Potty Training
Nov 10 '00 (Updated Apr 20 '01)
The Bottom Line Each person has their own way to cope with death. Sometimes you just have to stare it in the face. Here is a glimpse into my world.
"She was only 2 years old."
I dipped the paintbrush into the paint and carefully colored the bricks in the garden gate. I made sure that each brick was done just right to allow space for the concrete mortar.
"She was being potty trained."
I moved to the other column of the garden gate, once again applying the brick red color to the gate, being painstakingly careful to stay in the lines.
I dropped some brown onto the palette, mixing the paint in random motions, leaving red and brown swirls in a puddle.
I rinsed my sponge with water, wringing out the faded red droplets of water into the sink. I watched as they danced across the sink in syncopated rhythm before they slid down the drain. I rinsed the sponge again, watching again as the clear drops of water continued their performance until there were no more droplets left.
"She soiled her diaper."
I walked back to the garden in progress. I dipped the sponge in the now darker paint and began to dab random patterns across the brick surfaces, blending in the darker spots. Yes, the bricks were starting to look more real now.
I stood back and looked at my brick pillars. Nice. I could see them coming to life as I more carefully applied the tiny flecks of paint across their faces.
"Her step-father spanked her."
I moved to the other side, once again blending in the darker brick color.
"He spanked her again."
I reached for the Payne's Gray and dropped a few drops into my pond of paint. I swirled the paint with the brush until there was an intricate yet delicate marble effect with the red, brown and now dark gray.
"And again"
I took the sponge and applied the paint more sparingly on the bricks. I did not want to ruin the beauty of the bricks just as they were starting to gain a realistic look. I stood back, admiring the progress of the bricks.
"And again"
Now it was time for the dark shadows. I added more Payne's Gray and brown to the remaining puddle of paint until the ratio was approximately 50% dark and 50% lighter. Hmmm. I think I will add some glazing medium.
"until she crawled up into her bed."
This was a bit trickier. The perspective lines of the shadowed bricks were at odd angles. I had to make sure and leave room for the concrete mortar. This was really painstakingly difficult.
"and she died."
Now, I had to stay in the lines.
Now, I had to stay in the lines.
Must stay in the lines....
Got to stop from shaking.
Stay _ in _the __lines...
Stay
in
the
lines...
My body began to shake from deep inside like an earthquake. I could not stop the waves of tremors. My throat got so tight I could not breathe or speak.
My brush dropped to the palette spattering paint as it hit.
Tears welled up in my eyes until they gushed uncontrollably down my faces in cascades, leaving wet spots on the rug. I fell into convulsive sobs, unable to stop the haunting mental picture of what the radio announcer so casually spoke about as if he were reading a menu.
My God,how can I stop replaying this horror in my mind's eye?
Over and over I saw the innocent tiny child having the life beaten from her helpless little body, unable to defend herself. Crying in pain as she puzzled in her mind why this brutality was coming upon her. All because she did something completely natural and normal- defecated in her diaper.
I felt the depths of grief that I did not know was possible.
This past year or two I have experienced much grief. The death of loved ones and our family pet, every close friend our son has had moving away suddenly, loss of cars, family members that we will never see again, difficulties and struggles that threaten to strangle the life out of us, the death of the integrity of our country as even a candidate for its highest office attempts to cheat his way into the position-- and no one seems to care.....
What this child experienced, as horrific as it was, did not merit anything more than a flatly delivered casual announcement every half hour sandwiched between the weather and the sports reports. Sure, for a few days, many people will say "Did you hear about that little girl..?" conclude that is was so terrible and in a few days move on to something else.
How can we so blithely watch as death and evil rage across our nation - honored as regular forms of entertainment and far too often emulated in real life???
The pain of this at times is almost too much to bear. The grief overwhelms me at times to the point that I feel that I will burst from the weight of it.
How do I cope?
It is as this time, when others just shrug and go on with their mundane daily duties that I seek audience with the king. The only one I know that truly understands depths of grief that not even I will experience.
-the one that saw his son, an innocent man who loved children and bathed the weak and outcasts with love and compassion, beaten to the point that he did not even look like a human being. They pulled the hair from his head and face leaving nothing but a mangled mass of blood and flesh. They brutalized and mocked him and tore his back and limbs with shards of broken glass and stones until there was no strength in him left to stand, let alone walk. This was not for any crime- just because he was good. Too good. He stood for right and stood against what was wrong.
-the one whose son still bears the scars today, although he did not have to, just so he can continue to show love and compassion to the innocent and the suffering.
-the one whom many refuse to call by name, preferring their own names for him instead, not even giving him the individuality of being who he is, saying he is just another form of others they chose to group with him.
-the one that gets blamed for everything bad when he has done only good.
-the only one that is not allowed to be spoken of in government buildings or schools.
-the one who listens when all others turn away.
-the one who defeated death
-the one I call Father.
...And I crawl up into his lap. He holds me for as long as it takes while I cry and tell him about my pain. He speaks words of comfort to me that no one else can speak - because he knows. He has been there more often than you or I will ever know.
And then I go out and find people who need kindness. I find people who are in need and help them. I abandon my schedule and spend time listening to those who are hurting, helping if and when I can.
And I take every chance I get to give a hug or a smile to every little one. And now it will be in honor of the little girl who was spanked so hard that she crawled up into the lap of Jesus and died.
ADDENDUM: Death is a very personal thing. I realize that this is a section on "HOW" to deal with death, but we all come from different backgrounds, experiences and belief systems. I feel that it is in error for me to tell you HOW to deal with death. Instead, I can only tell you how I deal with death and respect your privacy and ability to make up your own mind in this area. It is for that reason that I have written my editorial as I have- about me and my coping experiences.
You are free to disagree with me, but if you are going to give this review a low rating, please have the decency to sign your name to it.
Thanks!
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Caprig
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Product-Evaluation/Information-Specialist. Too Busy to Be KIND to Others? You are TOO BUSY.
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