If You’re Happy and You Know It . . .
May is almost here and the days are passing too quickly. There is too much to do, to learn and to accomplish, for both Lizzy and Cecilia. I will never know enough to be the kind of mother they deserve. And I will never know enough to protect Cecilia from death.
Every day that passes is another day that Cecilia has survived to grow just a little bit stronger. Today, she clapped her hands by herself for the first time while playing on Lizzy’s mini-piano with her feet. I allow myself to stop during these moments and take delight in her delight, in her gap-toothed smile and chuckle-turned-giggle of gratification in her newfound skill. I clapped with her and laughed and swooped her into my arms to spin around and tell her how proud I was of her. She squealed and laughed and drew her baby legs up towards her abdomen in excitement.
I stop what I am doing for these moments. This much I have learned.
On our daily walks, the April winds shower me with cherry blossoms. The sun reflects off the bright green of the grass as I wonder for the 1000th time if Cece can see color. An auburn fox with a burnished coat and an enormously thick tail crosses the road with quick stealth forty feet in front of me. The lawn is littered with hundreds of light purple flowers, tucked shyly against springy mounds of clover. The lean branches of the dogwoods waver and bend in the rough winds as leaves and petals together are caught in a storm of color against the unimaginable blue of a clear sky.
On these days, it feels like the oxygen is too much to bear. I think about my lungs pumping away to maintain my life, and I think about Lizzy’s lungs, too weak and consumed by murderous bacteria to pump anymore. And then I remember Lizzy dancing and wandering through fields of lavender the summer before she died, and I think about how fragile the line between life and death is and how the only way we continue to live is by ignoring this fragility with a sort of desperately stupid but necessary bravado.
Some things never change and some wounds never heal. Living side by side with the horror of Lizzy’s sickness and death is with me no matter where I go, what I do, or how busy I keep. I cannot avoid it, and maybe I’m coming to realize that it’s important that I don’t avoid it. It keeps me close to the truth that my life and Cecilia’s life could end in a blink or a weekend. It keeps me grounded to what really matters.
But, mostly, it keeps me walking forward, putting one foot in front of the other. I have learned to be grateful not only that today is one more day that Cecilia is with me to share her beautiful life, but also that today is one more day that brings me closer to my own death and therefore to Lizzy.
I do not find it morbid to see each day as one more step towards her. On the contrary, it is a comfort. It helps give me the strength to get up and do what needs to be done. And when the winds calm long enough for me to feel the kiss of sunlight against my skin, I do not feel sad that one day I will no longer be able to feel through this body and this skin. I feel hopeful. And anticipatory. And waiting.
Perhaps this is the beginning of being cured of my fear of death. I don’t know. All I know is that each step forward that Cece takes in strength and beauty and wisdom is a step that I am taking forward towards my own death and towards seeing Lizzy again.
I realize that saying such things can cause pity or concern in those who love me, but to say such things does not make me feel sad. It makes me feel more alive than I’ve ever felt, more conscious of my own mortality, and more aware that when Cece claps her hands for the first time, I must put everything down and simply hold her and laugh with her for this moment will never happen again, and there will come a day where I will no longer have the strength to clap or to laugh. And on that day, visions of Lizzy at her first birthday party clapping her hands in delight will materialize and concretize and then she will be there, and I will no longer have to remember.
