Madeleine's services were two days. Thursday, January 17th we had a visitation/vigil/rosary in her honor. Papa (Veronica's grandfather) delivered a wonderful and personal discussion about heaven and the fundamental being of human life. We firmly believe Madeleine is in the arms of Jesus. There was an incredible slideshow of Madeleine with family, friends, caretakers- everyone involved in her life. We received so many compliments about how beautiful it was for us to share that. We also had a digital photo frame of many of the same photos. We brought it home and it's been sitting on our table unplugged since the funeral. This morning Annalise wanted to plug it in and watch it. She exclaimed, "ooh! look at Madeleine!" and many other phrases as she watched all of the photos come in and out. She talks to her randomly. She likes to "tell me a secret," and almost every time this past week, it is her memory of she and Madeleine dressed for Halloween as Dora and Boots sitting in her chair. She tells me Madeleine is in her heart, which is how I've tried to explain why Madeleine isn't at the mortuary anymore where she can visibly see her. She doesn't quite get the concept of the cemetery or why we go there. It's a learning process for us all.
On the Friday afternoon before the mass, our family gathered together one last time in the viewing room to kiss our angel, to adore her beauty in her human form. This was how I described that day to our group of AT/RT parents:
I can't begin to describe the range of emotions: sadness and loss when we closed her casket, peace and love throughout the service, Madeleine's love in the warm sunshine graveside; anger and fury when the casket was enclosed in the vault and lowered under the earth, completely breathless leaning over and dropping flowers in the grave; then victory and closure when the earth was replaced- we buried that f***ing disease in the ground where it can never hurt us again. I know it will take us many months until we are finally at peace, but today was a step in the direction toward healing.
I wish that feeling continued. Perhaps it will. After time has started to settle, and we've had to move forward with regular life through no choice of our own, it's a little like being dropped in the middle of nowhere in the middle of the night without a map. There is no guide for what we feel or how we feel it. I had never in my life experienced tears that just fall like rain without the drama that comes with crying until now. They just fall, and freely, without any control on my part. One of the hardest parts is people who do not understand that our mourning is a process and we can't just forget about it in order to deal with something else. I wish it were that easy, and it's no excuse. I want to believe that they don't intend to be hurtful. And really, how can your entire perspective and life not be turned upside down by the death of your child? I get it; I remember the death of a close uncle and how in my grieving of his death, I found myself passing judgement upon his wife for changes she was making without asking or discussing it with her, asking her how she felt and how it was affecting her decision-making. I was also in my early 20s, so in some respect I will chalk it up to inexperience and immaturity, and now that experience is allowing me to somewhat give those people "a pass" and believe they don't know how hurtful they are being by vocalizing their opinions. I have struggled with this, and Tuesday I received this message in my daily devotional: "Now when problems surround us and we feel overwhelmed by them, we all would like to escape from them even if it is for only a little while! When we turn our problems over to God we can escape!
Thus, just like king David who wrote; Though I walk in the midst of trouble, You will revive me; You will stretch out Your hand Against the wrath of my enemies, And Your right hand will save me. For in the time of trouble He shall hide me in His pavilion; In the secret
place of His tabernacle He shall hide me; He shall set me high upon a rock.
( Psalms 138:7 ) ( Psalm 27:5 )
For; The LORD will guide you continually, And satisfy your soul in drought, And strengthen your bones; You shall be like a watered garden, And like a spring of water, whose waters do not fail. ( Isaiah 58:11 )
A good friend of mine shared with me the metaphorical parallels of us to the honorable soldiers of WWII.
A person is completely removed from everything normal and familiar, and thrown into extreme conditions unprepared and without much guidance and expected to be victorious. When the fight is over, those people are returned home incomplete; without parts of their body, with post-traumatic stress and without the understanding of what they experience or how to go forth in their life because they are forever changed. They must finally come to a point and "discharge the soldier;" allow that part of your life to truly be over. Hang up those responsibilities forever. Try to grasp the current reality and let go of the immediate past. Learn to live with the loss and adapt in order to persevere.
This is giving me something to reflect upon.
I for one have had to unplug. As long as I am moving, doing something, I am better than if I sit. Being online is very difficult for me. Whereas in the past my writing has given me an outlet, I feel that I am torturing myself to do it, because it is simply just too hard right now. I felt relief and peace initially when Madeleine went to heaven; she was free from her pain and disease, the things I had prayed for every single day. I kept myself busy between then and the services because I was not sure how to cope and not completely fall apart, and I still have my 3yo to ensure that Mommy is not a nutcase because she needs me more than I need to cope. After the service, I unplugged. I left everything familiar to me, except my two most important people. Any grief counselor will tell you to do this, to remove yourself from space you've shared with the deceased in order to be able to recollect yourself. So of course upon return to normal life, the emotions truly start to be felt. I think in theory it's not supposed to hurt as much. All of that which we cannot change is what we long for, what we miss, what hurts the most. Yesterday was my birthday. As birthday wishes go, "all of your wishes and dreams come true...." that just isn't possible. Is it realistic to wish for my life to hurry up so I can get to her? No, it isn't. Because there is a fine line between grieving the loss of my youngest daughter while not missing out on any precious moments with my oldest daughter who deserves her mommy just as much- in fact, more now- than anything else in the world. So for both of us, I unplug. I will try to anyway. Because right now I'm dying inside, grieving from the inside out how much I long to hold my baby; how much I miss her laughing and talking and noises around the house; how much I miss her arms around my neck or her calling after me. Maybe it's her needing me so much I grew so accustomed to. Sometimes I feel this incredible urge to be at the cemetery because I'm not taking care of her because "she" is there and I'm in our life. I know in my right mind that she is not there; she is playing and laughing and dancing in heaven and hasn't even realized yet that I'm not there. I have to discharge myself and stop punishing myself- it's not my fault I couldn't take the cancer away. It's not my fault she had to die. I don't know why God took her back before I was ready and somehow I have to come to terms with that and be happy and smile when she does show me she's still very much a part of me every day.
