Tear Soup

 

Eleven years ago, today, I experienced one of many miracles that were bestowed upon our family as a result of our imperfectly perfect Adalynne Dior. For those of you who have followed along, know that we did not even have a car seat. We had two outfits, one for Now I lay Me Down to Sleep photographers and one for her to be buried in. So, eleven years ago today when we were wheeled out of the hospital, the two of us, that was a miracle. Naysayers might say otherwise, and that is okay. But, on that freezing January 8, 2010, God gave me another gift. We were greeted with the love of our family who were so excited to welcome their Adalynne home. At that time, we were in a condo. My brother and his wife had flown in from Arizona. My younger brother flew in from D.C. My mom and dad still called Nashville home. The family, neighbors, friends, and our priest were all there to welcome home this tiny three-pound miracle. When we drove up, I pray to my almighty God, that I will remember that visual as long as I am on this earth. The reason I pray to God I always remember, is because there are some days I wonder if I have early onset dementia. Then I wonder if the amount of stress I have allowed myself to take on in the last eleven years has something to do with my inability to recall conversations, events, milestones; or if it’s me not being mindful in those moments. Regardless, I pray to God this visual is one I never forget. As we were pulling up to River Plantation Condos, Ryan driving, me sitting beside Adalynne. The leather of that black Suburban, we bought for our growing family, was tan. Adalynne’s winter cover up that swallowed her was pink and had Winnie the Pooh and flowers on the front. Her brown curly hair was covered by the hood of her coverup. And just beyond the front of our vehicle was ground covered in a gorgeous blanket of perfectly fallen snow. Gordon, my giant of an older brother, was outside beaming with utter joy. His eyes sparkled like those of a child on Christmas morning. The joy on his face, in his heart and being radiated for miles. It was stunning. The number of cards, flowers and food that welcomed us was a juxtaposition; but a welcomed one that was celebrated. We were in the darkest season of our lives, as parents, we knew we were on borrowed time and her days were numbered. Adalynne seized while she was in the hospital. We were not home long when the first seizure started. When Ryan or it was my dad went to pick up Adalynne’s seizure medication there was no order. I remember calling the pharmacy frantically telling them my terminal child was seizing and she was in pain, but there was nothing that could be done as there was no prescription on file. Her pediatrician had forgotten to put the prescriptions in her discharge papers. Once the prescription was filled and administered the seizure stopped. It was the love, the community, the family that surrounded us that got us through, and that’s what awaited us when we got home. It was not the impending of what was to come with all terminal diagnoses. It was what we have been given.

Her pink outerwear, I don’t know what they are called, it swallowed her. It swallowed her. I pulled it out the other day and held it, and for a wisp of a moment I pretended there was a baby in it to cradle. I put it to my nose and inhaled, her scent long gone…

The boys were so excited, we were so excited, everyone was so excited. We knew her days were numbered. We weren’t in denial. We knew what was coming. But, in the last eleven years, I have recently (this week) learned that through all the blessings she bestowed upon us I did not run away from grief, I got on a jet plane and went to a different continent. I never dealt with the grief of losing a daughter. I focused more on the blessings, and I never allowed myself to grieve.

Last year, the loss of a child, things that made up my childhood that were not ideal, and the unknowns of 2020 made me realize I could not out run my past anymore, and I had to deal with it. I went out west in the fall to get help, because I had run away from my grief and my trauma so long it started manifesting itself in ways that I did not have the tools in my toolbox to fix. So, I went to Colorado.

So, although for all those years I continued to share our story with local high school students, I never truly grieved her death. I put on a smile and shoved down the grief. I threw myself into career. I threw myself into raising two sweet blonde-haired boys. I threw myself into being a mom and growing our family. While I was in Colorado it was like the lid was taken off of my grief and not only on the things that I survived as a child but it also put me in touch with my emotions. It’s not that I did not allow myself to cry, but I tricked my brain into thinking that I did not need to cry. Because in crying that would have somehow meant that I was not…. I don’t know. I don’t know. I put on a happy strong face, when inside I was dying. I was living dreams for other people. I stopped living for me, and just did what other people expected of me. Losing a child is not something I would ever want for anyone. It goes against the natural process of life. So, when she was here, I made a vow to her and to myself that I would be the best mom for her brothers that I could not be for her. I would do everything in my power to raise kids who knew without a doubt they were loved, cherished and a gift.

This is the first time in eleven years I am grieving. I was told by my people how brave I was for going to Colorado. I remember thinking before I left, “Why do people think my brokenness is brave? It’s not brave to be broken.” It was not the brokenness that was brave. It was the strength it took to admit I could no longer out run my past that was brave. In the past eleven years I can count on one hand (maybe two) how many times I have visited her grave. It hurt too much and made her loss real. It would take me a while to recover and slip my mask back into place.

I share my truth and our story to help others. My therapist asked me to grieve. She asked me to visit Adalynne’s grave and grieve. She told me to make “Tear Soup”. So today, the little kids and I watched someone read “Tear Soup” on YouTube, I blogged and I cried, wept and thanked God for the gift of growth that came from today.