Hazel Grace

I had the great fortune to become an aunt again this past November.  Because of some life twists and turns, I just got to meet this sweet angel a couple of weeks ago and was it bliss!  I am honored to be your aunt, Hazel.  And here is your first poem.  

Hazel Grace

You are made

Of the same

Love that the

Stars are made

Of.  The same

Patience of the

Trees.  Your heart

Is a flame

That is already

Bringing a deep

And necessary light

To the world.

Your dreams will

Come and go

But the embers

Of goodness that 

Are your heart

Will never fade.

The Last Drip

I wrote this poem the day after my last infusion which was exactly two weeks ago.  I am called to post it for its honesty and presence and for all of the people...patients, friends, caregivers, nurses, doctors, volunteers who have spent time in this interesting place.  

The last drip

In that final

Clear drip from

The bag contained 

The entirety of

My experience in

This infusion room.

This ground that,

At times felt

Carnal and, at

Times felt full

Of life.  The

Man and his 

Son talking about 

Stocks and my 

Interpretation of these

Beings working so

Hard to find

Normalcy and common

Ground and this 

Same man, I 

Saw him a 

Number of times,

Deteriorating before my

Eyes and my

Own fear, "am

I too?  No, no

I am not

Sick."  The denial

Or perhaps the

Deepest truth or

Somehow both in

This room where

The nurses are

Sometimes nearly giddy 

As they walk

Briskly with large

Bags of chemicals

For humans; sometimes

Were they dancing?

I fell in 

Love with some

Of these nurses,

You know the

Kind of love

I mean perhaps.  

A closeness that

Seems to come 

From thin air

But that undoubtedly

Comes from the 

Core human longing 

For connection wherever

We find ourselves.

I remember looking 

Into the eyes 

Of one of 

These nurses as

She pumped medicine

Into my body-

A three minute journey-

And I saw 

That she was 

Also my dear 

Friend; that her

Eyes were the 

Eyes of everyone 

And, don't get 

Me wrong, Jimmy

Fallon helped me

Laugh and Natalie

Merchant brought me

Peace and inspiration 

And my dear

Matt sitting across 

From me, well, 

He gave me 

Perhaps the ultimate

Gift of stick-

With-it-ness

And the volunteers

In their bright 

Red coats floating

Through the crowded 

Recliners softly offering

Massages and Reiki

Never did I

Decline these opportunities

For human touch

And healing, doing 

My best to 

Open to their 

Love and tenderness

And the woman

And her daughter 

And the man

And his friend 

All there around 

Me.  All there 

In this the

Final sacred drip.  

Through the Feet

I was struggling with something called anticipitory nausea.  Its a thing.  Maybe you have had it.  This is how it rolled out for me: when a thought of the hospital; the infusion room; a smell would come into my mind I would get nauseous.  I knew it had gotten a little out of control when I was driving down a country road and a nurse (with whom I had had such lovely conversations and was so grateful for) came into my head and I thought I was going to vomit out my car window.

So I brought it to my therapist.  (side note: I don't usually give direct instructions, but here is one: never ever feel ashamed to seek out, visit, call a therapist.  For anything.  These people are rare gems.)  After some tears, she invited me to get in touch with the nausea in my body.  At first I resisted, but I knew I wanted to work with this feeling.  I was still in the middle of the forest after all and I wanted to be free of this added burden and, because I could see in technicolor the direct link between the mind and body with this one, I went for it.  So I got in touch.  It began in my belly.  Uppp, then it kind of moved around to my back.  Oh, there is my sacrum.  Feel it there.  She asked me to see if it had any quality or color to it.  All that I could come up with was that it felt like weakness.  Did it move?  It sure did.  Right up into my sternum and into my arms.  Weakness.  Fragility.  Yuck.

And then, and I can't even remember how we got to this, but I thought, "well, I think I can have it travel down my legs instead.  Down my legs and out my feet perhaps."

I could picture myself standing to help with the downward movement.  We both got excited about this and she affirmed that this seemed like a good direction because the legs are strong and have much more muscle to tolerate this kind of feeling.  And for me it felt like the feet were open to having this feeling move right through them and out into the receiving ground.  And the ground, as forgiving and generous and vast as it is, would hardly even notice.

So I left the office lighter and with the hope that comes with revived purpose of practice.  I started visualizing grounding yoga poses and consulted with some yoga friends.  Their language supported my practice which was more often in my mind than on an actual mat.  And, of course, I practiced when the thoughts came.  Thoughts are so sneaky; how you can be at the kitchen sink and although you are smelling lavender dish soap, the thought/smell of rubbing alcohol comes into your mind and BOOM!  But now it was an opportunity to practice.

Then the big day came when I actually had to practice right there at the hospital.  My mantra became: through the feet; through the feet.  I stood instead of sitting in the waiting rooms.  I repeated the mantra.  And I can't tell you that I didn't have any nausea bubble up, but I had the confidence that comes from some sense of control.  I knew that I could redirect the feeling if I needed to and it would pass more quickly.  And oh how grateful I felt for my dear legs and feet.  In some sense, I had become disconnected from these parts of my body through this; so much emphasis on healing my chest and arm.

Through this winding journey of discomfort, I began to link my body back together.

A Poem for You, Sweet Ellie

It is quite a miracle to become an aunt and I was blessed to become one again this week.  The birth of Elisabeth Gail Tobin and the great journey that her beloved parents went on to bring her into this world have inspired great love and, yes, poetry.

Here is your poem, sweet Ellie.  Your very own "Dear One."  I love your heart and soul; your toes and your nose.

Dear One,

Last night

I gazed

At the

Opening clouds

With awe

And I

Sensed your

Coming into

The world

And my

Whole being

Was abuzz

With delight

Oh, sweet

Child - what

A gift

You already

Are to

This world -

Your presence

Inspiring a

Deeper opening

For us

All.  

If You Let Your Mom....

Orally composed in my kitchen last Friday night.

If you let your mom go to the bathroom...

She may just take a shower.  

If she takes a shower....

She may just put on her pajamas.  

If she puts her pajamas on....

She may just go to bed.  

The End.

(This all happened except for the "going to bed" part.  Next time.)

Have you read, "If You Give A Mouse a Cookie" or "If You Give A Moose A Muffin"?

The Sound of Wild Geese

This just happened:

Sitting upstairs.

Meditation session complete.

I take a glorious sip of tea.

Still hot.

A reward?

I think to myself, "this moment; savior it.  a gift."

Simultaneously, I hear a wining sound and instantly think it is my one year old.

Awake.

And my mind:

"why is she awake?  she shouldn't be awake.  She hasn't slept long enough.  what about the other things I was going to do?  Well, that is too bad that I am thinking negatively about my daughter being awake.  Second arrow...."

I look up.

Two wild geese fly by.

Honking in chaotic unison and delight.

One and Worry

Yesterday, I took Blair to her one year doctor's appointment.  Although the assumption may be that I had this down pat the third time around, I still struggled with holding her in one arm and finding a clean diaper in my overloaded diaper bag with the other.  I still stared at the weight and height chart, trying to make sense of it all wondering if she was, "ok."  My body temperature still rose significantly when they told me she had to have three shots.  Oh, and also a finger prick to test for lead since I have absolutely no idea when the house where we reside was built.  I still felt like I might vomit all over the doctor (and extra nurse that they had to bring in due to the unexpected strength and resistance of this little 19 pounder) when I had to look into my daughter's eyes as they held her down and pierced her skin (three times) knowing that this is one of her first true encounters with suffering.  A story came to mind that I read lately.  Some people training in compassion focus on this image: a mother who has lost her arms watching her baby float down the river.  Vomit.  Compassion.  And I did think of all of the mothers the world over who watch their children suffer in much lengthier and grave circumstances.

Amidst all of this while holding a very unhappy strong little person, the doctor started asking me questions: is she saying words?  Not really.  Sounds, yes.  But not words.  Does she know what you are talking about, like for example when you say you have to bring something to the trash?  I'm not sure.  Maybe?  I really don't know....  But does she say baabaa or daadaa or mommamomma?  I guess.  Sort of.  Not really....

You catch the drift.

And there I sat.  In the doctor's office with a poopy diaper in my hand thinking, well, I guess this is what people mean when they say time goes fast.  I wanted to shout to the doctor, "she is just a baby!  Give her a break!"  And I literally felt like my baby that I was holding in my arms was all of a sudden a toddler and I wasn't quite sure what to do.

Worry invaded my heart and throughout the rest of the day I was trying to get her to say words and follow my directions about trash cans.  I was even trying to teach her manners at the dinner table.  I took to recruiting my five year old to aid me in this direction (which, of course, she took very seriously, "ok, Mom.  I will.  What do you want me to teach her?")

And then this morning, as I watched my one year old dance in the bathtub to "Give Love" (awesome song by the way!  Download it!) with a huge grin on her baby/toddler face, I had this thought: when we allow worry about another being to come into our heart it inevitably blockades authenticity because we are looking to that other person to either validate or eradicate our worry.  So I dropped the worry.  And I danced with my two littles in the bathroom.  Phew.