Monday, June 7, 2010

Imagining

There is a metropolitan bus route on the street in front of our house. In the morning rush hour, buses stop at the light two doors down from us every fifteen minutes or so, letting out a low-pitched whine as they brake. Before Hudson died, there were many occasions where I mistook this sound for her waking up—the slightest little moan from the next room as she roused from a long sleep. In the past, I would wait to see if I heard her again, and if not, I knew she was still asleep. This morning, I heard the sound and sat, waiting. Then, inexplicably, I heard what sounded like her feet beating on the mattress (she was prone to kicking the mattress as she was trying to fall asleep at night). For what seems like the millionth time in the last four weeks, I pondered whether this really could be just one long, very elaborate dream. I have had such elaborate, punishing dreams occasionally in the past—I always wake from them relieved, grateful to find I have only been dreaming, but also barely believing I have only been dreaming because the dreams are so realistic. This morning, my heart skipped a beat for just a second —could it be? — but then every detail of these terrible days came washing over me at once and I knew it had not been a dream. A few hours later, as Ed and I got ready to leave the house, I found myself, again inexplicably, checking her room just to make sure I wasn’t wrong about it being real and that I wasn’t about to walk out of the house and leave my child at home alone. She wasn’t there.  I was imagining. 

Joan Didion would call this “magical thinking.” After her husband died, she could not bring herself to part with all of his shoes because part of her was convinced that he would need them when he returned. Elisabeth Kubler-Ross would call it “denial”: you know the person is gone, but you just can’t fathom that reality. Ed and I have not even begun to think about doing anything with Hudson’s clothes or her room, nor do I imagine we will for any time to come. But again, inexplicably, for no reason and with no pattern, I have put some things “away,” meaning I have been putting them in her closet or in the basement. Other things I can’t bear to move. I remember when my mom died, I couldn’t bring myself to delete her number from my cell phone. It was as if I still thought I might need it and if I deleted it, I would delete her. It took until I got a new phone before I finally removed it from my contacts. So many of Hudson’s things are the same. Last night, I put “away” her toothbrush and toothpaste, but have not touched her bathtub or her bath toys. They sit on the floor of the bathroom and I look at them every time I am in there. Bath time was one of her favorite times of day—I can’t just put those things “away”—I guess part of me does imagine she might need them. In my purse, I have a small board-book copy of “Put Me in the Zoo,” which I always kept there for emergencies—waiting for food at a restaurant, waiting for the doctor at the pediatrician’s office, waiting in line at the grocery store—when she might get fidgety and need a distraction. It is well-used. It takes up a fair amount of space in my purse. But how can I put it “away”? What if I need it?

I don’t know how long this “magical thinking” will go on. Maybe it will go on forever. Maybe it will come and go. Maybe one day years from now when I am out and about with Hudson’s future siblings, I will look around for my oldest child and have to remember, again, that she is not there. That is a hard future to face. I can only imagine, really.

12 comments:

  1. This comment has been removed by the author.

    ReplyDelete
  2. Thinking about you and Ed having to deal with questions like these, and the dreams, and imagining is so so hard. To live it must be so infinitely harder, I can't imagine. If it helps even a tiny bit, we cry with you every time.

    ReplyDelete
  3. Mandy, my heart breaks for you all over again. You are doing a good thing for yourself and for your memories by writing through it. I know it will help.

    ReplyDelete
  4. Oh sweetie. This is heartbreaking. I agree with Melissa, let your feelings out. I wish a hundred times a day that you were nearby so I could hug you. I need you to remember that with the pain and sorrow imagining can bring, so too will it bring joy and hope. This I promise you.

    ReplyDelete
  5. Mandy,

    I continue to pray for you and Ed daily. Thank you for sharing your thoughts with us...thinking of you always.

    ReplyDelete
  6. Mandy,

    I so wish that this type of imagining was not part of your life now, and I continue to think of you and Ed all the time. I cried and smiled reading this and hope that with every passing day you will be able to smile more and cry less. I know that the writing will help, and thank you so much for sharing with your friends.

    ReplyDelete
  7. Mandy, I'm so glad you've chosen to express your feelings by writing. Ben and I read this and were moved by your words. I really think your continuing to express yourself with your words will help all of those of us who love you continue to support you and to better understand what you are going through. And more importantly, I hope that your writing provides some comfort to you. We continue to send to you and pray for much love.

    ReplyDelete
  8. You are a strong, strong woman, Mandy. Thank you for expressing yourself. Hugs.

    ReplyDelete
  9. The experience that you describe sounds less like magical thinking and more at primal, maternal reflex. Like milk letting down..your brain, body and soul have been mothering for the past year and a half.

    You have not ceased being a mother, though your child is not with you. The journey through labor, birth and infancy is some of the most rigorous and indelible conditioning we experience. It seems natural that your ears still prick, that you still prepare yourself for her needs.

    A good mother would make damn sure that this wasn't all a dream or inexplicable mistake. A good mother would be slow to cease searching, just in case. You are a good mother.

    I am so proud of you and I believe you are, and have been, doing all the right things at the right time. I love you.

    ReplyDelete
  10. Keeping you all in our hearts and thoughts, Mandy ...

    With love,
    Matt

    ReplyDelete
  11. Mandy, I promised myself I wouldn't post again, at least not so soon, but as the appointed counselor among my friends I just can't help myself. Your words are so emotional, yet graceful.

    Your magical thinking is a deep-seated instinct, a powerful one that you may be more sad to see leave than you expect. A close friend that lost a child told me the hardest thing to do is learning to move forward, without feeling like you're leaving your child behind. As you begin to laugh more and cry less and your magical thinking begins to subside, and you may feel guilty about "leaving your child behind". Finding peace with this will be part of your journey. But knowing others have a similar struggle can help. I hope you find those people, either thru a support group or friends, that you can truly help you find your way. PS - I did the same thing with my grandfathers phone in my contact list. I just couldn't delete him. And now I smile and chuckle to myself when I see his name scroll by. Keep the book.

    ReplyDelete
  12. Beautiful and heart breaking. The story of the whine of the bus has me in tears. How I wish it was just a dream.

    I think I will always be looking around for my oldest daughter too. Perhaps because of the 'magical thinking' part of me that doesn't want to believe that she died. I still look at 'pairs' of things even though I no longer have two children and haven't for a long time now.

    ReplyDelete