I wasn’t going to bother writing anything today, but some other blogs have inspired me.
Last night I had an awful dream. My babies were taken from me. It was excruciating. I fought for them, but I was helpless. It was so vivid, and I woke up sobbing when I reached that point in the dream where I had reached my limit of frustration and hurt. In real life, my beautiful boy sprung up from his bed (which is along side mine, I know, I know), kissed me on the cheek and said, “Don’t cwy, Mommy, it’s okay.” He then went back to his pillow, but he kept saying, “It’s okay, Mommy, it’s just me, don’t cwy.” I think he assumes that I think there is a ghost or a monster, so he assures me that it’s just him. No ghost! No monster! My heart aches with love for that child. My beautiful, beautiful boy.
I was afraid to ponder that dream. I had a girl and my boy. I was possibly younger, maybe a teenager. And it seemed that it was my mother who took the children from me. That makes no sense, really. Or maybe it does, in some deep place that I don’t want to really delve right now. My boy was the same age as he is now, and my girl was a baby, maybe one year old or so. My girl! I have a girl! My heart was elated, that these were my children. My boy. My girl. But they were taken from me, wrenched from me, and I was helpless, no matter how I fought for them. I can’t even begin to describe the feeling, the sorrow.
I didn’t want to ponder, because I’m holding on to so much hope for this life that is growing within me. And it’s terrifying to try to sort through those thoughts and feelings that took place in the dark of the night.
And then, I visited Bec-and-Call. And today, Bec writes about an amazing dream she had. And after that, I visited Sooz, in which she writes about an apology, and reading her post brought goosebumps to my skin. (Sooz, I hope you don’t mind that I’ve copied from your post.)
But I feel the pain of even imagining having my babies taken from me, of being taken from my mother, of watching my siblings ripped from the family hearth.
…The images of forced separation I have in my mind, the stories only recently come to light, fill me with such deep deep sorrow. How can we not say sorry? How can we not see and recognize the hurt felt by those who have suffered what is surely every child’s, every parent’s worst nightmare.
…I cried, cried like a little girl scared of being taken from her mother. And I wanted to say something about that. I am sure my apology means nothing to any of those who have experienced the kind of loss I can only begin to imagine.
And so I wonder if maybe there is no ominous or foreboding interpretation, but simply my heart and my spirit crying out in the night for those others who have had their babies taken from them. And even with what I felt, it still cannot begin to compare.
I’m humbled. It’s not about me.
