I should be asleep right now. I need to be asleep. Really, what I mean is that I need rest. My body, soul, and mind are exhausted. I've done more crying than I care to admit...or can remember. A word, a look...it doesn't take much. I have never felt stress or sadness as I do now. Of course, I have not had to deal with Richie's health issues before. No, not like this.
I can't seem to separate myself from what is happening. I can't allow myself to think the thoughts that have been dancing through my head. I spoke to a woman who had an experience similar to what I'm going through now, and the things she said to me were scary because it's how I feel. She is talking about it now, having survived for almost 18 years. I try to find strength in those types of stories. It's odd the places I seem to be finding strength. I relish, even more, in helping others. Unfortunately, I fear it's a selfish act aimed at distracting myself.
I have sat down to write so many times. I know that I will feel some comfort, some release, if I can just write. My tears fall so hard. I rub the dried salty water circles they leave on my desk and I can feel the pain pushing against my eyelids. I never imagined such an absolute. Richie is so young. He can't understand what's happening to him...maybe that makes it worse. Maybe that makes it easier. If it were my diagnosis instead of his, I would not hurt as much as knowing that my son will always suffer.
I've been told to examine the positives...it's better this than that. I am thankful for those that do not know this pain. I am also frustrated with the responses of those that can't understand. Or don't want to. I have heaved myself out of the denial that I was so comfortable wading in. I can't force anyone else out of theirs. Honestly, I really do believe that everyone will be affected by this differently and will cope in their own ways. I don't have the energy to judge or care how others choose to live. For those of us that have gathered to support Richie, as well as each other, well...that's where my focus lies.
The simple and ambiguous questions popular with tragic events are rising in my throat. I'm ready to scream. I want answers that aren't available. They don't exist. I want to step outside of this nightmare and breathe - if only for a moment. There is a long road before Richie. I hope against all hope that I can adequately prepare him for the life he will be forced to lead.
I think about the kubler-ross model and I can't help but wonder...is there a way I am supposed to feel? If I lack one emotion or feel another in excess, does that offer insight? I can't help but let Richie be my only concern. I would have to make a very sincere effort to tear my senses from being completely wrapped up in him. Even then I doubt I could feel half of what others guess I should be. I can't get angry. That seems to surprise many. Was the diagnosis missed? Is there a person to blame onto, and if so, who? That is form of negativity I just won't give in to. It's not even that I can't feel anger, but I don't think it's fair. Of course, this is all pretty new so maybe I'll get to the machete wielding, vengeance seeking, vindictively reckless stage soon enough.
Showing posts with label if God exists he is a terrorist. Show all posts
Showing posts with label if God exists he is a terrorist. Show all posts
decaffeinated insanity
I have recently found myself in a series of situations that I was neither prepared for or ever expected in any way. The factor that weighs heaviest on my mind and heart is the one concerning Richie's health. We finally made the trip to San Antonio to meet with the pediatric gastroenterologist. It's been a few days since I meeting with the doctor. I can't make sense of the appointment enough to say anything much about it. Stemming from ignorance, it wasn't until after the appointment that I realized the severity of it all. I toss and turn in bed, drowning beneath the crashing waves of all the things I won't admit to in the daylight. Even when I talk to my family and best friend, I can't confront the reality that comes into focus with each passing day. I find myself forcing the muscles of my heart, as though if I contort myself enough the minutes will move faster. Knowing the answer means less to me than what the answer actually is, but both cause me a fair deal of stress.
deposit coin here
Richie has been to the doctor and back a few times already in the week and a half. Next appointment is Tuesday in San Antonio. What time, where, and with whom? This is information I should have, but I do not. I get to retrieve a piece of paper with all the aforementioned vitals on Monday morning. Yes, perhaps not even 24 hours before Richie's appointment. Although I am glad that Richie's pediatrician was able to get him in with a pediatric gastroenterologist so soon, it frustrates me that they scheduled the appointment without asking my input. What if I was not able to make the appointment on Tuesday? Come what may, I would have made it to that appointment, but I am surprised that I wasn't consulted. Especially seeing as how we have to drive to San Antonio.
I am very curious (and more than a little nervous) to meet with this specialist.
I am very curious (and more than a little nervous) to meet with this specialist.
just old light
Richie and I have been back in Texas for nearly a week. It was a nightmare getting home, but I'm over it. Not over it enough to share the experience. It's a new week with it's own set of problems.
Richie had his appointment with his pediatrician this morning. First thing, bright and early. 20 minutes after our scheduled time, he was taken in and stripped to be weighed and measured. Verdict? My kids got a big (BIG) head. Not freakishly big, but beyond the average silly looking toddler-sized head. Not a problem. No growth otherwise. I'm not surprised, just disappointed. Not in Richie, or myself, but if you are a mom you know the disappointment I'm talking about. In early morning hours, like now, I can sit here with my lap top and blame myself for lacking the ability to alter Richie's piece of universe to make him a normal, healthy toddler. Thankfully they didn't give me too much to dwell on numbers before the nurse shoved me into another room to wait for the pediatrician to show up.
This part of my day is called waiting.
I thought Richie was going to bounce off a wall and through the window of the tiny room we were confined to. Just as I braced myself for lift-off, in walked Dr. Never-on-time. He entered the room with Richie's chart in hand and open, reading it. Before he even sat down he started asking me questions about Richie's delivery and premature birth. When he is done asking his questions, we discuss Richie's size. He's been teasing us, like he might stay in the fifth percentile, but now he's back in the third. I have always thought that there is a connection between his GI problems, yet undiagnosed, and his compact packaging. I brought up this concern to the pediatrician and got Richie a referral to a pediatric gastroenterologist. I won't be satisfied until there is an answer, and treatment, if necessary. I'm hopeful but guarded.
The day got off to a strange and uncomfortable beginning since Richie's appointment was so early. By the time I finished Rocky Balboa tonight, I was ready to get in bed. I always check in on Richie. Consequently, after dragging my feet up the stairs, I opened the baby gate and walked in to sneak a peek of my sleeping angel. I stepped lightly over some closet organizing accessories that I had left on the floor, to get to Richie's crib. I can't see him, so I assume he cuddled up in a different corner of the crib than usual. Nope.
The baby is not in the crib.
Richie is sprawled on the floor on his back. Just sleeping soundly, on the floor. This is strange considering that I laid him to sleep in his crib. Somehow my little climber got out. The list for tomorrow starts already with (1) checking Richie for bumps, bruises and the kind, and (2) calling Babies R Us to order the Wendy Bellissimo toddler bed guard rail for Richie's toddler bed. It will take 3 to 4 months for the special order item to actually arrive, so until then I will be duct taping my child to his crib mattress. It's a good thing I always close the baby gate at Richie's bedroom doorway since his room is at the top of the stairs. Oh my gosh, I can't even think of if I hadn't. Thankfully he was somewhat safe...ish. I had the baby monitor on and didn't hear a peep out of him, nor a thud. Therefore, I conclude that he didn't actually hit the floor but scaled the walls to bring himself soundly to the floor. Then, being worn out, sprawled out on his back and took to dreaming. I may also be making a journey to the emergency room tomorrow morning if I notice any bruising, swelling, or other injuries. But, I'm sure he's fine. Like I said, my little monkey must have scaled the walls to a soft landing on the floor. I'm going to lay in bed and repeat that for a while.
Richie had his appointment with his pediatrician this morning. First thing, bright and early. 20 minutes after our scheduled time, he was taken in and stripped to be weighed and measured. Verdict? My kids got a big (BIG) head. Not freakishly big, but beyond the average silly looking toddler-sized head. Not a problem. No growth otherwise. I'm not surprised, just disappointed. Not in Richie, or myself, but if you are a mom you know the disappointment I'm talking about. In early morning hours, like now, I can sit here with my lap top and blame myself for lacking the ability to alter Richie's piece of universe to make him a normal, healthy toddler. Thankfully they didn't give me too much to dwell on numbers before the nurse shoved me into another room to wait for the pediatrician to show up.
This part of my day is called waiting.
I thought Richie was going to bounce off a wall and through the window of the tiny room we were confined to. Just as I braced myself for lift-off, in walked Dr. Never-on-time. He entered the room with Richie's chart in hand and open, reading it. Before he even sat down he started asking me questions about Richie's delivery and premature birth. When he is done asking his questions, we discuss Richie's size. He's been teasing us, like he might stay in the fifth percentile, but now he's back in the third. I have always thought that there is a connection between his GI problems, yet undiagnosed, and his compact packaging. I brought up this concern to the pediatrician and got Richie a referral to a pediatric gastroenterologist. I won't be satisfied until there is an answer, and treatment, if necessary. I'm hopeful but guarded.
The day got off to a strange and uncomfortable beginning since Richie's appointment was so early. By the time I finished Rocky Balboa tonight, I was ready to get in bed. I always check in on Richie. Consequently, after dragging my feet up the stairs, I opened the baby gate and walked in to sneak a peek of my sleeping angel. I stepped lightly over some closet organizing accessories that I had left on the floor, to get to Richie's crib. I can't see him, so I assume he cuddled up in a different corner of the crib than usual. Nope.
The baby is not in the crib.
Richie is sprawled on the floor on his back. Just sleeping soundly, on the floor. This is strange considering that I laid him to sleep in his crib. Somehow my little climber got out. The list for tomorrow starts already with (1) checking Richie for bumps, bruises and the kind, and (2) calling Babies R Us to order the Wendy Bellissimo toddler bed guard rail for Richie's toddler bed. It will take 3 to 4 months for the special order item to actually arrive, so until then I will be duct taping my child to his crib mattress. It's a good thing I always close the baby gate at Richie's bedroom doorway since his room is at the top of the stairs. Oh my gosh, I can't even think of if I hadn't. Thankfully he was somewhat safe...ish. I had the baby monitor on and didn't hear a peep out of him, nor a thud. Therefore, I conclude that he didn't actually hit the floor but scaled the walls to bring himself soundly to the floor. Then, being worn out, sprawled out on his back and took to dreaming. I may also be making a journey to the emergency room tomorrow morning if I notice any bruising, swelling, or other injuries. But, I'm sure he's fine. Like I said, my little monkey must have scaled the walls to a soft landing on the floor. I'm going to lay in bed and repeat that for a while.
turn down upside
Yesterday was the barbecue with my grandmother and other family members. I had told my grandma on Saturday that we would show up Sunday at about 12:30. After a heart attack at the first church service, attending the second service, and a couple hours for portraits of Richie and my little sister Ryann, we finally made at 4:00 p.m. Everyone was already there. I couldn't even get in the door to greet everyone before I was hit with a crowd of hugs and strange hands reach out to touch Richie. Richie was really good about being passed around.
I can't, honestly, say that it wasn't strange seeing all my family members like that. What they lack in normalcy they make up for generously with dysfunction. Since my papa passed away, we've been stuck. The whole lot of us, stuck. I didn't realize his extraordinary staying power until we all fell apart without him. When he got cancer, we two steps behind but protected him all the same. Before the cancer could kill him, we submerged him in love. He couldn't take a full breath, but he breathed love onto all of us. I think he would cry if he saw the ash we are. I am. I am ash. Every time I hum my favorite song, photograph a moment, share a bit of time with the ones I love, I wonder what stories they'll tell at my funeral. Will anyone remember my favorite song? Will I die before my dad? Will I bury my son? Will he bury me? With a disturbing detachment, I associate everything with death. How long can tragedy attack this family before we all fall victim to perpetual funeral planning?
All these thoughts were running through my mind as I visited with my family. Since we can't function without him, we are always telling stories about him or talking about what he would do if he were still here. We all kept so much of him alive, and maybe that makes it harder to move on. It's like he is still with us everyday. I look at my grandma, now great grandmother to my son, and wonder how burying two lovers could leave her with a life worth waking up to. I see the mark of misfortune on each of us, and I wonder why do any of us get out of bed in the morning.
Then I look at my son and I remember what a blessing life is.
I can't, honestly, say that it wasn't strange seeing all my family members like that. What they lack in normalcy they make up for generously with dysfunction. Since my papa passed away, we've been stuck. The whole lot of us, stuck. I didn't realize his extraordinary staying power until we all fell apart without him. When he got cancer, we two steps behind but protected him all the same. Before the cancer could kill him, we submerged him in love. He couldn't take a full breath, but he breathed love onto all of us. I think he would cry if he saw the ash we are. I am. I am ash. Every time I hum my favorite song, photograph a moment, share a bit of time with the ones I love, I wonder what stories they'll tell at my funeral. Will anyone remember my favorite song? Will I die before my dad? Will I bury my son? Will he bury me? With a disturbing detachment, I associate everything with death. How long can tragedy attack this family before we all fall victim to perpetual funeral planning?
All these thoughts were running through my mind as I visited with my family. Since we can't function without him, we are always telling stories about him or talking about what he would do if he were still here. We all kept so much of him alive, and maybe that makes it harder to move on. It's like he is still with us everyday. I look at my grandma, now great grandmother to my son, and wonder how burying two lovers could leave her with a life worth waking up to. I see the mark of misfortune on each of us, and I wonder why do any of us get out of bed in the morning.
Then I look at my son and I remember what a blessing life is.
When I remember where I left it, I'll let you know if my glass if half empty or full
I am in the process of making my photos private on Flickr.com. I have left them public for a long time. However, a pedophile added some of my son's pictures to his favorites (a bookmarking function on the website), along with pictures of naked little boys from other users. Flickr offers "block" as a solution. Unfortunately, pedophiles (as well as other degenerates) can still view photos of my son even after I have "blocked" their profiles. In this depraved world, I have to fight for my son's innocence at every turn. I may have anticipated these battles, but my son does not deserve to be more fearful than hopeful.
How could anyone look at a child and think evil thoughts?
It has been almost two weeks since I last heard from Nathan. When I took the above photo, I recognized it's cuteness and absolutel adorability and knew I had to share it with the world! I sent it to my usual list of people. Except Nathan. Before assuming I am cold hearted, know that Nathan does not want to see pictures of Richie and accuses me of parading him as a bribe if I do send pictures. I fought myself on it until I knew I had to just let it go; Nathan has made his point clearly and effectively. I have managed to restrain myself and still have not responded to his most recent outburst of abrasive rhetoric. I try not to even think about him which proves difficult when haunted by child support papers and Marie (my ex-mother-in-law-to-be). I knew I was going to hear from her sooner or later and with each passing day later became sooner. She wants Richie and I to visit her for Christmas. Nathan is going to be there (being New Jersey) for Christmas. Anyone else see a problem? Marie says that Nathan and I could be around each other as friends. I don't think she considered that Nathan does not have any desire to see his son. It may prove quite inconvenient for Nathan to come face to face (literally) with reality. As much as I would love to see Nathan's reaction to real responsibility, I won't do it at the expense of my son.
I am still battling myself about whether or not to file for child support. I have looked over the papers I requested. I have read them so many times. I am no closer to any sort of answer. I keep returning to the opinion that if Nathan does not want to be a father to Richie, a bank account is a poor substitute. If I planned on being a white trash cashier at the gas station, I would be going after welfare, child support, and probably borrowing obscene amounts of money (that I could never repay) from family members. My BSN will enable me to attain a good job immediately. I will be making more than twice the money Nathan is making as part of the USMC. I can not find a good enough justification to give Nathan more reason to be so hostile.
Richie laying next to baby pants (well, toddler pants) size 18-24 mos.
I spent all of last week trying to get my fevered, vomiting mini-tot seen by his pediatrician. If his gastrointestinal issues weren't reason enough to have Richie an appointment, he also injured his leg. Thankfully the ER at VVRMC is competent enough to x-ray a toddler's leg. That's all the PA accomplished before scooting us along. Within ten minutes, Doc determined that Richie's leg was sprained and showed me what I am going to call "BPT" (baby physical therapy). Silly, but true. Due to Richie's age, his leg will be well and fine, even sprained, very soon. Richie has a list of persistent health problems that need attention, but have been neglected by his former pediatrician. His new pediatrician is a good doctor, although seriously lacking in "bedside manner". He promptly went down the list and diagnosed, discussing necessary treatment, of all Richie's "issues" including his miniature-ness. He is going to monitor Richie's growth every couple of weeks. Richie needs a good doctor, not a friend. I love his new pediatrician!
The reason that Richie's leg needed x-rayed is quite a special little story. To make a long story into a very short one; Richie got his leg caught (while bent at the knee) in between the slats at the headboard, then fell backwards so he was hanging by his swollen knee. For the price and supposed quality of Jardine Lifetime cribs, one would think that this would not happen. Au contraire! Multiple mommy's have reported this problem to Jardine Enterprises, yet there is no recall. The reviews and reports that describe the problem with these cribs are hidden. Even if a mom does her research (which should happen), the necessary information does not present itself. Parenting is enough of a challenge as it is without having to worry about crib danger cover-ups.
On Sunday, we are borrowing a large vehicle from a family member and making the four hour drive to San Antonio where Babies "R" Us is located. The store has been much more helpful than the manufacturer. A manager at the store is giving us credit for the crib we already purchased, they are taking it off our hands, and we are getting the Wendy Bellissimo crib in honey! I will be happy when my son no longer has to sleep in his pack'n'play because his crib isn't safe. I have been trying to find reviews of Wendy Bellissimo furniture, but no luck. Nothing good, nothing bad. Nothing. I spoke to a sales associate in the crib department at Babies "R" Us and she said that I picked a really good crib. I have exhausted all my resources. It can't be worse than the one we have. Hopefully Jardine Enterprises improves upon their products.
Richie preserving the midnight oil in his pack'n'play.
How could anyone look at a child and think evil thoughts?
It has been almost two weeks since I last heard from Nathan. When I took the above photo, I recognized it's cuteness and absolutel adorability and knew I had to share it with the world! I sent it to my usual list of people. Except Nathan. Before assuming I am cold hearted, know that Nathan does not want to see pictures of Richie and accuses me of parading him as a bribe if I do send pictures. I fought myself on it until I knew I had to just let it go; Nathan has made his point clearly and effectively. I have managed to restrain myself and still have not responded to his most recent outburst of abrasive rhetoric. I try not to even think about him which proves difficult when haunted by child support papers and Marie (my ex-mother-in-law-to-be). I knew I was going to hear from her sooner or later and with each passing day later became sooner. She wants Richie and I to visit her for Christmas. Nathan is going to be there (being New Jersey) for Christmas. Anyone else see a problem? Marie says that Nathan and I could be around each other as friends. I don't think she considered that Nathan does not have any desire to see his son. It may prove quite inconvenient for Nathan to come face to face (literally) with reality. As much as I would love to see Nathan's reaction to real responsibility, I won't do it at the expense of my son.
I am still battling myself about whether or not to file for child support. I have looked over the papers I requested. I have read them so many times. I am no closer to any sort of answer. I keep returning to the opinion that if Nathan does not want to be a father to Richie, a bank account is a poor substitute. If I planned on being a white trash cashier at the gas station, I would be going after welfare, child support, and probably borrowing obscene amounts of money (that I could never repay) from family members. My BSN will enable me to attain a good job immediately. I will be making more than twice the money Nathan is making as part of the USMC. I can not find a good enough justification to give Nathan more reason to be so hostile.
Richie laying next to baby pants (well, toddler pants) size 18-24 mos.
I spent all of last week trying to get my fevered, vomiting mini-tot seen by his pediatrician. If his gastrointestinal issues weren't reason enough to have Richie an appointment, he also injured his leg. Thankfully the ER at VVRMC is competent enough to x-ray a toddler's leg. That's all the PA accomplished before scooting us along. Within ten minutes, Doc determined that Richie's leg was sprained and showed me what I am going to call "BPT" (baby physical therapy). Silly, but true. Due to Richie's age, his leg will be well and fine, even sprained, very soon. Richie has a list of persistent health problems that need attention, but have been neglected by his former pediatrician. His new pediatrician is a good doctor, although seriously lacking in "bedside manner". He promptly went down the list and diagnosed, discussing necessary treatment, of all Richie's "issues" including his miniature-ness. He is going to monitor Richie's growth every couple of weeks. Richie needs a good doctor, not a friend. I love his new pediatrician!
The reason that Richie's leg needed x-rayed is quite a special little story. To make a long story into a very short one; Richie got his leg caught (while bent at the knee) in between the slats at the headboard, then fell backwards so he was hanging by his swollen knee. For the price and supposed quality of Jardine Lifetime cribs, one would think that this would not happen. Au contraire! Multiple mommy's have reported this problem to Jardine Enterprises, yet there is no recall. The reviews and reports that describe the problem with these cribs are hidden. Even if a mom does her research (which should happen), the necessary information does not present itself. Parenting is enough of a challenge as it is without having to worry about crib danger cover-ups.
On Sunday, we are borrowing a large vehicle from a family member and making the four hour drive to San Antonio where Babies "R" Us is located. The store has been much more helpful than the manufacturer. A manager at the store is giving us credit for the crib we already purchased, they are taking it off our hands, and we are getting the Wendy Bellissimo crib in honey! I will be happy when my son no longer has to sleep in his pack'n'play because his crib isn't safe. I have been trying to find reviews of Wendy Bellissimo furniture, but no luck. Nothing good, nothing bad. Nothing. I spoke to a sales associate in the crib department at Babies "R" Us and she said that I picked a really good crib. I have exhausted all my resources. It can't be worse than the one we have. Hopefully Jardine Enterprises improves upon their products.
Richie preserving the midnight oil in his pack'n'play.
the blower's daughter
Innocence is stolen and even the most intense skeptic begs answers of an unyielding universe. Point in case, yours truly. Indeed I have set aside my doubts, religious and otherwise, to scream angrily, "WHY?"
I have hovered over, if not completely smothered, my son since I heard from Mely of her baby cousin passing away. Two weeks shy of his first birthday and gone.
Deep breath.
I'm getting ahead of myself.
When I first arrived at the gym, I saw my friends Andy and Mely. I had not seen them in a few weeks and we dove into frenzied updates. Mely very generously asked after Richie and inquired after Nathan's newest act of heartlessness.
As we spoke, I looked her over. She looked strange to me. I had always assumed she was in her twenties, like me. However, today she looked older than her years by quite a lot. Her face was sunken in. Maybe she didn't get enough sleep. I decided it would be rude to tell her how "tired" she looked. My eyes were drawn to her gray hair as a moth to a candle. She seemed to have aged so much. I didn't know at the time, but suffering had tainted her appearance. She told me she had just returned from Mexico, where she had gone for the funeral of her baby cousin. Tears forced their way from her swollen eyes as she described what a happy baby he had "been". My own emotions took over as she told me of the baby's mother. After the death of her second infant, the woman seemed to be going out of her mind. The mother would smile suddenly, directing every one's attention to the doorway as she swore her little man would soon come toddling through. Moments later she would notice that she was standing before her infant son's casket, and she would scream.
"Why, God, have you taken my babies from me?"
Mely said that she has not been able to sleep since seeing the baby boy laid out to rest. His clothes were too big, and he was barefoot. She had never seen a dead infant before. She said she felt that she had to touch his hand, and now she can feel the presence of his tiny fingers in her palm. As she described this to me, she held out her hand as though she cupped his baby hand in hers. That visual is burned onto my mind. I wrapped my arms around her, holding her upright as she cried. Her hand stayed rigid as though she was afraid she would lose grip of his hand.
In situations like this, we all want someone or something to blame.
God?
Mexico?
the pediatrician?
the parents?
the devil?
Financial circumstance dictated the tune of the grief. The coffin was set on the kitchen table; all the funeral homes charged too much. The cemetery is far from the small Mexican town where the parents live with their other children and comes with the stigma of poverty. The baby was buried with no tombstone, just a peace of wood the father wrote on with an ink pen.
WHY?
I have hovered over, if not completely smothered, my son since I heard from Mely of her baby cousin passing away. Two weeks shy of his first birthday and gone.
Deep breath.
I'm getting ahead of myself.
When I first arrived at the gym, I saw my friends Andy and Mely. I had not seen them in a few weeks and we dove into frenzied updates. Mely very generously asked after Richie and inquired after Nathan's newest act of heartlessness.
As we spoke, I looked her over. She looked strange to me. I had always assumed she was in her twenties, like me. However, today she looked older than her years by quite a lot. Her face was sunken in. Maybe she didn't get enough sleep. I decided it would be rude to tell her how "tired" she looked. My eyes were drawn to her gray hair as a moth to a candle. She seemed to have aged so much. I didn't know at the time, but suffering had tainted her appearance. She told me she had just returned from Mexico, where she had gone for the funeral of her baby cousin. Tears forced their way from her swollen eyes as she described what a happy baby he had "been". My own emotions took over as she told me of the baby's mother. After the death of her second infant, the woman seemed to be going out of her mind. The mother would smile suddenly, directing every one's attention to the doorway as she swore her little man would soon come toddling through. Moments later she would notice that she was standing before her infant son's casket, and she would scream.
"Why, God, have you taken my babies from me?"
Mely said that she has not been able to sleep since seeing the baby boy laid out to rest. His clothes were too big, and he was barefoot. She had never seen a dead infant before. She said she felt that she had to touch his hand, and now she can feel the presence of his tiny fingers in her palm. As she described this to me, she held out her hand as though she cupped his baby hand in hers. That visual is burned onto my mind. I wrapped my arms around her, holding her upright as she cried. Her hand stayed rigid as though she was afraid she would lose grip of his hand.
In situations like this, we all want someone or something to blame.
God?
Mexico?
the pediatrician?
the parents?
the devil?
Financial circumstance dictated the tune of the grief. The coffin was set on the kitchen table; all the funeral homes charged too much. The cemetery is far from the small Mexican town where the parents live with their other children and comes with the stigma of poverty. The baby was buried with no tombstone, just a peace of wood the father wrote on with an ink pen.
WHY?
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