What I said at Izzy’s funeral.

My sister said something on her facebook page that was true: she felt guilty sharing Izzys story with other parents of young children because she knew the story would bring them pain.   She was right.

I have friends who have never met Izzy, and they told me they cried when they read her story.   They have children, and have had sick children, and that is enough.   They know that the value of her loss is incalculable.

 

I have two daughters; one is six and one is three.

Two things that have happened recently have made me cry.   The first was in December.   I was sitting in the Atlanta  airport thinking about problems at work and all the things i needed to do when I got home late that   night after being away all week   when I heard that someone had opened fire at a school. It took me several minutes to understand that the school was an elementary school and most of   the victims were first graders.

Just like my daughter.

I was crying by the time I boarded the flight. I hugged my girls extra tight when I got home and went on with my life.

Then a few weeks later, I was sitting at my desk at work.   It was my first day back in the office after a long holiday:   I was on vacation from Christmas to New Years Day; a vacation I took only because I was going to lose my time off at the end of the year.   I was   happy to be back in the office, in the world of adults and problems that “mattered.”

Then my mom called.

And I heard about Izzy.

By the time I got off the phone, I was crying.

I wasn’t crying for Izzy;   I barely knew her.   I was crying for my sister.   I was crying because no parent should have to endure what my sister has over the past few years.   I was crying because it was so unfair and so unbearable for those who loved Izzy.   I was crying because I knew if the tables were reversed, I would be destroyed, and I might not be able to recover.   I was crying for myself, for all the gifts I would never send, all the visits between my children and my sister’s that will forever be sadder because Izzy will not be there

I called my sister. She sounded in shock, but ok, dealing with the things she needed to deal with.     I went home and hugged my girls, just like my sister asked me to.

I cried some more.

I cried for Andy.   For my parents, who have helped raise Izzy.   For Andy’s parents.   For Mac.   I was so sad that so many people were hurting.

Then I remembered that you must love to feel pain:   the suffering of so many is testament to the joy that Izzy brought to the people that I love.   In her short life, she was a sister, a daughter, a grandaughter, a niece, a cousin.   She brought joy, and hope, and brought families together.   We will always have those memories of her, even after the pain of her loss has faded.

Her death has brought us together today, and had reminded us of what is important in life:   our families and our friends.   Our community.   Deb, Andy and Mac and my mom and dad   have been the beneficiaries of an overwhelming outpouring of love and support: of meals and cards and warm wishes and people wanting to help. Of facebook friend requests from people we haven’t seen in 20 years.     That is what is important and that is one lesson that Izzy has helped me learn.

I will spend 2013 trying to find ways to repay these kindnesses done for my family.

 

One last story.  

 The other day, I helped my sister pack Izzys things.

As I went through her clothes and toys, I found things that my kids had worn and played with.   Things they had gotten from Mac and maybe even from Beth and Taylor before that.

I have seen these dresses and skirts and tops and toys in so many of our family’s pictures.

I had so looked forward to seeing Izzy in the things that reminded me of Geneveive and Alana. It reminded me of the things that Izzy will never do, the   memories that we will never have, the little girl and princess and tomboy and woman that she will never be.

There’s a picture that my sister has on her facebook page of my oldest daughter Genevieve with Mac at our beach house.   Genevieve was 3 and Mac was 4.       When I look at that picture it reminds me of pictures of me and Deb as girls. I was so looking forward to the day when I would have a picture of Izzy and Alana like that.

Then I think of the things that I do have.   I didn’t get a chance to visit often in the last year and a half, but I did get the chance to spend a few weeks with Izzy during her short life.

We watched her laugh and cry and scream as she learned to walk, to eat, to communicate, to play. Her firsts were our firsts.

I got to change her when she was 6 weeks old.   I marveled at how tiny she was, how delicate.   I got to burp her and rock her to sleep when her mom needed a break.   It reminded me of my babies when they were new.

I was there when she tried solid food for the first time.   It reminded me of Genevieve …like Izzy, she wasn’t sure what to do.   Swallowing the food I put in her mouth was not an option she explored.

We watched her learn to walk…Izzy was an adventureress,   like Genevive.     She loved to explore and climb and was fearless. Not like my daughter Alana who was content just to nap and let the world come to her.

I was there the day my sister decided to take her down the 2 story waterslide we rented for Mac’s 7th birthday.   Izzy wasn’t sure she liked it, unlike the other kids who played until they were exhausted.

I never saw her first tooth or first step or first word, but every time I arrived those things were new enough that I shared in the wonder of them.

On our last visit, she and Alana bounced and giggled in a toddler-sized bouncy house my mom had bought for Izzy.   I took pictures of them and looked forward to the future, when Deb and I could talk and catch up and the girls would play together happily.

I will always remember those firsts that I was lucky enough to be there for.   I will always be grateful to Izzy for bringing those special memories of my girls back to life for me and for allowing me to get to know her.

 

When I tell people that I have young children, I get three responses.

If they have no children, they change the subject.

If they have young children, we swap stories about how hard it is to have young children.

If they have older children, they sigh jealously and urge me to cherish the years when my children are young.   I   am inwardly rolling my eyes, wishing my kids could dress themselves and wishing I could watch a movie that wasn’t animated.

But those parents of older kids are right.   Childhood is fleeting.   Izzy’s childhood was too short by far, but all children go from helpless infant to defiant teenager in the blink of an eye.

The loss of Izzy reminds us that childhood can be lost tragically as well as gradually, but either way, our children leave us with only vague memories of those precious early years when everything was new, the world was full of possibility, and most importantly, mom and dad were the center of the universe.

I know as my children grow, I will no longer be the center of the universe for them.   Deb and Andy have lost someone for whom they were everything.   That loss is incomprehensible to me.

I hope I will never know the pain of the loss of a child.   Izzy was a beautiful soul who has touched so many lives.   I hope that her memory will leave us all stronger and happier and closer because we knew her.   I hope that out of her loss will come something good. I hope her memory will remind us all of what is important.     Life is a gift that can be taken away at any time, for nonsensical reasons.

Monday, when I go back to work, and every Monday after that, I will remember that fact, and go home, and hug my kids, and kiss my husband.   And shut down my computer and stop answering emails from people that dont really matter that much.     I will have Izzy to thank for that.

So I guess the ending of any year with a “9” at the end prompts the obligatory pondering of the past. It hadn’t really occurred to me that the decade was ending until a couple of days ago when the media started going crazy with retrospective pieces.   As I let the realization of where we are in the space-time-continuum sink in a little, it seems odder and odder, and makes me feel older and older, that the awful ’00s are finally over.

We started this decade in Tucson, me in grad school, Jason working for one of many doomed-to-failure start-ups, living in a tiny, old  house, next door to some crotchety neighbors who hated us, with Evil Jo, Kyler the one-eyed cat and a very sweet dog with a penchant for escaping from our 6-ft fence-enclosed yard. We had no money but lots of time. No kids, undemanding jobs, short commutes, simple house.   Life was good. We spoiled the dog like our baby and I stressed about coming up with some sort of dissertation topic.     I taught classes and worried about people taking me seriously.   Jason played Frisbee, even commuting up to Phoenix to play.   We were   young.

Fast forward 10 years and now we have lived in our current house for almost 10 years.   It’s bigger, more complicated, takes more work.   We have a pool.   And bills.   A new very sweet dog, and a cat with two eyes.   A long list of cats who have come and gone in that time   (Smudge, meatplow, endo, slim, diego, argos…).   Jo has moved on.   Two kids.   Long commutes.   Stressful jobs that pay well.   We have found professional success, but at the cost of giving up the flexibility that comes with less stressful careers.   We have guilt about daycare.   We tag-team on childcare so we don’t spend any time together.   Jason no longer defines his life by Frisbee, but has successfully filled that hole full with a new obsession, bikes.     I run marathons.   I have wrinkles.   Jason’s hair is getting grayer.   We’ve both gotten thin, then fat, then thin, then (now) fat again.

These changes have been so gradual, a little bit every month or day, an incremental change with each new decision that builds on the last decision until one day you wake up and your life is unrecognizable from where you started.     I now understand the mid-life crisis.   I also understand the unexplainable joy that comes with the unconditional love of   your child.  

Pain and pleasure, risk and reward.   Those very things that generate the most stress are the same things that give the most happiness.   What a decade.

I haven’t been inside a gym since Alana was born.   I knew before she was born that my gym days were numbered, and that my most likely future scenario involved me being trapped at home with two screaming kids.   So thinking ahead, and being to lazy to contemplate the hell that is a double jogging stoller, I bought a treadmill.   After much agnst regarding what/how/when to buy (used? new? online? in a store? how will I get it home?   who will set it up?   will it be a piece of crap?   folding? super expensive?   super cheap? ect, ect) I finally purchased one in early February, when, 9 months pregnant, and with G in tow, I went to a going-out-of business sale at a local store and got a screaming deal on a good new treadmill (and had it delivered).   The extent of my trialing it was a 30 second run at 6 mph (looking ridiculous, I am sure).   Whattaya gonna do. I am sure the guy I bought it from thought this thing was sure to become a clothes hanger instantly.

Anyway, the treadmill and the trainer Jason got me while I was pregnant with G, combined with some free weights, a cheap stool, a few mirrors we mounted in our bonus room and some old camping mats have served as my pseudo-gym for 6 months now, and for the most part, I don’t really miss the gym.   I do miss the discipline of stopping at the gym on the way home (no excuses); I have skipped more workouts in the last 3 months cause I was “tired” or “busy” than anytime since I was in college.   I also hate how hot my psudo-gym gets, both from the body heat generated during my workouts and the unfortunate western exposure of the room that makes it wicked hot at 5 pm in the summer.

There are some plusses.   I can work out in whatever I want…no need to cover up or worry about being the sweaty girl (although Jason never misses an opportunity to comment). That’s saving me lots of money on cute workout clothes.   I can work on my computer without looking like a freak.   I can play my music as loud as I want or watch whatever I want on TV.

Then there’s the negatives.   G has figured out which brake stops the back wheel on the trainer and never hesitates to come in and stop me for any reason (need a new TV show, more food, lonely, daddy was mean to me, can’t find blankey, need more chocolate milk, let’s get in the pool, ect. ect. ect.)   Thanks to some of her “friends” she has also learned that it can be “fun” to run on the treadmill, so she generally wants to “play” too while I am running.   Trying to keep her from killing herself/not throwing a giant tantrum is a huge pain in the ass.   Needless to say, I take a lot of breaks.   Not exactly good for that cardio capacity.   My average running pace has dropped by almost 1:00/mi since my gym-going days.

The final insult to all of this has to be the cat.   The treadmill sits in a spot that is a favorite of Turtle’s:   next to a window where she can stealthily oversee her kingdom from the climate-controlled and safe comfort of our house.   She has always hung out here, from the time when we were just moved in and had a crappy couch in that spot, to today.     So no surprises that she is still hanging out here, either on, or beside the treadmill.

That’s all well and good;   she generally moves when I turn the thing on, and aside from some fur, the treadmill is probably no worse off for her lounging.   That is, until Turtle decided she needed to drop a few pounds too, but instead of diet&exercise, chose to go the bulemic route.   She has been busy purging all over the house.   Generally, this is no big deal as we went out of our way to install tile and pergo and other animal- and child- impervious coverings on everything in our house.   However, as you probably know if you own a cat, when it comes to barfing, cats make it their mission to barf on the most expensive/difficult to clean/important item in the house.   Of the apx 2,400 sq ft of our house, about 400 sq feet are carpeted…a guest room and Genevieve’s room are the only carpeted places left in our house.   So where does turtle barf?   yup,   you got it…guest room.   This is particularly evil because we rarely go in there, so Jason discovered a barf-filled room the other day; lord knows how many meals were purged in there before he noticed.

And her second-fave spot?   you guessed it…the Treadmill.   Of course.     Nothing like finding a perfectly formed pile of tender nibbles with REAL chicken in gravy on my $2,000 treadmill. I blame 9 Lives.   Gotta stop feeding turtle that crap.

The Culprit

Looks the same the second time around

For some reason, Jason and I seem incapable of using our children’s given names.     It just seems like we are completely incapable of sticking to the names on the birth certificate.   Sooooo boring.

A selection of the names and a brief history:

Genevieve:

1) G: This is the original.   Genevieve is, of course, a long name, hard for a little girl to pronounce, and harder for a pissed off, scared, or tired parent to say 10 times quickly when trying to keep a little girl from eating dirt/sticking her hands in the dog’s mouth/pulling down a display in the store/running out in front of a car/blah blah blah.   So out of necessity and/or laziness, Genevieve became G.   This was my attempt to keep her from becoming Jen or Jenny or something girly that she will have to live with waaay past when it’s cute.     I thought we would stop calling her G pretty quickly as she grew up, but that appears totally wrong….she may end up saddled with G as a name….oh well, at least it’s not Jenny.

2) T.Human: Arrived on the scene at approximately the same time as G.   Jason’s name for Genevieve, very appropriate for little helpless baby that (we were assured) would eventually grow into full-sized human.   We weren’t so sure, but used the name anyway.   Phased out at approximately the same time as we adopted #3.

3)   Monster: Arrived on the scene at approximately 1 year, when she had earned it for obvious reasons (if you know her) .   At the time, was cute as she was tiny and cute so monster had some ironic cuteness to it.   As she grows into it, however, it becomes more eerily appropriate and not-so-cute.

Despite the relative briefness of our association with her, we have developed even more names for Alana.

1)   Meatpod: Resulting from Jason’s observation that she seems to do very little other than lie there, eat, sleep, poop, and gain weight.   In truth, she does somewhat resemble what one might think a meatpod would look like.   Shortens nicely to “pod”

2) Snort:   My name for Alana, thanks to her somewhat unsettling style of breathing.   She is quite loud in her inhalations and exhalations, particularly when excited.

3)   Monster Jr.:   She hasn’t really earned this one yet, but we have already trotted it out.

4)   Trucker Jr., or “Trucker”: Second kids really get no love.   See explanation here. Thunk.

Thanks to her relatively short name, we have avoided butchering Alana’s given name (so far).   So no, we are not calling her “A”.

And of course, we don’t stop there:

Kila, aka “Rocket”, Jo was mostly “Jo”, sometimes “Evil Jo”.   Other pets avoided the curse:   Tsaina was always just “Tsaina”,   and Turtle is “Turtle”.   Our other many various and assorted miscellaneous cats never earned nicknames beyond Slim (also “Evil Slim”).

For some reason, we don’t have nicknames for each other (that I know about…).

Happy (Mackenzie, newborn)                         Sleepy (Alana, one week)                           Grumpy (Genevieve, one week)

The story of the blue dress:

So I got the little blue dress from my sister, who got it from my mother, who thinks maybe it was something she used as doll clothes when she was a girl.   My mom took a picture of either Deb or I (think it was Deb) wearing the dress as a baby, and Deb found the dress and got a shot of her daughter wearing it too.   So when G arrived I couldn’t resist the urge to get a shot of her in it too.   In fact, I got so carried away with the dress that I got a picture of G in the dress every month from 0-12 months (by 12 months it was pretty much a short-shirt on her).   So when Alana came along, of course I got out the dress again.

I see the resemblance between Alana and G.   Scrawny little babies, both of them, especially compared to Mac.   No wonder they are so pissed off/tired.   Probably hungry.