The Deer Family
There is a mama doe and her two fawns that live outside of my sister’s house. I see them almost every day, when driving home from an appointment, when leaving to go on a walk, when taking a piece of mail to the mailbox in the evening, or when stepping outside in the morning sunshine to see what the weather’s like.
Earlier in the summer, the two fawns had wobbly legs and white spots all over their backs to match the white undersides of their tails. Now, they are getting big enough that the spots are gone and I sometimes see them without their mother. As is typical of this species, I have never seen the father.
It is not hard for me to draw parallels between this mama deer and myself. I find myself thinking that she is what I should have been; a lone mother with two little ones. But as time passes and Cecilia grows, I find myself tempering the need to view all things exclusively through the lens of my grief and feeling affection rather than resentment for this animal family.
They are now just a part of the rhythm of my life. They come quite close to me when I’m sitting and writing on the front stoop as Cecilia sleeps. Often I tell them, “Do not be afraid,” and reassure them that I will not hurt them. I think they are getting used to me chatting with them.
The quiet presence of the deer and their inextricable belonging to the natural world surrounding them sometimes draw me in. I become lost in the feeling of the cold air pouring down my throat, punctuated by the bright shards of sunlight across my cheeks and refracting like confetti in my eyes. The sound of the branches cracking and rustling with the movement of squirrels breaks the silence, and I watch a shower of pine needles fall to the ground. Birds caw distantly, and I notice a red fox, surprisingly big, picking his way with delicate black paws across the yellowing lawn.
The stillness is never absolute, nor is the quiet encompassing. There is always something living or striving for life. The world that should have ended when Lizzy died continues, inexhaustibly–inexorably. Like every other living creature, I am swept up in it. The silence that was so ringing and unbearable right after I lost Lizzy is now filled with Cecilia’s gurgles, chats, and laughter. Even when she is sleeping, it is filled with the sound of her breath. Her life.
I do not know quite how to explain it, but a beauty and a fullness has come into my life that I did not expect. There’s something about opening the front door in the morning to sunlight and a flurry of squirrels, mixed with the smells of good, wholesome food cooking in the kitchen. Something about the slow, intentional panorama of color that is played for us on our afternoon walks. Something about breathing cold oxygen and writing blog posts with a deer family ten feet from me.
But deeper and fuller than these things are the ways I am experiencing the family surrounding me. There is my nephew, daily asking how Cecilia is doing and telling me how excited he is about spending the holidays with her. There is my brother-in-law bustling about the house, fixing anything and everything that goes wrong: a tower of strength, stability, and security that makes me and Cecilia feel safe. There is my little sister, showing up to take me to every grief support meeting so that I do not have to go alone. There is my father, a bottomless well of love and self-giving, without whom I would be lost.
And then there is my big sister. I watch her string a lighted garland of chrysanthemums and sunflowers and re-paint the letters in a sign that says “Give thanks.” I watch her research a natural rubber, non-toxic pacifier for her windows of watching Cece and shop the thrift stores for cute and warm baby coats, size 6-9 months. She putters busily around the house, cleaning, cooking, and making things beautiful. She holds Cece, laughing in delight at Cece’s giggles and murmurs as she spoon-feeds her homemade bone broth–her very first food.
My big sister is very simply there through everything. She is the first person I text when Cecilia does something adorable or tries something new or makes a funny face. She is first person I consult when something about Cecilia is off or worrying me. She is there for the 11 pm moments when I am frantic and terrified, thinking Cecilia might be sick and I could lose her in five days like I lost Lizzy. She is there for the sways and the bounces and the games when I am trying to finish making myself dinner. And she is there for her daily snuggles and tickles and face-and-hair-grabbing. She is there without complaining, and she is there without question.
She is . . . present.
And there is something about this past week, something about the weather, something about the feeling in the home in which I live–that makes me swell with gratitude. There is beauty in my life–such beauty. And there is love in my life–such love. A love that was there, holding me as I sobbed and screamed in horror on the floor of the hospital conference room. Arms that were there supporting my weight, silently accepting the nails I dug into those arms as I gave birth to Cecilia. And love that is still there even in the quietest and simplest of moments, when the house is sleeping around me, and I can feel nothing but gratitude for the family that I was given.
If I really try to examine what is happening to me, I find that the terror, loneliness, horror and desolation of Lizzy’s death has somehow, in some indescribable way, made me more aware and more sensitive to the polarities of those things I experienced in April. Now, having lived through losing the most important person in my life, there is more meaning behind everything that I feel. The sunlight matters more, causing an unspoken imperative to get outside and feel its warmth at least once a day. The food that I eat, that nourishes my body (and through my body, Cecilia’s body), matters more, and every bite has more intention behind it. The house in which I live, the car that I drive, the computer in my lap–all these things feel like blessings.
And through–and with–and in–all these things is Cecilia. My precious, pure, beloved little girl who has become the metronome by which I order my life. Her life and Lizzy’s life define me in ways that are still continuing to unfold.
What is the measure of a life? Lizzy was two years old when she died, and yet, for the two years that she lived, I felt more alive and more living than at any other time in my life. Cecilia is only six months old, and yet, I feel as though she is teaching me primordial secrets about the nature of humanity every time that she grasps my finger in her tiny fist or smiles at me with slate blue eyes and the opaque ridges of her first tooth breaking through.
What is the measure of each minute that passes or each breath that I breathe? It is one more second without Lizzy, one more second with Cecilia, one more second during which my heart and lungs and brain are still functioning, still allowing me to breathe and think and work and pray.
I will never forget the words of the PICU doctor at the first hospital we transferred Lizzy to: “We’re hoping to get to the point where it’s hour by hour. Right now, it’s minute by minute.”
How do we explain this thing called time? How do we measure the worth of a life? I can tell you right now that each of my daughters is easily worth ten of my lives. But, in the end, the most important question and decision remains Gandalf’s:
“All you have to decide is what to do with the time that is given you.”
I have said before that I do not have the answers, but I do have hints and guesses. And right now, they are telling me first to be grateful–to receive the love I have been so abundantly given. And, second, to give back.
So this morning, I will pray to my daughters as the sunlight breaks through my window and paints shimmering squares on my carpet.
Saint Elizabeth of the Springtime, you–who are all gift—show me how to give.
And Cecelia Amaris, your middle name is Hebrew for “God-given,” because God gave you to me when I needed you most. Teach me to receive the gift of your precious self and let it grow within me, as together, we work to plant the garden that never dies.
Amen.
