Whispers of Fear Outside My Kitchen Window

I woke up last night at 1:30 a.m. with indigestion.  I walked downstairs into the kitchen and without turning on the lights I poured myself a glass of fizzy water and took a drink in order to relieve some of the pressure in my chest.  As I drank the glass of water in front of my kitchen window, I gazed out on the front lawn, looking past the tree with the small bird feeder and onto the neighbor's house that was illuminated by the moon reflecting on the newly fallen snow.  And in that moment I shuttered with fear.

I was taken back to the night when Nora was delievered into this world.  The last time I felt her move, the last time I was with her when she was alive.  That night,  December 29th, I got out of bed because I noticed that Nora hadn't been moving as much and went downstairs in the dark, without turning any lights on, and stood infront of the kitchen window like I did last night. I grabbed a piece of chocolate, left over from Christmas dinner with my sister and her husband and drank an ice cold glass of water in order to get Nora to move before I feel asleep that night. 

As I did this I stared out the window, again looking past the small tree in the front of our house with the birdfeeder and onto neighbor's house that was glowing from the remnants of the full moon just days before.  As I finished my piece of chocalate and drank the rest of the water I braced through a contraction.  After it passed, I laid my hands on my stomach waiting for Nora to kick, punch, and jiggle, like she always would after a sugar rush.  With my hands anticipating her movement, I took in the beauty of the natural world outside my window.  The moonlight reflecting off the mountains of snow, making the trees and houses twinkle and dance in the darkeness of the cold winters night.  Then suddenly, there was a kick, then a roll, and another small movement.

I smiled down at my stomach and was reasurred that my baby girl was responding to me and the sugar I had just jolted her awake.  I took one last look out the window and contemplated it's wonder and went back to bed knowing that the next time I woke up, my life would be forever changed, because my baby girl was on her way into this world, she was ready for it's beauty, it was time for her to experience it's wonder.  My contractions were coming and so was she.

As I crawled back into bed that night I felt her move and punch me again.  I was satisfied.  I was reassured.  I was ready for the next day, the moment when my life would change when I woke again.  Little did I know that my life would change in a way I never expected.

Standing in front of the kitchen window last night brought me back to that night in December. The last time I was filled with joy out of innocent anticipation.  I was brought back to a moment when life was still secure, predictable, and full of hopeful possiblities.  I was brought back to the moment when I was content. 

However, last night standing in the kitchen, and being brought back to these moments of trusting the universe and mother nature and taking in all her beauty, did not bring me joy, in all actuality, it brought whispers of fear and chills of terror throughout my body.  Standing in the darkness of the house last night, with the moon shining once again on the snow, watching the light dancing and glittering on the neighborhood houses and trees did not bring me joy, but a moment of dread, of trauma, from knowing that at one point in my life I felt foolishly safe in this world.  I trusted the universe and all her beauty and now that trust had been shattered.

Realizing this, I let the fear wash over me one last time as I put my cup down in the kitchen sink.  As I turned away from the window and walked back up stairs to crawl into bed with my husband and little doggy, George, I turned my back on mother nature and all her beauty that was teasing me from outside my kitchen window.  Tonight, I did not see her beauty outside the window anymore, I only saw my fear and distrust in her.  Mother nature, like the moonlight, only allows you to dance joyfully among her moonbeams for a moment, before daylight comes and the sun light takes away the magic of the unpromising moon.

I pulled the sheets over me and snuggled into bed next to Nick.  He murmmerd, "Is everything alright?" and I replied, "Yes, I'm fine."  And that is the truth, everything is fine, but the magic is gone.  Maybe one day fear will no longer linger outside my kitchen window, but magic will greet me for another season.  I hope next time the season is longer and the magic of the moonbeams lasts a lifetime.   

An Aunt's Perspective: Trauma

Earlier today my sister posted about how we lost our cousin in a motorcycle accident on Saturday.  All day long I have been thinking about this on and off.  Mostly I try to shut it out because the sheer weight of the emotional and physical exhaustion I have been going through is slowly devouring me.  When I do think about it, I am immensely sad over the loss of such a young life with so much ahead of him.  I also think about how I am tired of the universe playing Russian roulette with my family members.  But mostly it makes me think about the trauma I endured exactly 9 weeks ago, on the Sunday I found out my niece had left us before she was even born.

I hadn't really thought about that day as traumatic for myself.  Yes, my sister has written about how traumatic that day was for her and Nick, with good reason, but for me that day just felt incredibly sad and overwhelming, not traumatic.  Usually we attribute trauma to great physical injury or at least some sort of deeply psychologically scarring event.  I hadn't thought about it being traumatic until I relived those frightening moments of being told that someone had died today.

Like most bad news, today I was woken up by an early morning phone call (7am).  Nothing good ever comes from a phone call that wakes you up.  I knew immediately that someone had died or was in the hospital.  As my husband handed me his cell phone that was blinking my sister's husband's name, I had flashbacks to the night that Nora passed away and my brother-in-law had called to tell me the news.  (At least at that time I was excited, since I thought she was in labor.)  My heart began to pound and gravity felt like it was going to suck me through the floor.

When I answered, it was my sister's voice that greeted me.  She asked me if I had spoken to our mom, which I hadn't.  She then proceeded to tell me the bad news; however, in both our early morning fogginess and my impending anxiety, I did not hear her correctly the first time.  She had said, "Brian died" and continued to talk.  I wasn't listening because all I heard was, "Grandma died."  Hearing what I thought I heard, gravity began to succeed in crushing me through the floor and it started with my heart and stomach.  Everything stopped.  Then I heard something about "motorcycle" and "crash" and I was brought back to reality, realizing that we couldn't be talking about the same person.  I asked her, "Wait...who died?"  And she repeated with, "Cousin Brian."

That is when I lost it.  A confusing mass of emotions: relief that it wasn't grandma, sadness that it was my young cousin, plus a mad case of PTSD began to wash over me and I threw the phone at my husband, sobbing that I couldn't take phone calls from her or Nick anymore, and that my cousin had died.  (He was still sitting there wondering what the hell had happened and unfortunately for him I didn't specify which cousin.)  I ran out of the room into our guest bedroom and stood in the doorway sobbing and shaking.  The frightening familiarity of the phone call was consuming me.  Everything about the phone call had struck the same chord like the night Nick called to tell us that Nora had died.  I was reliving my worst nightmare and my body was reacting to it without my mind realizing it.

Yet, it wasn't until I was in the doorway, sobbing, shaking, attempting to put my thoughts together that I realized how traumatized I was by the initial phone call those many Sundays ago.  There is no doubt that that phone call is imprinted in my mind and that I will be able to recall it with perfect clarity forever, but I never attributed it as traumatizing.  My response today solidifies the notion that I am traumatized by that phone call, that day, and everything else that I have endured in the last two months.

Eventually I composed myself and came back into the bedroom.  Zach (my husband) was now fully aware of the situation, and now I had to call my mother.  I was greeted with the same PTSD moment when I heard her on the other end of the phone line (because why not, universe), but I was able to control it better.  Again I was back to that Sunday, talking to mom on the phone, hearing her fall apart which made me fall apart.  It sucked.

After getting the full story from mom, my husband and I continued to lay in bed, knowing we couldn't fall back asleep, but not really wanting to get up to another horrible Sunday.  We both recalled the familiarity of the phone call and I explained to him that he was no longer allowed to hand me the phone.  I cannot be the receiver of bad news for at least a few years.  That can be his job.

I realize that possibly some of this is hard to understand since I have not written about Nora's day from my perspective yet.  There are two main reasons for me not doing this so far.  The first is that it will be extremely emotionally draining to sit down and write down my memories from that day (like I said, the phone call, I realize now, was clearly traumatic to me).  The second reason is because keeping her story, as seen through my eyes, also keeps a little part of her with me that is just mine.  Part of me feels that sharing her story will be me giving that part of her away to all of you who read this, and I don't think I'm ready for that yet.  I do want to share her story through my eyes, but it will take time.

Coming back to my point, today proves that I am deeply, psychologically scarred from that phone call on Sunday, December 30, 2012.  It is a real nightmare that I relive over and over in my mind, and that unfortunately I relived today for real.

Rest in peace, dear cousin Brian.  And give Nora a kiss for me.

"Perhaps they are not stars, but rather openings in heaven where the love of our lost ones pours through and shines down upon us to let us know they are happy." --Eskimo Proverb