Dear Isa,
we missed you at the Sand Dunes this year. it was hard to be there without you. we even stayed in the very same campsite. i made this for you on my hike, and left some tears with it.

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?

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 4^th 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

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.