Questions

We lost our Grandson on February 7th. I was at work when my daughter called. She was frantic and on the way to the hospital, where her 1 1/2 year old son was being taken. He was stable but unable to breathe on his own. A senseless and horrific accident rendered his body still, kept going only by machines that worked tirelessly to pump air in and out of his lungs, to circulate blood everywhere except to his brain, where it simply could not find passage. That was Wednesday the 6th. Within a few hours, we knew the outcome was inevitable and irreversible. It became the waiting game. The "lets make sure game". In a way, that was a blessing. As each piece of medical equipment and tubing was gradually removed from Seth, more acceptance was allowed to take place. Time was given to my daughter to curl up in his hospital crib, to sleep beside him one last time.

I remember one of the nurses asking me if I had any questions. The look on my face must have made her revise her question: "Do you have any questions I can answer?". She was right. There weren't many questions I had that she could answer. A few she could. I have a million she can't.

I have a question going through my head this morning, and at this moment. Why do I feel the need to write this in my blog? Why do I want to put this out in cyber space, instead of keeping it private. Why not write it in a journal? Like all of my questions, I don't have answers for these, except that this is what I'm compelled to do at this moment. Will this help someone? Will it make them uncomfortable? Angry, disgusted or sad? I don't know. Will it cause more hurt than has already occurred? I hope not. I don't know why I feel the need to do this, but am trusting there is some reason. Some stupid reason.

I'm finding the questions don't stop, and maybe that's because there are no answers. One question leads to the next and the next and I feel I'm constantly turning in circles with no way to step out. Why us? Why in the world did God pick us, our family, Seth, for whatever it is he has planned. And if he felt the need to do this, which he obviously did, why can't he be good enough to at least tell us why? Perhaps he has, that's entirely possible, and we are still too dumb struck to see it. Or is it that we have some answers but our grief makes us crave for more justification? Sometimes, I feel that might be at least partly true. Seth is an organ donor, and three children have a new opportunity and life because of him. I know this is part of the answer, and that is is an honor that we were chosen - that Seth was chosen - but I can't help wanting more. I am not angry at God, I trust in him and I believe in him, but right now I don't feel like talking to him. I simply don't know what to say. I trust that he understands and is listening to the words my heart speaks which my lips cannot.

Why am I feeling so fragile? I am a strong person, despite the common knowledge that I am very sensitive. I think it's my sensitivity that helps me to be strong. But this week I have felt such a fracture. I have a portion of me that is sane and logical, that is whispering in my ear that what I am feeling and how I am reacting is fine. That quiet voice, not unlike the one that comes from the main character in my story, is attempting to keep me grounded. If I could describe that fracture, it would call it a slice that starts at my left temple. It arches over my eyebrow and jags its way down my face and into my shoulder, stopping just before it reaches my armpit. That smaller part is where the logic lies. It lets one eye see happiness and appreciate beauty, lets me half smile, gives me one arm - my right arm - to do the things that need to be done. That part of me does things and experiences things with real joy and happiness. The lower section, the one where my sadness, anger and confusion lie, is ruled by a part of my heart that has already been hurt. That part that still suffers the loss of my Mom.

Even as I write this, I know that I will not be fractured forever. The jagged slice will start to mend, probably starting with my armpit, and will work it's way up through my collar bone, through my smile, through my eyebrow. I have a feeling that I may have a scar, but I will be whole - smiling and crying with both parts of me in harmony. I don't believe I will look on that scar with disgust or anguish, but rather with nurturing and respect. My hope is that I will run my fingers over the skin that has mended and remember. Maybe if I do that, instead of covering it up with band-aids and scarves, I can help someone else mend. I don't know.

I called my sister the other day, crying. I had tried to go to work and found that I not only couldn't give a shit about what my clients needed or thought, but that it actually made me angry. How am I supposed to care about energy budgets? How can I empathize and care if someone's natural gas figures are X% off from prior year? My daughter is trying to plan a funeral for her infant while working so hard to keep her family together. Why should I care about Corporate America when my daughter is trying to find a way to tell her three year old son that Seth isn't going to come home? How is that family, who is so dear to me, going to survive? And why am I not with them? I question that even now as I sit here writing this. Why am I not with her now? Is it avoidance? Self preservation? How long does this last? Why can't I at least have a road map, a guide book, something that says "Sheila, this is what you need to do right now", so I don't have to figure it out? So I don't have to wonder if I'm doing the right thing or if I'm being a complete idiot. Why am I sitting here writing this now? I feel so unsettled.

The outpouring of love and support has been tremendous. Why can't I find it in me to thank each person? I really want to. I want to either sit them down or write them a personal note and tell them how much this means to me. Why can't I do this? I try to tell some, but feel I have failed to tell others. It's not that I think these people do not understand my silence, it's more that I feel I am cheating them.

Why am I taking this so personal? Am I that narcissistic? This is not my child that died, I feel I should be stronger than I am. Why do I have thoughts that circle around "what am I supposed to do with this"? What didn't I get right when Mom passed that I have to go through this again? Why did this happen on my birthday? What am I doing wrong? It's not that I feel I'm being punished, it's more that I feel I'm being pushed. Where? Why? Will I ever know? What's going to happen if I don't do what I'm supposed to? Who else has to die? What other loss are people going to have to suffer because I didn't get the message? That logical side of me is whispering to me now, trying to calm me down and speak reason, but that larger half is covering her ears and shaking her head like a child. Part of me needs to be self absorbed. Part of me chastises myself for feeling that need. It's ridiculous.

Now I feel like I've taken up too much of the morning. I have to go, I have to be with my daughter and her family. I need to help. I've sat here debating if I should post this. Should I copy it and place it somewhere private? I don't know. Should I post it? I'm worried that it's going to make people sad or worry about me. That's not my intent. I truly believe that I am going to be ok. That my daughter and her family will move through this, that we will all gain strength. Perhaps I have more answers than I thought I did. But what if some of my questions are similar to someone else's? Will reading mine help someone? I hope it does, though I don't know how it will.

And maybe it's ok not to know.