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The last time I sat down to write, I was starting work on Kitty’s unintentionally forgotten memory book, a task that was entrusted to me not long after Kitty was born. My goal was to complete the book in time to give my daughter on what would be Kitty’s eighth birthday in April. It was a goal I couldn’t meet – craft stores were closed because of the pandemic and online shopping proved frustrating due to sold out pink paper and scrapbooking supplies.
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"Social Distancing". "Shelter-in-Place". "Stay home." This is our reality as we start the spring season. We've survived the long, cold winter months and are now ready to break out of our homes, get out and about with neighbors, friends and family, but we cannot, should not. We are threatened as COVID-19 spreads across our country and across the globe. Repercussions from the risk of socializing are not worth the cost.
These are difficult days. Christmas day is a mere five days away and I'm feeling really good about the progress that's been made in preparation for my family celebration. Cards and packages have been mailed, wrapping of gifts is well underway. Three out of four varieties of cookies are baked, frosted and frozen. Tree and decorations? Check. There is, however, one thing that I'm struggling to get done - one thing I simply cannot make myself do. It's neither physically demanding nor time consuming, but emotionally it's extremely difficult.
It's no secret and you've most likely noticed: I've been on hiatus. It was a bit longer than planned, but was definitely not without thoughts of Kitty Rose. In fact, most of the time that I've been away from the blog was spent in her memory - remembering, writing, talking about and honoring her.
This past week, I had the chance to spend some time with the grandchildren I see the least - my son’s daughters, N, J & G. Because their dad is out of town on business and their mom wanted to go listen to a speaker talk about education for gifted students (N fits the description well), I was more than happy to spend an evening with the girls.
For those of you who have not read back in my story, J & G are identical twin girls, born just two weeks after Kitty Rose. They are now seven years old and I think about Kitty whenever we are together. How could I not?  Kitty would be seven years old today. Instead, she remains an almost-nine-month-old in our hearts and in our memories. I would love nothing more than to say that after six years, it doesn't hurt anymore. But, it still does and my heart has ached for the past week.
Easter should have been - quite simply - happy. Isn't that how we greet one another, 'Happy Easter'? On a better day, I would have quipped, 'Hoppy Easter!' and then chuckled at my own play on words. I was supposed to joyfully celebrate the resurrection of Jesus and the promise of life eternal. On Sunday night, at the end of an exhausting day, I should have plopped myself on the couch and declared that it was the perfect day, the best possible ending to a glorious, wonderful and - yes - happy Triduum and Easter weekend. This year, however, was not joyful, wonderful or happy. It definitely was not perfect. There were far too many reminders. Kitty's upcoming birthday loomed large on my internal calendar. She has been consistently on my mind since I mentally flipped the page from March to April. The below words and my reactions to them only intensified my yearning for Kitty Rose. * On Good Friday, Mandy wrote on her Facebook page, "During the Stations of the Cross, the priest says, "Tears are on her cheeks." The congregation responds with, "And there is none to comfort her." This year during Holy Week, I find my mind has been focused on Mary and the loss of her son. I find myself being able to relate to the words spoken in the Stations of the Cross. A vision and memory of a mom who has lost a child, standing with tears rolling down her face and, even if surrounded by people, feeling so alone." Reading those words, I became overwhelmingly sad for my daughter. I will never be able to console her in this grief. * At church later that evening, the homily focused on forgiveness. Jesus died for us, for our sins. Our merciful God forgives us, we must forgive ourselves. As our deacon spoke, all I could think about was son-in-law. Was the accident that took Kitty from us his fault? Yes, definitely. But there was never a doubt that we all forgave him. Yet he cannot - and probably never will - forgive himself. Could I? Could you? Pardon the pun, it's a very sobering thought. * Easter Sunday arrived. 'Alleluia! He is risen! … Indeed, He is risen!' Oh, Kitty, why am I not comforted in knowing that one day we will be reunited? I watched as J and G - my twin granddaughters, the two surviving members of the 'triplet cousins' - hunted eggs in the yard. If only Kitty were here. Would she be laughing and running with them in search of the coveted golden egg? Or would she be helping the Dasher and the Basher fill their baskets? Would she still be taller than her cousins who were born less than two weeks after her? Or had they caught up - maybe even surpassed her - in height? I missed Kitty this Easter more than ever. It's fair to say that this year, Easter could have been much more celebratory for me. It does not mean, however, that I missed the meaning and the message of the holiest of days. Christ died for us, for the redemption of our sins. He rose to give us the promise of eternal life. As Christians, this is where we find hope and joy. It is why we do not fear death. May the blessings of this Easter season live within us. We grieve with hope … 1 Thessalonians 4:13. Happy Birthday, Kitty Rose! Grandma loves you. I overheard my daughter tell someone that every decision she and her family make is because of and centered around Kitty Rose and her death. At the time, I thought that was a bit exaggerated … Really? Every decision? Ever since, I have been mulling over Mandy’s statement and its meaning, not only for her and her family, but also for me personally and for the extended family. Just yesterday, I had that ‘aha’ moment – I think I finally understand.
There they sat in the tree outside my window - mama and papa cardinal, plump, robust and quite content on the first day of winter. Ah yes, my parents bringing me a reminder, a sign that at the onset of the season, day by day, we gradually gain more daylight. Our lives will see a bit more sunshine every day from now until summer.
How true, this analogy to our grief. Slowly, step-by-step, we feel a little bit better. We gradually heal. We gain more sunlight.  The beauty in growth: a seed is planted and we patiently wait for it to sprout, for the stem to grow tall, buds to emerge and - eventually - there are colorful, fragrant blooms. We are proud of our planting and take delight in the flowers. They make us happy and give us comfort.
 At church last week, we sang Psalm 139, verse 14: 'I am Wonderfully Made'. Our pastor followed up with a homily that delved into the message of the psalm, giving me not just the typical Sunday explanation of the readings, but also reassuring validation of what Kitty's death means to me and to my family.
Within a month after Kitty died, I understood how incredibly special this baby was - that she came into our family with the purpose of mending us. It only took nine months for her to fulfill her life's mission, God's plan for her. |
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