Tuesday, November 16, 2010

Sandscript

I love to write. It helps me release the adrenalin born with a new thought. I suppose writing in the sand has become my own variation of message in a bottle. I'm able to let it out and let it go.

The last trip we took with Cooper was to the beach in celebration of his second birthday. On the last day of our trip David, Cooper and I took pictures of our feet in the sand; our little family of three. We wrote Cooper's name in the sand and said goodbye to the beach. It was later that day when we arrived home, not yet unpacked, Cooper turned shades of blue all the way down to his belly button. He stopped breathing for five minutes. It was terrifying and we thought he had earned his wings at that very moment. I started to cry, holding him in the rocking chair with David kneeling beside us. Cooper took in a giant gasp and started to breathe again on his own. He stayed with us for eight more days. In a quiet moment of retreat, David, Cooper and I were swinging under the tree in our backyard. It was there that Cooper peacefully took his last breath.










Writing Cooper's name in the sand has stuck with me. Perhaps that day was a bridge connecting one chapter to another. Something we did only once together, yet a way to continue to remember. If I'm holding onto something, I feel like I can write it in the sand and let the waves literally wash it way. The waves, symbolic messengers that will carry my thoughts to the point where the water meets the sky.


I have been fortunate to visit the beach a few times since then, but never put the messages together until today.  By starting with Cooper's name it's much like the beginning of a letter, waiting to be written.

Tuesday, November 9, 2010

The Roller Coaster & the Theme Park

So many of us, parents of a child with progressive disease, refer to our daily existence as a roller coaster ride which given some thought, is very fitting - the constant ups and downs, unexpected twists and turns, sudden loops, dips, and maybe even a brief pause when you think that last drop had to have been the biggest only to learn that there is another and another and then it stops. It stops abruptly. It jolts you forward, slamming you into the safety harness, but your adrenaline is still pumping as you try to figure out which way is up. Your knuckles are white from holding on so tight. Someone releases the safety harness and although you don't know how, it happened none the less. You are free to go, but still you sit, dazed. There is a lot of confusion, clusters of people getting off and new people getting on. You slowly stand up, legs feeling like jello and heart racing. When you got on the ride, you knew it would end, but ride itself is a blur with random moments of clarity. You wonder where you're supposed to go now. Some follow the arrows, some ask for directions, and some seek out those who have who have been on the ride before. Somehow, we all end up corralled in the same gift shop looking at the pictures from each strategically placed camera. Our priceless expressions come into view on the monitor for all to see and a momentary glimpse of the ride has been capsulated in time.

And there it ends, right? The ride is over, the story has ended, but you realize that you're still at the theme park. When does this place close? Where is the exit? You consider the options; try again, try a different ride, maybe you find a park employee and let them know you are lost or just sit tight and wait until it's time to go.