hmmm. in the process of trying to figure out why isatouceesay.com has been down for over a year, we found my old blog! cool. maybe i'll start writing again...
Isatou Ceesay
Please feel free to share your memories and pictures of our beautiful baby girl Isa.
Isa Forever
Tuesday, August 27, 2013
Thursday, June 28, 2012
Tuesday, May 1, 2012
surprise bulbs
thank you for the bulbs, whoever you are.
this is the second anonymous gift i've gotten.
first it was the 'ben's bells' bell that hangs on my front door and says, "be kind."
today the ups truck brought me a present.
a box of bulbs planted in a faint pink metal bucket.
very cute.
i don't recognize the funny looking sprouts,
and i anticipate the blooms that will emerge.
the only note: 'to suzanna. thinking of you."
i'm super touched by the subtly of people's actions. it is kind of like having a secret admirer, but rather a secret empathizer. it is comforting to know people have not forgot the pain we are still in.
Babou has his final speech tomorrow for his public speaking class. his assignment is to give a tribute speech. guess who he has chosen to pay tribute to?
this is the second anonymous gift i've gotten.
first it was the 'ben's bells' bell that hangs on my front door and says, "be kind."
today the ups truck brought me a present.
a box of bulbs planted in a faint pink metal bucket.
very cute.
i don't recognize the funny looking sprouts,
and i anticipate the blooms that will emerge.
the only note: 'to suzanna. thinking of you."
i'm super touched by the subtly of people's actions. it is kind of like having a secret admirer, but rather a secret empathizer. it is comforting to know people have not forgot the pain we are still in.
Babou has his final speech tomorrow for his public speaking class. his assignment is to give a tribute speech. guess who he has chosen to pay tribute to?
Monday, April 23, 2012
impact
This is something i wrote for court 9 months after isa died. re-reading it today, and editing it to leave out my views on the woman responsible for her death, i realized a lot of it still rings true. it has now been 1 year and 9 1/2 months since she died. the birth of our son Musa has indeed been very healing, and some of the desolation is perhaps not so frequent or deep, but the fact that i am a very different person now is spot on.
April 10, 2011
How
do I begin to describe the impact of something like this on my life? How do I
describe something that has impacted every breath I take, every thought I have
and every action I take? Every time I sit down to write this, I feel shaken to
my core. My whole world has crashed down around me, including me. Nothing is as
it was, and I am not who I was.
Whenever
I get into my car, I am reminded of the vacancy in our lives. Isatou’s car seat
is not there and neither is she. I cannot reach around and offer “handies” when
she is struggling to fall asleep. I cannot reach behind me and squeeze or
tickle her foot and delight in her little giggle. We sit at the dinner table
and struggle through the blessing that she was so fond of leading us through.
Her spot at the table is empty and the miniature forks and spoons have sifted
to the bottom of the silverware drawer – unused and abandoned. Sitting at a
restaurant, there is always an extra seat at the table for four that she used
to fill. Now it glares at us and reminds us of the empty hole in our lives.
Her
clothes and toys were packed up shortly after her death, as it was torturous to
see them without her there to wear them or play with them. But now, nine months
later, I long for them – as if holding them would give me any satisfaction as I
yearn to hold my baby girl and squeeze her and cover her with kisses. How can I
tell you how this feels? How can I manage to convey even a fraction of my pain
and utter void? Without knowing Isa, you will never know the loss this world
has had.
I
am Isatou Ceesay’s mother. After carefully planning when our next child should
join our family, I carried Isa inside me for nine months, sharing my air, my
food and my blood with her. She was made of me. And her fiery little spirit was
not an easy one to carry. I was sick the entire time. Then, two days after my
birthday and two days before the 4th of July, after about 10 hours
of labor, she joined the world without any hesitation. We had a little girl.
Our family was complete: husband and wife, son and daughter perfectly four
years apart, as planned. I remember thinking at the time of her birth about the
babies who don’t survive. I marveled at the trauma of going through all that
work and having nothing to show for it. I was so grateful for such a healthy,
strong baby. And I had no idea what a healthy and strong girl she would become.
Isatou
embodied every great quality I can imagine for a girl. She overshot all my
expectations when I aimed to do my best to raise an awesome girl. She was more
than I ever dreamed possible – and she was only three! It kills me to think
about who she was going to become and the impact she was going to have on the
world, because it was going to be big. She was strong, courageous, determined,
adamant, and yet gracious, loving, thoughtful, sweet and beautiful. She had the
power and momentum of a train engine and I was carefully laying down the tracks
so that that powerful energy of hers would go in a positive and beneficial
direction. She was the kind of person who could grow up to lead a revolution or
start a movement. She had no hesitation with being in charge or going after
what she wanted. You can see how this loss is not just a loss for the Ceesay
family. There is no doubt she was going to do big things. And I mourn this loss for the rest of the world as well.
Isa
was going to start pre-school last fall at Compass Montessori in Golden. She
was very excited and ready to be a big girl. I had enrolled her at the school
where her brother Omar goes and had started when he was three. I had accepted a
job there (the same one I had resigned from two years prior to stay home with
Isa) so the three of us would all be together. We were going to start our days
together, each go to our respective classrooms, and then go home together.
Perhaps you can imagine the despair I feel everyday now as I drive only Omar
and myself to school. And perhaps you can imagine the pain I feel every time I
see Isa’s “would-have-been” classmates. Even now, nine months later, it rips my
heart out to see how much they’ve grown physically and ability-wise; Isa,
forever stunted as a three-year-old. The school children know the story.
Sometimes they say to me, “You’re Isa’s mom!” Yes, indeed I am, but that no
longer tells even the half of it.
I have changed. I used to be optimistic
and thought that life was ok. Now it seems I live in fear. I’m worried about my
surviving son, I worry about him when he is with other people and cringe when
the phone rings. I worry about my husband and my sisters and my parents. I’m
terrified to turn off my phone or go somewhere without cell phone reception in
fear that I will be unreachable in an emergency. I constantly feel like
something bad is going to happen. I used to think that every thing worked out
and happened for a reason, but now I know that really awful things can happen
and that they can happen to me. Maybe they still happen for a reason, but it is
no longer as clear to me. Instead, I’m depressed, angry, confused, inflexible,
scared, and lonely. Those things have never described me, not in my entire
life. I was always happy, content, confident, excited about life, easy going,
ambitious, creative, positive, complete, busy and ready for the next step. Now
I can’t even imagine truly feeling joyful ever again.
I
haven’t been the only one completely changed by it all either. My son, Omar
Ceesay, has had his life turned upside down as well. He is currently eight, and
has a story of his own. We are working together with his therapist to help him
tell his story, but it is hard for him, as for all of us. He now has to go to
psychotherapy, like my husband and I do. Never before has he needed such help.
I have to drive him every week to see someone who can hopefully help him
process the trauma of losing his sister, who was his best friend, and
witnessing the tragedy.
These
two, Omar and Isa, were like no other. I was in awe of the relationship and
bond I never thought possible between siblings. They played together, they
slept together, and they did everything together, not because they were forced
to by the circumstance of being in the same family, but because they truly
enjoyed each other. When Isa was four months old and began to smile, nothing
made her smile bigger than her 4 ½ year old brother dangling over her and
tickling her or making faces. Then, as she learned to crawl and walk, she was
like a magnet behind him. He found a lot of confidence in the loyal shadow she
provided and as she grew older and bolder, he continued to find a lot of strength
and courage when she was by his side. She adored him and would often cry for
him when he was at school, “I want my Omi!” And he too: when they would have a
little tiff, Omar would come crying to me, “Isa won’t play with me!” I would
tell him to wait two minutes and before that, they would be fully engaged in
their activity together again.
Isa
was the typical second child in that she thought she could do everything she
saw Omar do. She would follow him up anything on the playground, keep up with
him running around the yard, and even insisted she could ride his bike, without
assistance! Because of her fearless nature and unwavering ambition, Omar, who
had always been much more timid and cautious like most first-borns often are,
drew a lot of strength from being a companion of hers.
Now
what does he have? He has only a big empty hole and a quiet house. No one to
wrestle with at bedtime; no one to launch off the couch onto the bean bag with;
no one to build forts with; no one to laugh with in the back seat; no one to
play in the snow with on snow-days; no one to help manipulate mom into giving
out another piece of candy. He has a huge vacancy – no playmate, no constant
friend, no bed buddy. Instead he has images of paramedics and flashing lights
and Isa on the gurney with her red polka dot bathing suit cut open. And now he
has to go to therapy because it is all boxed up in his broken heart. I wish we
had more kids so he wouldn’t be so alone now. But even if we have more kids,
there is no replacing his best friend.
Isatou
was an amazing child. She was tough, endearing, spunky, and all around
wonderful. And her death was 100% preventable. Isatou was fearless and thought
she could do anything, but that does not mean she was a three year old who knew
how to swim in deep water.
Suzanna Ceesay, mother of Isatou Ceesay
Thursday, February 16, 2012
how many kids do you have?
this is a conversation i sometimes have.
stranger: oh he's so cute! is he your first?
me: no, my 3rd, actually.
stranger: oh, yeah? how old are your other kids?
me: well, i have a son who is almost 9,
and i have a daughter who would be 4 1/2, but she died at 3.
stranger: oh no! i'm so sorry!
me: ya.
Saturday, July 30, 2011
today i cried at a party, and for the first time since isa died, it felt or seemed inappropriate. an unwelcomed buzz kill. is this the phenomena that other people might think i should be over it? am i just imagining it? or am i just uncomfortable with being public with my emotions anymore? all i know, is that i wanted to cry and i wanted to be anywhere else. z
Saturday, July 23, 2011
a dream from amy
Hi Zanna,
I just wanted to tell you how honored I was to be included yesterday in gathering for Isa [the anniversary potluck picnic] and how beautiful you are in everything you do--so generous and thoughtful in the midst of grieving for Isa, being a mom to Omar, a wife to Babou, and friend to everyone.
I had a dream about Isa Friday night. I dreamed that I was looking through a pipe in a wall--it was really hard to see through it--flickery like an old film. Hannah was with me and we were taking turns looking. Through the pipe, we could see into a lovely garden--over grown with lilies and yarrow and blackberry bushes. There was a limestone wall with a crumbly staircase in the middle, and a stone building beyond it with an aged wood roof. Isa was playing gleefully with some tan and black
long-eared goats--jumping and running along with them.
See you,
Amy
Amy