Wintertime

It seems hard to begin a new post after the last few weeks. First of all, Merry Christmas and Happy New Year! We had a wonderful holiday in our home. We left for only a few minutes, as the weather was dreadful, but really, there was no need. Everything we needed was right here. Most especially, our daughters. Though the tree was stuffed with presents this year and we had much food, drink and friendship to bring us cheer, the real gratitude for me was that our Dalia was here to make it special.

Dalia ice skating for the first time!

Xmas sing along show with Dalia, Neva and Owen

We took a trip to California to visit with some family and pay respects to our cousin, John and support his family Marni and Ashlyn after his death last month. Our trip down, we took 101 through the Redwoods and our old Humboldt stomping ground. Our morning out, we had a walk on my favorite beach in the world (yes, even more that Napili). To share this place with my family on such stunning and magical new year's day after was pretty much top ten in my life. It seemed like we could have been there forever. Eloise slept through Avenue of the Giants and Dalia was already sick of all the tree love and magic goin on with us grown ups, but she humored me and tried doing a handstand against an ancient Redwood with me.

best picture! the girls love uncle jimmy and auntie ali.

We had a wonderful trip until the last day when all four of us had had enough of the car, the snacks, the dvd's in the backseat, the rest stops and take out food and really, we were just so happy to be home. Back in our community, back in the routine that has become our life. Hopefully, a time when we could reconnect and let go of the past few weeks as wonderful and intense and overwhelmingly real they all were. 

Below is an account of an accident Dalia had at school the week before holiday break. I've taken so long to post anything because I've needed to process through all of this. After another amazing connection with Dalia's teacher, who's a true giver, one of those people who sees the sentient being in each of us, who cherishes and honors every child's spirit and light, I feel more of a sense of closure. And less isolation and alienation about the whole experience.

I honestly don't even know who reads this anymore, so I'll just use this time to create some narrative about what happened to us before Christmas. On Monday before the Connecticut school shooting I took a joyful walk with Eloise in the stroller to pick up Dalia from school. I left home early so I could pay a bill and change my mom's phone number in the emergency contact list at Dalia's school. 

As I walked down the street, realizing I had left my phone at home, but didn't want to go back to get it, I cheerfully talked about the trees, the birds, the lack of rain with Eloise. As I got to the top of a hill, I saw first a fire truck with lights and then an ambulance with lights turn onto the street coming towards me (and the school). My stomach dropped. I wished out loud for them to keep going past me, but they turned onto the street where Dalia's school is. Again, outloud, I whispered, "Oh, shit." I had no reason to think that it was my daughter, but I guess everyone would worry it was their own. I walked faster. As I turned up the street, too, I saw my friend (another mom) standing on her car to look onto the kindergarten playground where the ambulance was pulling in. I looked and saw Dalia's teacher, our school registrar and EMT huddled on the ground. I yelled to my friend in a panic, "who is it?" She said, "I don't know, I can't see, and they told me to get down." I walked up to meet her, walking side by side, pushing Eloise in her stroller. Just as I got high enough on the hill to see over the wall to the playground - to see a purple jacket just like Dalia's laying on the ground, child still in it, the registrar stood up. I said to my friend, "That's a purple jacket!" and then to the registrar, "Is that Dalia?"  My friend said, "I got Eloise," and took the stroller. The registrar yelled my name, said, "Yes, it's Dalia, come quickly." My feet, like they were stuck in concrete, like I was living one of those dreams when you have to run but can't, moved me, somehow, towards the playground. I passed my friends, all looking maybe as scared as me. In hindsight, I think the closest description of what I must have looked like was that photo of that poor father running down the street in Connecticut days later wondering, praying, terrified that it was his child, too. 

As we ran together, the registrar and I towards Dalia, she told me, somehow, what had happened. I couldn't breathe. My heart was palpitating. I couldn't get to Dalia fast enough. Yet, I slowed, watching the EMT's sit her upright, looking away from me. I told the registrar I had to get it together before I got to Dalia. There is a part of me, my heart, that remains frozen right here. I cannot get back to that hyperventilating, sad, scared mama, though I'm dizzy just writing now. Oh, how I wish I could get back there for a moment so I could cry, scream, be sad. So I could let it go. 

As I got to Dalia, I sat down in the wet bark chips, wrapping my body around hers so she could see me. She looked at me, but seemed more to be looking past me for a moment. Unsure of what she was looking at. And then her eyes came into mine. She understood it was me and crumpled into my arms. I held her, said, "it's okay. you're okay. it's going to be okay." 

Just then, my friend Lisa came to my side and held my legs, said just the same exact words to me. Said she would take care of Eloise and call Mark. Had anyone called Mark? I didn't have my phone. What would I do with Eloise? Dalia's teacher said she would get Eloise to Mark. Get them both to us at the hospital. Oh, yes, the hospital, the EMTs were asking me where to go only so they could tell me where they were taking us - no messing around, we're going to children's hospital. Fine, that was fine. Our insurance would pay. It was an emergency. Was it okay Dalia was up, could I pick her up? Move her head, her neck, her baby body, spine? Yes, they thought so. I lifted her like I would Eloise, cradled her legs and back in my arms. She clutched me, saying nothing. They said I should set her down carefully, let her stand so they could brush the bark chips off and see how she did standing up. I let her legs down, but didn't let go. Couldn't. Wiped my own pants off with a free hand as they helped to guide her to a gurney. They asked her what day it was. What her sister's name was. How old Eloise was. She answered. They were so kind. So calm. Said we had time to wait for Mark who was in that moment driving 40 in a school zone, on the phone with the office, who was on the walkie talkie with the registrar standing next to me. 

What had happened?! A jumprope got tied around the zip line playstructure. Her neck got stuck. She was unconscious when her teacher found her. Blue around her mouth. Later, we learned, foam coming from her mouth, twitching as if having a seizure. Had someone else done this? Had she done it herself? Why? How? As we climbed into the ambulance, the male EMT and I wanted to know, but didn't want to scare her. Didn't want her to think she or anyone else was in trouble. 

Her vitals were perfect. She was sleepy. Falling asleep. Waking up. Reaching out for me. Said only that she had a new friend. That maybe she had done it. Didn't think so. Said that she was scared "only when I couldn't say, 'Help Me.'"

Mark arrived. Gave me my phone. As I stepped out of the ambulance, seeing the terror in his eyes, I said, "She's okay. Calm face. Calm body. I'll go get Eloise." He climbed on as I ran to get Eloise. They said they would wait. I found her surrounded with love by all of our mom and dad friends picking up their kiddos to go to the park, playdates, the library, ice cream, home for too much tv lazy afternoon. I looked into the eyes of one friend and started to cry. Stopped looking. Said I couldn't look at anyone. Just going to get Eloise. Love you all. Thank you. Thank you. How fortunate we are. 

As I walked quickly back to the ambulance, pushing Eloise, there was the registrar again. I told her I was struggling with breathing myself. My heart palpitating. She suggested it was good I was riding in the ambulance, too. The second suggestion that maybe I was hurting, too. 

Mark said he and Eloise would meet us at the ER. I patted my phone in my back pocket. It would ding and ring on and off for hours, sweet concerned, helpful messages from our friends who were there, who shared this terror without knowing what was happening at all. In the days to come, I had to repeat again and again, "No, Dalia didn't fall, break anything, hit her head...She was strangled by a jumprope...unconscious...blue...etc. etc. etc...don't know how long...don't know if she fell and hit her head...don't know who else was there but those sweet little five year olds who knew they had to get help. they were so brave. I hope they are okay. is anyone taking care of them?" 

I got back in the ambulance. Dalia, reaching for me, strapped in and ready to go. I hugged her. Said she was okay. Looked for reassurance from the EMT. He said she was doing perfectly, that it was common for her to want to sleep. She was so sleepy. She would nod off and then wake suddenly, terror in her eyes for a split second, find me with her gaze and then reach with her little arms for me. In all our years together, she has reached out to me this way as I've left her in her bed, struggling to sleep. Often frustrated, finished, sometimes mad. How many times I felt like she was pulling me back, under, taking something from me. And now, I'd have given anything to just crawl into that gurney with her and hold her forever. So thankful. So confused. 

Eventually, she fell asleep. I sat back in my sideways seat, strapped in like on a jumpseat in an airplane. Driving slowly, peacefully. Replaying the events of the past hour in my head, I took a huge sigh. EMT looked my way over his computer. Asked if I was okay. "Scariest moments of my life back there," I said. He nodded. He understood. They never make you feel like you're overreacting in emergencies with little ones. Ever. Somehow, we all get it when it comes to small people. They need the most care. The most concern. The most vigilent attention.  It was days before Mark and I considered anything other than gratitude for our teacher, the principal, the school staff. They were terrified, too. Traumatized, also. So concerned for Dalia. They came to the hospital. Her teacher, in tears for days afterwards when we'd talk. I could tell he couldn't believe his eyes when he got to the hospital to find Dalia sitting in a chair eating a popsicle, watching Arthur on the tv. Why had no one seen or told her to put the jumprope away? How could anyone miss this innovation? A rope, hanging, a child trying to swing from it? And what happened in the moments after her friend found the teacher and he ran? Had he ran? I hear him in my head saying, "Dear God, no! Dalia, oh, Dalia." What did he say/do? Did he hold her? Move her? Talk to her? (He did. I know this now, a couple weeks after writing this. Somewhere in me, I think it was him who pulled her back. His kindness and connection.)

And that was it. We were kept for observation for a few hours. Three doctors examined her, consulted, did physical, neurological tests, talked themselves out of high radiation exposure CT scans, X-Rays, as she moved her neck all around, reported no pain, showed no swelling on the sores on her neck from the rope. They wrapped all around. A red line, rubbed raw, on that teeny, tiny neck, sides and back of the neck most prominently sore. But no swelling was the first sign that she was fine. Fine??! How is this possible, she's fine? This continues to swim in my mind, my sad heart. My baby had to go through this alone. Be scared alone. Face whatever it was she faced, alone. According to her little friend, her eyes were wide open. What did she see? Was she looking inside? Seeing off into the middle distance? Or was she seeing her teacher who she couldn't yell for help? Did she want her mommy? Was she already with me somehow? I knew. I knew. I knew it was her. Was she reaching for me?   

Now, she is fine, save for some attitude, which the doctor said would be normal. Psychological processing. I wonder if she feels frustrated she can't remember what happened. She brings it up. I bring it up. We talk about it some. Mostly, though, we're just back to normal. Her doctor called her a Christmas miracle. We always knew she was strong. Perhaps destined to help make sure no one else gets hurt, her strength, endurance, connection to others keeping her here with us. Yes, OF COURSE, I am grateful that she is with us, not lost like so many other children were that week. Yet, I'm left unsettled, nervous, hyper-vigilant, needy for attention, worried I'm getting too much attention. 

We're thrown into this life together. Who knows if we ask to be in it together or at all, but here we are. We are big people and small people, each of us loving and holding on to each other, but stretching away to be ourselves, bright beams of light to illuminate the world. For now, everything seems such a delicate juxtaposition of fragility and endurance.

I gotta say, being in Avenue of the Giants brought it all together. That air. That energy. The space those thousands year old trees keep for the rest of us. Peacefully being so that we may also be...