Dumas 4: PULLING UP PANSIES

Dumas 4

Before we are moms, we are women. Before we are women, we are girls. Before we are girls we are children. Few things have stayed constant in my life through all of these stages. My family, my faith and the desire to be a mother. I loved baby dolls as a child. I would enter a world where I was in control of those around me and they had to do what I told them. I foolishly thought that would happen when I became a mother. When I was a girl, I decided I would have 3 children. Two girls and a boy, just as my mother had. I foolishly thought that I got to decide these things when I became a mother. When I became a woman, I decided I would also have a wonderful career alongside these 3 perfect children. I foolishly thought I could do it all. As I lay here in bed recovering from a very simple surgery that had lasting effects on my ability to have more children, there is a photo in my direct line of sight. Its a black and white photo that I cherish. It is from a vacation we took before Emma was even 1 year old. We went to Colorado for a week in the summer to escape the heat of Texas, and the busyness of life. On our way home we stopped in Dumas, TX for a picture. There are not that many people who have the honor of having a last name like Dumas. It is often mispronounced, I'm sure my husband was teased terribly as a child, and I'm certain my daughters will hate it when they hit the 'tween years. But I married into this name. It came with the man I love so I like it. Just before you get to Dumas, Texas, there is a sign that reads "Dumas 4" indicating that you are just 4 miles from the thriving metropolis of Dumas, Texas (population 13,747, a quarter the size of the college I went to). I made my husband and my two daughters (and even my cousin Caitlin who came with us on this trip) get out and take a picture with this sign. At the last second, as the baby was crying and the toddler was whining, I just looked up and snapped one last photo of this sign. I eventually had a black and white made of it and I've always loved it but the "4" part of "Dumas 4" never meant much to me. I always planned that our family would be a family of 5 eventually. Today though, it reminds me that when I snapped that photo, on the side of the highway, in 100 degree heat, God knew I would need a sign. Dumas 4. It is, and always was, His plan for my life. I'm thankful for my sign. I needed a sign. I'd like to have that sign. I wonder what the fine is for stealing a sign that reads "Dumas 4." It might be worth it.

Thursday, January 18, 2007

PULLING UP PANSIES

I love to plant flowers. I’m not very good at it, they rarely survive more than a few months, but I enjoy the planting part. There is just something about digging into the earth. I love the feel of the soil. I love the smell of the grass. I love squeezing the base of the plant as I move it from the plastic container to the hole I’ve dug like they taught me in Girl Scouts many years ago. One year, my pansies actually survived the winter. I planted them in early fall and they were happy in our yard. Their flowers were beginning to bloom and their roots were growing deep. They looked pretty good, even into February. But one day in Feb., I’d had enough of those pansies. It was a sunny day, but it was an awful day. My friend had given birth to a daughter almost a year ago. KaryolAnn NyKole Locke had heart problems from the moment her little heart grew inside her mother’s womb. She had surgery just hours after her birth and again when she was a baby. She was a tough little princess though. Her parents took her to countless doctors appointments. They fed her through a tube and monitored her constantly. They gave her medicines to keep her healthy and her heart working. Just shy of her first birthday, KaryolAnn went in for yet another open heart surgery. Sadly, she did not survive the surgery. She hung on for days but eventually, her family had to let her go. I was so lost in grief. She wasn’t even my child but just the thought of loosing such a young life was more than I could bare. I sat down in the grass and yanked the pansies right out of my yard. One by one, I grabbed them and threw them into a trash bag. KaryolAnn died. How was that possible? She was just a baby. I cried out to God, “Why?” I did not hear an answer. So I kept pulling. I could barely see the ground through my tears. I was sobbing in my front yard, for all of my nosey neighbors to see but I didn’t care. I bagged up the perfectly good pansies and tossed them in the trash can. When my husband came home, he asked me, “What happened to the flowers?” “I threw them away.” I said. “Why?” he asked. “For KaryolAnn.” He didn’t get it, but he didn’t have to. It was between me and God. He had taken this flower from the earth and I was on a mission to take a little back. I wish I had not pulled the flowers out. It didn’t do much good. Of course, it did not bring back KaryolAnn. It did not ease the pain my friend felt, and still feels. She and I have only spoken a few times face to face since the funeral. Something about seeing a tiny little casket and hearing her mother wail in grief was just too much for our friendship to bare. I still plant pansies though. Every fall. And every year when they bloom, I think of KaryolAnn. She was a sweet little flower that was yanked from this earth before she had time to bloom.