Requiem for Katie

A light went out in my life Sunday afternoon. My sweet 15 year old niece left this life. I was not with her when she died as I would like to have been. I was away making memories with six of my eight children, and my daughter in law.

I had the privilege of being with her when she was born. Katie had Spina Bifida, and Hydrocephaly. She had an opening at the base of her spine the size of an egg, and her head was the size of a two-year old's--on a little seven pound infant body. I stood there over her isolet in the NICU as silent tears slipped down my cheeks. I reached out a single finger and touched her tiny foot, whispering, "I'm sorry, baby." Immediately, energy zinged through my finger all over my body and I felt her say, "Don't be sorry for me; I am fine!" I knew in that moment, and have known ever since, that Katie was here on this Earth for a unique adventure and her soul embraced the opportunity for it.

Her life was anything but easy. She had surgery in her first days, more than a dozen before she was two years old, and several more over the years. She had seizures and apneas, often many times a day. She was confined to a wheelchair and never learned to walk. But she had a mother who was absolutely dedicated to her care, to giving her the best life possible. She was not expected to live past three years old. Her mother researched and fought for the best medical care available. She struggled with schools and agencies to make sure Katie got what she needed. At home she cared for her tirelessly, meeting her every need. I think it is significant that the only word Katie learned to speak clearly was "Mother." She had the most amazing mother ever.

Katie could not speak to express herself, and some may have doubted how much she knew, but she was definitely "in there" even if she couldn't get her thoughts out. She loved to laugh and found humor all around her--especially in injury. Some of her favorite sources of entertainment were a stubbed toe or a bumped head. She found the sight of her mother mopping the kitchen floor hilarious. When I tended her on Sunday mornings so her parents could go to church together, she got a real kick out of seeing me in hair rollers. 

But one thing Katie had no trouble expressing to those around her was her precious spirit. She emanated....something. I really don't have a word for it, but I know how it feels. Love, truth, wholeness, purpose, joy, and more, all mashed together into...a Something....and she emanated it. You could snuggle up next to her, or just lean a shoulder on hers, and absorb it. I am privileged to have felt it. I am changed by it even if I can't name it.

This year contained a lot of pain for Katie, and we were dismayed by the toll it was taking. These past few months, her joy has been all but gone and we could see that she was no longer loving life. While her mother researched and struggled and fought as hard as ever, there seemed to be no relief available for Katie. She was in the hospital more often than not, and we knew she was on her way out.

When she was hospitalized a few days before I was to leave with my family on vacation, I feared in my soul that she would not be here when I got back. I visited her the day before I left, and she wakened for a few minutes as I said goodbye. I told her, "I'm going away for a week, so I won't be seeing you for awhile. You'll be home when I get back." And when I put my hand on her face and bent down to kiss her forehead, I felt her say, "Yes. Home." And I believed she meant her real home.

I did not have the privilege of being with Katie when she died. I was where I needed to be, and I certainly did not want her to endure the days of pain until I returned. But I had the privilege of being with Katie while she lived. I had the privilege of knowing her, of absorbing her Something, of entertaining her with rollers in my hair, and with many a stubbed toe on the dang wheel of her stupidly designed hospital bed.

She is gone, and I am feeling her absence. I am also feeling her presence in the bits of Something she left in my soul. I am grateful her pain is over but, mostly, I am just plain sad that she is gone.

Very Old Poem

The kids are writing poems in their 8th grade language arts class. Evidently their teacher is a sadist. She assigned them a sestina, and gave them four days to accomplish it. This sent me digging for my old sestina. Written in 1989, it turned out to be amazingly prophetic.

When Lovers Come to Court

Like a sham that covers pillow ticking,

makeup hides the pain. My face is tender

but no one will know. These dull eyes trace

the outline of a shape that isn’t mine.

I’m not that old. Defiantly the mind slips

back…. I should have known when we were courting.

Love is blind! Your mother said you would court

Death if you thought she would have you. Ticking

lovers off a list like groceries. My slip

is missing! Devotion was your tender

for my hand, my life! For all that was mine.

Now this cruel betrayal. My fingers trace

in the dust on the dresser. There’s no trace

of ownership--what’s yours, what’s mine. The court

will decide. It’s not as though there’s a gold mine.

But! There is the old mantel clock ticking

over  the fireplace. The judge will tender

me that. You’ll fight it. Maybe you’ll slip

into that arrogant---  Ah! Here’s my slip!

And I must stop it now; there is a trace

of hatred in this heart once so tender.

Oh! I remember dancing in the court

yard. Do you? The strident tell-tale ticking

of my heels on the marble. You were mine

then. Weren’t you? Or were you ever mine?

Check my face--whited sepulchre--then slip

into the taxi. The meter ticking

off the miles, it shies and balks at the traces.

The building seems more a church than a court

house. The flower beds are full of tender

tulips. I applaud the gardens’ tender

silently. The dim hall presents a mine

field. I cannot make it to the court

room. I know I can’t. From nowhere you slip

into step beside me. Is there a trace

of grief at my heels’ familiar ticking?

Suddenly you wax tender, gently slip

your hand in mine. Your regret--just a trace--

tempers the court clock’s incessant ticking.

C 1989    Ellen Rae Mabry Hafen

Sestina

The Lady

I saw her by the old porch swing
when first we chanced to meet.
I only caught a glimpse of her
for she was in retreat.
I turned on heel and did the same
with quickened heart and feet.


I wondered where I'd see her next
but hoped I never would.
I opened wide my closet door
and gasped for there she stood
with evil smile on her face.
I knew she was no good.


From head to toe in basic black
tradition's mourning dress.
But, murderous heart! the truth is told
so none who sees need guess
a red bow tie all turned askew
She sports upon her breast.


And lately, by the garden gate
I've felt a presence--her!
And I believe she lies in wait
to make my husband widower.


(c) Ellen Rae 1985

I wrote the poem many years ago. (A fellow student in my poetry class at the time asserted that it was not about a spider, but about the fact that my (then) husband's ex-wife had turned back up in town and was making overtures. She was right, but that's another blog.)  But my phobia of spiders still directly correlates to how closely they resemble a Black Widow.


I found a Black Widow in the dumpster yesterday and killed it. This was a big victory for me because heretofore I would never have been able to actually connect myself to a Black Widow, even with a five-foot stick (or broom as the case may be).


When I took trash out this morning, she was there again, alive as ever. So I killed her again. With the same broom. Which was handy because I had left it outside near the dumpster. (It is now the outside broom and will never be allowed in the house again.)


This time I killed her twice. Once with the broom, and once...(wait for it....) With. My. Foot!


Well, really, with my shoe. Which was on my foot. I actually stepped on a dead Black Widow. I am Woman!

I took it down, again. My post on Elder Packer's talk, that is. It's very late, and I am exhausted, so I'm not going to try to explain why. It just feels like the right thing to do for the time being.

Next morning: Here's why: I am having all sorts of conflicting feelings about my blog post. I realized that I was seeking only to be understood, not to understand, and that my job at this moment is not to be understood, but to hold the gay community close and let them have their feelings, and feel my compassion. My compassion was totally eclipsed by my desire to be understood. There is a time for my truth, and this is not it.

I just finished reading about compassionate listening in the book Anger, by Thich Nhat Hahn, and I totally blipped it! I had a very enlightening talk with the friend who started it all (with her question) in the first place. She graciously accepted my intentions as honorable, while holding me accountable for the pain it caused her. If you read it, I apologize to you, as well. I am guilty of the same insensitivity I pointed out in Elder Packer. I have taken it down again, for the time being.

Experiment with it

"Those who say the Dalai Lama is unrealistic in advocating unconditional love, I urge them to experiment with it nonetheless. They will discover that when we reach beyond the confines of narrow self-interest, our hearts become filled with strength. Peace and joy become our constant companions. It breaks down barriers of every kind and destroys the notion of my interests being independent from others' interests."

I'm loving this quote from the Dalai Lama these days. I've got a post working in my head about this and how it relates to health care....but I don't have time right now!

Naked and Opened

We had a great lesson in Relief Society yesterday, taught by my soul-buddy Minerva T. She surprised and momentarily confused me by saying, “Sagefemme, get ready to talk about what you told me about God already knowing how we feel.” I still don’t remember the conversation, but I was able to find the scripture and read it for her: Hebrews 4:12-16. It is one of my favorites and I quote it, or paraphrase it, whenever it seems indicated, which is likely why I don’t remember sharing it with Minerva.

12 For the word of God is quick, and powerful, and sharper than any two-edged sword, piercing even to the dividing asunder of soul and spirit, and of the joints and marrow, and is a discerner of the thoughts and intents of the heart.
13 Neither is there any creature that is not manifest in his sight: but all things are naked and opened unto the eyes of him with whom we have to do.
14 Seeing then that we have a great high priest, that is passed into the heavens, Jesus the Son of God, let us hold fast our profession.
15 For we have not an high priest which cannot be touched with the feeling of our infirmities; but was in all points tempted like as we are, yet without sin.
16 Let us therefore come boldly unto the throne of grace, that we may obtain mercy, and find grace to help in time of need.


I am not a Bible scholar, and have never studied Greek. I don’t pretend that my interpretation of these verses is rooted in any intellectual truth. But I do know what they say to me. (What they said to me in 2006. I know the timeframe, because I penciled the year (why not a more precise date, I don’t know) in the margin of my Bible, along with the words “stop thrashing.”)

What they say to me is this: God knows everything about you. He can separate your emotions from your thoughts. He knows your intentions. Not only are you naked before Him, you are filleted out before Him; dissected, even. This being true, and knowing that Christ has experienced everything you have experienced, why not go ahead and be honest about how you feel and what you want? He already knows, so just say it to Him. He will sympathize and give you the help you need.

After Relief Society, the sister sitting behind me put her hand on my shoulder and said, “I want to thank you for having that conversation with Minerva, even if you don’t remember it. Because I have been faking it. I am so confused and I have been trying to act like everything is fine. Thank you for showing me I can be real with Him.”

I want to add that Christ does not only know how we feel, He has felt how we feel. I mean, not like a friend who has been through a similar variation of the theme. He has felt your feelings. Your actual feelings. The feelings you are feeling right now, He already felt them for you. How can we hide from, or pull the wool over that?

In the Bible Dictionary, under Prayer, it says “As soon as we learn the true relationship in which we stand toward God (namely, God is our Father, and we are his children), then at once prayer becomes natural and instinctive on our part. Many of the so-called difficulties about prayer arise from forgetting this relationship.” For some of us, the parent-child relationship is not so clearly comfortable and nurturing as this sentence implies. Hiding my feelings, denying my needs, keeping conversation on a superficial level; these were all coping strategies I developed because of the kind of parents I had. Sadly, my children learned the same things from their parents. But I now have some perspective on the kind of parent I wish I was. And I can translate that into an image of loving parents who really see their children, and who want them to feel loved and secure and to have their needs met and their wants granted.

I think we often have an image of our Heavenly Father—perpetuated by some of the teachings we have about prayer—as of a King. We have guidelines for how we are to address God in our prayers; we use the formal (and actually archaic) “Thee” and “Thou.” We should kneel. We should thank first and ask later…. It can seem as though we are being given an etiquette lesson on how to behave in the presence of royalty—curtsy this way, bow that way. I am not saying that these guidelines are wrong, or that we should not use them. I am just pointing out how this sort of training, without a balance of knowing how well He knows us and how much He loves us, can skew our understanding of---make us forget---the relationship that we have with Him.

We can certainly be real with God and continue to exhibit the reverence and respect He is due. When we pray in meetings or otherwise in public, we behave with proper respect and decorum, just as we would as a prince or princess in an affair of state. But when we have a splinter in our finger, we can let our lip quiver when we show it to Him, and we can holler at the pain when He pulls it out. And we do not have to bow or curtsy our gratitude, but can fling our arms around His neck and touch noses. When we’ve sneaked out of the house in the middle of the night and rolled the car, we can call Him. We can tell Him the truth (cuz He already knows) and we can count on Him to lovingly stitch our lip, ice our bumped head and get us safely home to bed.

He sees us naked. He sees us broken. He sees right through us to the marrow of our souls. He has felt our sorrow, anger, pain, joy. And He loves us anyway. Let’s boldly go before Him then, and open ourselves fully, not only to His scrutiny, but to His mercy, His grace and His love.

State "O" the Union Brickfish