For many years now, I’ve avoided seeing tearjerker movies, I figure there is enough sadness in the world to go around, why see something that makes you sad on top of everything else that is going on in the world. Even though I avoid seeing tragedies on the big screen, I am somehow drawn to books that make me cry. A hypocrite? Maybe it’s just easier to put down a book than leave a movie theater. I dunno. Today I sped through a book called Let’s Take the Long Way Home – a book about a woman who loses her best friend to cancer. I read on the sly it while I was in statistics class – crying, crying while taking notes on probability.
When I was giving the sermon on Sunday, I could see Edda in the way back, in her wheel chair and as I was not in my usual spot in in reference to her or even in reference to myself. I was not myself – I was somehow a stranger to myself while giving this little homily. Somehow I felt like I got an outsider’s glimpse of what Edda is like – arms flailing, teeth grinding, needing a video to keep her preoccupied – it’s not a pretty sight. It’s not the beauty I see when I tuck her into bed at night, when I am close to her body and I caress her cheek, feel her snuggle up to me and watch her sigh contentedly into her slumber.
I feel the renewal of my grief for all of Edda’s lost potential this year more than I’ve felt it in the last couple of years. I think it’s the realization that if not for her disability, I would no longer need child care and all the stresses that go along with finding that care and the expense. We’ve had a three people in various positions leave Edda side (in mysterious, happy (although unexpectedly), and decidedly unhappy situations) and I feel like Edda is no longer easy be with – not only to find activities that she wants to engage in with others, but also just keeping her clean and safe and happy. What does Edda want to do? It’s hard to say. Edda’s daily unhappiness (which is getting better I suppose) is, of course, compounding my anxiousness and sadness.
This is such a public place to speak but this post deserves a response. I don't have answers to your grief for all the losses you've had this year with Edda.Or all the responsibilities that come with her disabilities. She is who she is and we all love her. Easy for me to say I know since I'm not there and experiencing what you see every day. But Doris when I look at Edda I see a beautiful little girl. Really beautiful. Like model pretty. She knows more than she can tell us. I am sure of that, just look in her eyes. She may never be able to verbalize her wants and needs but she can feel. She's been that way since the day she was born. I can absolutely relate to the anxiety that comes with not being able to communicate with her and know what is wrong when she seems unhappy. But for her sake you have no choice but to keep moving forward. I know that you get tired and so does Jeremy and Vince too. That may or may not be fair but it is what it is. You have my support Doris. I'm not ever sure if I can or even could be of any help but I'm still here for you no matter how inexperienced or bumbling I may be. What I liked were your thoughts in the 2nd paragraph, "when I am close to her body and I caress her cheek,feel her snuggle up to me and watch her sigh contentedly into her slumber". That is a mother loving their child and a child feeling comfort from their mother. In that regard you and Edda are just like every other mom in the world. That is really the only thing important in all of this, that Edda feels love. She may not be able to communicate but she feels your love Doris. She always has. In that regard, she's just like any other little girl with a wonderful mother.
Thanks sweetie – you are very nice to me 🙂