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I gave Shelagh some of the lily of the valley left in the garden and her grandmother gave her a rosary. Her therapist came very early in the morning and left a small token of their work together, a secret symbol between them (though I knew what it meant). We wrapped her in linen with a small cross embroidered on one end. Shelagh could never decide among Catholicism, Judaism, and a local bikers’ church for misfits. When her body arrived back from the Medical Examiner’s one of her brothers and I wrapped her in a winding sheet. As long as I never have to bury her, I’ll be fine.” Yes, this is crazy thinking. I can just keep having this whole thing to organize and plan and I’ll be okay. As the days passed, I thought to myself “I can do this. Elderly grandparents and a large contingent of Irish relatives to talk to and arrange for flights. Her children needed clothing for the funeral, there were burial arrangements to make, a minister to call, family visitation to be arranged, a burial service to be created. The first morning I awoke I heard her say distinctly, laughing, “Mom, welcome to the first day of the rest of your life without me.” I think she was trying to make it easier in her Shelagh way. Here is where I liken my experience to what is happening to you: after Shelagh’s sudden death, after the Rescue Squad carried her off and I watched them disappear down the drive, after the Medical Examiner returned her body to us, there was lots to do.
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It is all I can do to not to run screaming from the room. And when people ask me, pleasantly, “how many children do you have?” I look at them blankly. A childless mother is a crazy person and nothing can fill the hole, not if she had a baby a year for the rest of her life.ĭo you have other children? I have three. A motherless child is a pitiful creature and carries a life-long emptiness he or she tries to fill with other grown-ups. There is nothing else that can be done to us. But the condition you and I share is unnamed because since time immemorial parents have dreaded this loss. If we named it we’d have some power over it. Why do you think it is that there is no one word to describe our condition, Cindy? Mother-of-a-dead-child is the best we can do? The lack of a name gives you some inkling how much our culture avoids the knowledge of this sorrow. When a husband or wife dies, we call the surviving partner the widow or widower. There will never, ever again be a laughing bear hug from this son grown tall and handsome. Some say you’re being used, some dismiss you as “crazy” - and tell me what mother of a dead child isn’t crazy? You’ve been cheated of your son you walk through the valley of the shadow of death and no one comes to greet you. Your grief has served to polarize others. My heart twisted for you even though I barely glanced at the picture. Yours was a sorrowful visage, a broken face like the reflection from a fractured mirror. I remember turning away from your face as you knelt there. I presume it was taken in Crawford since someone who didn’t know me well wanted to discuss your story and said you’d gone to President Bush’s ranch. One picture I happened upon in the grocery store showed you on your knees. And the bunched knuckles kept coming back to deliver blow after unending blow. This is a guess - an educated guess from one mother of a dead child to another - but I think things began to unravel as time went on and the reality of Casey’s complete and total and life-long and irrevocable absence hit your consciousness like a fist sinks into a gut. Or maybe what I “know” is some garbled version of what has been going on for you in your public grief. I believe you even met with the President at one point? See - even I, with no access to regular media and a real wish to avoid your story, even I know these things. At first, you were able to maintain in the face of this catastrophic loss. Your son Casey was a soldier and he died in Iraq.
Cindy louis a crazy thing called love tv#
Here’s what I know about your story - and when you think about it, to have learned this much despite not having a TV and making an effort to avoid learning about your odyssey, it’s amazing I know as much as I do. Not out of a lack of compassion for your sorrow, but rather because of my own fragility and the sorrow I carry for my own dead daughter. I had to look up your name since I have avoided your story as much as possible.