Category: Stella

stories of estrangement and our lost daughter, my best friend who has wandered away

Crayons and The Cross

On By LisaIn Arrow, Faith, Plum, StellaLeave a comment

About 17 years ago I quit smoking.  I was a bad smoker, starting as an adult who knew better but caving to the culture surrounding me as my attempts to cope with a horrific situation failed.  So I smoked for about 4 years, maybe less.  My children hated it, put Mr. Yuck stickers on my cigarette packs and knocked on the windows from inside whenever I stole away to just have that moment.  I didn’t smoke around them, not in the car, not with them but they knew it was happening and I knew it was wrong.  My son was caught in a school function wearing a “no smoking” sandwich board that was published in the local paper, further breaking my heart.  I summoned my willpower and I quit.  Not that easily but it happened.

And then 14 months ago my daughter stopped talking to me.  I lasted until her wedding 5 months later and then a little nudge on a drunken spree from someone who can have the occasional cigarette and I was hooked again.  Coupled with crippling depression and isolation, the added flare up of an old eating disorder, I found the perfect milieu for an old addiction to take hold.

This time I was hiding it from my grandson which I did pretty well for several months.  The first time he saw me smoke, he cried and I am ashamed to say that wasn’t enough to make me stop.  I wanted to but I thought I could just not do it around him and all would be well.  My husband hated it, told me I smelled, avoided kissing me or even hugging me.  My feelings were hurt and so were his.  How could I put this habit above all of them?  My son, now grown, hated it, even as he fought his own battles with addictions.  Still not enough.

And then comes Lent, wondering what will I give up this year?  The obvious choice was smoking but I just didn’t know if I was strong enough.  Pastor Chris gave a sermon which brought me to tears.  He suggested that we consider saying to Jesus, “i love you more than….” whatever it is that is getting in the way of our relationship with Him.  And lay that down.  I cried and knew.  But still i worried that what had become my method of coping with the greatest heartache I have ever known would be gone like my grandson’s blankie.  Without that security, what is left?

I still wasn’t all in.

I sat on the porch, huddled under layers in the cold, puffing away while he was supposed to be watching a video, when I heard a rap on the window.  Damnit.  Busted again.  When I came in he said, “nan, I saw you.”  Ouch.  Then he handed me two crayons, both blue, my favorite color.  He had them crossing each other in an x and asked me if I could make them stay that way.  Relieved that we had moved on so quickly, I assured him I could and found some rubber bands.  When I joined them together and handed them back to him, he said, “no, you keep that.  It means no smoking.  Put it in your pocket to remind you.”  That X turn sideways was also a cross.

I shared the story with my son who set me up with a vape to ease the withdrawal.  It worked.  I’m done.  Who can argue with a 5 year old who seems to be working for Jesus?

Happy Birthday

On By LisaIn StellaLeave a comment

November 10,2015.  Another milestone coming, seemingly going.  A huge one.  Officially one year since I have laid eyes on my girl.  We went to Nebraska to watch her get married on her birthday, not knowing he was truly taking her way.  The cold war had begun in September, we had no idea the enemy we were facing.  Every move towards reconciliation was undercut, the charming exterior hiding an unforgiving narcissistic soul.  My daughter caught in the web, believing her new reality and questioning everything she has ever known and trusted.  Cutting off all who question her, all who have loved her long for one who says he loves her now.  One year.

My son asked me last night, “how long? how long will you just sit here like this?  It is hurting Chef, hurting Plum, hurting me.”  I tried to argue that I was, am fine.  He gave evidence: going out in public in pajamas, smoking, not eating.  I could only say I am trying.  but am I?  I have stopped living, I have only been waiting.  Autopilot.  I have forgotten that others can see me when she doesn’t chose to.

The weight of this day approaching sent me to bed, buried under blankets for hours.  I considered driving there, taking the last of her belongings and dropping them on her porch, driving home.  A pilgrimage.  Initially I promised I wasn’t going to stay to see her but then knew I had no strength left.  I was already parked down the street, watching waiting.  I saw her pull up, get her baby out of the car seat.  I didn’t see me sit quietly and watch.  I saw her scan the street and then my primal yell, running, begging, crying.  Reaching for my daughter, aching to touch my granddaughter.  It wouldn’t go well.  My last bit of self-control was used to ask my husband to take this option off of the table.

I then planned to hide for the day, go away and mourn alone.  Somewhere, anywhere.  I didn’t want to take care of anyone, just wallow.  For one day.  But haven’t I done that for a year now?

Instead, I decided today we celebrate the birth of my daughter, her 27th.  We are going to have food she likes and tell stories about her, actually bring up her name in this home.  We will rejoice in who she has been to us, if not who she is.  She is still breathing and so am I.  There’s still hope.  My present to her, to my family, is to start being present again.  No more pajamas in public.  I have to find a way to laugh.  Otherwise there will be nothing left when she does return.  And she will.

Happy birthday Stella.  Mom is making beignets for breakfast.

Coats

On By LisaIn Arrow, Faith, Mom, Stella, The ChefLeave a comment

The catalogs come, the flyers in the paper, the ads with great bargains and ideas for holiday shopping.  My list this year is filled with legos and flannel shirts and men’s socks. Arrow’s needs are so great it is too easy to find things for him.  Plum still wants every toy in the ads but no dolls, nothing pink or frilly.  Chef is always the hardest, most particular.  Same things every year, few surprises.  For the first time in 27 years, I won’t be buying anything for my daughter, the girl who has now decided she doesn’t want her mother.  I won’t be sending packages to her daughter either, not knowing if she gets them or they are discarded.  Money is too precious.  Last year I sent the special nail polish for babies that Stella wanted, put that in the stockings we sent.  I never saw little toes with pink or purple nails.  I didn’t even get the stockings back, which match our collection.  I persevered for a while, sending books and toys for my granddaughter but finally gave in to Stella’s desire to be left alone.

The ads with little girls in warm winter coats call to me, beg me to carry on the tradition begun with my grandmother.  She always purchased our winter coats, knowing what a help this would be to my parents as they struggled financially.  My mother continued on when my kids were little, the help coming at just the right time.  She was able to buy the heavier, warmer coats that were out of our budget, not caring that the kids would grow out of them each season.  I bought warm clothes for my granddaughter for her first two seasons, to carry her through, but it is time again for a coat.   Too many times I have selected the coat, carried it throughout the store, made it all the way to the checkout, only to stop.  Defeated, I put it aside and rush from the store, into my car with the tears threatening to alarm holiday shoppers.

I found several adorable outfits in one store that I couldn’t resist.  I took my time putting together leggings with tops and little poncho covers, found ways to mix and match to help a mama get the most out of the outfits.  Satisfied, I purchased the lot, not making eye contact or responding to the clerk’s attempts at small talk.  When the charge came across Chef’s alert, he called and I had to confess that I just wanted so desperately to pretend that I have a granddaughter, that I get to shop for her as well.  Back to the store I went, no eye contact, more tears.

I haven’t bought any Tom’s for Stella, none of the sweaters she would love, no boots, no socks, no chocolate covered cherries or make up for her stocking.  I haven’t stashed away the special avon dew kiss lip gloss she likes for the winter.  The boxes of beignet mix stay on the shelves.  Bath and Body works will get none of my money, there will be no cherry blossom lotion sent this year.

Skype tells me I last used it Dec 25, 2014 at 12:37 am.  An application I once praised as straight from God, one that kept me connected to my sweet girl so far away, now is taking up memory on my mac. If only I had recorded those sessions, to visit with her again and again.  If shopping and visiting on line are indications of relationship health, we are dead.  Can anything resurrect us?  I have lived in this town for 20 years, avoiding roads and areas that hold horror.  Now I find myself averting my eyes when toddling chubby cheeked girls with fuzzy brown hair are giggling with their mamas, the desire to rush in overwhelming.  I avoid foods that remind me of Stella, no longer able to find an appetite at all.  I search out willowy blonds on campus and then hate that I am still seeking where I know nothing will be found.  More and more to avoid, until it is easier to stay in bed.

The story of the prodigal son happened, right?  Our son came back and we have celebrated him, fatted calf and all.  But the obedient child chose to leave, not sticking around to finish out the parable.  Maybe she was the prodigal all along.  Clearly I missed something.  I am sure of one thing, I would welcome her back with open arms and Tom’s and dew kiss and sweaters and boots.  And me.

Killing Fields

On By LisaIn Stella, TravelLeave a comment

Almost 24 hours after walking the sacred grounds of the Killing Fields, the tears won’t stop.  Finally they are flowing freely, enough distance, a country away, has allowed my heart to unclench.  My soul to scream. I will never be the same and I shouldn’t be.

Our tuk tuk driver delivered us first to the prison, the former school, where atrocities replaced laughter. Stark concrete walls, razor wire, instruments of torture.  Guilt as we tour, should we be looking?  But we must, so we can tell.  No one is listening to the Cambodian people still.  40 years later and only 1 war tribunal conviction.  Current leader has Khmer Rouge affiliations.  How is this happening?

We move on to the Killing Fields.  Stella wept over breakfast.  She didn’t want to go but wouldn’t let herself off the hook.  How can you go to the country, indulge in their cheap souvenirs and not see their pain?  But would they feel resentful at her tears?  It wasn’t her family?  We decided it is all of our family, we must cry over these losses.  The people who were lost deserve our tears.  No one will judge.  A pure heart, my daughter, to not want to offend a desperate people with her tears.  We were soon to discover we would give more than that.

The ride to the fields took us through the worst of our travels to date: trash collection areas, recycling sorting, roadside shacks with sewage flowing under.   Dust and dirt covered us, gritty sand in our eyes, hair. The smell…gone was the appetizing mysterious scents of cooking.  And then we were there, just right in the midst of it all was this holy ground.

What happened there, I can barely put into words.  I hesitate over the keys.  I am no stranger to evil.  Evil committed by many to many amazes me.  scares me.  no terrifies me.  there is a huge tree, a big beautiful tree much like my grandson would love to climb and pull the bark off of and use his toy chainsaw on.  this is the tree on which the Khmer Rouge, in front of the moms, bashed the babies heads in. the pit for the moms and babies was right in front of it.  today it is decorated with thousands of bracelets from those who have come to mourn.

Bones and teeth still emerge from the ground, especially after the rainy season.  Every person in Cambodia has a family member who died in this genocide.  It is that recent.  We come to discover truth, they come to find their grandmother.

We left Cambodia and flew to Thailand, many bus transfers and finally got to our hotel late.  All day we talked of the shower we would take.  But we didn’t.  24 hours later, gritty with the dust of Phnom Phen, I can just begin to open my soul to cleansing.

Unloading my Pack

On By LisaIn Stella, TravelLeave a comment

Brought my sadness to south east Asia, packed tightly in my new hikers backpack. Ready to be unloaded, released at a temple, in quiet meditation on a beach at sunrise, after too much laughter with my daughter. Instead I find Thailand has its own sorrow, so deep so pervasive, there is just no room for mine. Grief rides the rickety bus. Hopeless shuffles the feet of even the youngest. Heat slows everyone, there is no escaping the reality of destroyed buildings, lost generations. Rubble and rubbish at the foot of signs for new smartphones.
Riding the night bus overflowing with mattey haired hipsters whose clothes are more authentic than the locals we stop to pick up, I watch as the mopeds swarm us, lead us like pilot fish to the whale. Or is it a shark? During the ride I’m not sure which belly I’m in and can’t sleep the narco-induced slumber of these kids. So I carry the anxiety for my bus mates while the rest jolt and toss and shift but still they sleep. Odors joining, mixing with no concern for boundaries or states rights. Germany Canada Finland France USA.  There are no superpowers, just dust and yesterday’s dirt or maybe the day before and a bit of mosquito spray with incense. I’ve lost track of how many days I’ve worn which clothes, having already shed some at the last two hostels to lighten the pack. With each repacking I evaluate what is critical to carry further into the trip. The sorrow has begun to weigh too much but now in Cambodia I see they too will mock my grief. Only a generation long? Just one year of sadness? How can I give them my tears when they continue to mine bones in the killing fields. No, I came to the wrong continent. A plump middle aged white woman taking artsy pictures of their homeless cats and broken buildings, their old women selling the same pots of noodles her mother and hers before made, this woman has such audacity to dump more sorrow on the broken backs, barely beating spirits. It is truly the rich who seek purpose. The rest seek survival