Monday, March 22, 2010

Gentle reminders

This afternoon we were invited to share the story of our journey with Nora in a Trauma Healing class at the Center for Justice and Peacebuilding, the graduate program of which is Janelle's place of employment. The professor and students were especially interested in how the process of writing and sharing our writing with others (which we did along the way and have done since) affected our experiences of grief, situational stress, etc. One of the exercises for the class was to create "100-word Haiku" written expressions surrounding some experience of personal trauma. The poems are intended to succinctly convey the impact of a given experience, as well as communicating some element of release or healing. Having been made aware of this exercise as we prepared to join them for this class time, we each took our own crack at it, coming up with the two poems found below. I will provide a one-sentence introduction for each.

My attempt was in reference to the period of time during which Nora's growth began to falter in earnest; about this time of year, two years ago.

Stalactites from the Sky

She seems to need a savior.
Her suffering grows: stalactites from the sky,
filling my world. Why does she not
make bone and skin and muscle—tender—from
her mother’s milk? I hold a plastic bottle,
bent and trembling, distorted
by my feverish grip—inside there is
an ounce or two of milk, grown cold.

Extra heat could never speed
the hatch, it is the chick that does
the growing, not the hen. Likewise a baby,
and the space and time, food and shelter, love
were there. She could never grow, though
what we offered was enough.

Jason Myers-Benner
March 2010

Janelle's expression refers to both the afternoon when Nora was airlifted to UVA, where she spent the final days of her life, and the moments of her death.

Flying

Oxygen needs increasing, labored breathing, on our way to the ER.
"I won't hold a gun to your head,
but I think you need to let her go."

Her doctor's words stung.
The nurse accepted my meager offerings of milk.
Nora's body tucked away out of reach,
the sound of propellers.

She was out of reach, I was out of control.

Had I abandoned her?
Did she know that this was not what I wanted?
That I loved her?

A week later, she left me.
She was in control and in my arms.
She showed me how to fly free.

Janelle Myers-Benner
March 2010

We continue to seek connections with that part of our history, and to thereby continue cultivating a sense of closeness to Nora's memory and her self. Willing participation in events such as this afternoon's class have that effect, for which we are grateful.

Another of those opportunities is our bimonthly blood donation. We went straight to the hospital from the class, and though my lingering minor lung tickle from a recent cold kept me from giving my blood today, Janelle was able to do so; we benefit from that ritual.

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