On Years Passing

Other than the date prior to the day of her death December 31st is a date that holds the most anxiety for me.

Grief is rarely logical. Often unpredictable. But I know I can expect a tidal wave of emotions during the holiday season. Every seemingly joyous occasion has another shoe that is going to inevitably drop for bereaved mothers. December is full of days that are going to cause loss to churn to the surface.

The ending of one year and entering another is a particularly difficult time for me. I am jumpy and on edge the entire day. I see others who are gearing up with loved ones for a celebration and it makes me feel the loss of my daughter more deeply.

The final day of December represents not only the closing of a yearlong chapter but also propels me into the month in which my daughter was killed. Even writing this makes me feel as if I might spin out of control. I can’t nail down the edge of tonight and stop 2024 from arriving.

On New Years past, the ones immediately following her death, I would stay awake as the clock chimed and the ball fell. I had to be awake to see the moment that moved my child farther from me. I had to be the one to witness another year starting without her. I had to be present because she could not be. I would sit on the floor, holding her ashes, crying and pleading “no no no . . .”.

The turning of the wheel was another moment that was a stunning reminder of the fact that my child was gone yet the world continued. I remember a moment particularly clear when I realized the world hadn’t stopped after she was killed. I was riding in the back seat of a car, on the way to the courthouse for the arraignment of the drunk driver, and the sun was shining brilliantly. People were going about their life all around me. Not those in the car with me but rather everyone else I could see on the outside. I saw a jogger. I remember thinking, how can he be jogging when my child just died? Doesn’t he know the world has been changed in a painfully permanent way? The fact that life continued, that the world didn’t stop to acknowledge her death, felt obscene to me.

The new year does the same thing. It’s the truth that time keeps moving forward for others when my world stopped when my Becca was killed. That is so much to accept. Even eighteen years later. There are moments when I am in awe that time has continued to pass.

I welcome the new year now by sleeping through it. In the past I had to mark the moment of change but now it’s too painful to witness. I say welcome but I mean endure. I know every day moves me farther from the last one in which my daughter was alive but a whole year changing is too much to bear. I know it’s going to happen whether I rail against it or not, so I choose to ignore it as much as possible. There will be pain no matter what I do.

As I sit here and write I can say that I survived another year without my daughter.  I’ve made it through all of those things. I made it through her birthday, the holidays, dates that were important to us, and the date of her death.  Then, a new year shows up and all of those things loom in front of me again. Another set of months which carry within them difficult days.  

Eighteen Christmases, Thanksgivings, Halloweens, Easters. Eighteen January 21sts  in which I do everything I can to figure out how to save her this time.  Eighteen “the day before” when I can barely think straight knowing she is going to die tomorrow. Eighteen times I must relive telling her brothers that their sister is gone.

And, here we are again. This year ends tonight and 2024 begins in its place. There is so much attributed to this holiday and the promise of all things new. A fresh start. A clean slate. For me, and many others I know who have lost a child, it’s not joyous. It’s not a fresh start but instead a reminder of what has been left in the past. It’s a slate that won’t be written on by the person I lost. Becca has finished writing her story.

Tomorrow I will wake up once again in the month that holds my daughter’s date of death. It won’t be easy. I won’t talk about it much to other people because they won’t understand, and I don’t want to diminish their joy. Most of the mourning done by bereaved parents is done in quiet solitude.

I have been able to rejoin others in joy. There are many important life changing events that have happened since 2007 that have brought dates of celebration into my life. They don’t, however, erase the pain that still exists. I cannot pretend that they do. So, I will walk that line that every bereaved mother walks. One foot in the past and the other in the present heading to the future.

To all the far too many bereaved mothers and fathers that I know: you aren’t alone. Today is painful and I acknowledge your loss and stand with you in this change. Please be gentle with yourself.

To everyone else: I hope the new year brings you all the happiness and joy you deserve. Please be careful tonight in your celebrations. I don’t want this to be your final year.

To Becca: I love you sweet girl. It’s been so long since I’ve held you and this month is gonna hurt like hell. The new year pulls me farther from you but closer to you at the same time. I know I will see you again. Until then, have all the adventures you can then you can share them with me.

Hello, 2024.

On Christmas Past

This Christmas eve was spent with one of my sons and his family. It’s been a long time since I’ve spent December 24th doing anything but going to bed early not feeling excited for the arrival of the 25th.  My sons being grown and in different parts of the country we had started a new tradition of getting together sometime mid-January. Early in December I was invited to the other side of the state for the holiday. I warily accepted. Not because I don’t love my son and his girlfriend or the kids but because I didn’t know if I could muster enough holiday spirit for them. Home alone, with only my friend who has also lost a child and the animals, I could be how I felt. Grumpy. Bitter. Sad. Tired. Overwhelmed.

I usually pretend that the holiday isn’t near. If I think about it, then all the memories of Christmas’ past come spilling back into the front of my mind and the sorrow drowns me. The memories are beautiful but the beauty quickly turns to pain. That’s so much emotion to hold back so it doesn’t affect others. I keep emotions under control every day navigating the world without my daughter. The added weight of a holiday makes it nearly impossible. So, I hibernate.

This year I got the invitation to spend it with my son Gabriel and Julia, his girlfriend. And my three grandchildren. Three boys. The two oldest came into our lives a few years ago and there was a new one born this fall. I said yes right away but then spent the weeks between being asked to go and going worried that I would probably ruin the holiday for everyone. All I could do was tell myself I would do my best and if it got to be too much then I could excuse myself and hibernate in their house.

I am so glad I went and proud of myself for not needing to find a place to be alone.

We did normal Christmas eve things. Julia’s family was there, and they exchanged their gifts, and we ate and laughed.  After dinner her family played dominoes at the table. It brought back memories of playing dominoes with my family over the holidays. I’ve shared in other writings the fact that I don’t talk to my nuclear family. I haven’t in the same number of years since losing Becca. That is another story, so I won’t go into details here. Hearing a family playing a game together was nice and sad. I sat on the couch and was surprised by the fact that though memories had surfaced I was able to process them quickly. Sometimes the little victories show us how far we have come.

After everyone left, we got down to the business of wrapping presents. Lots of presents. Whew. So many memories flooded back! Christmas’ where we had very little under the tree. Christmas, before the boys were born, when I was able to give Becca everything, she had asked Santa to bring. The one we had to make all our ornaments by hand because the ones from years prior had somehow vanished. The first one without Becca.

Wrapping gifts for two little boys was so much fun! Cars, bows and arrows, coloring books, a tent, bug detective kits. So many things that we ran out of wrapping paper and had to dig through the scraps from already opened gifts to patchwork together enough to finish the job. As we wrapped, sitting on the floor, more pieces of holidays past surfaced. The one that demanded to be remembered fully was from when Becca was five.

In 1988 I had spent months building a doll house for Becca. She’d seen one at a friend’s house and had made sure she asked Santa to bring her one of her own. I couldn’t afford one already put together or a large one, but I was able to buy a kit and spent my evenings slowly building the house.

I glued and painted and wallpapered the little dwelling. Piece by piece I added the thatched roof. I cut carpet to fit each room. I sewed curtains. Frilly ones for the kitchen, longer ones for the living room, pink ones for the little girl’s room. I carefully added flower boxes to the outside of the house on each side of the front door.  A family member had offered to buy the furniture for the home as well as the family who would dwell inside. The house was perfect and ready in plenty of time! I set it up on Christmas eve after Becca had gone to bed and I was sure she was asleep. I remember being so proud of the work I did and that I was able to give my little girl exactly what she’d been dreaming of getting.

I always woke up well before my children on Christmas morning. I think I was more excited to see them open gifts than they were getting them. That snowy Christmas morning in 1988 was no different. I was up before Becca and already downstairs when I heard her open her bedroom door. Rushing down to the living room she saw the doll house and exclaimed that “Santa remembered!! Santa is real!!”

Becca was so thrilled at the little family inside, sleeping in their tiny beds, she didn’t notice me take off the tag that said, “To Becca, Love Momma”. My daughter was overjoyed that there was proof that Santa existed and that he had remembered her request. I didn’t want to take that away from her. She deserved to feel the magic of the holiday. I never told her, though she figured out the truth that Santa is imaginary eventually, and she never said anything. The doll house was a much more meaningful gift than I had ever imagined it would be.

Writing this memory down is bittersweet. All memories are happy and sad when you are talking about a deceased child. There is no uplift of joy in the memory without the inevitable plummet from the loss and sorrow. That is why it is sometimes easier to push the memories away before they take hold and are played through completely.  But pushing them away keeps our loved one at a distance.  

I desperately miss my daughter. I miss the little girl who believed completely that the Santa she had asked for a doll house had remembered and delivered it. The 12 year old Becca who finally had the nerve to ask me if Santa was real and was devastated when I told her the truth. Side story: after being mad for a few hours that Santa was indeed imaginary she asked me if the tooth fairy was real. I asked her if she was ready for the answer and in very dramatic Becca fashion she threw her hand across her forehead in a femme fatale style, wailed, and said, “No, I don’t think I can take it.” I miss the Becca that, a year after finding out about Santa, was angry that I was going to keep “lying” to her brothers about the jolly old fat man.

And, mostly, the 23-year-old Becca who spent Christmas day with me in 2006. Her brothers left for their fathers and she and I went to a movie and had Chinese food. This had been our yearly tradition since the boys’ father had come back into their lives. I remember that last Christmas with difficulty. She and I on the couch, me sitting and her lying with her feet on my lap. The only light in the room was the glow from the Christmas tree and a few candles. She had been so proud of the gifts she had chosen for everyone that year. She had her first well-paying job and had taken great care to get the perfect gift for each of us. I was rubbing her feet, her feet were always cold, and she was telling me what she wanted to get for everyone next Christmas. I treasure that memory even though it guts me to write about it.

Christmas’ will be different now that there are new little ones. I am forced to re-engage and build new traditions. Please, don’t get me wrong, I know I am blessed to have this chance but it’s hard to know that traditions I once had with my daughter are gone, forever. I hope I can be move into the next phase in life fully. As fully as a bereaved mother can.

I always said I never understood how the holidays could be an unhappy time for people. Since Becca’s death I do. I see so many who have sadness on their faces, behind smiles. I know of a few families who faced this holiday season without a loved one for the first time. My heart hurts for them. I hope they find peace.  I hope I find peace.

Christmases to come will be different than in the past. New traditions, new family members. I am not the first parent to have to navigate the holiday season with a deceased child. I won’t be the last. I will do my best to find happiness as well as bring my Becca along with me into the “new”.

There is a bit more to the story I shared about the doll house. My daughter spent hours playing with the family who lived in it. She poured over the small details and missed nothing. She even noticed the tag underneath a small side table in the living room that I had missed. Becca looked at it for a second then turned to me and said, “Huh, I guess Santa shops at Frank’s, too.”  Yep, I told her, I guess he does.

Missing you like always, Becca. I’ll always keep you near. Merry Christmas my little girl.

On Her Birthday

The late afternoon winter sun was bright yet the air held no warmth. I was leaning against a bare tree across the street from where I lived. Tilting my head toward the sky, I watched the clouds drift past and let my breath out slowly. My gaze turned to the left and I could see my green house just past the edge of the trees. A warm feeling spilled from my chest and suddenly I felt hot. I had decided to bring my month-old daughter home from foster care. This is the moment I became a mother. When I had the courage to tell my parents I wanted to keep my daughter.

I know now that this is the moment that my daughter’s entire future turned on.

Today is my daughter’s fortieth birthday. Of course, it’s bittersweet. I remember the day of her birth like it was yesterday. Yet, the day of her death is just as clear. Both are painful . . . for different reasons.

The night nurse caring for me after the birth of my child made a mistake. She asked me if I wanted to feed my daughter.  I said yes. The rules for the possible release of my child for adoption stated I was not to see her again until I had made up my mind, completely. But there I was feeding my daughter a bottle in a low-lit hospital room and the only sound I could hear were her baby noises. I was an eighteen-year-old woman who had given birth to a baby she was afraid to love because she might never hold her again.

In writing this I wonder if this was actually the moment that set my daughter’s path toward her eventual death.

I keep trying to figure out when the point of no return was. I know it won’t make a difference. I cannot go back and change it. But, for some reason I keep doing it.

I was forty-two when my daughter was killed. My birthday was eight days later.

Forty is a milestone birthday. I think it’s a natural point of reflection in the totality of your life thus far. A place where you take stock of where you are and decide where you are going. Becca never got that chance. She was just at the beginning of her journey. She missed out on so much life that she should have gotten to experience. Thinking about those things is a different facet to losing a child. All of what should have been but can’t be now. My heart hurts as I go over the list of things that never were for her.

But, I can think of her birthdays past and a smile comes across my face.

The one when she was three and was crazy about Sesame Street. Especially Prairie Dawn. When she had to start sharing birthday weekends with her brothers because their dates of birth are only eleven days apart and it was easier for family members to make it from across the state. The one when she ripped up four tickets to go see The Wallflowers because she didn’t like the sheets and paint I’d chosen to redo her bedroom. Thankfully, the venue accepted the taped together remnants and we were able to see the show. The last birthday I celebrated with her not knowing she would be gone in roughly six weeks.

Being a bereaved mother on your child’s birthday is unfathomable pain. She was mine. I should have protected her somehow. She should be here celebrating her birthday. All her birthdays. All our birthdays. No matter how furious I get at the injustice of her death my feelings always end up in the same place. Profound sadness.

I can prepare for the sadness that is inevitable when December 10 is here. I know it is going to hurt. It is going to crush me. That the memories of her birthdays past would resurface and be so real I would feel as if I am there again. The weight of the ones she’s missed, the ones I’ve endured alone, will be heavy in my heart. I’ve recently, in the past handful of years, been able to feel the celebration on the day again.  

Today I could not do any of those things. This year I can see how much she’s missed more clearly. My heart breaks for my little girl. Getting through the day was all I could do. Both the pain and happiness I feel on her birthday are a testament to the deep love I carry for her.

This year hit me harder than I had expected. In years past I have done certain things on this day in remembrance of my daughter. I’ve made baskets with little girl items to drop off at the hospital on the birthing floor for a new mom who might need it. I signed the card from Becca and me. I’ve made the birthday dinner she always asked for. Fettucine Alfredo with chicken and broccoli, Chocolate cake with chocolate frosting, and mint chocolate chip ice cream. In the beginning I would spend the day in bed doing nothing but crying and screaming. I managed not to do that this year, but barely.

Her birthday is always going to be difficult.  Every day is difficult. At the end of it all I am joyful that I brought a beautiful soul into this world. She made it a better place. Made me a better person. Even though she was here for only 23 years she’s left an indelible mark on those who were fortunate enough to know her.

Becca is still a part of me and today I say happy birthday to my daughter.

Shadows and Other Gray Areas

The urge to shut my computer and not attempt to write again is strong as I begin this blog. I know it’s been quite some time since I’ve shared anything. I have not had the courage to look and see exactly when I posted last, though.

Writer’s block? Maybe I can no longer string words together in a way that conveys what I need to say. Or, possibly, I have nothing left to share. As I think about why . . . I keep coming back to the pandemic. The world was just too much. 

Living through Covid was hard for everyone. Overwhelming for those of us who have lost a child and worried about the health of the children we have that are still alive. I am sure that is part of it, a part that I need to investigate, but that is another blog. A small part of the bigger issue.

Worrying about whether I had a voice worth listening to and shaming myself for not sitting down and finding out if I did was paralyzing. Instead of delving into it I just brushed it off. Keeping myself busy with the other things I do in my life. There is always another animal that needs saving, right?

Then, the other day, I was talking to a friend who has also lost a child. She was beating herself up about the many things she feels she needs to accomplish and is having difficulty even starting. She stated that she sees other people getting things done and can’t figure out why she can’t be like them. I told her she shouldn’t be so hard on herself. Living with the death of a child changes everything about us. Including our motivation in everyday life.

Like my motivation to write. 

Every bereaved mother knows the guilt in barely making it through the day. White knuckling it as we do what is required of us . . .  just hoping we can hold on until we get home. Going to bed early so we can finish another day which doesn’t include our child. Maybe, in our sleep, we will be visited. 

And those are some of the good days. The bad ones we keep to ourselves.

I felt a sense of accomplishment as I told my friend that “we are different”. We can not be expected to achieve the mass of things others seem to be able to do. It’s impossible. The accomplishment was the realization that this was why I have not been able to write. Not that I no longer had a voice or that I wasn’t able to put my thoughts into words. The sheer volume of heaviness from just existing in this world on top of the weight of a dead child was just too much. There was no room for processing the thoughts, and emotions, as complicated as those that come with the death of my daughter. Not writing isn’t my fault and I have to stop beating myself up.

But then, as I often do, I started to question my realization. Was it one of convenience? A cop out? It felt true when I said it to my friend. Is it true for me too?  It’s of great importance to me that I understand the motivation behind what I think. What I do. I value integrity.

Could it be that I’ve descended to a new level in my healing journey? One that requires me to be more vulnerable than I have ever been? Am I too scared to acknowledge this and actually write about it? There are things I have never shared publicly. Dark times in my life, both before and after the death of Becca, that I barely survived. Hopelessness that nearly killed me. Decisions that made healing harder. 

I have often been called brave. But, am I? I’m not sure. 

Rarely is there a black and white answer in anything. Unless it’s math. Life is lived in varying shades of gray. Gray is comfortable. Not demanding. Blends in with the shadows. Life is full of those, too. Layering over each other and we must find a way to be inside of all of it. A way to grow in the dark. 

I guess that is the truth in my hiatus from writing and sharing on my blog.

Life is hard. Harder even the past three years. For all of us. Almost unbearable for those of us who have lost a child and worried about our other ones. Worried about the children of our friends. Nieces and nephews. Grandchildren. 

So, I am going to give myself a break because I have not written in a while. The pandemic. Mourning and remembering my child gone far too early. Depression. Fear. All of these are exhausting and I am doing my best to survive in the shadows. 

I am making a promise to myself to write more often than I have in recent, well, years. I am giving myself the gift of grace that I hope to give others. I am being patient with finding my bravery again. 

And, I am hopeful that the gray areas offer me clarification I can learn from. 

The Other Becca

I came home from an extended stay just outside of Palermo Sicily three months ago. My time was spent volunteering at a dog rescue in a small town called Partinico which is located near the coast of the Tyrrhenian Sea. The Sicilian countryside is rugged and deeply beautiful. The people are exactly the same. Full of generosity and authenticity . . . I miss my time there and long to go back. 

The experience taught me many varied lessons about myself and my place in the greater world. It also deepened my resolve to be of service to the animals that inhabit our world. Over the fifteen years since my daughter’s death I have learned that there is great healing in helping others. In this I find a purpose that I was subconsciously searching to find immediately after Becca’s death. It allows me to be part of the good that our world so desperately needs. 

In my area, I have become known as the person to go to for animal rescue of any kind. Daily I get calls, texts, and messages from people who have an animal in need. Both wild and domestic. I do the best I can to keep up with all the requests I receive. 

I volunteer and am sub permitted to care for and transport wildlife on a limited basis. Some of the care they need is above my skill level so I get them to where they need to be in order to get the specialized help that will save their life. I am affiliated with a local wildlife rehab in my area.

Pay It Forward Animal Outreach is the veterinary office where I work. We are a non profit organization that helps with veterinary services for low income clients. People need animals in their life for multiple reasons. We help them keep their pets healthy. Sometimes, a pet is all a person has.Every animal deserves care.

In 2020, I had toyed with the idea of traveling to Europe. I’d thought about it over the years but had never made the decision to just do it. Last year I was finally in a position to make that dream a reality thanks to a handful of people in my life! So, in early summer I boarded a jet and flew east to the island of Sicily.

My destination was a dog rescue in a small town outside of Palermo called Partinico. I was greeted with open arms  . . . and paws. The rescue houses 89 street dogs that have been saved from a life with little security and love. The family who runs the rescue works day and night, literally, to provide the dogs with food, shelter, and medical care. All of the dogs are adoptable though they don’t move through the rescue at a quick enough rate to open a kennel for new pups very often.

The above is just a little information about how I ended up in Sicily, at a small rescue (during wildfire season) caring for both dogs and the owners’ adorable four year old child. Their daughter gave me the chance for deep healing of the loss of my own daughter but that is a topic for another blog entry. Boy, do I miss her, though.

One morning, during my time at the rescue, is particularly memorable. A German Shepherd living there alerted us to something happening outside of the gate.When the woman who owns the rescue, Francesca, investigated she found a small injured and in dire shape puppy. Graciously, she let me name the pup. I chose Becca. I wanted the chance to nurture Becca. Unfortunately, I was not able to bring her home with me when I left. I hope to fix this with hard work to raise money to get the pup here so she can have the surgery she needs.

We weren’t sure what had happened to the puppy but knew her injury was serious. The vet came and was able to see that there had been something tied around Becca’s foot. We don’t know if this was done on purpose or if she got her foot stuck somehow. The chance of either having happened is about equal as street dogs live very dangerous lives, alone. Then, we all realized that she had chewed the pad of her own foot off in order to get loose. Pulling herself free would have been easier without a puffy pad in the way. This, unfortunately, left her with a foot that just hangs there with tendons exposed. 

She needs surgery to either save the foot or have it amputated. We are hoping it won’t be too late for the first option.

I’ve taken it upon myself, with the help of a few people, to do what I can to help Becca. And, the two other dogs that need to be transported here eventually. I’ll share their story in another entry. 

Why?

Because it gives me purpose. Because it gives life meaning. It allows me to care for the world and some of the inhabitants here. It’s a place where the pain from losing my child is transformed into something good. I can go to bed at night knowing I did something during the day to help someone else. I’ve done something in the world that adds to the good instead of the bad. Or, simply, it makes me happy.

Imagine if we all had a cause that we worked diligently to further? All the little bubbles of good would eventually bump into another and they would connect and form a bigger change. There is so much in the world that needs our attention and none of us can do it all. Pick a small area and get to work. The pay off to your soul will make it all worthwhile, I promise.

Feeding our souls can only blossom into happiness in our lives. 

What do you want to do to help the world? How can you start today? Who do you think will help you? I am certain there are allies everywhere who want to see change as well! The time to act is now.

We can do this together.

Please watch this video for the story of this little pup who needs specialized veterinarian care.

Chosen Paths

Sometimes, the past rears up in front of us with little warning. 

I remember a time, in the mid to late 80’s, when I found myself in a hospital emergency room trying to decide what I should do. On my left was a doctor who had called the police because I had been punched in the face and my nose was broken. To the right stood my mother (and another person I can not remember) who said to me: “How can you do this to your father?”

This wasn’t the first broken nose I had received from the fist of my father. And, sadly, it wouldn’t be the last time he physically attacked me. 

“If you didn’t talk back he wouldn’t hit you.”

“You just need to keep your mouth shut.”

“You know how he gets when he’s mad.”

“You bring this on yourself.”

I never completely believed what was said to me but I tried to comply, anyway, just so I wouldn’t be hurt. I guess I believed it enough, though, because I thought maybe it would work. It didn’t.

The last time I saw my parents was near the one year anniversary of my daughter’s death. They’d just picked me up from my stay at an inpatient mental health care facility. We got back to my house and things went horribly wrong. This was nearly fifteen years ago so I can’t recall exactly what jump started his anger this time. Let me say this: no matter what was said his hands should not have ended up around my throat as he squeezed as tightly as he could.

It was at that precise moment that I knew I could not survive the loss of my child as well as put up with the toxic chaos that repeated itself periodically in our lives together. I knew this would be the last time I threw them out of my house and I was finished. Sadly, it is one of the best decisions I have ever made in my life. It’s allowed me to truly heal in a lasting way.

Here’s where the past makes itself visible.

This past week our family lost a member. My aunt died unexpectedly in her sleep. I wasn’t sure if I was going to attend the funeral but in the end I decided to go. I knew there was a chance that my father, mother, and sister might be there, too. Wanting to support my cousins seemed much more important than worrying about a meeting with my family. On the way there I called another cousin to tell her I was on my way. She told me that my mother was there. Instantly, I got a sick feeling in my stomach. I felt like I needed to be on guard. Though my mother never physically abused me she rarely kept me safe. 

I learned at a young age that I was dispensable. My sister and I were told by my father that we were secondary. My mother came first. He  explained: “After you two are gone it will just be her and I”.My mother apparently felt returning the sentiment with her actions was more important than protecting us. Especially me. She was the one who said those things to me that I listed above. Instead of standing up for me she told me to be smaller. Quieter. Less noticeable. And, when it came down to the line . . . she chastised me for even daring to betray the man who’d broken my nose for the third time. 

All of this came rushing back as I drove to the funeral home. I started to spin into a state of anxiousness and feelings of “not good enough”. Then, after talking to my friend on the phone, I told myself to stop. I wasn’t that person anymore. I am strong. I’ve fought too hard to get where I am to worry about one person and what they thought of me. As I pulled into a parking space I knew that I was going to be just fine. 

My mother wasn’t there when I got there. She and other family members had gone to get something to eat. The first person I saw from the group was an aunt. She said: “You know your mother’s here, right?”. I said yes and then a few moments later my mother came out of the bathroom. My breath caught. She looked at me. No emotion crossed her face. I’m told she didn’t recognize me. 

I thought I’d feel angry when I saw her. I didn’t. Or, possibly, a longing for her. I didn’t feel that either. The only emotion I felt for her was sadness.

Not sadness because she isn’t in my life. Nor one that is born of missing her. I don’t miss her. I feel sorry that she has chosen to live the life she has. The one that has forced her to stand by as her child was abused. The one that has kept her from knowing her incredible grandsons. I feel sadness because she came from a broken place as a young person and never seemed to escape it. I feel sorrow for her.

I was told that she said if she’d known it was me then she would have said hello. I’ve also been told that when she did know it was me she chose not to say hello. In truth, I am glad she didn’t. Years ago, I had to make a decision I felt necessary to save myself and I am happy I did. I wouldn’t change anything in reference to this whole event.

Surviving the death of a child is beyond difficult. Some parents never figure out how to come back from the hell we are thrust into. Thankfully, I found my footing and I’ve been doing what I need to do in order to keep moving forward. I put my healing at the top of my “must do” list and I won’t ever apologize for that. 

Seeing her this week reaffirmed the decision I made years ago.

All of this being said: I do believe my parents did the best they could with who they were and what they knew. At the time. I’ve grown past that. I’ll never go back.

The only thing that brings tears to my eyes is thinking about how heartbroken my Becca would be at the distance between all of us. I think she was the glue that held us together for so long. If she were here she would be sad. I believe, and hope, that where she is . . . she understands the bigger picture and knows why I’ve made the decisions I’ve made.

I’m at peace on the path I’ve chosen.

A side note:

Nobody has the right to abuse you. Including, and especially, family. The notion that blood somehow ties us together in a way that contact should never be broken is ridiculous. Toxic relationships, whether by someone related to you or not, are damaging to our psyche and self worth. In addition, we can understand where someone is coming from and decide not to accept the behavior in our life. Protecting yourself is valid. You owe nothing to anyone when it comes to your physical and mental health. 

Cookies

My daughter loved to make cookies together. I don’t know how many times we were side by side in the kitchen mixing dough. When she was little, she would stand on a dining room chair. Her chubby belly pressed up against the counter’s edge as she dumped ingredients I’d handed her into a bowl. As she grew older, and taller, she didn’t need the chair or for me to measure out what we needed for the recipe.

The teenage years, for most of us, are rough at times. I could tell when she was hurting. When I saw this I knew it was time to bake. Side by side was a comfortable place for us to be. There is a sacredness to the space between two souls who fit together. Often, the gathering of what we needed for the cookies was a quiet time. If I was silent and gave her space she would start talking when she felt ready. Not always . . . but usually. The times she didn’t share what was happening were still helpful to her. I could tell by the way she relaxed as we stood together. 

She’d start with the dry ingredients. Remembering the things I had taught her over the years, Measuring the flour and tapping  it on the counter so it could settle then dumping it into the bowl. Pulling the teaspoon against the flat plastic top as she drew cinnamon out of the container so the amount was level. She liked to use her hands to mix it all together because it felt soft to her she’d explained, like a cloud would feel. 

My job was to mix up the wet ingredients. Becca wanted to crack the eggs, every time, so I would let her and ultimately have to fish a piece or two of shell out of the bowl. I tried not to let her see me doing this because I didn’t want her to be disappointed that she didn’t “do it right”. 

When we combined the two halves of the recipe together she demanded to be the one to do the mixing. I would let her. Though, when she was young she would give up and thrust a pudgy finger into the bowl and scoop some dough to shove in her mouth. Eventually, she grew out of that habit and would mix the ingredients fully. 

Becca always wanted to add the “special ingredient” to whichever recipe we were making. Oatmeal cookies she had to add the raisins. Chocolate chip cookies she empty the Tolhouse bag into the bowl. Peanut butter she’d be the one to make the cross hatch pattern with a fork on top of the cookie or firmly place the Hershey’s kiss in the center. I can still see her face beaming with a proud smile.

Often, as the cookies baked and the house filled with the warm sweet scents, we’d make tea and sit at the kitchen table and eagerly wait for the first batch to be finished. This is usually when the boys would show up. The scent of goodies baking had reached them wherever they happened to be in the house and they made their way to the kitchen. It’s hard to be sad when the entire family is sitting around the table waiting for a taste of a warm cookie. Such beautiful times.

And, I just realized, I can’t remember what her favorite cookie was. Sigh.

Yesterday, I was working Shipt. I had an order, early in the afternoon, that I could get every item requested for but one. Gluten Free Oats. I couldn’t find a substitute so I had to skip it. I’d talked to them on the phone and the man seemed jolly. I liked that.

 I’d never shopped for this couple before so I knew nothing about them. When I got there I saw a motorcycle, with a sidecar, in the garage.Next to it there stood a walker.  Then I made my way up a fairly new ramp to the back door. I placed the groceries there and gently knocked before I descended the ramp. Just as I was exiting the garage the door swung open. The man cheerily said hi to me.

I said hello back to him then added, “nice motorcycle . . . love the sidecar!” I asked if he drove and his wife rode in the sidecar or if it was the other way around . . . with a wink. He said it was for his wife then added she used to have her own bike but could no longer drive it because of a severe stroke she’d had in February. I told him I was sorry and he said it was okay because she was still here and getting stronger every day. The new ramp made sense to me then. 

I told them that I was unable to get the oats that had been requested. The wife, who’d come up next to her husband in the doorway, looked disappointed. The husband explained to me that the oats were for cookies. And, they had to be gluten free because that’s what their son could eat.  The wife told me that she was finally going to see her adult son in Detroit and she wanted to bring him his favorite cookies. I apologized and she said it was okay. She was just happy to be able to travel and spend time with him. They’d not seen each other for a long time. 

As I drove away I felt sad. What an intimate thing I had just been a part of. A woman, who undoubtedly wondered if she would ever be able to bake again now couldn’t bake because the ingredient she needed wasn’t available. A mom, who had probably baked for her child for years and just wanted to be a mother again wouldn’t be able to do so. Such a simple thing. Doing something for our child wouldn’t happen. 

A husband, who very much loved his wife as evidenced in the looks he gave her, wanted her to be able to do this. He needed to see her baking, a normal act, for both himself and her. I knew there was a son, on the other side of the state, who would be thrilled to have his mom come with cookies she’d baked just for him. 

I had to make sure that happened. For all of them. I felt like this was a big step in healing for the family.

Knowing I had enough time between shops I drove to another store and found the oats she’d requested. I bought them and hopped back into the car and drove right back to their house. I knocked on the door and was told to come on in. I did. I handed the oats to the man and said that I wanted to make sure that their son got cookies from his mom. They were stunned and we all shed a few tears. 

Becca and I can not make cookies together anymore. My daughter will never stand at her own counter, with her child, measuring and mixing. Growing closer and making memories. She will never have that sacred space with her own little one. All of this hurts my heart more than I can put into words. The absolute anguish this causes is nearly too heavy to bear. If I think about it for too long I’ll break. So, I can’t. What I can do, though, is help others.

I needed this woman I didn’t even know to be able to do what mothers do. Care for her child. I needed this son to be cared for by his mother. I needed this husband to see that there was hope for the future even after a devastating event. 

It was a small thing that cost little but I hope has a big payoff for the family. I know it helped my momma heart immensely to be a part of this very intimate time with people I didn’t know and will probably never see again. It felt right to do what I could to help another woman realize what she wanted to do. I know they were “only cookies” but, oh, they were so much more to me.

I think of those times, long ago, with Becca in the kitchen mixing ingredients. Of the four of us around the table waiting for warm goodness to come out of the oven. All of us warm and safe and together. I desperately want to hold on to these memories because this is all I have of the past with her. 

Help other people when you can. We can’t do this life alone. We all have something to give. 

I can’t help but think of watching my Becca swirling her hands through the soft puffy flour mix in the bowl with such happiness. 

I wish I could ask her if the clouds feel as soft. 

Dwelling Within

Not my image. Found on Moon to Moon Blog.

The truth about the house is that it is much larger than it appears from the outside. This used to surprise me but I’ve learned it’s one of many things that makes this building interesting. When I’m walking around inside I am always finding something I’ve never seen before. Sometimes, entire wings.

I am not sure of what age I was when I first found the old white house. I’ve always been drawn to the abandoned and run down. Both in buildings, and people, I think. I imagine that’s why this place, in particular, kept me coming back over the years. I don’t remember exactly when I saw it for the first time. All of my visits there seem to run together and I can’t tell what I saw when.

The house is large. Sprawling, really. A wooden structure with a deeply pitched roof. On the backside, depending on whether you approach it from the field in the back or the sidewalk in the front, there is a nearly as big ornate glass greenhouse attached to the main structure. Windows are scattered across each outside wall. Oddly, it seems some are in a place that can not possibly line up with where the floor must be. This has left me a bit unsettled at times but I’m used to it now. 

The weathered wooden siding needs scraping and painting to bring it back to its original crisp white color. There are spots on the roof where shingles are missing. A good size hole at the peak allows the sunshine in and I can see it through a broken window pane. On days when the sun is out during my visit that is. Generally, though, the weather is overcast and threatening to storm when I am there.

Whether I approach the house from the woods or the street I walk the overgrown mossy stone path to the greenhouse first.

Every time I am there I make a point to visit the green house. The exterior of the structure is highly decorative. Almost Victorian. Black metal makes up the bones that hold the glass panes. Scrolled designs curve out from each piece. Neither style of the two attached structures go together but yet they compliment each other. I can not imagine either being gone. They belong together. 

The flora surrounding the house and growing up it’s sides (sometimes entering windows and inching across the decayed floors) is varied and and some seem out of place for the region. As if they should not be able to grow in a climate which has little sunshine and copious amounts of rain and snow. Maybe, long ago, they escaped from a broken window in the tropical warm greenhouse and somehow found a way to survive. 

As I am describing this house I feel as if I am telling you about an old friend. I know my words are inadequate in conveying the eerie albeit comforting presence of this place. My words are not doing this place justice. 

Upon entering the house . . . the interior is never the same. In fact, as I sit here and think about it, I can’t remember ever actually going through a door. All of a sudden I am just inside. Hmm.

I am the only one who can visit this old house. I go to it when I am asleep. Only I have traversed its halls and peeked into the innumerable rooms the walls hold.. The greenhouse is mine, I’ve created it, and I alone will continue to spend time there. The house, you see, is the physical manifestation of my soul. My thoughts. All of my fears. Memories. This is where the records of my life/lives are kept. The greenhouse, I think, is a direct reflection of the health of my soul. 

There are times when I have been inside and it is full of decay. The warm wet air is heavy with the smell of rot. The towering trees are gray and their leaves hang sadly with little color. The pond in the center of the space is swampy and when I peer inside I can see milky white fish laying at the bottom barely moving. They look like ghosts. This sight always brings me to tears and I vow to do better.

I haven’t dreamt about this house in quite a while. Finally, a few nights ago, I found myself inside its walls again. Oh, how things have changed.

Endless hallways lead to dozens of rooms. On a previous visit, years ago, I found myself able to go through a door that I’d not been able to enter during prior visits. Contained inside were the mementos from the life of a preteen red headed little boy. He died young. I sat on the spongy floor and leafed through the stacks of papers. Anyway, that visit is a story for another time. I mention it because my access to certain areas is at times denied and at other times allowed.

A hallway that once led to the stairs to the upper floor no longer exists. Or, it has become so small I can no longer walk it. Rooms are missing and new ones have taken their place. There is one doorway that has an intricately carved wooden casing surrounding it. I always run my hands lovingly across the wood grain. A few nights ago, though, the wood was faded and didn’t have any luster. It was dry and cracked.. Cobwebs covered it’s opening and it looked as if it had aged a hundred years since my last visit. I stopped in front of it and wondered why it appeared as it did. I didn’t stay there long because I noticed a wind blowing down the hallway. A wind, from outside, because it smelled of fresh grass and warm earth. When I turned my head in the direction of the wind I could see a warm glow around a curved corner. I walked in the direction of the light.

Coming around the corner I saw an arched stone doorway. It was both tall and wide and the sunshine splashed across the cobblestone that lay beneath it. The light was dense and warm and golden. The sounds were familiar. The people were speaking in another language. I could hear dogs barking and people laughing. I rushed through the doorway and into an Italian town. 

When I got outside I was astounded. A street lay out before me that was lined with different shops. People, appearing to be from many different eras, walked up and down the sidewalks. Slowly, I made my way down the brick street. I could tell no one knew I was there. I thought I used to be her. Or that is me from another time.  But then I got nervous. Afraid I wouldn’t be able to get back into my house again so I turned around to head back.

And, there was my house. On the right side was the greenhouse. This time the glass windows were clean and shining brightly in the sun. I could see the tops of bright green trees swaying in the uppermost panes of glass. Plants with vivid colored flowers were pressed up against the lower windows. There were birds flying around inside! I knew the fish in the pond would be shiny and bright darting around underneath giant lily pads. The life inside was flourishing.

To the left of my house was a long ancient stone wall. Along the wall, at varying levels, were tombs carved into its depths. The ground was dusty clay and palm trees grew here and there. Italy. Sicily is now attached to my house. The island is now a part of my history, of my future. 

I stood for a moment and let the hot heavy Mediterranean sunshine bathe me in its light. My face turned up to accept the warmth. Opening my eyes I smiled at the knowledge that I can now visit this place whenever I come to my house. 

The fact that the greenhouse is lush and full of life says so much more about what my soul experienced in Sicily than my words can. 

I am grateful to know myself so well.

I am thankful.

The Changed Me

Roughly three weeks have passed since my return from Sicily. Initially, I had planned on staying much longer than I did but circumstances were such that coming home seemed the best choice. My early trip back in no way signals a bad experience abroad. Quite the opposite . . . the entire time I spent there was valuable beyond measure. I found what I had hoped I would find and beyond that I uncovered parts of myself I didn’t know existed. From huge epiphanies to smaller shifts in my being. I have changed as a person and am thrilled to have learned so much about myself. 

The desire to travel to Italy has been with me since I was a small child standing next to my Sicilian nonna in her kitchen in Hyde Park, MA. Her way of being was different from other grandmothers I knew. She was mysterious and had an aura that I was drawn toward. She didn’t look like other old ladies I knew. Black hair, deep olive skin, and eyes that looked like milk chocolate. When she spoke in the Sicilian dialect I was mesmerized. My nonna, Margherita Eleanora, was the most fascinating person I knew.  Somewhere in those days spent next to her, stirring a sauce pot, the idea to one day go to her homeland was ignited.

After my daughter was killed I had planned on spending the rest of my life just existing. Trudging through the days because I had to be here. I had no other thoughts than to merely survive this hellish existence without my child. I was in my forties when Becca died. I remember thinking, prior to her death, I only have about 40 years left and there is so much I want to do. After she died I lamented the fact that I had a very long four decades to fill before I was released in my own death to where she is. The amount of time that lay out before me was overwhelming. Then, somewhere deep inside, the thought that I had maybe thirty years left of this life wriggled to the top and into my consciousness. I decided that it was time to “start making moves” as a good friend of mine always quips.

From that moment the desire to travel to Italy was fanned into a flame. A flame I could not ignore because if I did I would regret it for my remaining days. I am tired of collecting regrets.

The reasons for going are many. They vary from one end of the spectrum to the other. 

I knew there were things I needed to learn, about myself, that I could not learn here. In my comfortable life that is mostly consistent and easily managed. Personal knowledge comes from leaving your comfort zone and watching how you react in a completely alien environment. Situations you’ve never been in before will elicit a response that you can either work to strengthen or move to release.Travel is a great barometer to let you know where you stand in life. This being said . . . I believe everyone should travel outside of their country at least once in life. For a lengthy period of time if possible.

I am finally back to “normal” after having returned. Jet lag and the odd feeling of being back in this culture have mostly subsided. It’s the “soul lag” that I’m still feeling. There were things I brought with me to Sicily that I left there. In their place I packed what I’d learned about myself that will make my life fuller wherever I am.  Though, the lessons I learned were easy to carry across the ocean . . . integrating them into my everyday life here seems to be a different story. 

It’s very easy to slip back into what we were when we are back in the environment in which they were born. In which they served a purpose in our lives. We are, after all, creatures of habit and easy paths.

I’ve spent the past three weeks processing all I have learned about myself. Both in thought as well as in practice. I’ve written page upon page of the why’s and the how’s. Listing examples of the lessons in action. Thumbing through my journal entries written during my time in Sicily I can pinpoint moments in which I laid something down and picked another thing up. There is a theme weaving its way through the trip and into my words. I am smart enough to know that I am definitely not aware of every way I have changed. Unaware of the shifts that have taken place in my being. I am looking forward to excavating everything! For now I can talk about those things of which I am subtly aware. And, even these must go deeper than I can see.

The easiest way to convey the new me is: I am more myself than I have ever been. Ever. 

I am excited to keep digging and learning about how I have changed and what it means for my future. As I have said before, I don’t write so others understand me . . . though if they do then that is wonderful. I write so that I may understand myself better and more honestly. So I can be the best version of myself that I can attain. To help leave the world and the people in it in a better place for my having existed. I think that is the best any one of us can hope for, isn’t it?

Three weeks home and my thoughts and experiences are finally settling down and forming themselves into groups which I can understand are connected to each other. My intent, upon sitting at the keyboard this afternoon, was to share all that I have learned about myself. I’ve realized, however, that there is just too much to encapsulate in a single blog post. I was writing an outline earlier and it’s long! I think I owe myself the time of introspection for each lesson individually. Rolling it over and examining it from all sides. There are so many facets to my change and I want to experience how the light bounces off of each surface. 

I am different. I am better. I learned both positives and negatives about who I was. 

The most important lesson I learned is that I want to live my life again. Fully. Deeply. My life must be bigger than I’ve allowed it to be. My days need to be filled with experiences. I am more than who I have been.

I learned that I have come full circle and am back where I was in my forties. I only have a finite amount of time left. Thirty years if I am lucky. I am no longer overwhelmed by the pain in the years ahead of me without my daughter. Instead, I am looking forward to what the upcoming decades will bring to me. 

I am lighter. A good portion of the heaviness was left in Sicily. I am forever grateful for the experience I had and am eagerly looking forward to what my future has in store. And, hopefully, this includes much more time spent in my nonna’s homeland . . . among other adventures!

I am grateful for the ability to change, grow, and heal.