Isolated

Sometimes tears are not enough. Sometimes I cry in words. Forgive me while I shed some very heavy ones.

This past couple of weeks has been emotional chaos. I feel devastated as I learn of another family who didn't get the miracle they were looking for, and held the funeral for their little Gracie in the same chapel where we had Dominic's funeral. I have felt hopeful for another family who learned about cancer when no one was even looking for cancer that is hopefully still isolated in the stomach-- hopeful that the surgery my friend will undergo this week will be successful for removing all the cancer. I feel grateful for the kind comments and listening ears of those who have found my heart-pouring recently, many from the post Grammy left on her blog. I have felt worried for people I have only recently learned about, like Paul Cardall who is waiting for a heart transplant and hoping to live to raise his daughter, Eden-- and Jan who is terminally ill and hoping to make the most of her time with her family before she dies. I have felt inadequate in responding to those who have commented on my blog, like Kendalee who has also lost children.

Yesterday was seven years and six months from when Dominic died. In only one month from tomorrow, he would be turning eight years old. This is significant to my family because we believe that at the age of eight a child is accountable, and has the capacity to choose to enter into the waters of baptism on his own accord, and make sacred covenants that will prepare him to be reunited with our Heavenly Father. When Dominic was an infant, in his blessing was the mention that he would be baptized. But we believe that children who die before the age of accountability, or the age of eight years, do not need baptism.

Sometimes people try to console this seeming contradiction between inspired promises and no need for baptism with semantics. I have my own dance with semantics that allows me to reconcile it all. But sometimes it still doesn't make sense.

Today it has been one year and six months since Bridget died. To many people, that might seem like so long. Long enough, maybe, that they would think I'd be healed. Yet I feel so fresh and raw in this moment. A very long year-and-a-half-moment. And yet not long enough, because I am still waiting to hold her again.

When Dominic died, it was such a difficult experience. Grieving is a word to explain how we respond to unwanted changes. With all changes, there is a transition, an adjustment. And when it is unwanted, there is always something that lingers that wishes it could have been the way it was supposed to be. I had come to that place of acceptance, and though I didn't like it, was coping.

There were still those blisters that would come up, like anniversaries or birthdays or seeing another child his age. There was still the worry, not naive anymore, about keeping our other children safe. But he died from an isolated case of Infant Botulism. It wasn't anything that our children would become ill with after their first birthday, and I knew what to do to avoid it with our infants, and what symptoms to watch for, just in case.

The worry I had with Bridget was disregarded. Even I was trying to believe it was just intensified because of my experiences. I wonder if she would still have died if someone would have taken me more seriously and done something for her sooner.

But she died. I still sometimes don't believe it, but she died. What was supposed to be some isolated cause of Dominic's death was not so isolated now. Two of my little ones snatched away, and this time no explanation. The answers we had before were taken away.

In my emotional chaos I have felt bitter. I feel angry. I have felt something of resentment. In all the situations that make my heart swell in response, bring my compassion to the surface, and move me to DO something. In all of them, they have a diagnosis. They have the answer as to what caused the death, or what is threatening death. They have a plan of how to proceed. But we do not have that in our family.

It is difficult for me to hear how "the hand of God" intervened in time to give a family a chance to fight disease, or to provide the comfort and caring and compassion that a family needs, or... does this mean that God's hand was stayed from my family? Because He did not and has not yet revealed what it was that caused Dominic and Bridget to succumb? That He did not warn us in time? That He let us wait in the hospital hoping He had a different plan than what the doctors were sure was coming? That others have not been inspired to action in our behalf? That we have children who have concerning, eerily similar symptoms to those Dominic and Bridget exhibited before their deaths, but all the medical world cannot find anything to offer an explanation?

And so often I see so many people responding to others needs, even when no one has asked or revealed their needs. I remember going to our neighbor's home on Katrina's first birthday, October 11, 2003. She was born and died the same day, so it was also their first "angel day". Katrina's mom made a comment about how many people had been a part of their day, and said, "you know how it is". But I didn't know. Even though we had more support after Dominic died than with Bridget, on his first birthday, and his first angel day, there was only a few people who made mention of it, let alone were a part of it. And on Bridget's birthday, and angel day, we were painfully abandoned by the outside world. We pulled together as a little family the best we could. But we were so isolated.

I don't understand why we are asked to endure the kinds of experiences life has given us. I don't understand even more why we are asked to do so with so few people in our lives who are willing to care. The deaths of Dominic and Bridget, while certainly the deepest, are but a part of the heaviness. So much preceded and so much has followed that weighs us down. We are so very weary.

Perhaps on a day when these words do not fall so quickly from my soul, when the tears do not fall so freely from my eyes. When it does not sting so much. I would like to write those things, isolated moments, that have made all the difference in this journey. It is not that I am ungrateful, or unaware of the kindnesses offered in our behalf. But the strength of all of those who have been willing to mourn with us seems insufficient to bear all the weight. At times it is crushing. I feel very akin to Longfellow, as he wrote his tender feelings about the tragic death of his wife:

"How I am alive after what my eyes have seen, I know not."

I am so very glad to have this place to shed these words. I often refer to this blog as my "outlet". And I have appreciated the kind words offered in return. The chance to share my sweet children with the world-- yes, a mother's pride-- is a gift. And though I am grateful for those of you who are a part of my journey even at great distances, I still crave the kind of compassion that comes from contact. Even just a friend to come and spend the time to look over the scrapbook I made with Bridget's journal and pictures, and maybe even shed a tear or two for what that little book represents. It seems it is only the usual comfort and support that I yearn for. I don't know how to sign up for the kind of outpouring that comes with other people's losses. The kind of support I've tried to offer when there is someone in my life going through these kinds of struggles. In this world of emotional choas, I feel frustrated. I have felt unloveable.

I love the whole sermon, but one part of it comes to mind right now:

"Yes, we have unprecedented mass entertainment and mass communications, but so many lonely crowds. The togetherness of technology is no substitute for the family [and friends]." (Neal A. Maxwell, “Plow in Hope,” Ensign, May 2001, 59

It is my hope that those of you who come along with me on this journey from a distance will find a way to reach out to those who are in your own lives. To be with those who need you. To mourn with those who mourn. I don't know how to motivate people in my life to be that for me, for my family. But maybe, perhaps, if I can somehow inspire someone to be the someone who will make the difference for another person struggling, my words will not be completely vanity and vexation.