt in some way, there isn’t anything a parent won’t do to try and help their child.  So as much as I know it isn’t possible and that it doesn’t make any sense to try, I go ahead and struggle with how I can somehow be a mother to my girls. 

With those thoughts I think, how I can take the wounded little ones and as Halley takes the wounded bird to safety, “my son is trailing me. He’s listening. I’m cooing stuff to a small yellow bird, same stuff I’ve cooed to him when he was at risk. He knows a mom knows this stuff — mysterious incantations. ‘Don’t worry, it’s all going to be all right.’”  How many times I’ve struggled when it is time for the girls to hear those mysterious incantations of  “Don’t worry, it’s all going to be all right” and I know that I can no longer use those words. They ring so hollow now that we all know that we do have to worry, that sometimes things aren’t all right.  Sometimes things are more wrong than we can ever imagine.

Then Halley finishes me off, as well as finishing her story with this:

Back in the car, I drive away and listen to Bruce Springsteen on the radio singing, “My Hometown” about trying to keep his family together, raise his son. I’m crying I notice suddenly, nice splashy tears, wet thanks to my mom for showing me how to handle a broken bird, how to kiss my son, how to do the best we can. That’s all we can do.

So as I sit here in my cube, tears in my eyes, I wonder what my children will have lost, for not ever having their mom to teach them those mysterious incantations, ones that they now know are not true.  What have they lost for not having a mom to show them how to handle a broken bird.  How will these losses affect them as they raise their children.  I sit here as the father of my motherless children and wonder what I can do to try my best as a parent to give my children everything I possible can.  And I am left with the realization that all I can do is the best I can.

“I want to know if you have touched the centre of your own sorrow if you have been opened by life’s betrayals or have become shrivelled and closed from fear of further pain.”

Dina posts a very interesting item “The Invitation” by Oriah Mountain Dreamer.  When I read this I wondered if the author had been widowed.  Many of the thoughts seemed to resonate with me.  I wish I could meet more people that think this way.

It must be the Lance Armstrong effect, there are all kinds of folks out riding their bikes tonight.  My old Trek touring bike is in pieces all over the living room floor and my hybrid mountain bike is in the trunk.  I take it to the rink and ride while Lindsey skates.  Once I get the touring bike back together I’ll try taking it to the rink instead.

AHHHHHHHHHHH!  School starts in a week!!!!!

Deb talks about being a dish.  I have been thinking about this quite a bit.  In her case there is an old friend that she has contacted again.  Her old friend used the meal that can’t be recreated at home in reference to their relationship.  In my case I look at the concept of not being able to recreate that relationship that I had with Cindy.  I guess I need to look at it in a way were I need to try and find a different “dish” with different flavors and textures.  This is all pretty much moot at the moment as I don’t have time to go out to eat, so to speak, and look for any kind of “dishes”.  The thing I am struggling with right now is arranging the things i my life so I will have a chance to go out to eat every now and then.  If you don’t get an opportunity to try a new dish you won’t know what they might taste like and which ones you might really like.

Sometimes I am afraid.

I received a very nice letter yesterday from a good friend of Cindy’s.  There were some really insightful thoughts in there, ” I have learned that there are no coincidences in life and that synchronicity is why things happen in the order they happen.”  Thoughts like these have impact to those that have lost someone in a sudden accident like we have been through.  There are so many thoughts of how even just the smallest change in the routine of that day, that hour, those few minutes and seconds before the accident could have changed everything.  It is also interesting to me that the subject of that statement was actually how we deal our lives moving forward after the experiences we have been through rather than looking back at the events that have forced us to be where we are now.   That is one of the difficult things that I’ve had to deal with in this healing process, the fact that some of the realizations that may help to accept what has happened are sometimes contrary to the ones that will help us to heal and go forward. 

Another thought was of a similar sense of synchronicity.  “Think of the times when all of sudden something reminds you of Cindy and at that moment a physical reminder comes in your path.”  So this morning when I was reading my daily news I came across an item by Jeneane over at Allied where today she is talking about quitting the smoking habit.  I was reading along and came upon the name of an expert she quoted, Linda Hyder Ferry, M.D., M.P.H. The thing that struck me was the M.P.H. and the memories of my favorite R.D., C.D.E., M.P.H., Cindy.

Cindy went to college at Southern Illinois University (SIU) studying nutrition with the goal of becoming a Registered Dietitian, or R.D.  After her four years at SIU she still had more work and studies before she could become Registered.  She worked as a nutritionist in public health in the federal Women Infants and Children (WIC) program.  She really enjoyed the sense of helping the young women who truly cared about their health and the health of their babies.  To be eligible to become Registered she either had to go through an internship and/or continue her education.  She went to the University of South Florida to get her Masters in Public Health and became a Charter Alumnus and one of the first 100 graduates to receive an M.P.H. at USF.   Along with her RD and MPH she went on to become a Certified Diabetes Educator.  All that studying and hard work led to one of her favorite jobs working with her friends doing health screenings.  One of those friends being the one that sent me the note that started this little story about synchronicity and the coincidences in life.

I was reading a very interesting story about beauty, among other things, over here.  When I read this, “But when I saw these lovely women on the boat, I immediately felt grubby. I wished I was wearing nicer clothes. I wanted to trade my T-shirt and tennis shoes for a summer dress and sandals.”  I realize one of the things I miss is that grubby side of women.  I think it is a beautiful side too.  It is that aspect of a woman that usually is saved for those days working around the house, maybe painting, or cleaning, or just having a lazy weekend morning.  In my world I tend to see women in their business, going about town attire.  I miss the beauty of a woman just being comfortable, just being who she is without all the other stuff.  A sort of true essence of who she is.

Chelsey and I had a long talk while we were at the beach. One of the topics had to do with trying to remember while at the same time wanting to forget.

As time goes by Cindy lives on in our memories. Right after she died she was still so familiar to all our senses that we could still see her, hear her, smell her, taste her. Our memories of her were so fresh and full. As time has gone by those memories are not as fresh as they once were. As time goes on we have more and more new experiences and memories that are more recent and fresher in our minds. And those most important memories of Cindy are getting older and more distant. We can no longer hear her voice, or smell her smells.

Then there are some memories that we wish would go away. Memories that are so painful that we can’t seem to forget them. The memories of the day Cindy died. Those images, sounds, emotions are so burned into our memories we can’t seem to erase them. They don’t get any more distant. It is as if it was yesterday. The pain and sadness in those memories is so much stronger it seems than the joy and happiness of the memories of Cindy.

Why can’t we somehow turn down the volume on the painfull memories and turn it up on the ones we fight so hard to remember?