look what i found access to!

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...

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.

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

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

Birthday Wishes

my dear Isa,
Happy Birthday, my precious baby. today is your 4th birthday. too bad you never got the chance to be a 4-year-old. it's getting harder and harder to imagine what you would be like. i put away the 'princess and the frog' flip flops popsie got you last year that you wanted. i don't think they would have fit you anymore. they seem so small. i wonder what you would have wanted for your birthday present this year. i woke up just a mess, and didn't know what to do with myself. so i set up your birthday table. i wish with my whole heart and soul you were still here and just sleeping, soon to wake up to find your place at the table beautifully decorated with flowers, presents, and cards aplenty. instead, it sits on your alter, honoring you and sending you our love and blessings... and hopeless longing. i wish we could have a birthday party for you again. and again. lots more. remember last year? the big slide? all our friends? the bbq? the slide was awfully intimidating for you with all the big boys on it, but you got to enjoy it with just omar the following day. and remember the hike at windy saddle? such a big girl, you hiked the entire way in and out. remember how it sprinkled on us? perhaps we will hike there this evening again. that is where i was when you died and i haven't been back since. you didn't know what to make of your birthday. you were constantly wondering what all the fuss was about. popsie remembers you changing your clothes so many times into your new outfits, trying them all out. i still sleep with your favorite dress tante tina had given you. the one you wore the day you died. i use it to dry my tears...

now you would be four and about to be a big sister. as old as omar was the day you were born. he became your big brother at 4. it is your turn, where are you? the hole in our lives is still so pronounced. we missed you in Africa and we miss you here. we miss you at the restaurant and we miss you at lion's park. we miss you in the backyard and we miss you at the library. everything is different without you and today is especially hard. we love you so much. i know in my heart that as a spiritual being, you can see so much more than i can, and i long for that perspective. help me to see it. you are amazing and i miss you. now i will go water your orchard...

your earth family...mama...popsie....omar....

Found this in my email today. It is from a friend, written shortly after isatou's memorial last summer. very touching.

Dear Babou and Zanna,

What a tremendous blessing your family is. Here in the midst of your loss, your ability to touch others, show love and express faithfulness is nothing short of amazing.

I have been deeply touched by you both this week. The love you have in your hearts is so wonderful. I am touched by seeing you together. I am touched by seeing the closeness you have with your sister, Zanna. I am touched by having the opportunity to meet many of your friends and witness them coming together for you and experience the goodness in their hearts. I am touched by watching Omar play and seeing him sit on Babou’s lap. I am touched by your words, Babou, and my heart lifted a bit when I heard you speak of Isatou coming to you in your dreams every morning. What a sweet angel she is.

I was going to take pictures today for you to have later. Typically, I am a very visual person – which is why I burst into tears as I looked at the framed photos of Isa in the art area. As I told Babou though, I stopped and could not do it. In part, it just didn’t feel right and in part because today did not feel visual. What I was taken by was the feeling of love and loss and transformation, the feeling of the air around us and ground beneath our feet, and the sound of the river and the wind in the trees. That was a large part of what today was for me in honoring Isatou – that which cannot be captured on a camera to give to you, but I know in my heart . . . . you already have in your heart and being.

I am touched by your connection and respect for the outdoors, mother Earth and our world as a whole. I am touched by your ability to share that in such an easy way as it is just a part of you. I am touched by your ability to continue walking with forward momentum when it would be so easy to crumble into a ball.

I am saddened we were never able to meet and play with Isatou. I just love that sweet, spunky little girl without ever even having met her.

There is so much more I could say to you, but the long and short is I thank you. I thank you for sharing who you are in such a beautiful way. I thank you for allowing us to be near you today. I thank you for loving your children and your family the way you do.

My prayer is to be able to make a difference for you. My promise is to continue to stand next to you and to believe in you.

I am so sorry for your loss.

In loving honor to your sweet baby girl,

Erin Fairbairn

(Andy, Colton and Jacqueline too)

a smear of a visit

Today is the 9th of May. 10 months ago, my little girl died. one week ago, her headstone was finally installed. tomorrow is the sentencing hearing for the woman guilty of her death. it is so intense. the volcano is about to blow. babou is maxxed out on his ability to cope, and the world still feels like it is crumbling down.

this picture was accidentally taken by a friend at isa's headstone gathering. what do you see? i can see isa.

she was there, there is no doubt about it, but visual evidence? please. am i crazy? maybe. but what harm can come of that? that is twice now, she's given us a sign out at the cemetery, when we are all together. gives me just a smear of hope that life is bigger than this.

xo zan

Yesterday we went to a fundraiser for an Armenian Orphanage. As the three of us walked into the Longmont coffee shop, the 3 ladies performing some live acoustic music were singing "Leaving on a Jet Plane." I was wearing my pin with Isa's picture on it and a friend commented, "Oh, you brought her with you!" Through tears I said, "I think she's already here."

how to describe it...

I just finished reading, "Finding Hope When a Child Dies: What Other Cultures Can Teach Us" by Sukie Miller. Here is a part that spoke to me.

in our search for a meaningful vocabulary for the experience of child loss, we need words that will contain the pain and isolation and chaos and the spiritual upheaval of all that has transpired. we need words that symbolize both suffering and healing, that evoke honor and suggest experience, new strength, and deeper vision - because all these are true after the death of a child.

xoxoxoxoxoxoxisaxoxoxoxoxowexoxoxmissxoxoyouxoxoxoxoxo

poem i like

I wish heaven had a phone so I could hear your voice again. I thought of you today but that is nothing new. I thought about you yesterday, and days before that too. I think of you in silence, I often speak your name. All I have are memories and your picture in a frame. Your memory is a keepsake, from which I'll never part. God has you in his arms, I have you in my heart. - anonymous

we really like this poem.

today is the winter solstice. the shortest day of the year. i ponder what is next. a new leaf? and fresh start? it all seems so trite. everything has changed and new beginnings have yet to offer any hope. now it's off to visit my baby's grave...

Isa Video

Dia de los Difuntos

Dia de los Inocentes (Nov 1st)

Here are the sugar skulls Zanna and I decorated in celebration of our Isatou

We put them on her alter.

Dearest Isatou

It has taken some time to find the strength to talk to you.

It has taken some time to be able to look back, and not find you.

It has taken some time to think the thoughts of you gone.

But we feel you.

We barely knew you, but we see you in the smile of our boy.

We hear you in the laughter of his voice.

And we will always smile with you, and laugh with you,

and just know... you will never be gone.

Because we feel you.

Always.

With all our love,

Tante Heidi, Uncle Nick, and cousin Aeden

Dirt Devil by a Dare Devil

Today Omar, Babou and I went to visit Isa's grave together for the first time. We sat with her for a little while, each doing our own thing. Babou was praying, I was doing a light meditation, and I gave Omar the video camera to watch some old videos of her and him to help him feel close to her. After a while, we were going to leave, but decided to have our snack as a picnic. We got out a blanket and sat in the shade of a tree near the parking lot. The sun was shining and there was not even a breeze. The 3 of us sat on the blanket in a little circle eating our apples and nuts, when over near my car, about 20 feet away, a dirt devil began to stir. It swept up a swarm of little golden leaves and as we all watched in awe, it headed straight for us. It engulfed us with its warm tickley blowing and then everything was completely still. It is hard to describe, but we all knew it was not random and that it was Isa. Thank you Isa, for letting us know you were there. 

xoxo Mama

tributes

                                                                                  i wanted to share my latest tributes to my little isa. the first stone is a little plaque omar and i made to dedicate the orchard we planted in our backyard. we planted a peach tree, a red delicious apple tree, a honeycrisp apple tree and lastly, a dwarf cherry tree. we will plant a pear tree and a nectarine tree in the spring. the plaque sits at the base of the dwarf cherry tree which is in the middle and is the smallest (and i'm hoping the pinkest). we planted it with babou's 3-year-old dreads that existed only as long as isa did. it feels really good to have the orchard. i have a place to go to visit her now, that is really close. 

the second stone is at the picnic ground outside of empire where we had her memorial. i used fingernail polish to paint her name on a river rock. not sure how long it will last, but i feel like a part of her spirit is there, even though she never went there while alive. 

not sure how much more tribute i can pay to her. it always falls short of having her here with me.

some Lights never die
but have a duty
to burn bright

within our Hearts
as long as we live.

it is the sun's duty to
rise everyday
and without it,
we'd be lost.

some Lights never die
because without them,
we'd be lost.