pictures

For your entertainment I would like to post a few out-takes from our photo session that was supposed to culminate in our annual Chinese New Year greeting card. It is really nice not having to worry about getting a “Happy Holidays and Happy New Year!!” card in December. We always get a few weeks more to putter around, procrastinate, postpone the stress and frenzy of digging out addresses and deciding who gets on “the list”, ha. (I know, you want to stab me, or at least slap me.)

So R had the brilliant idea to corral the girls into the Radio Flyer wagon so Lyra-Lightning-feet will not run off and stuff her cheeks with pebbles/grass/weed/dirt/sticks or whatevers. I guess the idea sort of work… here are a few of the out-takes:

Lyra the prisoner tries to escape while her sister tries to prevent it.

And since trying to climb out of the wagon did not work, Lyra tried to eat her way out of the wagon…

And when eating the wagon did not work either, she resorted to attacking her sister, demanding that she be let out, or else!!

::

At some point, inevitably, I started to think of my life as an out-take, myself as an out-take, the stillbirth as an out-take. They were just all wrong, but not funny or silly. They just should not have happened.

So someone asked me recently, “I have yet to see a decent picture of you?”

Hmph.

The thing is, there are no pictures of me, let alone decent. I just have not enjoyed having my pictures taken. I also do not have a good photographer. I mean, R is a good photographer, but he is very technically driven. He is all about the aperture and shutter speed and wavelength and all that crap. When I asked him about the photo session he said betw 4 to 415 pm because that’s when the light was going to be the best. Now, I am all about the framing and mood and spontaneity. I don’t care if not everyone is looking straight at the camera and smiling. So anyways, if he takes a picture of me, I will be smiling but by the time he has all the settings adjusted to his satisfaction, the smile has evaporated. So I don’t have to smile either. But then I will look haggard/old/wicked and I have a double chin, yuck.

But despair not, my friends, one day you will see me. I am calling about the Botox and the new miracle diet and one day I will be presentable. In the meantime, use your imagination. (Just kidding!)

I hope the out-takes bring you some smiles.

who is the patient

I am still working through M.F.K. Fisher’s book of cures, and have yet to chance upon a recipe for a broken heart.  But I will tell you if you have a gushing nosebleed, a miracle will occur if you put bacon grease up your nostrils. Yes, you heard me right, bacon grease will stop the most violent nosebleed and save your life.

::

There is this German woman who is the mother of a little girl in Sophia’s dance camp last summer (well, she is not so little. She is ten but she is petite.) For some reason I was drawn to her and her quiet elegance. But we never had a chance to talk. Until I saw her again, three months later, at the dance studio where, incidentally, both Sophia and the other little girl had chosen to attend dance classes.

We spoke and she told me she was studying to be a homeopath. I had always been fascinated by homeopathy and she was only willing and happy to tell me all she could. We talked about other things- travel, languages, dance, learning. We disagree on many things, but we were always happy to see each other at the dance studio.

This Monday past we met again, she told me she had been busy preparing for exams, and asked how was I? I was embarrassed to have to again say, “Not so good”, what with the repeated sniffles and coughs and on that day, a headache as well. I talked about Lyra’s fitful slumbers in the night, her yelling in her sleep and how I wish for uninterrupted sleep. Lyra’s nose was runny that day, but she was still all smiling and curious.

Somehow the topic came to Ferdinand, because I told her prior to his death I simply braved my monthly headaches. But after his death, after a bout of mysterious teeth pain, something seemed to have buckled in me and I faltered often, reaching rather easily for painkillers. She listened, her eyes welled and she thought and she asked me questions.

“Do you cry?”

“No. No, I can’t. I feel the urge, I can see myself crying, I even feel it coming, but no, I cannot cry.”

And she nodded, saying my symptoms fit the remedy. She said she knew a remedy, for my headache and my grief- they are the same medicine- but I would need it at a much weaker dilution (the more diluted a homeopathic remedy, the more potent it is), a 200C, versus the 30C one gets at the health food stores. And she said, I cannot give you 200C. And moreover, she gestured at Lyra, you are still nursing, and whatever you take, goes to her, and affects her, and she can manifest your symptoms.

That was altogether fascinating, scary and humbling, all at the same time.

(And the remedy? Natrium Muriaticum. It is sodium chloride. (Homeopathic remedies are derived from plant, animal or mineral.) Salt. Aren’t tears supposed to be salty?)

The next day I emailed her, asking if she can recommend a remedy for Lyra, describing her shifting symptoms, her mucus becoming yellow, and her cough becoming productive. I can feel it hurt her to cough, even though she was still smiling all the time, I told her. I know it, I sense it, I feel it, those were the same symptoms I had a couple weeks ago.  She wrote back, telling me  she spoke to her mentor, who told her, “Treat the mother!” And she relayed that she felt her mentor was absolutely right… “Babies, especially the ones who are very close to their mother are very sensitive. If anything is wrong, they show their symptoms immediately.” It is you who need the remedy, she urged. I told her I have the remedy at home but she said I need to take it in a special way, and she had to show me. “If you cannot come to me, I will come to you,” she signed off.

I read her email over and over and I cannot tell you how I shook and felt the tears damming up but simply could not cry. She had told me about different remedies for grief, but it is not easy to pinpoint, she had consented, grief is complex and so individual. It will take time, she had said. (Of course, all things take time, don’t they?) As I sat and listened to her I kept wondering, there cannot be a cure for grief.

But now, I have to try to cure it, even if it sounds impossible. Because what cuts me cuts my sweet little precious daughter as well. I understand now her fitful nights, her yelling in her sleep. Those were my symptoms she was manifesting. R had told me I had been grinding my teeth, and whimpering in my sleep. If I am not having peaceful nights, how could she, who sleeps right next to me, and sucks my milk, and therefore drinks in everything, all good and undesirable?

It made me shudder, to think all that flowed through me, tangible or not, goes to my little daughter. That includes grief and its symptoms. Yet all along she had been our joy-on-two-legs, toddling around with a big fat grin on her face. And it is too late now, she has experienced grief, even if diluted. My poor child, no wonder her nose kept running and she keeps coughing. And the real patient is her mother.

I do not refuse cure, I just need to believe in it. Some say you don’t need to believe it for it to work, that’s how skeptics dissolve into believers. I don’t know. I wish to believe. But most importantly now, I know that I am the patient, not the sweet baby with her runny nose. I can’t believe this, it is so wrong and sick on some levels, but it also drives home the realization of how closely connected we all are. I love her dearly, so I gladly step up to the table. My name has been called, I am the patient.

defiance

Once upon a time my prose got published in the newspapers. It was very nice, as the editor admired my work and he in turn became a mentor of sorts.

Until I tried my hand at poetry, and after submitting about ten poems or so to him, he told me, “Just stick to prose.”

And I halted all attempts at poetry, admitting to myself that I was too prolix a personality to be writing poetry.

But last week while scrubbing dishes an idea came to me, and it was in the shape of a poem.

“Stick to prose.” Those words echoed in my head.

Still, my fingers flew to the keyboard and I banged away. Without allowing time for a good ripening, I sent that poem away to Angie to consider it for publication on the amazing Still Life 365. (I haven’t had time to follow it daily but whenever a snatch of time allowed it, I had been blown away by what was published. I truly think Angie had provided a gift to the world by setting this blog up.)

Several hours ago, Angie told me my poem will be published tomorrow (which is today now).  I could not help think of what the editor had told me years ago, “Just stick to prose.” “Sorry, sorry, sorry,” I muttered. But, wiping my drool from the corner of my lips, I also know he will never ever chance upon this poem, which made me a bit relieved.  He was like a father figure to me for a little while, so this attempt at a poem felt like an act of defiance.

And speaking of defiance, grief is audacious. R told me a few days about how some ten percent of our genome came from viruses. They were foreign, but managed to become a part of our DNA. Human DNA consists of genetic contributions from bacteria and other foreign organisms. Fascinating!–  Grief is like that too. It becomes a part of you. You slough and slough, you shed and shed, but it always grows back into a part of you. It is a part of you. I’ve been thinking, which great nation, which great culture never experienced death and grief? None. It makes me accept grief a bit better.

And if you can bear to sting your eyes with my attempt at poetry, it’s here.

Please grow old with me

“If you live to be a hundred, I want to live to be a hundred minus one day, so I never have to live without you.” ~ Winne-the-Pooh

Please grow old with me, because I cannot bear the thought of having no one to talk to,  someone who had seen the worst of me, who knows my little quirks and habits. Even if you seldom respond to the emails I shoot off to you (Isn’t this place cool? Why don’t we visit Syria?? Don’t you think this is a neat thing to organize our house? When will we ever get to a beach?? What about this movie? Should we go to this event? I think we should try this restaurant…) and that drives me really nuts, at least I have someone to email to, and to complain about.

Please grow old with me, even if I will never stop complaining about the paper towels you leave in your pants pockets when I take the laundry out. Please grow old with me, even if I’ll never stop grumbling about having to iron your clothing (and I especially dis-enjoy ironing pants and shirts). And I will never stop rolling my eyes when you pour an entire cup of soysauce  on to your rice, and burp after a meal.

Please grow old with me, because afterall, you do make me laugh. And smile. And sigh.

Recounting travel stories will be so much more fun when we do it together. Drinking in the sunset while panting up a storm will be so much better with my arm linked in yours. Please grow old with me.

So we will watch each other sag and grow wrinkles and have age spots crawl all over us. I will not laugh if you need to remove your dentures and soak them in a glass overnight. I will hold and support you if you need to lean on me. We will keep telling each other, “Now you’re really senile!” We will point fingers at each other about the disorganized photos and argue about how much salt is needed in a dish. If your eyesight fails first, I will glad read to you, every single thing under the sun.  And I guess we will never stop disagreeing about money. And movies. And ideas. And things to do.

Please grow old with me, so we can watch our children grow. So I will always have you next to me as they each grow independent, feathers a-ruffling and wings a-flapping, out to see the world. Please grow old with me, so we can perpetuate to our children, the myth of old couples living somewhat amicably together in old age.

The thought of life without you is simply unbearable, even if sometimes I tell you to get out of the kitchen, my territory. Missing one is very bad enough. And extremely heartbreaking.

Please grow old with me.

ordinary days

I’m coming up for light and air for a few seconds. It’s been kinda wet here, which is good, which makes me want to be under layers of blankets eating trays of truffles reading heaps of trashy novels. But the truth is I have been busy doing nothing. Putting out fires. When we bought this house we did not know it has a self-renewing-clutter function. Clutter keeps popping up. They multiply overnight as I sleep, a smug smile on my face thinking about the big bag of stuff I am going to haul to Goodwill soon. I’ve had enough. I’ve resolved to reduce like crazy this year. Simplify and all that. And it’s hard work. We’ve got stuff, lots and all kinds. Including invisible ones that needs to be sloughed away.

I also have a confession. I said I will not buy anything but I bought this:

Before you start wagging your fingers at me, let me tell you its virtues: it requires hardly any detergent, it dries fast (so no yucky mold or anything of that sort), its bright colors make washing dishes a fun job. It’s made from recycled corn cobs and peach pits, so eco-savvy. Oh, did I forget to mention you don’t eat it even though it’s name is Spa.ghetti? You scrub your pans and dishes with it. You can buy it here, if you wish. May your dish-washing be more fun and guilt-free in 2010. (But don’t send me death threats if you find you do not like them!)

The other thing is, the girls’ notebook had been acting up and would not connect to the internet so they have been using this same one that I am banging on right now, which means vastly reduced internet time (on top of putting out fires). I’m afraid to post something because I have not been to my Google Reader in ages. It used to be what I do before I even go to the news. I’m afraid I may be missing some big news in blogland and inadvertantly writing something stupid here because of missing out on the news. My mind is not often far from this circle of women, but the mouse and keyboard had not been mine much.

In any case someone sent me this link a few days back and I had been choking on it. It is very moving indeed and made me wish I have a lot of ordinary days, many many of them stretched out ahead, almost endless. Ordinary but peaceful, joyful and filled with chocolates, bubbles, glitter, grass, clouds, sand and sea. Ordinary is a gift. I wish we all have such ordinary days. I was thinking of all of us mightily when I watched and as I listened and tried not to bawl. We all deserve ordinary days like these. After a storm, ordinary days are priceless.

lost time

(Thank you for all your lovely wishes for Lyra! They mean so much and are deeply appreciated.)

So that big day which was Lyra’s first birthday came and went. She was doted upon (multi-fold on that special day) and we could not help but marvel and gasp at how fast time had passed.

As I nursed her to sleep that night, enveloped in darkness, memories played back movies. I saw vividly the day we brought her home from the hospital, exhaling with relief to see her in our home, after waiting for months to see if she would be born safe and sound. I saw R bringing her in in her car-seat, in deep slumber, her face an almost replica of her brother, and colliding disbelief, relief, and belief unleashed tears of joy and sorrow.

From that day on, time seemed to have raced on as she grew and grew and grew, passing one milestone after another. She is still an incredible sight for me to behold, when she toddles across the room to me, waving a prized loot in her hand, grinning and drooling at the same time, yabbering and revealing her six tiny teeth in her mouth. It made me think of the time when time flowed like thick, slow tar, threatening to harden and set as I grovel, whine and thrash about. Home became hovel and strength and determination needed to be mustered to put food on the table. Smiling took muscular perseverance. There was a time when everyone else seemed to live on a parallel and unrelated universe. People filled their calendars with all things fun or mundane but there they are, diligently moving forward, actively engaged in the world. I watched in awe, mixed with disbelief, as I crouched and hid, disappeared from social happenings and only wished to be invisible.

From the time after Ferdinand died, until the day Lyra was born- those two years (technically 18 months, but it was like two years; time is elastic) were time lost to us. We could not do much else but lived on a most primal level- survive. Eat (something), sleep (trying hard), move (with great effort). Most things required great will. There was first the grappling with reality, and then there was the decision to try again, followed by months of anxiety, surrender and waiting- to see if lightning strikes again, in the same spot. Our lives could not have been more boring to an outsider. Almost useless. We were mostly just primitive beings trying to stay alive, and mostly useless to the world,for we had nothing much to contribute, it seemed, but dispair, sighs and anxieties.

I wish it wasn’t so. I would love to have 18 months lived differently. Joyfully, with ease, no worries. Not just making our home a fantastic one, but also making a difference in our community.(Or at least keep our front yard clean so we stop receiving “reminder letters” from our HOA, whom I am sure will throw a big party and shed tears of joy when we move away.)

It is never too late, of course, for there is always work to be done. There will be places where extra pairs of hands are welcomed. I look back at those months of lost time and can only chalk it up to lack of personal will. I needn’t have allowed myself to be detered. But I did and there is nothing to be done now, only to swim forward with the current of time, forging forward, hoping to make up for the lost time.

Although, is it possible to make up for lost time? To me, it seems that period of darkness has been frozen, and is untouchable. Serving, perhaps, as a warped tribute to my lost child.