1039 TWINKLE TWINKLE—REVISITED 33 Imagining the back porch

15B

... As a gathering of dark clouds rolls over the sun, it’s time for Grandma to push open that screen door and stride toward the buggy where Janet has been napping on our back porch.

Please hover as close as a shadow to Grandma as she pushes open the screened door, steps out onto our private back porch and bends over the navy blue buggy to rouse the ‘sleeping’ infant, so you can feel the alarming shrillness of panic striking your mind and coursing through your body as she shouts—"Jennie!”—out loud.
As Ella's panic slices through this peaceful day, imagine Jack's whistle dying midstream; imagine canned goods falling out of Jennie's hands, as my parents fly like arrows toward Grandma’s shrieks.  Imagine a round eyed, dark haired, suddenly frightened, small caboose pulling up the rear.

As Jennie and Jack crash through the screen door, their eyes dart from Ella’s petrified expression to their baby’s sleeping form. Janet’s lifeless body lays heavy in the buggy—just as she’d been laid to rest, several hours ago—on her tummy, face to one side, long lashes sweeping down toward one cherubic cheek.

Imagine my startled, blond, blue eyed, solidly built, young father standing next to my terrified, young mother, as they and Grandma huddle round the buggy, peering frantically down at their child, who’d been bright eyed and vibrantly alive three, short hours ago—

         Imagine expressions of horror imprinting deeply into Jennie’s, Jack’s, and Ella’s faces as my mother lifts the small, limp baby out of that buggy, and Janet’s pale chin falls solidly against her little chest—

         Imagine my mother cradling her child, attempting mouth to mouth resuscitation, while my father spins around—flings open the screen door and holds it for my mother, so the panic-stricken pair can dash through the dining room and down the hall—with my terror-stricken grandma in close pursuit.

         Imagine a frightened, little girl, two weeks shy of three, eyes like saucers, staring up at her terror-struck grandma, father and mother, who’d grabbed a powder pink blanket out of the buggy to keep her precious baby safe from the cold.

         Imagine three adults tearing through that apartment—while—pulling up the rear is—the little caboose.

         Imagine my mother crying out, “Jack! Jack!  She’s alive!  She’s alive!”  Because the baby’s chest is rising and falling in cadence with the breath that my mother will continue to blow into her daughter’s tiny, rosebud mouth—all the way to the hospital.

         Imagine my father grabbing up the car keys on the octagon table—yanking open our apartment’s front door, so he and Mom, holding their precious bundle, can rush into the hall and down those same three flights of stairs without a thought to grabbing their coats—

        Imagine a pair of pounding hearts running toward their car—leaping in—speeding toward the hospital as fast as the wind—

Inhale.  Exhale.  Inhale.  Exhale.  Breathe Janet.  Breathe

Oh God—please breathe, Janet, breathe!

Imagine my super-hero dad parking the car—

Turning off the ignition—

Flinging open his door—

Jumping out of the driver’s side—

Racing around the car to help his wife—

Imagine Jennie and Jack running into the emergency room—
Imagine yells of 'Help! Help!' clutching every mind within earshot

Imagine a nurse taking Janet from Jennie’s protective arms—

Imagine Jack sitting down.  Filling out paper work—

(Filling Out Paper Work????)

Imagine Jennie and Jack pacing—waiting—praying—

Pleading with G-d—Waiting—Praying—

Pleading—Waiting—Until finally—

They stand, as ashen as marble statues, watching a white-coated doctor walk toward them—and hearts pounding—they keep hoping—

Until their last shred of hope snaps in half—

Imagine my parents absorbing the opaque expression on the doctor’s face

Do words make sense when a stranger explains that he can’t explain why their baby is irretrievably—gone?

How does the mind make sense of words that make no sense at all—

Imagine the impossibility of any semblance of thought shaping up as hope dies as surely as did their child, who did not awaken from her nap … 
Why didn't a healthy child awaken from her nap??

Imagine blood pulsing against pain so confounding, so crushing
As to cause two hearts to constrict within my parents' chests—
Imagine tightly labored breathing—
Imagine the impossibility of walking out of that hospital—

The impossibility of driving home—

The impossibility of leaving their beloved daughter behind—

With strangers in a morgue—

Imagine an autopsy ordered to determine the mysterious cause of death—

Imagine a mother and father standing and staring at—what?

At each other after a doctor, expressing condolences, walks back into his life?

Do they hold each other tight?  Do they sob?

Or has emotion, mercifully, frozen in denial where they stand, both minds utterly unable to fathom what just happened to their well ordered lives?

My mother doesn’t remember.  My father’s not living to ask.

Imagine two robots making their way out of that hospital.

Imagine all you like ...

Though we can try to imagine every emotion, we can’t imagine the depth of what Jennie and Jack felt, unless, having walked in their shoes, we experience *Déjà vu —

All you and I can feel, today, is compassion, permeating heart and mind

Try as we might, we can’t fathom the mental anguish that Jennie and Jack endure as hours drag into days and weeks and months—unless your sense of empathy or mine is aroused after experiencing the torturous emotion of our own all-consuming grief ... If Jack holds the car door open for Jennie that’s because it is his mind's well practiced habit ...

Imagine she and then he dropping heavily into their seats

As this young couple sits, side by side, how long will an instinctive (self protective) state of shock swallow their minds whole thus allowing my parents some semblance of sanity as my father's key turns in the ignition as though all on it's own?
As a robotic mind starts the engine, glances at traffic and pulls the car away from the curb, who would guess the robot's name to be Jack?

Do they cry as they ride—side by side—toward their apartment, where
A small child and her Grandma, who keeps pacing while wringing her hands, await their return—or has emotion, so overwhelming as to have been mercifully numbed, remain severely repressed until such time as tightly coiled anguish will uncompress—and drain their tear ducts dry, because it's a given that my parents feel—

Helplesshopelessconfoundeddisbelieving—whollydevastated—however, had the overwhelming nature of those feelings not repressed then—

How could Jack concentrate on the road?

How robotic can the human brain become?

What will happen when conscious awareness breaks through the temporary nature of shock’s merciful mental fog?

How will my parents fare when fear strips their minds of security, ties their colons into knots and agony grips their hearts—

And what of their minds—

What of life's mysteries that remain unsolved?  Questions unanswered?

What of—undeserved—guilt, which feels as condemning as if you'd broken a commandment when nothing could be farther from the truth?

What if undeserved guilt, mistakenly adopted, has reason to grow more deeply absorbed into the mind of a three year old child over months to come?

What might result if subconsciously repressed feelings of undeserved guilt continue to emerge for decades without comprehension into its main root?

What if, behind an ever-ready, eager to please smile, a puzzling mystery, in need of piecing together, goes undetected within the mind of a small child, who had reason to grow up to be a deep thinking woman, who gave so much of herself in hopes of satisfying the needs of those she loved that, one day, there was nothing left of her to give, at all—or so she'd felt … If that which she'd experienced at the tender age of three had happened to you, might Socrates, who'd whispered, intuitively—know thyself—into her ear, have reason to swoop down from on high in hopes of whispering thoughts of existential freedom into your ear, too?  Does an adult need to reflect back upon childhood trauma to benefit from self discovery?  Having studied up on EMDR, I think not.

What if, by way of stumbling upon this path of self discovery, a woman, whose curious mind hopes to reassemble the pieces of her thousand piece puzzle, begins to see a bigger picture coming together, concerning the main reason why a good, little girl developed a negatively focused attitude of self depreciation, which had unsettled her sense of inner peace, unnecessarily, for decades  

What if upon working at sloughing each layer of self protection, another door, leading into her soul, opens, and the more soulful she becomes, the more she'll feel free to embrace insight into how best to satisfy her God-given (intuitive) needs in such creative ways as to relieve inner conflict, naturally, as she grows true to herself, through and through … 

What if, thankfully, every piece of this puzzle does not need to come together before this woman recognizes the good person she proves to be at her core …  What if, while satisfying existential needs, creatively, she feels guilty no more?  Is that not change for the better?

Imagine me, sitting at my comuter, today, editing a scene in a story, which had been written years before I'd ever thought of posting a blog.

Imagine my mother at the age of ninety, relating all of this to me while she and I sway, side by side, on my patio swing—imagine my mom, in 2004, expressing all of these details in her own words—all except for the nature of my terrified reactions—because Mom's mind had been understandably wholly engaged in expressing emotional reactions all her own …

Imagine me kissing and hugging Mom at my front door when she felt ready to go home.  And yes, she was still driving at ninety …

Imagine my head swimming at all I'd just absorbed, sitting down at my computer in 2004, pounding that which I'd listened to Mom relate into my keyboard—much of which I'd not known before we sat, swaying, side by side, on my swing.

Imagine the fact that the scene you've just read is just the beginning of that which my mother shared, concerning what took place in the aftermath of my baby sister's death.

Imagine that which will appear on your screen when I've mustered the courage to edit each scene that lies directly ahead …

Imagine me sitting at my computer, last week, heart constricting, breathing labored, as 'listen to your body' suggests I am not ready to revive the depth of my emotional reactions—at least not yet.

Imagine me gaining insight (clarity) into why I'd had to work so hard at mustering the courage to edit the original version of this story, suggesting that my wall of denial had shed so many layers of self protective insulation that pain, which had been repressed to the point of numbness, was beginning to merge with my sense of conscious awareness.  In short, upon writing, ten years ago, I'd concentrated on the raw state of my parents' pain, whereas last week, I'd begun to rouse my own.  I guess you might say that rousing compassion for my parents had not frightened me; however rousing empathy for the frightened child I'd been catalyzed a spike of anxiety.

Imagine me working over these past ten years to slough layer after layer of my self-protective wall away in hopes of opening door after door until both sides of my mind, working as a whole, readied my inner strengths to exorcise a child's subconscious fear, which upon reprocessing through my adult mind, will be disempowered to plague my self esteem with undeserved guilt, from now on.

Imagine my mind readying itself to freely examine examples of self imposed guilt
Imagine my sense of inner peace having sound reason to rejoice, at last …
Imagine my heart singing while freeing a small child to feel good about herself
Imagine my spirit soaring as high as the sky at freeing repressed emotion, at last?
Imagine my soul free of fear to explore my new found capacity to offer and receive love even more naturally, expansively and generously than ever before :)

Imagine me sitting next to you, smiling while expressing this thought:
I do no not grapple with inner conflict to reduce my pain of loss
My pain of heartfelt loss proves too real for my mind to deny
I grapple with inner conflict until insight into my soul is revealed
And with insight into the good soul that I prove to be
I grow ever more consciously aware of how hard I am on myself, unnecessarily
And thus, with time spent in quiet reflection, reconsidering a life well lived
My capacity to be true to myself at my core continues to deepen immeasurably

You see, each time I strip away another layer of undeserved guilt (baggage)
Which has weighed heavy on my sense of existential freedom
I come to value the person I strive to be, more and more …

Imagine me sitting on a bench in the park
Imagine me seeking truth in your eyes as
I respectfully request permission to enter your inner sanctum in hopes of
Quietly posing this question:
Can you recollect the scariest day you experienced as a child?
Can you name the god-like super hero whom
You are subconsciously still hoping not to displease?
You get it, right?