Scanned-alous

~ Kana Smith

I just spent the bulk of a rainy weekend scanning a load of personal photographs—several boxes-full, stuffed to bursting with the life-in-photos of an utter shutterbug. I actually have stiff muscles—not from heavy lifting, obviously, but from repetitive motions and sitting in the same position for hours on end.

I bought the scanner several years ago, and although we’ve had a number of uses for it, this was the purpose for which I ordered it. I wanted all these pictures digitized and (while I’m at it) labeled and organized. They’ve been stuffed higglety-pigglety into these boxes, they’ve been rifled through dozens of times in search for one photo or another, and I hadn’t even dated the backs, despite the good example set by my mother and grandmother always doing so. So (now that I’ve finally gotten around to it) I had not only the physical chore of scanning them all, but the mental task of placing each one in its proper context of timeline, using clues in the photo. (Thank goodness for changing hairstyles!)

cartoon of the writer with her head down on the desk, between stacks of photos on one side, and her desktop computer on the other

As I scanned photos ranging from my own childhood to the childhood of my kids, it was sort of a weekend-long version of seeing my life “flash before my eyes.” (Not so much a flash as a slow burn—but in any case, an overview.)

One aspect of the photo-journey is bittersweet. Although I’ve been overwhelmingly Blessed in my life, still those years’-worth of photos, of my small and affectionate children, highlight my biggest heartache. Namely, the absence of my kids from my life now, and for the past decade. (I’m Sober now, and medicated for Bipolar—but I put them through a lot of chaos, and endangered them repeatedly, and they opt not to speak with me.)

And now I’m trying to decide if I have it in me to write about this subject, today. It’s the life-sized heartache beneath everything. Heartbreak like a great white shark cruising below the frolicking penguins of everyday thoughts. Those penguins go on about their business with no reference to the monster, but periodically he surges upward and devastates them. Well, he’s near the surface, after going through all those photos, so there’s no use pretending he’s not there.

I at least have the consolation of knowing my children are in the world, and well.Not undamaged, but well. For their early years they had my undivided care and attention, and I was good at that early parenting. My drinking hadn’t gone off the rails and my Bipolar hadn’t shown up and I was a full-time, stay-home mom, shaping and teaching—and enjoying the hell out of watching them become people.

I cling gratefully to the time I did have with them. I may not ever get more, so I’m grateful beyond words that no one can take away the memories I do have. When I write about them here, I’m not trying to “pull a fast one” and pretend things are hunky-dory between us now. I just work really hard at celebrating what time I did get with them, rather than mourning or raging over what I can’t control.

I know I said it’s bittersweet… I try to come down on the side of the sweet, in memory, rather than the bitter. And that’s all I have the heart to write, today. Christian & Elena Grace, my prayers are always with you.

23 thoughts on “Scanned-alous”

  2. I pray that one day your children will find it in their hearts to see you again, if only for a moment to say hello. I worked for 30 years as a psychiatric social worker, some years in substance abuse treatment. Unfortunately, your story is not unique and it breaks my heart. However, I admire your ability to find positivity in your life – it is crucial. And kudos to your sobriety and staying healthy!

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  4. What an honest & touching post from your heart. Life is such a beautiful thing … until it’s not. You seem to have come out the other end of the tunnel damaged but logical & positive & healed in so many places. I admire the woman you are … & your strength.

    I wonder what kind of world we would have (politics not included) if we were allowed just one do-over.

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  5. wonderful photos and so brave of you to venture into such difficult terrain. If it ever helps to write less publicly. I am happy to be a recipient.

    i went through some tremendous heartache from separation from my older children fo about a decade.

    We were still communicating but separated by great distance with sporadic communication. Would see them once per year for a week or so. It was brutal.

    wishing you love and strength

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  9. Thank you for sharing your story… I have my own. I made a lot of poor choices in the early years of my children’s lives that affected them and through the ripple effects, others as well….. thankfully, with time, growth, and God, plus a large helping of humble pie, they allowed me to apologize, ask for forgiveness and to be forgiven, with opened the way for healing. 🙏

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  13. That took courage – hang in there. You can’t change the past, no matter how much you would like to. You can repent and move forward. Sounds to me like you are doing that. Hopefully as you stay sober and medicated your children will risk a relationship once more.

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  14. Your words about choosing to celebrate the time you had rather than mourning what you can’t control really struck a chord with me. As a father myself who’s navigating separation from my daughter, I understand that bittersweet feeling of going through old photos and memories. The way you describe clinging gratefully to those precious moments whilst your children were small resonates deeply. Those photographs you’ve scanned are priceless treasures that nobody can take away from you. Christian and Elena Grace were clearly so loved, and those joyful photos of them together show the beautiful bond they shared. Your choice to focus on gratitude rather than bitterness, to come down on the side of the sweet in memory, is both brave and inspiring. Thank you for sharing such a vulnerable and honest reflection. Sending you strength and hope that one day the memories you’re preserving now might help rebuild bridges.

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    1. Thank you. Hope is always alive—I just don’t rely on any certain outcome in order to be “okay,” if that makes sense… I’ve had to let go of that illusion of control, as you say. Sending hope back at you, for your own separation!

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