When the Music Begins

"Why are you so eager to die?"--writing prompt (following is what came from this prompt)**Revised**

When the Music Begins

        Frustrated, she screamed and swiped the papers, pens, pencils, knick-knacks, snacks, and drinks off the top of the piano. She repeatedly banged her head on the piano top, screaming incoherently through each pounding. The tears flowed freely. She was powerless to stop her temper tantrum, as she called it; others might have called it an anxiety attack or something more meaningful. She hated herself for her lack of control and inability to change anything, for her weakness.

        As if from out of a tunnel, soft moans of “Mom,” “Mo-o-om,” called her back to consciousness. Taking a quick moment to straighten her clothes and then rushing into the bathroom to splash some cold water on her face, she plastered on her biggest mommy-is-just-fine smile and went in to her son’s room. She fought the catch in her spirit as she looked once again on his too-tiny-for-his-age body. Choking back the sobs, she sat on the edge of the bed and pulled her Precious into her arms.

        He sighed contentedly as he relaxed into her, his head on her breast, feeling the solid beating of her heart telling him that it beat for him. “Mom?” he coughed.

        She couldn’t stop the tears, but she could control her voice, “Yes, Sugar-Bear?” She ran her fingers through his hair, snuggling him closer and murmuring soft words of comfort.

        “Why were you screaming?”

        “What?” she was horrified that he had heard her. She had been so wrapped up in her own emotions, she had forgotten how thin the walls were.

        “You have to finish it, Mom,” he croaked.

        “No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. . . .”

She wondered “Why are you so eager to die?”

She knew, deep in her very soul, that finishing the song meant his death. There was something un-namable, something un-identifiable about the connection between her writing this song and her son’s life.

        As long as she didn’t finish the song. . . she refused to finish the thought as she rocked her baby back and forth and her arms, still repeating, “No. No. No. No. No. . . .”

        He hugged her back, whispering, “It’s ok, Mom. It’s ok. Yes. It’s ok. It’s ok.”

         She soon felt his little body go slack in her arms. As she tucked him back in for the night, her tears continued flowing steadily. She leaned over to kiss his adorable, somehow-still-plump cheek and noticed a piece of paper clutched in his hand. She gently unfurled his fingers and smoothed out the wrinkles the best she could.

        Her hand flew to her mouth to stifle her cries even as her mind registered the words written in her son’s baby scribble, “Lord, please tell Mommy that You’ve got this. Jesus, please hold Mommy tight in Your arms as You are already holding me. Tell her it’s ok, Jesus. It’s ok. . . .”

        She crumpled to the floor, grabbed the extra blanket on the bottom of her son’s bed, stifling her sobs. She rocked back and forth, staring at the words on the paper until she could no longer see through her tears.

        After a long time, she gently sat on the edge of the bed and took his slight hand in hers. She kissed each miniscule finger and then held his hand against her cheek as she memorized every inch of her pint-sized Precious.

        Resolved, she quietly stole out of the room and went straight to her piano. She didn’t bother with all the paper and pens. Her heart knew the notes.

        As the angelic music filled the tiny apartment, he smiled in his sleep and dreamed of arms opening wide to welcome him home. . . .

No matter the age, child loss is NEVER easy

A close friend of my family lost her grandson over the weekend. He was only 25 years old. Yes, the loss is tragic and horrific. He was the only child of his parents, but one of approximately 7 grandchildren for my friend. 

In spite of the fact that I have lost children myself, I still find it difficult knowing what to say or how to offer comfort to my friend and her family. Hugs simply don't seem to be enough. I know that words right now really aren't as much comfort because so many words can be accidentally hurtful and that is the worst thing we as friends, family, and loved ones can do for those grieving so heavily. 

I know this is how my friends, family, and loved ones felt with each

of my losses, but this time, I'm on that side, too, and I simply feel useless. I know that my friend and her daughter's family are believers, but I also know that as a believer myself, even words of scripture from well-meaning, well-intentioned loved ones could pierce my heart like a sword and make room for the enemy to creep in--to pull me ever deeper into depression and anxiety.

Think of Job's friends and how they spouted scripture at Job and reminded him of things of God, but in the end, only Job was found righteous by God. God even had Job sacrifice and pray for his friends to be forgiven because of their unbelief and lack of true concern and understanding of Job's situation. The best thing Job's friends did for him was sit with him in the early days and grieved with him.

I know it's not much. I know it feels as if we are completely useless if all we do is BE there, but it truly is all many going through the very earliest stages of grief need---or can handle. They don't know how to do handle the wave of emotions that explode through them, so we can't possibly expect ourselves to know any better how to handle things or what to do. Telling a grieving mother that God only gives us what we can handle is a lie from the pits of hell because that mother most certainly has more than she can handle as she lays the body of her beloved child in the cold, hard dirt. 

My heart is broken for my beloved friend and her family. I offer each and every family member and loved one up in prayer and ask God to provide the comfort and peace that passes all understanding that only He can provide. If we're going to mess up when helping our loved ones through their grieving, I pray that we err on the side of LOVE.

Life and Death Tug-of-War.*Updated*

In November 2009, ten years ago this month, Life and Death played a tug-of-war with me. I stood half in the veil, half out. 

I had been sick for quite a while, but rather than go to the doctor, I took whatever pain medication I could get my hands on. I was taking a cocktail of ibuprofen, Aleve, Tylenol, Alka-Seltzer, Excedrine, Bayer, and any and everything else I could get my hands on to help deal with the pain. Even worse, I was taking no fewer than six pills at a time or I would take a dose of Alka-Seltzer and then turn around less than an hour later and take six Tylenol. 

I hurt on the lower right side of my belly, and I was throwing up every day, sometimes several times a day. I was in a lot of pain, but I refused to heed the warning signals.

The Sunday prior to my visit to the emergency room, I woke up in the morning, unable to breathe or move. I took some pain medication, as per usual, and forced myself to go to church. I continued to self-medicate over the course of that next week. Somehow I survived the week in spite of being in extreme, severe pain. 

Then, Sunday morning, November 22, 2009, the pain again woke me up. I took something like six or eight Ibuprofen (I have no idea exactly how many--I was half asleep as well as in a LOT of pain) and tried to go back to sleep for a little while. In only a few short minutes, the pain was still so bad, I threw myself off the couch (the pain had been so severe that I had been sleeping on the couch for quite a while) and curled into a ball on the floor. I immediately knew I was in trouble, but I was unable to catch my breath enough to call out to my husband. All I could do was pound on the floor until he finally came in to see what in the world was going on.

I was able to breathe out that we had to go to the emergency room. Because of the late hour, or early rather--it was about 4:00 am--and the fact that I was in as much pain as I was, we had to leave immediately which meant that my son, who was 9 at the time, had to go to the hospital with us. Every turn of the car around the curves along the road was pure agony. My husband tried to drive slow so it wasn't so bad on me, but I indicated that he needed to drive faster rather than slower.

Thankfully, there wasn't anyone at the emergency room ahead of us. I was taken through triage and put in a room almost immediately. 

I tried to smile and make light of the situation because I did not want to panic my son. To this day, I have never asked him what was going on with him during that horrible time. I'm honestly afraid to ask.

A male nurse (I love male nurses, btw) came in with two bottles of banana-flavored barium and told me that once I drank both bottles, I would be taken for a CT scan. 

(I still can't eat or smell a banana without gagging.)

The CT scan showed that I had an abscess in my colon. I was admitted to the hospital. Almost as soon as we got to my room, I told my nurse that I had to go to the bathroom. I did not make it. (To all the CNAs out there: I'm sooooo very sorry. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you! I love you!!!) The barium came out of every orifice it could come out of. I was put on heavy drugs in an attempt to lessen the infection. From Sunday, November 22 to Saturday morning the 28, I spent the vast majority of my time passed out. 

I remember my dad coming to visit and telling me that he was going to take Samuel back east with him for Thanksgiving. Samuel missed a few days of school, I think.

I remember some friends of mine coming in to visit. I know I talked to them and we laughed and that they combed my hair for me, but the only other thing I remember are my hallucinations. I was in a beautiful meadow with butterflies, rainbows, clouds, and Gerard Butler. 

My boss came in with his wife, but all I was able to do was wave at them before I passed out--again.

I remember that my nurse asked if I would agree to move to a different room, one that put me across the hall from the nurse's station. 

My sister arrived at some point. As did my mom. And other family members. I remember my sister-in-law sitting with me, but since I was so in and out of it, all she really did was read. I think she read a whole book.

On Saturday morning, November 28, one week after I'd first gone to the hospital, I had to drink two more bottles of banana-flavored barium so my doctor could attempt to drain the infection while I

was in the CT scanner. He was unable to perform the procedure, so I was immediately taken to the OR for emergency surgery where my colon was rerouted so I had to wear an ostomy bag for the next several months. Several drains for infection were put in as well. I had two separate incisions--one that ran up and down from my belly button to my lower hairline and the other on my left side which is where the hole was that I used for the next several months when "using" the bathroom.

I was, of course, put on even more extreme pain medication after my surgery, Dilaudid. My hallucinations as a result of such a strong medication scared me like nothing else during that scary time had. I saw demons flying around my hospital room, attempting to attack me. I know they were demons of death come for me. Thankfully, there were also warrior angels surrounding my bed, fighting to save my life. 

Guess which won?! 🧡

I stayed in the hospital for another week before I was allowed to go home. A CNA changed my bag for me throughout my stay in the hospital. I didn't do much with it at all. I walked the hospital halls as much as I was able, which wasn't much because I was simply in a lot of pain from my incisions. 

I had to take my IV stand with me on my walks at first. And my pee bag. So picture it: there I was, walking down the hall in my hospital gown, slowly, with an IV stand and my pee bag in one hand, my other hand clinging to the wall, all the while attempting to hide the fact that I was pooping in a bag on my left side. Mom often walked with me. I loved talking with her, at least.

Mom and Dad stayed with me for the first several days once I was home to help me. I was still on some pretty potent pain meds and unsteady on my feet as well as unable to take care of my bag by myself. I was unable to do many normal, every-day activities like bathing by myself, cooking, and even eating was a struggle because we had to be sure I could actually handle it.

Good times. Yeah. Good times.

Not.

The first time I had to change my bag at home by myself, I almost passed out. If an at-home nurse hadn't been with me, I would have hit the floor. Thankfully, one was here and she saw me go white and helped me get to the bed. 

After a while, working with the bag became "normal"--whatever that meant. As we very often hear when we go through trials/tribulations/suffering of any kind, my "new normal." 

I still hated it.

Three months later, my doctor reversed the surgery and removed all need for the ostomy bag, Praise the Lord. Even now, though, touching my belly hurts something awful. I cannot lie on my belly for longer than a few minutes and even at that, when I do roll over, my belly--the incisions--burn with pain. It typically takes a few minutes of breathlessness before I am able to move again. Needless to say, I avoid lying on my stomach as much as possible. I have also recently learned that I have two hernias near my incision sights. (That makes a total of 4 hernias in my belly area. *sigh*) I also had my gall bladder removed a few years; the same doctor who did my previous surgeries performed this one too. I joked with him that I was just going to get his name tattooed on my belly area, "Created by Montgomery Cox."

The beauty of this story, if you choose to see it that way with me, is that LIFE won the tug-of-war over DEATH for Polly Anna!  

I am Alive! I am here today, alive and full of the Joy of the Lord! Hallelujah! My God is a GOOD God and He loves me. He sings over me with JOY. He has a plan for me. I'm alive because He has something He wants me to do that I haven't done yet. I don't know exactly what it is, yet, but I'm working on figuring it out. I believe it has something to do with writing and/or teaching.

What do you think? 

Works Cited

Shen, Jean. "Series 1: Healing of Wounds of the Bride and Growing Intimacy with the Lord." Invitation to His Garden. Prophetic Art. Web. 6 Sept. 2014. <http://www.jbrushwork.com/html/paintings.html>.