Fix it!

It's odd, the things that make me cry these days.  Last week it was vacuuming.  This week it was Winnie the Pooh.

One of our library books this week tells the story of when Piglet wanted to give Eeyore a balloon for his birthday.  Sadly, while he is running toward Eeyore's house, he falls and the balloon pops.  "Oh dear!" says Piglet.  "It's broken!"  At which point, my daughter says "Six it!  Six it!" with great conviction. (She can't say the letter f...)  I've spent all week trying to convince her that when a balloon breaks, there's nothing anyone can do to fix it. And trying not to cry over an easy reader version of Winnie the Pooh.

My sweet daughter is convinced that I can fix everything.  Even broken balloons.  And I'm accustomed to meeting those expectations.  I am a big-sister, type-A fixer of anything I can get my hands or mind on.  But right now I'm so painfully aware of my inability to fix things.  In May, I couldn't fix it when we found out that our son had severe congenital deformities.  I couldn't fix it when my husband cried.  I couldn't fix it when we had to tell our parents.  In July I couldn't fix it when the doctors told us there was nothing they could do for Arthur. And not quite 4 weeks ago, I couldn't fix it when Arthur was born and died all in the same hour.

I wanted to so badly.  I wanted to fix it for my husband, for our daughter.  For our parents and brothers and sisters.  For me.  For Arthur.

Now that Arthur has come and gone, I can't fix it either.  That broken red balloon in Winnie the Pooh reminds me of this truth.  Some things can't be put back together again.  Some things will never be the same again.  That's why I'm grieving. 

I thought the easy reader version of Winnie the Pooh was a tear-jerker.  Then yesterday we couldn't find the library book at nap time, so I read excerpts of the real story of Eeyore's birthday to my daughter out of the family copy of Milne and Shepard's masterpiece.  Then I walked out of the room and cried.  I haven't been able to get the following conversation out of my mind since.  I love A.A. Milne.  I love his knack for capturing deep human emotions in childlike words and situations.  There's something comforting in the way this passage embraces the simplicity and reality of grief as Piglet and Eeyore mourn what might have been and what should have been.

      "Yes, Eeyore, and I brought you a balloon."
      "Balloon?" said Eeyore. "You did say balloon? One of those big coloured things you blow up? Gaiety, song-and-dance, here we are and there we are?"
      "Yes, but I'm afraid -- I'm very sorry, Eeyore -- but when I was running along to bring it you, I fell down."
      "Dear, dear, how unlucky! You ran too fast, I expect. You didn't hurt yourself, Little Piglet?"
      "No, but I -- I -- oh, Eeyore, I burst the balloon!"
      There was a very long silence.
      "My balloon?" said Eeyore at last.
      Piglet nodded.
      "My birthday balloon?"
      "Yes, Eeyore," said Piglet sniffing a little. "Here it is. With -- with many happy returns of the day." And he gave Eeyore the small piece of damp rag.
      "Is this it?" said Eeyore, a little surprised.
      Piglet nodded.
      "My present?"
      Piglet nodded again.
      "The balloon?"
      "Yes."
      "Thank you, Piglet," said Eeyore. "You don't mind my asking," he went on, "but what colour was this balloon when it -- when it was a balloon?"
      "Red."
      "I just wondered. ... Red," he murmured to himself. "My favourite colour. ... How big was it?"
      "About as big as me."
      "I just wondered. ... About as big as Piglet," he said to himself sadly. "My favourite size. Well, well."
      Piglet felt very miserable, and didn't know what to say. He was...opening his mouth to begin something, and then deciding that it wasn't any good saying that...