I don’t consider myself much of a poet, but I wrote some poems for Jonah when he was a baby, when I expected something far different than what my life has become…when I saw a path clearly before me and walked it with something like confidence…
…when I expected to be sitting in the bleachers now, cheering him on at his little league game. When I expected to be friends with other mothers whose kids played with and shared activites with Jonah. When I expected to be able to bring my son to a child’s birthday party and watch him scream with joy as all the candy came pouring out of the piñata, instead of hovering over him as he opened and closed the host’s sliding glass door incessantly.
Instead of taking him to the park by myself, pretending other parents and kids weren’t staring, wondering, maybe judging, but never approaching us except when some child would ask with curiousity, “Is he a baby?” or “why can’t he talk?” – and me choking on my tears as I tried to explain.
…instead of losing touch with most of my friends because I became a hermit and uncomfortable around (and often unfairly resented) NT families. And all this before any aggression and violence. And all that before checking myself into a mental health facility. And all that before making the decision to take him to live at a residential school. And all that before ending my marriage.
Do I sound like I feel sorry for myself? Sometimes I do. My therapist even gave me permission last night, so long as I don’t martyr myself or wallow. In 4 weeks my son will be gone and my legal separation will be taking place. Doc tells me I have osteoporosis with a lower vertebrae fracture. I’m waiting on results from two biopsies, can’t keep weight on, have this strange ringing in both my ears, and sleep as much as I possibly can. (I”m definitely not Darwin’s poster child). I’m so tired of crying and feeling anxious, missing parties and weddings and picnics I am invited to because I can’t bring myself to go; if anyone asked me anything at all about Jonah, I feel like I’d lose it and ruin all the fun. Plus for me right now there is nothing to celebrate except “I am doing the right thing” with Jonah, so people tell me.
Some people insist they couldn’t do it, “put their child away.” You can when you have to. You can do anything when you have to, I guess. I know this is just a hill I have to run up and over, but my legs are cramping and I have no breath. I don’t know what’s on the other side of the hill, and that scares me too. Weakling, a voice inside me whispers. Worthless. You are superflous now.
I’ve revisited my poems from Jonah’s babyhood, and I thought this one strangely prophetic:
I am your mother.
I may hold you clumsily close, my
sharp angles & skinny arms awkward,
but I hold you close anyway.
You find a comfort in my bones
as walls of a former residence;
as familiar pillars echoing womb whispers…
as fetal backdrop for acrobatic feats.
I may sing you nonsense, silly snippets
of all kinds of songs, lazily off-key
but I sing them to you anyway.
You find a diamond in my song
as the voice you heard awash, internal;
as divinity, a speaker in the sky…
as soundtrack to gestation’s miracle.
I may love you with a racing heartbeat
composed of odd & syncopated rhythms,
but I love you with every heartbeat anyway.
You find a living element in my love
as the cycling pulse of ocean tides;
as habitat for emotion magic, undefined…
as something inside you that can never die.
I will always be your mother.
Dear, dear Amy,
Put yourself in the crook of my neck and ugly-cry…do it for as long as it feels right. I wish I were more than on paper for you…I am worried about you. Maybe numb is what you need right now…but if it venting, crying or screaming…then DO it! God knows you are justified!
When things have settled down…and they will…then you can do and go wherever you want. If that means staying home, then do it. If it means finally having a life that resembles normalcy, then do it.
Please take care of yourself. I care about you.
LikeLike
A beautiful poem – you surely are a poet Amy. Please don’t think of the passing of the next four weeks as an ending – let it be the beginning for both you and Jonah. Take care 🙂
LikeLike
You are far from superfluous and worthless. Just by herself the soul we call Amy is worth more than a large, shiny diamond. Just because she’s a piece of the Divine Whole some people call God.
As Jonah’s mom, you are so very, very worthy. The tormented, enraged soul we call Jonah knows in the depth of his being that you love him beyond measure. No matter where he resides, he needs to receive the Mother Love of the woman whose body was his first home. As you ended your poem, your love letter to your boy, you will always be Jonah’s mother.
LikeLike