I think if one of my friends was ever asked , “What’s Tatum like?” they would say I’m a confident woman that’s comfortable with her early success as an artist. That I’m happy with my life, shy at times, but kind and giving and that I seem happy with my life, boyfriend and my home. I think they would say I’m a hard worker, smart, and that I’ve worked hard to be where I am, that I earned it. I’ve made sure to be that woman at least, because those things matter, but those attributes also help hide the truth that I prefer to keep private.
Closing my eyes, I let go. I imagine pouring water over the top of my head; it falls down my face in rivers, slides down my neck and drips down my body. As it falls, it erases the paint of deception that the truth hides behind. This time, when I open my eyes and look in the mirror, it’s there. I can see it now. The brokenness. The sorrow. The grief.
I’m a broken mirror – one that dropped and shattered into pieces. Over the years I’ve begun the painstakingly slow process of gluing myself back together, but the triumphs haven’t come without blood dripping splinters and slices. Therapy has helped; eventually I was able to move forward easier, I found the beauty in things again. My faith, my hopes, my dreams, they were all things that I was able to rediscover and helped put the pieces in place once more. But, as is the way with putting something broken back together, the pieces never quite fit the same way again. Some of the pieces that went together so perfectly at one time, no longer have a place – some are forever broken, others are missing.
No one would guess that my pain was once so deep and vast that getting out of bed, participating in the most mundane activities and simply surviving took an incredible amount of strength, thought, motivation and work. I still feel that pain at times, still wish my life had gone a different direction, find myself dreaming about what could have been, but I long since learned that those kinds of thoughts get me nowhere. That those pieces, they just fit differently now and that I have to be okay with that. I’m not the same person I used to be. Dreams change. Wishes change. I’ve worked hard to move past those times. To no longer be a shadow of myself but to somehow stand in the light again. And some times… some times I feel like I’m close - so close. But, I’m not where I would like to be - not yet. I can still see those broken pieces far too easily when I let down my guard, when I speak honesty to myself and allow my true self to briefly emerge. Maybe I’ve just not adjusted to this new me. Maybe the broken pieces are just a part of my new self. Perhaps it will always be this way, but I’d like to think that someday, somehow, in some way, I’ll only have a crack left, no more pieces. And when I look, I will see a me that is complete – whole, unfractured.
Except for days like today. Days like today, there’s no hope of that.
Disrobing, I wait for the water to warm and then step into the shower. Closing my eyes at the feel of the warmth against my skin, I slide down the side of the shower wall and sit on the floor. Placing my head in my hands, I finally allow my thoughts to go where they really want. Taking a deep breath to prepare myself, as I exhale, I open the little box I keep locked up tight, and I let myself remember.
I remember the surprise, nervousness and excitement of finding out that I was pregnant. I remember that while I was afraid of the changes to my life that a baby would incur, that the words from the doctor’s mouth still made me feel awe at the miracle of creating life. I let myself remember the anticipation I felt at meeting the small person inside of me. I allow myself to recall the look on Cole’s face when I told him about our creation. I can still see the look on his face when he saw our baby for the first time on the monitor during an ultrasound, heard her heartbeat for the first time, and when we found out we were having a girl. I remember the surprised wonder on his face when he felt her move for the first time. Tears mix with water and run down my face as I recall the whispered dreams for our child we shared in each other’s arms at night. How we imagined how she would look and how we laughed and vetoed various baby name suggestions, never quite finding the perfect name until… until after she was here.
Running my hands through my hair, I rest my head on my knees as memories of the night I lost my child go through my mind. How frightened I was knowing something was wrong and feeling helpless to be able to do anything about it. My refusal to believe the worst. My scream when they told me the baby I had just felt moving hours before, no longer stirred with life. The agony of having to go through the motions of child birth knowing that in the end there wouldn’t be happy tears and celebration. My heart tears in two and the sobs come as I remember finally holding her in my arms. She was so tiny, yet still absolute perfection. Counting her ten fingers and ten toes, touching the tiny wisps of hair on her head, running my finger over her tiny cheek. Kissing the tip of her nose that looked just like mine. Wishing with all of my heart that I could see what her eyes looked like as they stared into my own. Seeing a whole lifetime of wishes and dreams that I had for my child flash before my eyes in an instant. My initial refusal to let her go until Cole put his hands on my own and looked into my eyes, his pain reflecting my own. Holding his arms out, he took her from me and held her too. I watched riveted as his eyes devoured our baby girl and tears fell down his face.
Rubbing my hands hard over my face, I do my best to push past those memories and think of the ones that make me smile. I imagine what she would look like now, today, on what would have been her fifth birthday.
Her hair is dark like mine, and her eyes are dark like Cole’s. Her smile would light up a room and people would turn to look or smile if they heard her laugh ring out amongst them. She’d be incredibly bright and inquisitive asking “why” for everything, I’m sure. She would make me laugh, make it hard to be stern with her, and she would have a sensitive and kind heart. She would be the light of my life – she wouldn’t be an imagined painting. She’d be real – flesh and blood. I could hold her, kiss her, tell her how much I love her every single day.
Somehow I find comfort knowing that my little girl is in heaven, with a full heart knowing how much she’s loved. I used to want to do anything to be there with her, but I finally found honor and purpose in living for her instead. It took me a long time to get to that point - to heal. I still have difficult moments, but they don’t take me to the edge of despair like they used to. Feeling pain and recalling the desire I once had to give into it no longer makes me think myself weak. Through my pain I found within myself true strength, courage, and determination at continuing to take steps forward.
Rising to my feet, I take a big breath, and choose to move forward now. Grabbing the shampoo, I pour a handful and while washing my hair my thoughts eventually turn to seeing Cole last night. I couldn’t wrap my mind around why Cole would want a painting of Hope. I don’t know why it appeared to matter so much to him. It isn’t that I don’t think he mourned the loss of our daughter, I know he did in his own way. I clearly remember the sadness and despair in his eyes, but I also remember he found his way through our loss much quicker than I did. He would seem exasperated when I held onto my grief longer than he would like, than he was comfortable with. I can easily recall the way his jaw would clench and his fists would tighten when he’d find me in bed hours after he had left me there in the morning. There were many times I saw him run his hands through his hair in exasperation, his words begging me to get up, to go for a walk, to go to work, to make myself something to eat…anything. I know now through therapy that I had a nasty case of post partum depression, something I, nor Cole, realized. It didn’t even occur to me that I could suffer from it considering I didn’t have a baby in my arms to prove I deserved the diagnosis. Still, in my mind it seemed like I cared about our loss a whole hell lot more than Cole. Over the years, considering how we left things, I determined it was simply that he was able to let go and move on faster and easier than I. Maybe it was because he didn’t have her inside of him, didn’t feel her move as often, didn’t feel as if his life had been blended with hers yet. I don’t know. I really don’t. While I’m i
n a better place now certainly, the child I lost will forever be a part of me. There isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t think of her in some way. She’s a piece of me, one of the best parts, and while she my not be here, I’m still her mother. I am still a mother.
Then, as if things aren’t complicated enough, I also feel guilty for my self righteous feelings toward Cole. Who the hell am I to decide what Cole has a right to feel and not feel, and moreover when or how or with whom he feels it? The fact is, I don’t know how he feels about Hope, or what he thinks about when he looks back on that time. I do know that clearly my paintings affected him. I know that when he looked at me last night, I could see and feel his regret, his sorrow. I also know that when I saw him, something within me shifted – I don’t know why, or how, or what it means, but I wanted, no needed, to talk to him, to hear how he is, and to see for myself that he’s doing well.
I let my emotions get the best of me perhaps and I feel a little guilty that I took off the way that I did. It isn’t how I would have preferred to say goodbye to him, but it’s for the best I think. What else do we have to say to each other? What good will it do to rehash anything? He made his choice long ago.
Stepping out of the shower I make quick work of getting myself ready. It isn’t long before I’m out the door of my hotel and on my way. After a quick stop, I pull into a parking lot looking for a spot, my emotions feeling on the edge once more. When I get out of the rental car, I look up taking in the cloudy day. Overcast days are commodities in Arizona, there aren’t always many. It seems as if the weather is just for me, mimicking my mood today.
After a short walk, I find myself looking down at the grave of my daughter. I choke on a sob and sink to my knees, my fingers immediately tracing the letters of her name. I haven’t visited her grave in the five years she’s been here. When I had the chance to move to Chicago, I almost didn’t go, the thought of leaving Hope here was too much to bear. In the end, moving to Chicago seemed the least painful choice.
“Hi, baby girl,” I whisper without meaning to and clear my throat. “It’s your mommy.” Running my hand over the top of her gravestone and around the base, I am surprised when there isn’t debris to clear. The site appears well cared for, and I’m grateful for that. “I’m so, so, sorry that it’s taken me so long to visit you. I hope you can forgive me.” A couple tears escape despite my best effort to keep them at bay. It can’t be helped I don’t think. My heart feels like it’s shriveling up in my chest and dying.
“I brought you some flowers. I stood in the store forever trying to decide what kind I should bring to you. It’s hard you see, because I never got the chance to find out what your favorite color would be, or what your favorite flower would have been.” I shake my head and another tear rolls down my cheek. “Such a simple choice for some people, completely overwhelming for me. I didn’t want to choose wrong.” I laugh without humor and wipe at my face. “So, you know what I did? I closed my eyes. I closed my eyes and I thought of you. I imagined what you would look like today. In my imagination you had on a pink dress and your dark hair is in pigtails, and in your arms, more flowers than you could hold. I could see the look on your face, baby, I could! I saw delight in your dark eyes at the bright color and the delightful smell. You looked up at me with a big smile, holding them out to me and when I looked down, they were yellow roses. I’m not sure why, but that’s why I chose them. I hope it’s okay.” I place the flowers at the base of her grave, startled at the shock of color it presents against the dull gray of her stone and the drab green of Arizona’s version of grass.
“I live in Chicago now. I received a scholarship out of the blue to an art school and decided to go. I didn’t want to leave you, please know that, but I needed something…anything to help me put one foot in front to the other again, because losing you made living without you hard. It wasn’t easy, believe me. But…but I hope that if you can look down on me, I hope that I’ve made you proud. That I’m the kind of mom that you would have loved to have.” I continue my one-sided conversation, telling Hope all about my art, my paintings of her, and about my art show. I have no idea how long I talk to her, but I know that time passes considering the sun that was at my back before is now directly overhead. I could care less about how long I’ve been here though. Sitting here speaking to her feels comforting, something within me clicking into place, a need I didn’t even know I had soothing my soul.
“You know, it occurs to me that I’ve never told you I’m sorry,” I tell her, my voice breaking on the words. “I am, Hope. I am so, so sorry that I lost you. I’ve gone over and over it. I don’t know what I did. I don’t know why it happened. I’m not even sure what I could or should have done differently. All I know is that my body failed you, failed me. My therapist and doctor’s have told me that this wasn’t anything that I could control. They said that sometimes these things happen without rhyme or reason, or because something was wrong with the pregnancy in general. But, I know it’s my fault. And believe me when I tell you that I live with that every single day. If I could go back and do it over and I don’t know…stay in bed the whole time or something, I would in a moment. A second. I would give anything, anything at all to make the outcome different.” The tears come heavy now, words I never intended to speak out loud streaming from my mouth as if saying them will deliver me from the shame I feel inside. “It’s important to me that you know that I wanted you, more than anything. And that I love you. So much.”
“And Hope, your daddy loved you too,” I say fiercely, confident my words are more for me than for her. “We would have made great parents, I know it. If only we had been given the chance.” I don’t know why, but I begin speaking to her about my feelings about Cole. “I’m so mad at your dad sometimes. Other times I’m just…sad. I hate that discarding me and getting over this was easy for him. That he was able to move on with little regard for anything but himself. Must have been nice I guess.” Sighing heavily, I pick a piece of grass and twirl it in my fingers, looking off into the sky. “I know we all deal with things in different ways, it’s just that seeing him again has stirred up some emotions for me I suppose. It’s hard when you realize someone you loved so much isn’t who you thought he was.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Cole’s voice says angrily behind me making me cry out and stand up, turning to face him and when I do, I immediately take a step back and gasp at the look on his face.
When I woke up this morning, the first thing I did was get ready to visit Hope. I almost said something to Tatum when I saw her last night, had the crazy notion that maybe we could go together, but she left before I had the chance to bring it up. Upon arriving a few minutes ago, I saw her as soon as Hope’s grave came into view. Seeing her sitting at our daughter’s grave made my chest hurt and my eyes burn, and my memory flies back to the day we buried her, no service or anything, just us and close friends. I remember her head bowed, tears flowing down her cheeks, and how I had to practically carry her from the cemetery.
At first I try to give her space, I do, but the lure of her is too strong and before I realize what I’m doing, I find myself standing at her back. Listening as she apologizes to Hope almost brings me to my knees. She’s so wrapped up in her words, she never hears me approach.
When she tells our daughter how much I love her, I smile sadly wishing I could tell her that myself – in person. When her words turn to anger, I can’t believe what I’m hearing at first. On a rational level, I get that she’s venting, and definitely isn’t expecting me to overhear, but to know what she thinks and hear her suggest that anything about this has been easy for me, sets my blood on fire. She has no idea. No idea what I go through every day – for her. Where does she get the right to assume anything about me? It’s more than I can take, and I can no longer remain silent, letting my anger be voiced. She spins around in surprise and one look at my face makes her eyes widen in surprise at being caught.
“Easy for me? How can you think that anything about this has
been easy for me? Who the hell do you think you are?” I turn away from her and try to gather myself.
“I think I’m hitting the metaphorical bulls eye with that statement, that’s what the hell I think.” She says and I turn back around to find her surprised look replaced with fierce ire. “How can you expect that I would think anything else? Do you even remember that time, Cole? Because I remember; I remember it well.”
“So, do I, Tatum,” I say her name as harshly as she said mine, as if doing so gives the statement harsher emphasis. “I remember it all too. It’s not as if I could forget. God, I remember how much it hurt,” I choke out, running my hand through my hair and looking to the sky as if comfort can be found there. “It was like someone took my insides and twisted them around and around. It took months and months for me to unwind it all, little by little.”
She laughs and my eyes snap back to her in disbelief. But she does it again. She fucking laughs and it takes everything I have to remain calm. I’d give anything to be at a gym or in a fight right now. I want to pound my fists against a sandbag in order to get this feeling out of me. “Oh my God,” she clutches her stomach as if I’ve made the funniest joke she’s ever heard. “That’s rich. You were broken? You were hurt? You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Fighting Pride Page 6
