|Taylor, aka T-4-Turtle|
A number of years ago, when I was actively pursuing postal letterboxes, I created a postal letterbox themed upon a rather dramatic event that took place in our family. When my youngest son Taylor, was 18 months old, he had a drowning accident in our front yard. Unfortunately, the postal letterbox succumbed to a blackhole, never to be seen again. However, I saved the testimony I used in this postal letterbox on my computer.
I am currently in the process of meditating on attachment, and all that entails. Whenever I consider things this weighty, I have to first and foremost cast my eyes toward myself in stark honesty. My thoughts immediately go to this day and I have to ask myself the hardest questions of all: what if things had not turned out so favorably? Am I so attached to my children that I would be unable to fulfill my purpose? Would I be so distraught with grief and loss as to not be able to give...to breathe? How long would it take for me to get outside of my pain in order to function normally again? Would it be disrespectful to their memory to continue with my life? As the questions continue to flood my mind, I wonder about the roots of grief.
grief, n, a deep and poignant distress caused by or as if by bereavement, loss.
I admire my mother-in-law immensely, as some of you know. One of the reasons is due to the fact that she lost a son at a young age, I believe he was three years old. Stricken with meningitis, he died within a very short time of contracting the illness. Both my husband and his younger brother Tom, became sick at the same time; interestingly, Rob simply had a bad cold, but Tom was living his last.
|my beloved mother-in-law, Josie|
I marvel that Josie, Rob's mom, was able to continue living at all. To lose a child is beyond what my mind can comprehend, in all honesty. She has walked me through those horrible days, and how she dealt with her surviving son's emotions, as well as her own retching grief. Even so, I still cannot understand how she survived the blow. Somehow, with G-d's mercy, she was able to detach herself from the life of her son, and still hold dear to his memory.
Below is the testimony of the day in our front yard...Baruch HaShem, he lives today.
I wouldn’t normally consider creating a postal about one of my children. It seems too personal and , of course, everyone loves their children to a fault. However, when thinking about August, the only thing that came to mind was a day in February. A cold, but clear day in February, when I took my 18-month old son to the WalMart with me to pick up a few things.
We had a wonderful time shopping, singing and chatting through the store. Upon our return home, I was met by my husband in the driveway, as I let my toddler out of the car. My husband and I proceeded into the house with the items I had purchased. Once inside, we talked a little about the trip and some other non-important things. All of a sudden it dawned on me that I didn’t know where my little charge was. I asked my husband to go get him, and that he probably was coming after us into the house.
When he didn’t return right away, I became alarmed. I came out the front door just as my husband was rounding the front entry looking panicked. I immediately started for the only place my little explorer could be - the small pond in our front yard.
To my horror, I saw only the back of his little vest, as it was puffed up with air, and he was face down in the frigid water. (Even writing this, I cannot control the shaking or feeling of despair that is revisiting me once again.) I ran to the water’s edge, and too slipped on the leaves into the water. I managed to grab the back of his vest and pull him to me, but it was too late. He had no color and was not with me anymore.
I remember holding him close and sobbing, begging that this not be true. And then my husband taking him from me. I was screaming, the scream only a mother can utter at the loss of her child. I can still see his face - I will never forget.
I rushed to call the emergency help, and remember slipping on the kitchen floor and having to remove my shoes. While talking with the 911 operator, I watched from the balcony while my husband expertly began CPR on my curly-headed baby.
The next thing I remember was standing near the scene being held by a loving neighbor. She was praying aloud and all I could do was scream the name of my Deliverer. She maneuvered me further from the tragedy, as the paramedics arrived. She was facing them, watching them walk up to my husband on his knees, working on my lifeless son. Before they got to administer any help, my neighbor started and said, “turn around, I just saw him take a breath”.
I turned, and I, too, saw him taking sputtered breaths, spitting and coughing and trying to scream. I fell to my knees and thanked God with all that I had!
The paramedics took him away to the Children’s Hospital, and my husband and I followed. The hospital and all involved said it was a miracle. Oh, yes, there were many factors, I suppose. The very cold winter water, his age, etc. However, I know what I know, and call it such. His return to me was a miracle.
The pondering on attachment continues...