Life and death. A somber entry.

I know this blog is about Isabelle, and this post will in some ways relate to her, although not directly. But I felt compelled to enter this post because somehow I have found that writing about things helps me to understand them better. Writing lets me sort and weigh and consider information in a way that I cannot seem to do inside of my head. So bear with me.

Yesterday my cousin Kim committed suicide. Kim was about 10 years older than me, so I didn't really grow up with her, but I loved her just the same. As a child I was best friends with her sister Shana and so by default was around Kim, at least for a few years, before she grew up and moved out. We have spent time together over the years and holidays and family get togethers. I admit not a lot of time, time nonetheless.

Kim was the first person to come and see and hold Isabelle in the hospital. She commented on how beautiful she was and softly stroked Isabelle's soft little cheeks. Kim didn't have a lot of money, but gave Isabelle a rattle that still gets played with sometimes today.

I can't remember the last time I saw Kim. I think it was after Isabelle was born. I think it was at a fundraiser in San Diego a few months before we moved. She looked good and seemed okay. Things aren't what they seem. Not that this is a surprise, Kim was sad for almost as long as I can remember. Her demons were depression and alcohol. She also felt misunderstood and unloved. She had no husband, rarely even a decent boyfriend, and no children - despite her big heart and deep tenderness.

Her demons were just too much to bear. Last night after hearing about Kim and before I went to bed, I did my nightly routine of looking in on Isabelle. She was sleeping on her belly with her face turned to the side. Her head was on her sheepy and her little mouth was puckered from the weight of her cheeks so that it lay slightly open in the shape of an o. She was breathing softly and sleeping soundly. I leaned down to smell her sweet hair and kiss her. I told her I loved her and my greatest wish in the world above money or success or anything was that she be happy. And then I cried.

Kim was once a tiny baby like Isabelle, who slumbered peacefully. Her parents kissed her tenderly atop the head and wished love for her. My heart breaks for them now. My heart breaks for Kim and for all of the years that she wallowed in pain, fighting the alcohol and the drugs and the depression that attacked like a siege of relentless warriors - not allowing her to sleep or to breath or to live without fear and sadness. Eventually the battle went on too long and was too rigorous and she lost hope.

How does that sweet innocent baby become such a sad adult. What happens? Is it something chemical, is it learned, is it a series of bad choices that compound over time? The scary thing is that I don't know - none of us do - so we have no way of stopping it. No way of fixing it. No way of preventing it.

Guilt and blame will be common for my family I fear. Both are useless and harmful emotions in situations like this. Kim was an adult. No one could change her mind or force her to take medication or seek counseling if she didn't want to. No one could make her feel happy. No one could give her the hope that she lost, or maybe never had.

I just wish I could understand how she got to where she did in the end. And I pray to an unknown and unnamed God that Isabelle doesn't suffer the same fate. I will try to do my best as her mother to help her and guide her to happiness. But I know there are somethings that I simply will not be able to control. Those things paralyze me with fear some days.

I am sad today. I will be sad tomorrow. I really want to believe there is a heaven and that Kim is there now at peace. But even if there is not, if there is nothing, I know she is no longer in pain and tortured by her worldly demons. And for that small fact I am grateful.

I will miss Kim, her laugh, her smart mind, her pretty face, her funny sense of humor. A little piece of my heart is broken now. A little piece that will not be fixed, but will always be sharp with pain.