AA Gifts & Baskets Idea Blog

Archive for May, 2007

I was nursing six-month-old twins, a beautiful gift after eighteen (18) months of infertility treatments. We took my temperature every day, spent our savings on fertility drugs, maxed out credit cards on IUI (intra-uterine insemination) treatments, studied the Bible stories of Hannah longing for a child, and solicited the prayers of our church family to bless us with a child (or two). In August of 1996, we received the wonderful news that we were expecting twins. In October of 1997, we moved into a townhouse in Northeast Ohio. On moving day, I picked up the phone to order pizza for the friends helping us move. I felt nauseous at the thought of pepperoni and mushrooms. I rudely hung up the phone and chose another vendor for our supper. My disdain was the same as I struggled to order the sustenance for my moving crew, and I excused myself to the bathroom.

Surely the stress of the move with the infant twins was causing my monthly cycle to be irregular, but I still followed up with a generic pregnancy test. As the indicator turned distinctly pink, my husband and I were in shock. Surely, I had not conceived a child with my infertility issues while I was nursing twin girls.

After two (2) more confirming home pregnancy tests, we had to face the harsh reality that we were expecting our third child when our twins would turn one year old. Still paying off the medical bills from infertility specialists, the high-risk twin pregnancy, and the NICU bills, we fretted about everything from finances to the car we had just purchased that would not accommodate three car seats.

I was pregnant with our third child in two years’ time. Still not over the sleep deprivation of caring for newborn twin infants, I now faced morning sickness and fatigue of my second pregnancy.

The shock was overwhelming. The announcement of the second pregnancy also came as a shock to our family and friends. But, somehow, by God’s grace, we survived the pregnancy and prenatal preparation.

My third daughter arrived in May of 1998. I savored the quality time I had with my new daughter in my hospital room. It took us three days to name this newcomer. We settled on “Paloma Joelle.” Paloma is Spanish for “dove” or “bringer of peace.” Joelle is Hebrew for “the Lord is willing.” Our prayer was that the Lord would be willing to bring us peace with this third child so close in age to the twins.

It was my last night in the hospital with Paloma. During her 3:00 AM feeding, I was watching praise and worship videos on the television in my room. The nursery at home contained two perfectly matched cribs and had been adorned in Noah’s ark décor in a “two-by-two” theme for the twins. I began to imagine what it would be like to bring her home and be a mother of three girls under the age of two. I pondered how she would fit in to our family, and the thought came to me that she would be sharing a nursery decorated for twins in a Noah’s ark motif. What a shame that the nursery was so theme-based to welcome the twins. Would Paloma be the third wheel?

I visualized the nursery decor. As if in a movie, my thoughts zoomed in on each Noah’s ark sculpture and picture on the wall. In each instance, Noah held in his hand… a dove.

Paloma had been “in the picture” all along. God knew she was coming even when we didn’t. The Bible says, “Every good and perfect gift comes from above.”

Paloma Joelle was, indeed, a peace-bringer. She ate, slept and laughed.

No child is a “mistake.” A surprise perhaps, but never a mistake. Daily, I am thankful for my unexpected gift.

With every passing year, as her health declined, I found myself praying that she would make it to the next Thanksgiving meal, the next birthday, the next Christmas… The cancer could have taken her at any moment, but we celebrated every holiday like there were many more to come. Sometimes, in the back of my mind, I would ask myself if this would be the last…

No matter what the occasion, a deep sadness throbbed from within, plaguing my holiday thoughts with the threat of a correct medical prediction. She wasn’t supposed to be here, according to all of the doctors, but four years after her diagnosis, she was still going strong. Throughout the years, we were hit with death sentences of two weeks to two months, but she proved them all wrong. It was an emotional roller coaster that sometimes left us not knowing which way was up.

Since my mother-in-law was diagnosed with terminal cancer, I think we all needed something to grab a hold of in order to embrace impending challenges. Although pink was the designated color of breast cancer awareness, we first thought it stood for all cancers and used this color to show our support and love for the matriarch of my husband’s family, who was battling colon cancer. The color became our shield. We all wore pink ribbon pins on our jackets and pink rubber bracelets on our wrists. If we came across anything pink, we had to have it.

One particular Christmas was an event that I will never forget. The tree looked like an angel standing in the middle of the living room. It was a vision of white and gold. Under the tree, an explosion of cream and gold-wrapped presents sparkled. For the majority of my mother-in-law’s gifts, we decided to go with the color pink.

Propped up in a straight back chair in the middle of the living room, my mother-in-law looked exhausted, but she still forced a smile. With her grandson beaming beside her, she slowly unwrapped her gifts. With each offering, she lit up with anticipation. Pink robes, pink poodle socks, pink hats, pink pajamas, a pink beaded bracelet with pearls…

The exchange of gifts seemed neverending, but when the gift-giving session was finally over, the joyous moment soon passed and was replaced with reality. I don’t know if I was the only one thinking this, but at that time, I pondered whether or not this would be the last time the Christmas tree lights would shine in her presence. A silence set over the room and glancing at my mother-in-law, I detected a shade of disappointment on her face. Did we miss something? Should we have done more? What was she thinking at this precise moment? All of these questions raced in my head.

The following Christmas, the straight back chair was empty and the answers to my questions had become quite apparent. My mother-in-law taught me to appreciate each day, including the little things in life like just being able to get out of bed every morning. I feel she must have been thinking that her presents paled in comparison to the best gift of all… life.

I don’t remember smelling the scent of fresh-baked cookies when visiting my grandmother. I don’t remember most of the photos on display. I couldn’t tell you the color of her walls or the number of rooms she had, but one thing that always stuck in my mind was the parade of porcelain and glass elephants that she kept close to the front door of wherever she lived.

The elephants became a familiar and warm welcoming committee. They were the first thing I gravitated to after kissing my grandmother on the cheek and entering her domicile. This gentle beast was my grandmother’s favorite animal and she would tell me tidbits of information on all the gifts she had received throughout the years. As soon as I could afford to buy my own gifts for her, I searched for interesting elephant offerings.

The first was an Asian-sculpted elephant figurine in a sitting position. He reminded me of a jolly Buddha, only as a pachyderm. He earned a place among the original gatekeepers of her home. My grandmother put him in the palm of her hand and said, “Look at his trunk. A large trunk means he is strong.” Then, caressing the side of the figurine, she said, “It is good luck when the elephant’s trunk is pointed upward.”

When you give a photo or a gift to my grandmother and it is put on display, it’s like receiving an honor from the Queen of England. You have five children and four grandchildren vying for her attention and sometimes you feel a little left out. I’ve been lucky to see most of the gifts I have given my grandmother situated throughout her home. The living room is the highest honor bestowed upon your gift. If you are able to spy your gift on the fireplace mantle or the “elephant table,” you know you have done well. To me, elephant earrings, pins, T-shirts and necklaces come and go, but the gifts that provide daily reminders of your love are truly special.

There are two other gifts that my grandmother has placed within her living room. The first was an elephant light. There was no shade or visible light bulb attached; you plugged in the elephant and from the top of his back, a soft golden light emitted through a decorative tortoise shell covering. He was placed on top of a side table, next to one of her couches. The second gift was a scene of sculpted roaming elephants within a glass-covered mahogany framed box. It was small enough to hang on your wall, which is where it was placed, close to the fireplace mantle.

For the past couple of years, elephants became a common gift-giving theme for my grandmother until one day she administered a proclamation. “And no more elephants!” were her exact words, clear and straight-to-the-point. She said this with a smile and half-chuckle in order to soften the bluntness of her request. To this day, the parade of elephants has remained unchanged. As a family, we truly learned what it means to receive too much of a good thing.

It’s been seven years since the death of my sister. Yet, it feels in many ways like it was yesterday. Time has a peculiar way of sneaking up on us. Even today, one of the most difficult issues in dealing with her death is talking to others about it.

My experience was by no means the most difficult situation a person has had to deal with, but the circumstances of my loss have given me valuable insight into the grieving process.

It was May 7, 1999. I was out with college friends and my girlfriend celebrating my completion of my Bachelors degree. Commencement ceremonies were scheduled for the next morning. In the middle of our friends’ band’s set, my dad called my pager and left the numbers 911. I was suspended in a mixed feeling of confusion and urgency. I called him back and learned that my sister Heather had been in an automobile collision and was being flown by MedEvac to the University Medical Center in Fresno, CA. I turned to my girlfriend, Jessi and told her what my father had said. We rushed to her truck and told our friends we had to go.

Immediately, there was a very surreal feeling to the entire situation. I found myself talking to myself, reassuring myself that everything was going to be alright. Jessi kept ringing in my ears messages of “emergency” and “helicopter,” fading in and out as my senses scrambled to understand the seriousness of the matter. The basic message I got from Jessi was “grave danger.”

When we arrived at the hospital, my senses continued to decline. Shock set in. I ran into the entrance. I was informed I had to go through a metal detector, a rather simple procedure which I do quite regularly. This evening, the simple request pushed a button in me. I broke into tears and shouts informing the woman of my situation and how my sister was in there. Her logical mind informed me that if she was in there it was likely I couldn’t do anything to help her. She told me that Heather was in the best possible care. She continued to inform me that if I would just calm down and go through the metal detector I can get into the building.

Although I consider myself a logical person, this had no bearing. It took the stern, but gentle guidance of my girlfriend to take me towards the metal detectors, assist me in emptying my pockets, and walk me through to the other side.

Shortly after arriving in the general waiting area, the rest of my close family and friends arrived. We were then escorted through the hospital up to the Intensive Care Unit and to a waiting room. We were met by a lovely woman who was a volunteer with the organization known as TIP (Trauma Intervention Program). She immediately took us into her care. She informed us of the current status of my sister, and told us that she would communicate between our family and the hospital staff. Anything that she could provide for us she would, she assured us.

Unfortunately many of the details of this experience are a blur. The ones that remain played a tremendous role in assisting me through my entire grieving process.

First, I was surrounded by family and loved ones. My parents and grandparents were all there. This was by no mistake. They had traveled to be with me and my family for my graduation. My aunt was there. So was our good friend. While waiting in limbo for some understanding of what Heather’s condition was, we passed the time trying to comfort and encourage one another. We recalled stories together. We cried together. We prayed together. It was the most emotionally, physically, and spiritually exhausting experience of my life. I kept hanging on to the hope that she would pull through.

I wanted to believe that God would make her well again, that she’d come out of it okay. Despite the knowledge I had of the injuries she had sustained, I wanted her to remain with us.

After hours of tears, laughter, prayers, and even a little sleep, I was awoken by the TIP counselor. She told me that my parents wanted to talk to me out in the lobby. I was still groggy with prayers on my lips and sleep in my eyes. I just barely remember being taken out to my parents holding one another in the hall. They looked at me. My mother called me to her. With tears streaming down her face, she told me that they had decided to tell the doctors to stop. They had done all they could do for her. We had to let her go.

After that, tears. Yelling. No, this isn’t happening! I recall an “I hate you for this!” To whom that was directed exactly, your guess is as good as mine. They walked me towards the door of the operating room. My mom wanted me to have the opportunity to see her.

As difficult as that was, what I saw has forever transformed my life. I saw something that resembled my sister, but had nothing of her spirit. I saw an operating room, a table, medical staff exhausted and grief stricken. I don’t think I completely realized it at the time, but this gave me a type of closure, something very important for one who is grieving.

I still had many stages in the grieving process to experience, but for the moment at least, I was experiencing a level of acceptance. It was still so immediate and surreal that I don’t think I comprehended what was happening. I knew that I was extremely sad, and that I felt extremely robbed. I understood, however, that what I saw on that operating table was not my sister. There was no life there, and she was full of life. This made things easier, somehow, and I managed to get the strength to make it to my apartment to lie down for about an hour. I woke up, showered, and got dressed for my graduation. When people ask me how I managed to attend a graduation in the midst of such an emotional time of my life, my response is “how could I not?” My choices were clear. I could admit total defeat and quit, or I could do what I knew my sister would want me to do and graduate.

For me, more than anything else, understanding that Heather was a spirit has been the most helpful thing in finding peace. That spirit was what I had come to know and love. I even admired her. I still do. As often as possible, I let the spirit move me and do things that she and I would have done: midnight runs to Taco Bell, dancing in front of a video camera, or eating graham crackers with chocolate frosting. I say things that I could imagine her saying. I was fortunate enough to receive some of her possessions. These things are all important for allowing her spirit to live on.

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