377 TWINKLE TWINKLE LITTLE STAR Part 27

Janet’s death certificate does not state the cause of death as SIDS.  As it is written, my sister died from a pneumonia-like virus.  That was sixty-four years ago.  Today, my parents would likely have been told that their child succumbed to Sudden Infant Death Syndrome.

When three broken hearts stare into the empty crib right before removing it from my parents’ bedroom, common sense suggests that three confounded minds can't fathom how, in the span of a few hours, a 'healthy' baby girl had disappeared.  And while adult trains of thought cycle round and round on this tortuous, one way track, the little caboose has no clue, at all, about anything that will cause everything to change in terms of the way life has stalled, so drastically, day after day, night after night.  *As nothing feels safe and she doesn't feel good when she looks up at the giants and sees only frowns, Annie's round, blue eyes stick like glue to the expressions plastered on the faces of everyone she loves while her mind works overtime, trying to track whatever is about to take place, next—clickety clack.

Though the loss of beloved, elderly grandparents and parents proves deeply painfully, such an orderly cycle of events is anticipated.  When irretrievable loss is wholly unexpected—out of order—and the life cut short had depended upon YOUR tender, loving attentiveness, a sense of undeserved guilt, which mounts in the aftermath of that tragedy, magnifies in untold ways.

The harsh reality of Janet’s death slices my parents’ lives into two separate parts.  In a flash, all sense of order has darkened as though the electrical circuit, powering our spirits, has been switched off.  Our reactions are, now, as indivisible as a string of holiday lights.
On the day of a loved one's funeral, it is our custom for the immediate family to tear and wear a piece of clothing, symbolic of the tear between life and death.  Over the next seven days, it is our custom for loved ones to gather, bearing hearty meals to nourish our bodies, which do not hunger for food, along with heartfelt condolences to nurture sagging spirits, too wounded to fly on their own—as of yet.  In short, the flock flies as one.  In honor of The Sabbath we do not 'sit shiva' on Friday, after sundown.  The Sabbath rises above everything else.  Our 'shiva', which resumes at sundown on Saturday, welcomes all who come to support us during this first dark week of bereavement.


As for three-year old me, I do not understand why everyone comes to party in our apartment, day after day, when 'something' terrible is making my family so sad.  *Lacking in understanding, inexperience sees insensitivity, all around.  And thus does inexperienced insensitivity cast harsh judgements at those innocent of wrong doing.
On the other hand, I do not feel so scared while all of these people are milling around, hugging us close, keeping our minds busy as I do right after everyone has kissed us goodbye, and their spirits fade away.  Within seconds of closing and locking the apartment's front door, life darkens, reality hits, and our eyes dull over as each one faces another endless night— 

When the darkness of anguished confusion and relentless mental pressure go unrelieved, the defense system protects the processing center of our brains by melting the conscious mind's connection to clarity.  As mental attentiveness experiences a melt down, the overwhelmed state of the thought processor 'relaxes' into the zombie-like sludge that accompanies total devastation.  In short, denial disassociates the mind from life's harshest realities—until such time as you can compartmentalize the depth of your pain, because those who depend upon you need you to return to work ... As was true of my father ...

Though Jack's peace of mind is replaced by his own sense of raw vulnerability, my father must return to work while the weight of depression continues to hit Jennie, hard.  As for me, my mind can’t fathom the agonizing hours, which hang heavy in our apartment, day after day—however, I can definitely sense this:

LIFE feels as dark as a black cat passing under a ladder at midnight. When our family doctor advises Jack to get another baby started A.S.A.P., my father agrees with the wisdom inherent in the voice of experience and gets busy.

While I muse back to that day when Mom nestled close to me while we swung in tandem on my patio, staring up at 'my mountain (the very one that Dad had loved to climb with his grandsons in tow) rising high into a clear, blue sky—my mother's voice, flooding with memory, holds me spellbound:

"One day, I arose from my bed and while walking through a fog, I noticed you trailing after me, looking up at me so sadly that I realized how listless you'd become.  At that moment it dawned on me that before Janet's birth, our entire world had revolved around you.  As I gathered you close—and you clung to me—I realized how lonely and lost you must have felt.  How much you must have needed me.  How much you'll continue to need me.  I mean, you were only three ... and gradually, as this awareness 

 clarified for me, I willed myself to return to life."

In the aftermath of tragic loss

The heartfelt tenderness of a grieving mother

Recognizing a need to embracing the vulnerability of her child

Is not always the case

I know of instances in which

The loving spirit within a home

Dies

Never to be revived...

As that will not prove true for me

I'll bask in the good fortune of being my mother's and father's child

And whenever tunnel vision causes me to lose sight of my strong sense of hope

You'll see *a balanced sense of memory and insight serve as my spirit's reset buttons  ...

In the case of our family, it comes to pass that on January 5, 1948—one month after my fourth birthday—thirteen and a half months after Janet’s mysterious 'disappearance'—my mother and father slip into their coats, bend down, offer me two smiles, two warm hugs, and two kisses as they leave our apartment and drive to the hospital, again.

For the next several days my mother is absent—then, when my attentive father brings her home—I run down the hall to greet them at our apartment’s front door, and low and behold—what do I see?  Here, in my mother's arms, is a beautiful, baby girl, whose dark hair and small cameo features look a lot like—Janet—to me.

As my mother bends down and I breathe in my first look at the sweet face of my baby sister, does a little voice inside me say:

 “Wow!  She's back!

Or ... Wow!  What a beautiful, new 'doll'!  I can't wait to play with her!”

Or might memory rouse a fearful ghost deep inside, which whispers, chillingly, into my ear:

“Oh oh, Annie!  Here we go, again!  We’d better make sure that this one doesn’t disappear!”   And, you can bet your bottom dollar that I am not the only person in our apartment, whose mind has absorbed this newly acquired, not-so-secret—over-protective fear.

*Once Lauren is placed in Janet's crib, I'll have no clue of acquiring another trait, which, in some ways, will serve me well, while in other ways, this sense of protectiveness combined with empathy will create inner conflict that intensifies my itch to get out of my skin—until I consciously embark upon my quest to differentiate between my vulnerabilities and strengths.  *At times it's difficult to know when a trait, which is protective of others is, in truth, self-protective, as well!
*For many reasons, I'll have lost a vital portion of my voice.  However none would believe that possible, because if ever a child had personified Chatty Cathy, that child was me!
If you asked:  Which portion of your voice will have succumbed to subconscious fear?  Here is what I'd say:  *The portion of my voice, which had succumbed to subconscious fear, had been the little voice of instinct, which no longer felt free to clarify my needs—not just to others, but to me.
*In short, fear had signaled denial to short circuit the connection between my conscious self and survival instincts at my core.  Beginning at the age of three, my need to feed the needs of others and feel loved superseded my need to feed any other need of my own.
Though selfless traits are commonly admired, upon deeper consideration, unidentified anxiety is often in the driver's seat.  And swerving from one's own lane into another's proves less healthy than most may think.

In recent years, while questing for depth in self awareness, I've had reason to ask myself many questions.  For example:

*Does it make sense to remain angry at those who think to know my traits—but do not—when, in truth, I'd failed to know myself as deeply as I'd believed?  No one had betrayed me more than I'd betrayed myself ...

*If latent insecurity breeds misperceptions, all around, then doesn't it make sense for each of us to work at identifying subconscious fears, arising from deep within, in hopes that as deeper truths emerge, we can unload undeserved guilt and meet Today's needs once clarity suggests a simple plan that may mend a relationship in need of repair?

*Is it not true that The Truth will set us free?  Free of what?  Free of subconscious insecurities, all around!

*Subconscious insecurity causes us to fear—misunderstandings, misjudgments, undeserved guilt, abandonment, again and again!  Once vital relationships take a wrong turn, both sides erect walls; defensive traits buttress opposing points of view and personal strengths go AWOL.

*What, exactly, did Socrates have in mind when he implored his peers to:

KNOW THYSELF!

*Do you have a clue as to which fears tainted the clarity of Socrates' peers?

*Can you name traits, which caused the peers of this sage to 'kill the messenger'?

My family saga concerns personal beliefs.  As beliefs are not facts, no wrong answers exist.

Have you any clue as to how much I'd like to know what you believe, too?

A little ways back, a few brave souls answered my plea and fed my comment box ...
Imagine the smile you'll draw forth from within my soul

If you'd freely choose to fly with that flock, sometime soon ...