Mute

Writing hasn’t come easily over the last month, writing that has always been my way to document, to process, to remember and preserve. Its not that there aren’t words, feelings, experiences that have colored and complicated, befuddled and blessed our days. In fact, in the weeks since landing in Denver, we’ve seen so many dear faces, felt much love, and shared in extraordinarily beautiful moments with our newly expanded family.


Yet expression has been difficult. Part of it is time. Sitting down to write is not only a luxury of time but lately it has felt like an effort. Writing asks me to start to “process” those thoughts I have about our days in the past and present as well as hopes for the future. At this point in the game, it has been easier just to disassociate from all that, to disconnect. If I stay busy as a mom and wife while reintroducing myself as a sister, daughter and friend, then I don’t have to swim too deeply in my thoughts for long. I’ve kept emotions on the surface while drying tears, changing diapers, fixing snacks and falling into the steady monotony of routine that helps numb and distract.

“Relaxation and healing.” Everyone tells us this is what we should be doing. This is what we came home to do. Parents of small children may snicker along with us. It is harder to do than I ever imagined. There is no recipe, no formula, no checklist we can work through to get “all better soon.”

I’m learning to be a full-time mom. It is as messy as it is beautiful, and the hardest thing I’ve ever done. Give me a 36-hour hospital call any day! I’ve struggled with my identity, missing a clearly defined role in a job with clear objectives, outcomes and consistent feedback. I miss being a doctor, the balance it added to my life, the social interactions and the problems I had gotten comfortable solving. Motherhood is a constant flux of celebrations and self-defeat taking turns in the spotlight through the course of a day, an hour. I've had a million hypothesis's crushed, plans restructured, certainty unwound. But our children are forgiving. They are loving. They reach for us even when our patience has worn thin after too many sleepless nights. They make us laugh, they spark our joy. Solomon spins around and grooves to a song on the radio or Valancia lets loose a raspy giggle and immediately my intentions of taking myself too seriously are crushed.


I miss Haiti. Yet some of the things I miss there no longer exist which I still can't wrap my head around. What I long for is no longer. Our own space. The floor Solomon first walked on. The balcony with its view of the mountains that hosted many a family moment as we slowed down to catch a breeze. My clinic. My patients. Our students. The neighborhood grocery store. The guy who sold us juice on the corner. Gone. Changed. We long to go back, but have no idea what back is going to look like. And that alone leaves me disoriented.


Patrick and I are both experiencing emotional aftershocks of the earthquake. “Acute stress reaction,” is the medical label that tries to define current our experience. With time, though, the nightmares are less frequent, phantom aftershocks diminishing, painful memories replaced with those that we laugh about together. The healing doesn’t happen without intention, without the love and support of family and friends. So we exercise, we talk, we seek out confidants, we go to therapy.

I've hit all the "stages" of grief. In weeks following the earthquake denial often crept in unexpectedly as I found myself planning to return to a house that no longer stands, looking for something I can't retrieve--a shirt, a book, a photo-- or making plans to get back to work in a clinic that lies buried. Over the last month I've waffled between guilt, anger and depression. There have been moments where I question whether I'll find purpose, contentment or hope again. (Then a little face will cuddle into my neck, little fingers wrapping around my shoulder and I'm back) Guilt has a habit of contaminating moments of pleasure, a trip to the grocery store, a nice dinner out, feeling safe tucking into a bed under a roof. Guilt over our evacuation, our freedom of movement, our allotted "time to heal" and the luxury of our life of privilege when friends in Haiti live through a very different reality. Anger has been the hardest to tackle as it rides below the surface, causing overreaction, snappy tempers, impatience and frustration. Internally I fury over the seeming loss of control over our lives, at being forced from a way of life, jobs and plans made. I rage over upheaval, illness, the senseless loss suffered, helplessness, injustice. With time, though, I'm moving closer to acceptance.

THANK YOU for those who have watched my not-so-pretty, not-so-loving self come to terms with this change in our lives. I have put friendships to the test, relationships to work. I haven't been able to play my usual role in the lives of others do to the selfish needs I have in the moment. Because my emotions tend to lie naked, I have avoided much social interaction. With those that have met me in my most vulnerable moments, and still love me despite it all, I thank you. I am not used to being on the needing end of many relationships, but have found great healing and solace in the protected space of a friend who holds no judgement, no agenda, no burdening opinion.

After a month of taking ourselves off the radar, I’m happy to greet March. A new month. I can collectively chuck February into the month of adjustment, the month of wallowing, the month of learning how to swim again. I know its not that simple, that with the flipping of a calendar page I can’t effectively pull myself up by my bootstraps, stop my flailing, become stronger, better, organized and balanced. But I can start. Time, in truth, heals. As does rest.



For those who have watched the blog waiting for news, thanks for your patience. Thanks for your prayers for Haiti, for following the news, following blogs, praying, collecting, fund raising, considering your own reality in light of the lives of others. I’ve needed space to retreat into self and into the sanctity of our family. Its been harder than I expected to find our footing, but slowly we begin to make sense of our here and now. We learn to let go of control, a plan. We give way to grief and find strength with the acceptance and hope that emerges when the tears run dry.