Mia Sheridan's Blog, page 2

Where the Light Shines Through (Darcy)

This post is from Darcy’s blog, 9/2012

“He ripped it!” she yelled, holding her new shirt out to me, a look of horror on her face. Cade came running down the stairs, wailing even harder. I pressed my lips together, knowing that no matter the grievous act that Cade had just committed, I would have to comfort him more. I whispered a quick prayer for the thousandth time that his future wife will not be a woman well versed in the art of the guilt treatment. If so, that boy is toast.

After they both calmed down, I was able to hear the highlights of the story. He was trying to be funny . . . he put on her new, sheer, sparkly Justice top . . . did a few spastic break dancing moves . . . and proceeded to rip it straight down the seam on the right side. It was gaping open. An ugly polyester wound.

After a quick reminder to Lila about how even break dancing brothers deserve grace sometimes, I told them that I was pretty sure I could mend it.

Later, when the house was quiet, I lugged my sewing machine upstairs and got started. I had to re-thread since Lila’s shirt was mostly black and the thread that was in the machine was white, the thread I had used so very, very long ago, or so it seemed, to sew the crib sheets for Darcy’s nursery. I closed my eyes as a wave of pain washed over me.

Oh, sweet baby. Mama laughingly scolded you as I sewed those sheets, needing to be steady, and instead jolting at your strong kicks from within.

As I set up the sewing machine, my mind wandered to my most recent therapy session. It had been a five kleenex affair. Usually, I take one tissue at the start and use it throughout the hour to dab my eyes, but this one had required a bit more mopping up.

I told my doctor that I felt like I was doing well overall. I recalled that in the beginning of my grief, I had blankly wondered if I would ever be interested in anything again. Would I ever be interested in the plot of a television show, or in seeing a movie, or in picking out new paint colors? I can say now, that I can and I have. So it’s good to be able to look back and see a specific improvement. I can laugh with friends and enjoy a glass of wine and that’s a good thing. I can watch a movie and read a book. In fact, books tend to be my escape in almost an excessive way. I read one after the other, literally. Especially now that I have a Kindle and obtaining a new one, even at ten at night, is possible. “Books are my drug of choice.” I laughed.

The threading done, I lined up the shirt under the needle.

“The thing is,” I had continued, “I can go for so long without a real Darcy outlet and then it starts with me feeling really blue and before you know it, I’m having a complete, convulsing tear-fest on the elliptical machine. Big, wracking sobs that make Lila and Cade rush into the room and then quietly stand to the side, whispering to each other about how I’m basically losing my mind.” I paused. “I guess there’s just not as many opportunities to talk with people about her anymore and so it builds up to a point where it finally breaks me.”

“People don’t know how much time you still spend with her, do they?” she asked quietly.

I began sewing, the needle piercing the delicate fabric, even as it repaired.

“Some do,” I muttered, “but not everyone.” I paused and she waited. “It’s hard for me to spend time with the people who I feel didn’t acknowledge the loss with me in the beginning and I feel badly about that because I don’t know if it’s fair.” I recounted a story for her about some people I work with who knew my story but had never said a word to me about Darcy, despite the fact that I had spent time with them very shortly after we lost her. I still avoided them.

I fed the fabric very slowly through my fingers, careful that I wasn’t damaging it more than it already was.

“What I think you have to try to realize is that people are really, really bad with death,” she said. “They simply don’t know what to do and so they do nothing. But I would be willing to bet you anything, that that was almost the only thing on their minds when they spent time with you.”

My hands continued on their task, almost as if they had no need of my mind to guide them.

With my doctor’s gentle words, I recalled feeling a small part of my heart mend, finding forgiveness for that which had torn me.

“I know,” I had said quietly. “Yes, I guess I do know that. I remember that happening when my dad died. When I came back to work, people I thought were my good friends would see me coming down the hallway and turn and go in the other direction, rather than face me. I remember thinking how bizarre it was, but I guess people’s reactions then didn’t hurt as much as it hurts now with Darcy. It just . . . perplexed me then.”

“Why does it hurt so much more now?” she had asked quietly, looking into my eyes.

I had paused. “Well,” I started slowly, “I guess for the obvious reason that he was my dad and she was my child, but also . . .” I trailed off as the tears gathered and I tried to put words to my feelings. “No one could deny my father’s existence in this world whether they acknowledged him or not. He paid bills, impacted lives, had a child . . .” The tears were falling faster now. “But with Darcy, she was a baby, and so there’s no tangible proof of her existence other than the urn on my dresser and a few photographs. The only thing I have of her impact on the world are the emotions people feel for her and for us, and the words that are spoken about her.” I was crying openly now.

I bit my fingernail, recalling another painful memory. “Kevin and I went out to dinner the other night,” I said, “and toward the end of our meal, a woman walked in with a very small baby in a sling and sat down at a table directly in front of me. I had nowhere else to look, and even when I tried, my eyes kept turning back to that small bundle on her chest.” The tears were coming quickly now and my voice cracked. “Kevin had seen her too and he took my hand across the table and said, ‘Honey, you’re okay, this is your challenge. You’re ok.'” “But I don’t need a challenge,” I had choked out to my doctor, hiccuping and breathless with hurt. “Haven’t I had enough of a challenge?” I said, a small, hysterical sounding laugh bubbling up from my throat. “Don’t I deserve the understanding that I need to flee that situation? It just hurts too much! AND,” I continued, on a sputtering, hiccuping, roll now, “seeing other babies doesn’t hurt me because I want that baby. I want my baby. I want Darcy. Other babies are just a painful reminder of what I didn’t get! I see that on TV dramas sometimes, the crazed woman who lost her own baby, attacking some poor, pregnant woman and stealing her baby to raise as a replacement for the infant she lost—it’s a low blow to mothers everywhere who have lost a baby and completely inaccurate.” I put my head in my hands, giving in to the wracking sobs, the consuming pain.

I was almost at the end of the seam now and my foot slowed on the pedal, re-inforcing at the end in a steady, back, forth, back, forth with the needle so that after all my work, the thread wouldn’t unravel. It was strong now in the weakest spot.

“Kevin recognized your pain before you even had to utter a word though,” Dr. Fox said. “His hand and his words were his way of caring for you, of comforting you. He knew . . . he knew. Before you even told him.”

I stopped crying, letting my breath return to normal, and quietly considered what she said. She was right. When others see my pain without me having to broadcast it, it’s comforting in the most profound way. We all have pain. But somehow when other people see it and let us know they see US, the us right down to our broken places, it’s a kind of healing that we so desperately long for. I said a silent word of thanks to God for putting those people in my life. They are helping to mend my gaping heart wound.

I held up the shirt, inspecting my job. I noticed that although it was mended, and even perhaps stronger than before, for I had used care and strong thread, the needle had left tiny holes in the delicate fabric—nothing that anyone else would see, but there nonetheless. And those tiny holes, the places where the sharp needle had plunged, that’s where the light shone through.

I walked upstairs and kissed my four sleeping children on their peaceful heads. I walked to my bedroom and looked out the window up at the night sky. “Goodnight, Darcy Rose,” I whispered. In that moment, feeling peace.

A Valentine’s Day Love Letter to my Husband

Dear Kevin,

Almost fourteen years ago, I walked down a candlelit aisle toward you, carrying a bouquet of roses in my trembling hands and you gazed at me as if I was all you’d ever dreamed. We whispered forever, vowing for better or for worse, having no earthly idea of what that really meant. We have some idea now, don’t we love? Then, we only knew thumping hearts, and dreams spoken between breathless sighs in a world where happy endings always came true.

I had no way to know that sometimes marriage means dancing under the moonlight on a private balcony on a honeymoon in Paris. And sometimes, sometimes marriage means waking to your husband swaying in the corner, your lifeless baby in his arms, as he quietly sings her the ABCs because it’s the only “lullaby” he knows. Sometimes marriage means both of your hearts silently breaking in a dim hospital room.

And you, my love, you had no way to know that sometimes marriage means strawberry waffles and laughter on a Sunday morning. And sometimes marriage means a wife who slams doors and collapses in tears, and screams at you out of pain and grief and then hopes you’ll find it in your heart to comfort her anyway.

You’ve always found it in your heart.

We had no way of knowing, did we?

We had no way of knowing about the fights and the silence, the turning away and the bitterness. We had no way of knowing the fathomless depths to which love can go, the private jokes that are only ours, the familiar hand that grasps in the darkness, and the way our mattress dips where we meet in the middle.

We’ve met in the middle again and again, haven’t we?

And that’s really what marriage has to become. For true love isn’t about candlelight and roses. God, I wish it was. True love is always at least a little bit about sacrifice, about forgiveness, about turning back when you’ve turned away. We had no way of knowing.

We had no way of knowing about the five babies who would come as I gripped the hospital sheets and screamed through the pain, and your eyes widened and you fed me ice chips like you were the CEO of Ice Chip Feeding—the five babies who would once again change everything, each in their own unique way.

Sometimes I think back to the things I first noticed about you. The way you boyishly glanced at me and looked away, and glanced back at me again. The way your full lips parted over those perfectly straight teeth. The way your dark hair fell over your forehead and the way you brushed it away. The way you looked at me as if I was the only girl on earth.

You say you saw me first, and yet, I swear it was me. I saw you walking toward my friend and I and noticed in a glance how handsome you were. I braced myself because I thought my friend was prettier than me, better hair, better everything and I just knew you’d approach her first. Why wouldn’t you? But when you walked up to us, you looked straight at me and never looked away.

Just as you’ve never looked away since.

I told you once about the boy I dated before you, the one who told me I wasn’t the prettiest girl in the room. “I think he was joking . . . I guess . . .” I’d let the words fade away as I offered an uncomfortable laugh and shrugged my shoulders. But you  must have seen the hurt on my face because you lifted my chin and looked right into my eyes and said, “He was wrong.” I wanted to look away, but I didn’t because I saw your whole heart right in your expression and I swear to you, it healed me more than a thousand therapy sessions ever could.

Sometimes marriage is about not letting the other person look away.

How is it that I deserve you? How is it that you still look at me the same way you first did? I’ve never quite figured that out.

And I wonder . . .

Did we really love each other then? Did we know each other then? Do we ever really know the one we fall in love with? Do we ever really know how they’ll handle piled laundry and the baby screaming in the wee hours of the morning as we’ve finally drifted off to sleep? Do we ever really know how they’ll deal with lost jobs and lost dreams and lost keys on a Monday morning when it’s raining outside?

I like to think I had an idea. I like to think I saw something in your eyes that told me you’d grit your teeth and stay, a glimpse of the man you’d become. I like to think it was more than that I just got wildly lucky.

But I’ll always consider myself wildly lucky anyway.

I want to thank you for looking past the ring of soap scum in the shower, and the burnt dinners, and the way I put emptying the dishwasher in front of spending a few minutes in the crook of your neck sometimes.

I want to thank you for the way you wore the same clothes for years and years because you wanted to spend any extra money we had on me and the kids. I want to thank you for driving a totally uncool mini-van, and shoveling snow, and scraping eggs out of the dirty pan I left in the sink . . . two days before. I want to thank you for knowing how to say sorry in a way that lets me know you love me more than your own pride. And I want to thank you for graciously accepting the apologies I owe you, and never, ever making me feel small.

I want to thank you for being proud of me, for making me feel like you see every part of who I am and love me anyway. I want to thank you for being so much more than I ever dreamed and I want to thank you for making me feel so deeply, deeply loved.

And I want to thank you for always leaning close whenever we go out—no matter who we’re with, and even after all this time, all these years—and whispering in my ear, “You’re the prettiest girl in the room.”

I love you to the very edges of my heart. Your wife

Blindsided (Darcy)

When you lose someone you love, you are prepared for certain things to be difficult. It doesn’t make it less difficult because you expect the pain, but at least you are prepared. Being blindsided is always worse. And yet, you know you can’t avoid being blindsided either. You don’t know when, where or how obviously but when you are a walking bruise, you know that it will come. You just hope that those occasions become less and less frequent as you begin to heal, that those who love you will protect you from those situations to the extent that they can, and that when they do come, you are able to breathe through them.

Sometimes you’re blindsided by something happening that is unexpected, or someone’s insensitivity, but you can also be blindsided by someone’s kindness. It is emotional either way, but the latter can be transforming.

Shortly after we lost Darcy, I hobbled out of the house with Kevin, for a short trip up to Meijer. As we were headed towards the checkout lane, a woman who works there who knows us and we had chatted with often throughout my pregnancy, spotted us and hurried over to us saying, “How in the world did you get out of the house without the baby??” Blindsided. Of course, our faces fell instantly and she stopped in her tracks, midway through another sentence. Kevin told her the news and she looked so absolutely devastated that I almost wanted to comfort her. Kevin talked to her for a few minutes and we left.

A couple of days ago, I was in her checkout lane with Lila and when I said Lila’s name, she said, “Oh, that’s such a pretty name.”

“Thank you,” I said, sliding my card through the credit card machine. Recalling her sadness at the news about Darcy and not remembering if we had ever told her her name, I continued quietly, “Our other daughter’s name was Darcy Rose.”

As I signed my name, she said, almost shyly, “Oh, I know that, honey. I’ll never forget her name.” My eyes flew up to hers, and I sucked in a breath. Blindsided. I stood there thinking about how embarrassing it would be to burst into tears at the checkout lane at Meijer.

I burst into tears at the checkout lane at Meijer.

Her eyes welled up, too, and we both laughed a little through our tears. I thanked her for telling me that, hoping I was conveying how much those five words meant to me. I’ll never forget her name.

I left the store feeling like someone I barely knew had handed me a small, unexpected gift. Nothing wrapped in paper, or tied with a bow, but a gift nonetheless. I was blindsided by kindness.

Lila wanted to know why I was crying with a Meijer employee (what? like that’s strange?) and so I talked to her about it on the way home. “Oh!” she said, “My teacher says that’s called, ‘filling up someone’s bucket!’ You can fill someone’s bucket up with good things, or empty their bucket by being mean, or hurting them.”

“Yes, that’s a good way of putting it,” I said, smiling.

I told Lila about the story I spoke of in my last post. The sad end to my over-before-it-really-started pageant career where another little girl told me I wasn’t pretty enough to compete in her pretend pageant. It’s the reason I cringe at previews of “Toddlers and Tiaras,” I mean, among many other reasons, one being that those little babies wear false teeth and get spray tanned.

But I digress.

At the conclusion of my story, Lila looked stunned and burst into tears. “That’s so MEAN!” she wailed. “I think you’re beautiful!” Oh Lila. My sensitive baby. If only you had been there with me. But I guess you were. A tiny part of you anyway.

“Lila,” I said, “that was a sad story. But you know, maybe if we heard their story, it would be sad too. Maybe no one had ever filled their bucket up and so they didn’t know it was wrong to do that to other girls.” Then I told her another story.

When I was in seventh grade, I decided to run for school council. It was a dumb move really, I hate public speaking, didn’t have all that much school spirit, and I had an unfortunate Sun-In thing going on. I’m pretty sure my two big reasons for running were that I thought it might elevate my social status and there was a position available that no one else was running against. I couldn’t lose. Only, at the last minute a boy in my class decided to run against me, a really popular, funny kid. Basically, I was screwed.

I stayed up late the night before the election, practicing as much as possible for the portion where the student body got to ask questions of the candidates. I may have thrown up a couple times. I can’t really remember. Anyway, the next day I was a nervous wreck as all of us candidates sat up on stage in front of the entire school. I managed to make it through the first couple of questions, but about halfway through, my opponent started getting funnier . . . and funnier. The more the audience laughed, the sicker I got. I was SO going down. Publicly.

But then something happened.

As my opponent answered a question like he was some kind of young Bill Clinton, the girl next to me running for a different position, a girl I only knew to be in the grade ahead of mine, grabbed my hand and held it. She leaned over and whispered, “You’re doing really well. And I love your sweater.”

It sounds like such a simple act of grace, giving a little bit of courage to the girl who was sitting next to her with visibly shaking hands. But in that moment, her kindness, it saved me. I held on to her hand, took a deep breath, and made it through. I don’t think I ever thanked her and I wish so much that I had. But I will remember that moment for the rest of my life.

Kindness matters. Not just like, it kind of matters, like a little bit. Kindness can be life changing. Kindness can literally stop you in your tracks and change your story. Kindness can blindside you. Kindness can save you. So me and Lila made a pact together. “Even when you’re hurting, you should still be kind,” she said, smiling.

“Yes,” I agreed. “Even when you’re tired.”

“Even when you’re sick!” she said.

“Even when you’re mad or . . . really hungry.” I grinned.

Because you never know when you are about to change someone’s life.

(On a side note, I ended up winning that election, which only goes to prove that there is no justice in middle school.)

The Sweetest Song (Darcy)

*Note: Some of you know that almost three years ago, I lost my full-term daughter Darcy Rose to a cord accident. She was born sleeping and we held her in our arms for two days before doing the most difficult thing we’ve ever done—saying goodbye to the little girl we loved fiercely, but had never known. She was perfect and beautiful and I suffered desperately at her loss. I wrote a blog for a year, documenting my journey through the grief, and it was really the beginning of my writing career. Several people who had read what I wrote encouraged me to write a book and though I wasn’t ready to share my posts publicly, I decided to try my hand at romantic fiction which I was reading a lot of at the time (see below). Last week, I got a notice from WordPress telling me that my blog site will be expiring soon. I began the work of gathering the years worth of posts and as I was doing so, I stopped and thought, “I’m ready. I’m ready to put some of the uglier posts out there. For better or for worse. This is where I was . . . then.” If you choose to read, please know that 1.) I’m in a better place now and 2.) The posts are real and sometimes dark—I didn’t edit them because I think to do so would be doing the journey I fought so hard through a disservice.

These posts are my thorn, and my song. We each have our own, don’t we? Maybe you’ve felt this way, too, because of something that happened on your own journey that scarred you. Or maybe you’ve experienced something similar. Either way, I hope that you get something out of these posts. I’ll be sure to put (Darcy) in the subtitle. They won’t necessarily be in any particular order. I actually chose this one for tonight because I was talking to an author friend recently who said that some readers made her feel badly because her latest book wasn’t the dark read she normally delivers—it was something more light and fun. To her I say, don’t ever apologize for what you’re called to write. You may be saving someone’s life.

Post from December, 2012

Many, many years ago, I read The Thorn Birds. I’ve always remembered this legend from the front of the book and recently, it’s been coming back to me for some reason. It goes like this: There is a story, an old Celtic legend, about a bird that sings just once in its life. From the moment it is old enough to leave its nest, it searches for a thorn tree, and never rests until it’s found one. And then it sings, more sweetly and more beautifully than any other creature on the face of the earth. And singing, it impales itself on the longest, sharpest thorn. But, as it dies, it rises above its own agony, to out-sing the lark and the nightingale. This bird pays its life for just one song, but the whole world stills to listen, and it is said that God in His heaven smiles. For the best and the most beautiful is accomplished at the cost of the greatest pain. Or so says the legend.

I hung twelve angel ornaments on my tree this month. They were given to me in honor of Darcy by friends and family who wanted to let me know that they were thinking of her, and knew that we were missing her extra hard at Christmas time. I hung each one lovingly, smiling in the knowledge that so many were remembering her in love. But late at night after the kids were in bed, I came downstairs to turn off the tree, and as I was once again looking at the beautiful ornaments, I felt a rage creep over me and I wanted to gather up those ornaments and hurl them at the wall until each and every one had shattered into a hundred shards of my broken heart. Then I wanted to kneel in the shards with my bare skin and let them slice, to feel the relief of the pain bleeding right out of me. I stood next to my Christmas tree in the dim light of the fireglow and the twinkle lights, fantasizing this scenario and fisting my hands at my sides to keep myself from going through with it.

But I’m good at going numb these days and so I pulled that veil over myself and turned off the tree. There are a hundred ways to shut down and I’ve become a practiced hand.

So how was your Christmas?

See what I mean?

I checked to make sure the back door was locked and looked out at the muddy December backyard. Please God, make it snow tomorrow. Sparkling layers of beauty to cover up all the ugliness. A cold, numbing blanket of white.

But being able to numb the pain, is that getting better? Or is that getting worse?

I used to read anything and everything. I had books piled on every surface in my bedroom. One year when Jack was about one, Kevin came out of our closet laughing and saying that he was sure he had the only wife who gave clothes and shoes away to make more room for books on the shelves. I love stories. I love that there are 7 billion people on Earth and no two stories are exactly the same, no two people respond to similar events in just the same way. I’m just me but when I’m reading, I can be anyone. I can be someone who isn’t in constant pain.

Only now, I can’t read just any story. I can’t take on other people’s emotions, I just can’t do it. It rips the scab off my own pain and I won’t allow that, not when it’s something I can control. So I’ve become consumed with the steamy romantic beach read like it’s my job. I can’t stop reading, but I only feel safe in this genre. Not that there’s anything wrong with a sweet, simple story, but in my case, I read them because they’re numbing. And I read one after the other, after the other. It’s easy to get lost in places where the worst thing that ever happens is a temporary break up.

Some people might call them mind candy, but right now, they’re saving my life.

This week I finally finished my thank you cards from all the beautiful things people gave to us when we lost Darcy. It took me a ridiculous amount of time, but it was slow going for me because each time I wrote one, I had to reach back in my mind to receiving the gift and it’s been an effort to do that, especially in recent months when I’ve become practiced at shutting out the raw ache of those early days.

I put the cards in a large stack and tied them together with a ribbon, but I didn’t put them in her blue bin, still sitting up in Tyler’s room, what would have been her nursery. They are still sitting on my dining room buffet. See, they are the last piece of her and once I pack them away in her blue bin, it will only make sense that I put her bin in the basement storage area. And I’m just not ready. I’m not ready to pack the physical proof of her existence away, like something to forget about.

Yesterday, I saw a preview for a movie coming out in March, 2013 and my heart started beating wildly. March? March, already? March will be one month before what would have been Darcy’s first birthday. And I thought to myself, That will be my time limit. That will be when it will be expected that my grief is over. What if it’s not? What do I do? No one will let me talk about her anymore and she’ll be truly gone. I’ll have to let go of her again. I don’t know why I thought this, I don’t exactly think it’s true. But that’s what my mind latched on to and pulled my heart right along with it.

I started to pull down the veil and let the numbness wash over me, but I suddenly thought about that bird, the one who sings the sweetest in its greatest agony, the one who makes God smile in His heaven, and just for that moment, I gave in to the tears. I let the longing surface and I just sat and missed her. And I let it hurt.

And I wondered. Darcy, is she my thorn? Or is she my song? Or is she both?

I don’t know what beauty can come from this. I don’t know what answers there will ever be when all the questions boil down to one . . . why? But I do know that sometimes suffering is beyond our knowing, and that what’s most important is that you don’t stop singing. I’m trying so hard not to stop singing.

Welcome!!

Happy holidays, and welcome to my blog. More to come!!!

The Exposed Anthology is LIVE!

I’m so thrilled to be a part of the Exposed Anthology, which includes Stinger and NINE other full-length novels for only 99¢! This anthology is only available for a limited time, so pick up your copy now at Amazon or Barnes & Noble!

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Archer’s Voice Playlist

I’ll identify where each song goes within the story after publication on January 28th.

Signed Paperbacks!

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Leo Update

Hi friends,

I just wanted to let you all know that if you got an email stating that there is an updated version of Leo, it’s only because there were some grammatical errors – and a few inconsistencies – that have bugged me since I released it (and which, have been pointed out several times). I’ve wished more times than I can tell you, that I could suck those versions back through your devices and replace them with a cleaner version! If only I had been more knowledgable about commas, dialogue tags, ending on prepositions, and dangling participles! When we know better, we do better, right? (Not to mention the fact, that I truly didn’t think anyone was even likely to read my little book! ).

In any case, the story itself remains completely unaltered, but hopefully most of the other stuff has been caught and corrected. Thanks for your continued support and for reading! I truly appreciate each and every one of you.

xx! Mia

STINGER IS LIVE!

Stinger has been released a week early and is now live on Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Smashwords, and Kobo.

xx! Mia