The Lives of the Dead

Some of the most interesting people I meet are dead…

Archive for the tag “death of a child”

Living in Limbo

First published March 2, 2015


swings-111925_640

Wir

The turning point of my life came when I was thirty one. Until then,  most of my moderate expectations had been met.  I fell in love, got married,  gave birth to a beautiful, clever little girl we both adored.   We were financially comfortable and happy together. My mind was uncluttered by much introspective thought or intense emotion.

When my daughter was 7, she disappeared. She’d been playing in the park with friends, and then, they called for her and she wasn’t there. Nobody had noticed anyone or anything. She’d simply vanished.

The police looked for her. My husband and I, our friends and family, we all looked for her. But we didn’t find her. Not alive. Not dead.

And so I lived the rest of my days in a limbo.   I was filled with the kind of intense emotions I’d never felt before, and did not know how to process. I cycled through grief, despair, guilt, anger, sorrow and the occasional scintilla of hope, which was always quickly extinguished and replaced by fresh grief.

Sometimes I heard stories of children returning to their parents after many years.   Somehow, they’d remembered and found their way back.  Naturally,  I hoped for such an outcome,  but after a time, I would have been relieved to know for certain that she was dead. If I could have given her a proper funeral, I might have been able to move on.  If I knew what had happened to her, I might have been able to forgive.   As it was, however, I never could settle on a single emotion, and so this was the cycle which spun the wheel which turned my life.

My husband and I stayed together, but it was never the same. We both felt a similar range of emotions, but our moods were infrequently aligned. We rarely connected, except on her birthday when we both seemed to feel the same.  For many years, we’d get a small cake with a single candle. We’d bring out the old photo albums. But then it became too awful. It made us feel helpless and hopeless.   We each tried to make our way through our pain in our own way, but neither of us had much success. Compounding our pain was that we were of no comfort to each other.  Even after many years, we both suffered alone.

Her being ripped from our lives so cruelly was for a reason; for the lessons on tragedy and mourning. At the time, however, it didn’t feel like any useful lesson. If anyone had suggested to me that it was part of a greater plan, I would have lost all control and attacked them ferociously. The pain was wrapped around me too tightly to loose its bonds. What mother can ever make sense of such a thing? To come to terms with it would have be tantamount to abandoning her; to losing her again.  She remained alive in my sorrow.

Now, however, I am afforded greater perspective. The unrelenting pain of that life is finally healed. She and I are together again, awaiting a next time.

 

——————

If you are enjoying this blog,  please click the link above to subscribe and receive posts via email (new posts every three days).  Think of others who might enjoy it too,  and help spread the word! Post your favorite stories to social media.   Email a particularly apt link to a friend.   Even better,  talk about the concepts with others (whether you agree or disagree. )
Also,  I have just started a discussion group on Facebook,  for conversations about any of the concepts/issues in the posts.  Honestly, these are things in here which I don’t fully understand myself.  I would love  get your thoughts on this…even if you think this is all a bunch of hooey! 
-Adrienne

 

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Compound Fracture

Originally published May 9, 2016

Exposición Sistema métrico campo de fútbol de Hisae Ikenaga. Abierto x Obras. MATADERO MADRID. Abril 2011

Kar

It was an accident. I was only a child myself when it happened. It destroyed my family. It destroyed my life.

My little brother was three. I was five.   We were playing together,  as we often did.  Typical boys of that age, we were loud and wild, often disobedient (especially me) and always looking for new ways to get around the rules.

My mother stored some special sweets in a high cabinet far out of our reach,  available only as rewards when we were well-behaved.  One morning, when she was distracted  by other things,  I convinced my brother that we should climb up and retrieve them.   We stacked some chairs, stools,  small tables,  and boxes into a makeshift ladder to enable us to reach the cupboard.

Then, in an instant it was over.  The pile collapsed and we came crashing down, bouncing first off the counter which was crowded with jars, canisters, sharp implements.  Somewhere along the fall,  he hit his head.  There was a lot of broken wood and shards of sharp, smashed ceramic.   I landed hard on top of him.

Mother came running when she heard the noise and found us in a bloody pile. I was hurt — my arm was badly broken – but I was still conscious. My brother was not. He was bleeding so much, it was hard to know exactly from where.

My mother rushed his limp body to the doctor who immediately realized the need for the hospital, where my father joined her. Two days later,  my brother was dead.

From that point on,  my family was irrevocably broken. My father blamed my mother for not taking proper care of us; for leaving us unattended even for five minutes, but she barely heard him.  She  blamed herself even more, and that was a much louder voice in her head. My own guilt and pain were only just beginning.

At the time, I was too scared, and my parents were too distracted,  too inconsolable,  too angry at me and at each other for me to dare mention the pain in my arm.  I never said a word about it.  The break eventually healed unattended and incorrectly, rendering my arm practically useless for the rest of my life,  a physical  reminder of what I’d done; an external symbol of my internal pain.

Over my lifetime, I must have replayed that morning in my head a million times. If only I hadn’t suggested we climb, he would still be here with us.  If only I had landed first and he fell on top of me perhaps he would still be alive.  If only Mother had not been so stingy with the sweets, I would not have spent my life crippled and racked with guilt.

The guilt and blame destroyed my parents’ marriage. They did not divorce, for they were bound forever by this tragedy  but there was no love, no kindness, no compassion for each other’s suffering. They lived together, side by side, going through the motions,  each alone in their unhealed pain

My mother died when I was 15.  My father was never an expressive man.  He had barely said a word to me for most of my life, but while my mother was alive,  there was some semblance of communication as they maintained a semblance of a normal life.   Once my mother was gone, however, he made no secret of ignoring and avoiding me.   He could barely stand to have me around.  His disdain seemed natural and understandable to me.

I left home a few years later and never saw him again. I heard after the fact that he died a few years after I left  but I felt no sorrow. He had been dead to me since my childhood.

I lived the life of a wanderer, doing what I could to make enough money to survive, living hand to mouth. I was often hungry and homeless but I knew life did not owe me more. I had to pay for what I had done.

Although I could not have articulated it then, this was my spiritual debt. If I hadn’t paid it while I was alive, I would have had to pay for it eventually.  I know now, that this was a debt already owed from a lifetime previous, when I committed evil with impunity.

—-

If you are enjoying this blog,  please click the link above to subscribe and receive posts via email (new posts every three days).  When you think of others who might enjoy it too,  it’s easy enough to help spread the word! Post your favorite stories to social media.   Email a particularly apt link to a friend.   Even better,  talk about the concepts with others (whether you agree or disagree. )
Also,  I have just started a discussion group on Facebook,  for conversations about any of the concepts/issues in the posts.  Honestly, these are things in here which I don’t fully understand myself.  I would love  get your thoughts on this…even if you think this is all a bunch of hooey! 
-Adrienne

 

Photo:  ¨Furniture pile¨, 2011, furniture¨ HEIGHT OF ABIERTO X OBRAS SPACE: 102 STACKED UP FURNITURE Photograph by Paco Gómez/NOPHOTO.

Living in Limbo

First published March 2, 2015

Wiswings-111925_640

The turning point of my life came when I was thirty one. Until then,  most of my moderate expectations had been met.  I fell in love, got married,  gave birth to a beautiful, clever little girl we both adored.   We were financially comfortable and happy together. My mind was uncluttered by much introspective thought or intense emotion.

When my daughter was 7, she disappeared. She’d been playing in the park with friends, and then, they called for her and she wasn’t there. Nobody had noticed anyone or anything. She’d simply vanished.

The police looked for her. My husband and I, our friends and family, we all looked for her. But we didn’t find her. Not alive. Not dead.

And so I lived the rest of my days in a limbo.   I was filled with the kind of intense emotions I’d never felt before, and did not know how to process. I cycled through grief, despair, guilt, anger, sorrow and the occasional scintilla of hope, which was always quickly extinguished and replaced by fresh grief.

Sometimes I heard stories of children returning to their parents after many years.   Somehow, they’d remembered and found their way back.  Naturally,  I hoped for such an outcome,  but after a time, I would have been relieved to know for certain that she was dead. If I could have given her a proper funeral, I might have been able to move on.  If I knew what had happened to her, I might have been able to forgive.   As it was, however, I never could settle on a single emotion, and so this was the cycle which spun the wheel which turned my life.

My husband and I stayed together, but it was never the same. We both felt a similar range of emotions, but our moods were infrequently aligned. We rarely connected, except on her birthday when we both seemed to feel the same.  For many years, we’d get a small cake with a single candle. We’d bring out the old photo albums. But then it became too awful. It made us feel helpless and hopeless.   We each tried to make our way through our pain in our own way, but neither of us had much success. Compounding our pain was that we were of no comfort to each other.  Even after many years, we both suffered alone.

Her being ripped from our lives so cruelly was for a reason; for the lessons on tragedy and mourning. At the time, however, it didn’t feel like any useful lesson. If anyone had suggested to me that it was part of a greater plan, I would have lost all control and attacked them ferociously. The pain was wrapped around me too tightly to loose its bonds. What mother can ever make sense of such a thing? To come to terms with it would have be tantamount to abandoning her; to losing her again.  She remained alive in my sorrow.

Now, however, I am afforded greater perspective. The unrelenting pain of that life is finally healed. She and I are together again, awaiting a next time.

 

——————

If you are enjoying this blog,  please click the link above to subscribe and receive posts via email (new posts every three days).  Think of others who might enjoy it too,  and help spread the word! Post your favorite stories to social media.   Email a particularly apt link to a friend.   Even better,  talk about the concepts with others (whether you agree or disagree. )
Also,  I have just started a discussion group on Facebook,  for conversations about any of the concepts/issues in the posts.  Honestly, these are things in here which I don’t fully understand myself.  I would love  get your thoughts on this…even if you think this is all a bunch of hooey! 
-Adrienne

 

Compound Fracture

NEW

Exposición Sistema métrico campo de fútbol de Hisae Ikenaga. Abierto x Obras. MATADERO MADRID. Abril 2011

Kar

It was an accident. I was only a child myself when it happened. It destroyed my family. It destroyed my life.

My little brother was three. I was five.   We were playing together,  as we often did.  Typical boys of that age, we were loud and wild, often disobedient (especially me) and always looking for new ways to get around the rules.

My mother stored some special sweets in a high cabinet far out of our reach,  available only as rewards when we were well-behaved.  One morning, when she was distracted  by other things,  I convinced my brother that we should climb up and retrieve them.   We stacked some chairs, stools,  small tables,  and boxes into a makeshift ladder to enable us to reach the cupboard.

Then, in an instant it was over.  The pile collapsed and we came crashing down, bouncing first off the counter which was crowded with jars, canisters, sharp implements.  Somewhere along the fall,  he hit his head.  There was a lot of broken wood and shards of sharp, smashed ceramic.   I landed hard on top of him.

Mother came running when she heard the noise and found us in a bloody pile. I was hurt — my arm was badly broken – but I was still conscious. My brother was not. He was bleeding so much, it was hard to know exactly from where.

My mother rushed his limp body to the doctor who immediately realized the need for the hospital, where my father joined her. Two days later,  my brother was dead.

From that point on,  my family was irrevocably broken. My father blamed my mother for not taking proper care of us; for leaving us unattended even for five minutes, but she barely heard him.  She  blamed herself even more, and that was a much louder voice in her head. My own guilt and pain were only just beginning.

At the time, I was too scared, and my parents were too distracted,  too inconsolable,  too angry at me and at each other for me to dare mention the pain in my arm.  I never said a word about it.  The break eventually healed unattended and incorrectly, rendering my arm practically useless for the rest of my life,  a physical  reminder of what I’d done; an external symbol of my internal pain.

Over my lifetime, I must have replayed that morning in my head a million times. If only I hadn’t suggested we climb, he would still be here with us.  If only I had landed first and he fell on top of me perhaps he would still be alive.  If only Mother had not been so stingy with the sweets, I would not have spent my life crippled and racked with guilt.

The guilt and blame destroyed my parents’ marriage. They did not divorce, for they were bound forever by this tragedy  but there was no love, no kindness, no compassion for each other’s suffering. They lived together, side by side, going through the motions,  each alone in their unhealed pain

My mother died when I was 15.  My father was never an expressive man.  He had barely said a word to me for most of my life, but while my mother was alive,  there was some semblance of communication as they maintained a semblance of a normal life.   Once my mother was gone, however, he made no secret of ignoring and avoiding me.   He could barely stand to have me around.  His disdain seemed natural and understandable to me.

I left home a few years later and never saw him again. I heard after the fact that he died a few years after I left  but I felt no sorrow. He had been dead to me since my childhood.

I lived the life of a wanderer, doing what I could to make enough money to survive, living hand to mouth. I was often hungry and homeless but I knew life did not owe me more. I had to pay for what I had done.

Although I could not have articulated it then, this was my spiritual debt. If I hadn’t paid it while I was alive, I would have had to pay for it eventually.  I know now, that this was a debt already owed from a lifetime previous, when I committed evil with impunity.

—-

If you are enjoying this blog,  please click the link above to subscribe and receive posts via email (new posts every three days).  When you think of others who might enjoy it too,  it’s easy enough to help spread the word! Post your favorite stories to social media.   Email a particularly apt link to a friend.   Even better,  talk about the concepts with others (whether you agree or disagree. )
Also,  I have just started a discussion group on Facebook,  for conversations about any of the concepts/issues in the posts.  Honestly, these are things in here which I don’t fully understand myself.  I would love  get your thoughts on this…even if you think this is all a bunch of hooey! 
-Adrienne

 

Photo:  ¨Furniture pile¨, 2011, furniture¨ HEIGHT OF ABIERTO X OBRAS SPACE: 102 STACKED UP FURNITURE Photograph by Paco Gómez/NOPHOTO.

Living in Limbo

swings-111925_640

Wi

The turning point of my life came when I was thirty one. Until then,  most of my moderate expectations had been met.  I fell in love, got married,  gave birth to a beautiful, clever little girl we both adored.   We were financially comfortable and happy together. My mind was uncluttered by much introspective thought or intense emotion.

When my daughter was 7, she disappeared. She’d been playing in the park with friends, and then, they called for her and she wasn’t there. Nobody had noticed anyone or anything. She’d simply vanished.

The police looked for her. My husband and I, our friends and family, we all looked for her. But we didn’t find her. Not alive. Not dead.

And so I lived the rest of my days in a limbo.   I was filled with the kind of intense emotions I’d never felt before, and did not know how to process. I cycled through grief, despair, guilt, anger, sorrow and the occasional scintilla of hope, which was always quickly extinguished and replaced by fresh grief.

Sometimes I heard stories of children returning to their parents after many years.   Somehow, they’d remembered and found their way back.  Naturally,  I hoped for such an outcome,  but after a time, I would have been relieved to know for certain that she was dead. If I could have given her a proper funeral, I might have been able to move on.  If I knew what had happened to her, I might have been able to forgive.   As it was, however, I never could settle on a single emotion, and so this was the cycle which spun the wheel which turned my life.

My husband and I stayed together, but it was never the same. We both felt a similar range of emotions, but our moods were infrequently aligned. We rarely connected, except on her birthday when we both seemed to feel the same.  For many years, we’d get a small cake with a single candle. We’d bring out the old photo albums. But then it became too awful. It made us feel helpless and hopeless.   We each tried to make our way through our pain in our own way, but neither of us had much success. Compounding our pain was that we were of no comfort to each other.  Even after many years, we both suffered alone.

Her being ripped from our lives so cruelly was for a reason; for the lessons on tragedy and mourning. At the time, however, it didn’t feel like any useful lesson. If anyone had suggested to me that it was part of a greater plan, I would have lost all control and attacked them ferociously. The pain was wrapped around me too tightly to loose its bonds. What mother can ever make sense of such a thing? To come to terms with it would have be tantamount to abandoning her; to losing her again.  She remained alive in my sorrow.

Now, however, I am afforded greater perspective. The unrelenting pain of that life is finally healed. She and I are together again, awaiting a next time.

 

——————

If you are enjoying this blog,  please click the link above to subscribe and receive posts via email (new posts every three days).  Think of others who might enjoy it too,  and help spread the word! Post your favorite stories to social media.   Email a particularly apt link to a friend.   Even better,  talk about the concepts with others (whether you agree or disagree. )
Also,  I have just started a discussion group on Facebook,  for conversations about any of the concepts/issues in the posts.  Honestly, these are things in here which I don’t fully understand myself.  I would love  get your thoughts on this…even if you think this is all a bunch of hooey! 
-Adrienne
tipmewbg

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