Diane Neas

Excavating Muskegon

I found another piece of my Becca.

A piece I knew I would stumble upon, sooner or later, it just happened to be sooner than expected. That’s ok, though. I wasn’t completely prepared to find it . . . but all of a sudden, there she was.

Muskegon holds very little history for my children and I. In fact, it’s the place that has the least amount of history along the Lake Michigan shoreline. There are other places, beaches mostly, that we spent much more time together. One in particular, Kirk Park, is the most difficult to think about visiting. My stomach clenches and my legs feel as if they can’t hold up my weight. I’m not ready to visit there, yet.

The knowledge that there is a soccer field, in Muskegon, that we’d been to has been in the back of my mind since moving here. I think a few weeks had passed before I remembered the name of the street we took to reach it happened to be the same one I drive down to get home every day. The field is about half a mile to the right of the first intersection I pass through when I exit the highway. In my memory, it wasn’t that close the freeway at all. In trying to figure it out I recalled that we had gotten lost and driven right past it and had to backtrack a good ways!

The sad thing is: I can not remember if Becca rode with us for the long drive or if she met us out there. I can’t call her to ask, either. That is one of the things I hate, among the thousands there are to hate, about her dying. I am the keeper of all the memories . . . and when I can not remember a detail, I fail. And she is erased a little more.

My car, at the time (and many other times in our life) wasn’t the most reliable, so the drive was stressful for me. I wonder if the boys could tell? But, I wanted to at least seem as if we were as carefree as all the other families seemed to be. I should have realized we had what really matters, love.. Anyway, I remember Becca and I sitting on the small section of bleachers next to the soccer field. Was it a hot day? Or a cold one? I can’t remember. The feeling of my daughter next to me, and my boys running around on the field, is what I can remember. I am happy I have not forgotten how she feels.

Becca was always over the top when it came to emotions. She was a very dramatic girl! Which grew into her being a very dramatic young woman. One of the things I both loved and admired about her!! She was not shy when it came to expressing her feelings! Happy or sad, you knew!. On that day, long ago, my girl – the boys big sister, jumped up and rushed down the bleachers. Before I knew it, she was running up and down the sidelines, jumping like a fool, and cheering for her brothers. She possessed an ability to behave ridiculously without any fear of what she might look like to others. Becca was wise. Wiser than me. I didn’t conquer that fear (and some days I haven’t at all) until after she’d been killed. What is there to fear? I’ve lived through the worst, haven’t I?

I imagine her brothers might have been a bit embarrassed, then. I wonder if they remember this day? Or how much their sister loved them. Could they tell they were everything to her? I hope they could. I hope they both realize that now. That girl would have done anything for them. And, I know, they would have done anything they could for her, too. The three of them loved each other more than I ever could have hoped for. She was theirs and they were hers and I am so blessed to have been a part of this family.

My boys have had days when I know they could have used a big sister. For advice. Or support. Maybe kick someone’s ass. (She would have done all three, happily.) I’ve had days when her words would have jerked me out of my low places and set me right again. Every day without her is hard, but, there are days that are nearly unbearable because of her absence.

Then there are the days when I find a bit of her and, for a moment, she’s next to me. Maybe my journey isn’t meant to be moving away from the explosive impact of her death. Instead, what if it’s about going forward to excavate the pieces of our life that landed far away?

When I was young, I wanted to be an archaeologist, digging up treasures from civilizations long gone from this earth. Like most children that dream about this career, we envision ourselves in a far away land, digging up the tomb of an ancient ruler filled with gold or finding proof of a people we weren’t sure existed. My younger self (the one who was still in consistent contact with my soul) possibly knew I would be searching out a different kind of treasure one day. Searching for and gathering my most precious memories.

Discovering this piece of Becca has allowed me to remember the joy of life in that girl! Her laughter is ringing through my head! The love the three of them felt for each other is warm as it surrounds me. The happiness we all had together, even though we didn’t have much materially, brings a smile to my face and new tears to my eyes. I found a perfect moment, again.

Carrying the weight of my dead child is exhausting. But, it’s a heaviness I can not put down. Yet, picking up pieces of her while I travel makes the weight a little lighter. It doesn’t make sense, I know, but I’m glad that those of you who don’t understand, don’t.

Maybe tomorrow I will be strong enough to walk up those bleachers from years ago. Or, maybe all I will be able to do is glance in that direction. Either way . . . I’ve found gold.

My Becca.

A Deserved Death

“You’re a witch!” my coworker joked, leaning away from me and forming her fingers into a cross.

“Why?” I asked.

“You curse people!” she laughed.

I don’t curse people, of this I am sure, but something with uncanny timing happened this past Monday. Not until I was working through the news I had just been given did I realize how the moments lined up.

Monday, I was having lunch with a prospective employer, at an Italian restaurant she and her husband have recently purchased. Conversation floated between things having to do with the possible job position and personal chatting. As often happens with me, the death of my daughter came up while talking about who I am and my everyday life. The woman I was meeting with shared a story about the loss of her cousin and her cousin’s husband. Both killed in a crash.

She then said that she believes everything happens for a reason. Maybe, she continued, we don’t learn the reason until we’ve passed on.

I’ve explained, in past writings, how this belief doesn’t sit well with me. I’ve not found a reason that is adequate for me to accept that Becca had to be killed. But, this isn’t what this blog is about. This is about something completely different.

While we were talking about loss, and the belief that things happen for a reason, I said my relationship with deity/divine/universe was complicated. In explanation I said the words: Why did my beautiful daughter have to die yet my pedophile uncle is still alive?

Lunch finished, we said goodbye, and I was home by 2:30 Monday afternoon.

At 3:46 PM, my phone binged with the sound that indicates a message has been sent to me. I looked at it and the simple message, sent to me by my cousin, read:

“I’m only mentioning this in the chance it gives you peace. Teddy is dead.”

My initial thought was “it’s about damn time.” Then “good, he can’t hurt anyone else.”

I asked my cousin how he had died. Part of me hoped his passing wasn’t peaceful. When she told me he’d died of cancer “throughout” I felt satisfied. She also added the time at which he died, 1 PM that afternoon.

As I lay in bed, pondering how I felt about my abuser’s death, it dawned on me . . . he had died at nearly the precise time I had been talking about him and the questions I had surrounding his still being alive. I can not know if the two moments were lined up perfectly in space but I do know they had to be very close. Hence, the reason my coworker made the comment about me cursing people. I had commented right back to her: if only!! But, I am not sure the power to hex a person with death would be worth having. I wouldn’t want to have that ability.

But, Teddy’s dying brought up many other thoughts in the process of digesting his death. I feel cheated out of peering into his eyes, which look too similar to my own, and telling him that what he did to me over a seven year period, did not break me. He almost did. I nearly ended my life by hanging myself when I was just nine or ten. I was too short to get the rope over the rafter in our garage, thankfully. I survived. It affected so much of what I am and what I’ve done, yes, but I wanted him to see who I am now, in spite of his cruelty. Not only did I survive, I thrived.

His death also made me think about who gets into heaven.

A dear friend of mine, a mother who has known me since grade school and also lost a daughter, was the first to comment on the post I shared on Facebook calling the world a safer place in his dying. She said: Karma luv ❤ I hope it was painful. In another comment she said: You can be sure he’s not anywhere near Becca. A second commenter said: I hope his suffering never ends in hell. Both of these comments have stirred up what I believe about the afterlife.

My mother, who’s brother was Teddy, has said she doesn’t believe there is anything after we die. We merely cease to exist. After Becca was killed, she said she welcomed death, not because she would see her granddaughter again, but because her pain would be over. She would no longer think about Becca.

I can not believe there is nothing when we die. I think a commonality of belief among bereaved mothers is that our child still exists . . . somewhere (depending on what belief system they follow). Maybe having the belief that our child’s soul continues on is a necessity for us. I know it is for me. Otherwise, how could I continue to move forward?

Most religions have a concept of a hell. For some Christians, hell is a place in which souls are made to suffer for the acts they committed while on earth. I don’t think I share this belief. Instead, hell seems to be here, on earth. But, let’s say there is a punishing place after death. Is Teddy there? Will he suffer for eternity? Or, did he make it to heaven? To where I believe Becca to be. Is deity all forgiving? Are we all forgiving when we reach the next destination? Will Becca face my uncle, in my stead, and slap his face? Or will she hug him in total forgiveness? I don’t know. I won’t know until I’ve passed.

I do know this: the pedophile uncle that molested me for seven long years, who changed who I was supposed to be at a soul level, who handed me years of self hatred and shame and guilt when he slipped into my bed on the night’s he babysat us, is no longer drawing breath from the same air I breathe. And, I’m okay with that and wherever he ended up.

I feel lighter. Burdens that were not mine to carry fell away upon hearing the news of his passing. In the coming days, years even, I will struggle with and try to understand what all of this means.

Today, I am content he is gone.

On Writing

There are multiple times each day in which an idea for a blog presents itself. They often come at inopportune moments, though. I used to tell myself I would remember them for later but I rarely did. To remedy this, I’ve taken to carrying multiple pads of paper to scrawl thought segments on (one pad would be too easy!) and I also send myself voice messages if one of the many pads isn’t handy. It’s not a perfect system, by any means, but I am remembering more than I forget now!!

Being constantly given connections for writing balances on a very thin line between healing and falling. My goal is to use my writing to heal myself, and hopefully help others, but at times the subject matter is just too heavy to delve into each day. On the days when it is just too much to write about I feel a tremendous guilt and shame. The fact that I am letting down my daughter keeps screaming through my head. Shouldn’t she be the first thing I do every day? Every time?

I’m reminded by the inner voice, if the wound is deep you can not let it scab for too long or the injury will become infected and start to fester. But, I reply, if I continually pick at it I’ll bleed constantly. A bereaved mother, trying to heal, is walking a razor’s edge. To slide down either side hurts.

The truth is: grieving the loss of a child is exhausting. Another truth: we must take short breaks from the healing work or we will wear ourselves down to nothing. Refilling our well is necessary to do the hard work we know we will face. It’s an ebb and flow.

When I need to step back from writing about my journey of loss, love, and healing, I find some other creative outlet to spend time doing. Sometimes, it’s writing about something else. For nearly two years I wrote my own zombie apocalypse story! My main characters were so far from who I am . . . a female dog trainer who is blind and a 14 year old Indian boy . . . that I don’t have to think about myself or my situation. My mind swirls with ideas and spirals down into back stories for each character! I can lose hours writing imaginary worlds filled with people I create and name. If you’ve never tried it . . . I suggest you do!!

Do you know why I suggest you do? No matter what we are writing . . . we will find healing. The words you put to paper need not be for anyone but yourself. They don’t even have to spelled correctly and your punctuation doesn’t matter. Just let the words flow! Let the the thoughts loose! Make up a character and put her through outlandish situations!! You’ll be surprised what you end up with! Some of what you read, after you’ve written it, will ring true to who you are now. You may find answers to questions you didn’t know you had. Or find questions in things you thought you understood fully. You will come to know yourself deeper and connect with the world around you, wider.

I recently wrote a blog about the century old house I am living in. The Irish part of me is drawn to the history the walls have seen. I imagine the sorrows they have absorbed. Laughter that bounced around in the corners. Little lives that took their first breath here . . . and those that took their last. Growing families and stories unfolded. I desperately wish the walls would whisper the houses secrets to me. Maybe she is but I don’t know how to hear them. I’ll have to figure out how to listen more clearly. Or more deeply.

The first week I was here I saw the bottom edge of a curtain ruffle itself from one side to the other. I was walking from my bedroom into the dining room and to the kitchen. Nowhere near the parlor. The ceiling fan was broken at the time. None of the animals were in the room and all of the windows were closed. I had hung a lace curtain over the rather large window that faces the neighboring home. I glanced in that direction when, from left to right, it appeared someone had run their hand along the bottom seam. It just fluttered out, rippled along, and then laid flat again.
At the time, it unnerved me slightly, but now I’ve come to think maybe it’s one of the home’s former occupants. A sweet lady, from the early 1900’s, admiring the lace and joyful to see the home being returned to its former finery. And, just like that . . . I’d created another character!

In my Google drive I have four unfinished blogs waiting for my attention. Each day that passes, without me opening up the documents and writing, adds anxiety to my already anxious existence. I know I must complete each one. They were important enough to start and they deserve my full attention to reach their completion. Upon waking, I have every intention to do so, but lately I’ve had shitty follow through. I silently yell at myself for not making the ramifications from my daughter’s death a priority. Losing her was the biggest thing that has happened to me. It should be of utmost importance to write about. But I get stuck. A form of writer’s block, I guess.

Today, I told myself: You are going to write. Period. Instead or attacking one of the half finished blogs I started an outline for an idea I have for a novel. A story inspired by the blog I wrote about hidden healing. A novel I am going to write with my cousin, Linda. The outline maps out characters and time periods and important events. As I was writing it . . . dozens of scenarios presented themselves to me and I couldn’t write fast enough!! I thought, it feels so good to be writing about something that has nothing to do with my child dying! (insert tremendous guilt here). I was checking historical dates and meeting new characters as they formed in my head and it was magnificent!!

Then, as I re read what I’d written, I realized (again) I was writing about myself over and over. The words held the questions that I wanted answered. If I re read it again, maybe there are answers I haven’t been able to see.

In the zombie story I mentioned above I have a character named Allison. She is a mother of four who lost her husband in the first wave of dead. The first zombie she encounters happens to be the young daughter of a neighbor. Allison decides to end the child’s unnatural condition and upon doing so, takes the little girl’s bracelet to give to her mother, if she ever sees her again. This starts Allison’s “job” in the apocalypse. She believes her meaning in life is to collect artifacts from those she must kill and return them to the relatives. To let them know their loved one is no longer here, in any condition, and they were treated with mercy at the end.

I find myself in those paragraphs. A part of me exists in Allison’s character. Just as a part of me can be seen in the blind heroine. And, maybe, the Indian boy she is traveling with is me, too.

I can assuage my anxiety by continually realizing that writing, any writing, is working through my grief. Whether it’s a blind woman, a disenchanted psychologist, or a spirit . . . it all stems from my mind, my experiences, and my existence. I still feel bad that I haven’t been able to sit down and tackle one of the blogs. The shame and guilt is still there.

But at least I sat and wrote today.

The secret is to start.

Hidden Healing

Healing comes in many forms after the loss of a child. Some we are aware of as they are occur with the realization that something is shifting within ourselves. Others we put into motion with chosen actions knowing we need them to make progress. Then there are the ones that begin with a whisper in the farthest corner of our souls. Often times, I think, these are the ones that provide us the potential for the most growth.

The house we recently moved into was built in 1908 and is called an American Craftsman. This style was opposite the houses that were popular during the Victorian Era, which were over decorated and opulent. It was also a reaction against the Industrial Revolution highlighting handwork over mass production. The Craftsman showcases clean lines and natural materials and the visibility of handicraft. These were largely middle class homes.

Our home has most of the common architectural features of a classic Craftsman. A larger kitchen that is more accessible, and has straight sight line,s so the homemaker could be more aware of what was happening in the rest of the house. As middle class there would probably be no live-in servants and the woman would be responsible for the entire home. If the family did have live-in help, the rooms afforded to staff would be of slightly lesser quality but still well appointed. The kitchen in our home has high ceilings and beautiful windows. The original shelving is made from a beautiful wood that shines like honey in the early evening sun. I just adore this room and I look forward to preparing big holiday meals within its walls.

We have a large front porch, tucked under the low pitched roof, with the square tapered columns at each corner as would have been fashionable in the early 20th century. The windows of the home are described as four-over-one, meaning the bottom section is a single pane of glass and the top is divided into four equal, vertical, rectangular ones. Many of them have the original storm windows, too. Not very many people still have to take down the storm windows after winter passes, to replace them with the screens, anymore. Today’s windows are built to be used year round. I like that we have to do this!

There is more original, than replaced, in this 108 year old home. What has been changed was done so for convenience. Carpets glued onto the deep red oak floors that have felt the heels of the women who were rebelling and wearing the “radical” new fashions of the Jazz Age.The bathroom walls are covered with pieces of formica to hide the plaster that has started to crumble from the slat and plaster walls. The original pedestal sink was removed and prefab counter/sink combo was installed in its place. And, sadly, there is no longer a clawfoot to soak in.

Here and there, throughout the house, there are a few other changes that have dimmed the character of this beautiful home. But when you look at it . . . it’s not hard to envision what it must have been like over a century ago! Did a young boy living here join a new group called the Boy Scouts? Were immigrants, whose numbers had hit an all time high that year, moved into their first American home? In researching the early 1900’s, I have learned what the inhabitants would have experienced in this house. Manchu Picchu was discovered in 1911. This was also the year the Manhattan Sweatshop Fire killed 146 garment workers, most of them women, who either jumped to their death or died from the smoke.

In 1912, the unthinkable happened. The unsinkable Titanic, sunk. Did the family who dwelled here follow the story on their radio? All of them huddled, listening with horror, as the news unfolded? Similarly, did the news of World War I echo through these rooms . . . then become personal as the oldest son talked of joining the military? Were the daughters, who lived here, suffragettes? When America entered the war, in 1917, did the mother who lived here start to say extra prayers for the safe return of her son? I hope, standing in our foyer, she didn’t watch a chaplain ascend the steps, and deliver the awful news of her son’s death.

1918 brought the influenza epidemic. Did the mother, who’d just lost her son a few years prior, attempt in vain to keep her surviving children healthy? Was there a paper nailed to one of the square pillars stating the house was under quarantine? This house saw prohibition. The creation of the Grand Canyon National Park. The brutal assassinations of Czar Nicholas II and his entire family. Over one hundred years of life and death have happened within these walls. All of which should be honored.This home should be brought back to its original beauty.

That is precisely what we are working hard to accomplish. We both feel it’s important. But, why?

A few reasons I believe.

First, having a task to occupy our hands also occupies our minds. Immersing ourselves into a project keeps us busy. Down time can give us too much time to think about everything. This isn’t always a good thing. When we physically work we expend energy and being active is integral to our healing. We must move.

Second, restoring the house, as close to its original state as possible, helps us to honor what’s happened in the past. The tangible parts of the house will appear as they had decades ago. For instance, the creaky wooden front staircase. I can almost see the beau gazing upward as his prom date slowly descends. Her gloved hand sliding delicately down the banister rail. Or, comically, a young lady being betrayed by the wood’s sigh when she sneaks in after spending the night at a speakeasy. All of those people mattered. They all existed. To wipe away the original parts of the house is another removal of their having been here. To do that would make me sad.

So much of what “was” has changed since Becca was killed. Stores, she shopped in, are no longer there. Roads she drove are lined with new buildings and houses. Cell phones are completely different. Our country, itself, has shifted immensely. How much would she recognize if she could return? To watch so much altered brings hurt to my heart. It’s as if she is being slowly erased and drawn over.

Third, we can not bring our children back and make things like they were. Neither of our daughters will walk through the door and hugging us. There is no catching them up to what’s happened since they were taken by death. No way possible for us to fix that aspect of our lives. But, in this house, we can.

We can tear down the cheap wall covering and repair the plaster. Pull out the ugly sink and replace it with a pedestal one which clean lines and curves. With much work . . . the carpet and adhesive will be scraped up to reveal the original wood beneath it. The porch will be stripped of its ugly color. The bedrooms painted. The house’s past is something we can bring forward into today. It’s a physical manifestation of what we so deeply want to do for our children.

I feel comfortable in this old house. There is a peace in thinking about the dozens of people who dwelled here over the years. There is a spirit to this home. And, it’s an honor to be living here and helping Stacey do the work.

I know the past is the past. But bringing this past, into the future, is helping my soul.

Mending The Broken

At first glance, I know the statue I used as the featured photo doesn’t look like much. However, she’s become very dear to me.

When I acquired her it had been just over a year since I’d lost my Becca. I’d seen her, in the store I worked in, every day. Having just gone back to work after nearly a year of being unable to perform any job . . . I didn’t have the money to purchase her. When I saw her face, and it’s serene look, I knew she belonged to me. I remember hoping that she would be there when I could afford her. Thankfully, she was.

A decade ago, when I finally owned her, she was much different looking. Delicately sculpted arms reached toward the heavens. Her graceful hands curved around the thick edge of a bowl she held aloft. Almost as if she was making an offering. Or sacrifice. She was sending energy upwards.

One day, I looked at her and thought, “maybe she’s gathering whatever the universe let’s fall down to earth.”. A few days later I realized that it could be both. So, I started to place natural objects into her vessel as my own gift to the powers that be. Or, I’d put in little things I’d bought for Becca, in hopes she would see them. Every time it rained, and the bowl caught the drops, I’d dip my fingers into the water. I’d wipe the wetness, imbued with energies from above, across my forehead and over my heart.

The second winter I had her I decided to leave her outside instead of putting her in the garage. Crisp white snow piled up in the little bowl and her face looked beautiful decorated with the lacy snowflakes that fell onto it. Her dark gray figure surrounded by the pureness of the snow made life look like a black and white photograph. She was beautiful.
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Being that she was made of resin, and not cement, the weather weakened her arms. First, the bowl fell to the ground. Her arms, minus hands, still reached upward. I wasn’t sure if she was worth keeping any longer. But, her face remained peaceful.

Shortly after that both arms broke at the shoulder and dropped to the ground. She could no longer offer or receive anything, I surmised. Yet, the calm expression remained. This girl was armless and it hadn’t phased her one bit. Her delicate chin and closed eyes still faced the heavens. If she could stay centered, in the midst of her tragedy, then so could I.

In the past year I have moved five times. This statue has travelled with me to each new location. It’s one of the first things I need to unpack and find a place where I feel she belongs. Her presence is consistent.

If you look closely at her you can see the large cracks that wrap her body. More than once I’ve carefully spread glue along their edges and put her back together. On her side there is a hole that I can’t fully repair. The piece was lost when Cecily wrapped her leash around the statue’s waist and pulled her into the bushes. This hole has come to represent the piece, we all have, that is missing . . . never to be returned. We learn to live with the empty spot, don’t we? That is part of the healing, I believe, the acceptance that life will never be fully whole again. The realization that we have no other choice but to come to terms with our loss. Maybe that is the start of true healing?

When you heal you start from somewhere deep and unseen in your soul. The tiniest broken connection is mended together and a spark of the divine glows again. Then, like a ripple from a stone tossed into still water, the spark spreads outward. Broken pathways are reconnected. Our soul grows warmer as the spark travels throughout. I’ve learned it’s a slow process.A process that will continue occurring until we take our last breath.

Our new house has a large front porch with a wide staircase down to the front yard. On either side of the stairs there are wide pieces of cement meant to hold flower pots. Stacey placed a small statue, a little girl and her mother, on one side of the stairs. When I saw her put it there I said, “maybe I will put my statue on the other side!” Knowing what my statue looked like she kind of made a face. I said, “I know . . . she needs some fixing.”

But, she doesn’t, really.

She’s perfectly imperfect. My scars are represented by hers. If I fix her so that they don’t show should I fix myself as well? The line you can see across her abdomen is where the glue seeped out of the crack while she was drying. Now, that spot is stronger for having been repaired. That line is beautiful because you can see the repair! To make her physically perfect again would be a disservice to all she has been through.

Our scars are where people can reach into us. They show those around us that we are not perfect. Our inner healing can be seen beneath them. Their glow is a light to guide others. Scars, both physical and emotional, are the truth of our stories. They are the unspoken heartbreak that we have in common.

I won’t put her on the front porch, not because she is an eyesore, but because I don’t want anything to happen to her. She means too much to me.

Mend your brokenness but don’t ever hide it. It’s what brings us together.

Every Momma

Moving to the lake shore has added much to my daily life. Including a 45 minute drive, each way, to my job. Eventually, I hope to use this time to listen to books and podcasts. For now, I listen to a few different CD’s and just enjoy the solitude. One thing, about the drive, brings sadness to my thoughts. Both sides of the highway are littered with the bodies of dead animals.

I am the type of person who silently says “I’m sorry” to the little creatures that are killed by humans. And, the sadness that I feel lingers throughout the day. They are so innocent. All of them are trying to live their lives and do what they need to do. Then, out of nowhere, they are struck and killed by a vehicle.

Often, I picture the landside as it might have appeared before we raped it. When Native Americans lived here. The peace and harmony across the forested land down to the beaches must have been amazing. Life cycles of the animals were more natural. Everything in balance for the most part.

I am guilty of anthropomorphizing these creatures. I think about the family, or significant other, they left behind and how it will feel. Believe me, I know how silly this sounds, but it’s just something I do. I’ve learned to accept my oddness.

Not too long ago I saw a small body laying on the shoulder of the highway. As I drew closer, I could see the white spots across it’s red brown fur. So small. A fawn had been killed while it tried to cross the road. I was mad!

Why had it’s mom led it there? Miles and miles of trees stretched from the side of the road where I saw the dead baby deer. Couldn’t they have just stayed there? Safe?? Hasn’t traffic become a natural thing to be feared . . . like a predator?

The anger shifted to complete heartbreak when I thought of the momma deer standing by as her child was mowed down in front of her. Did she see it happen or was the little one behind her? Would she have kept running or turn back to see if her baby was ok? If she did turn to look, would she have gone back to see if her little one was still alive? And, if it was still alive would she stay by it . . . trying to make it stand up . . . until it had died? After it died, would the momma deer lay by its side, wailing? How long would it take her to leave her baby?

In the days following, when it was time to go back, would she choose to cross where her fawn had died? To check and recheck if the baby was alive? Or, instead, would she traverse the highway as far from her little one as she could? So she wouldn’t have to see it again? How long would the lost life of her baby stay in her mind? A day? Until the next season when she birthed an other?

I don’t know the answers but it breaks my heart.

Never do I want anyone else to feel the pain of child loss. Even the handful (ok, maybe two handfuls) of people I dislike. To wish this on anyone has to be one of the cruelest thoughts I could have.

As I passed the dead fawn, scanning the line of trees for its momma, I couldn’t help but cry. I cried for the little baby on the side of the road who never got a chance to lose its dappled spots that would help it stay hidden in the tall grasses. I cried for the momma, who in my mind, had spent hours trying to figure out how to get her baby off the hot cement. My tears fell for Stacey, who was driving about ten minutes ahead of me, because I knew she saw it and would be thinking the same thing I was. My sadness was for the far too many mothers I knew who had endured the loss of their own child. And, for the moms who don’t realize this loss is in their future.

I cried because life should be more consistent. All babies should grow into adulthood. All of our children, whatever the age, deserved to grow into the fullness of the days ahead of them. No momma should ever have to figure out how to face another day with this tremendous burden of loss.

I cried because, some days, there is nothing else we can do.

We birth our children (or choose our children) with hope and faith in our hearts. Committing our lives to their care and well being. Giving all of ourselves to keep them safe. Willing to give our life to bring them back. But, alas, this can not be.

As I drive the roads, each day, I silently mourn the passing of all the furry creatures that share the world with us. I mourn the loss of my own child. Life, unfortunately, is full of death. Thankfully, not everyone has such an intimate relationship with this spector.

Love your babies. Life has a way of changing your plans without your consent. In the blink of an eye, an entire future can be wiped away and a painful one set on your path.

Love each other and care for those around you. Both the human and non human.

Just do your best.

Soul Time

It is Wednesday night and I am finally sitting on my bed at a decent time this evening!! The past few weeks have been nothing but go go go! The big move I’ve been talking about, worrying about, stressing over . . . happened ten days ago. From dawn to dusk, we’ve been busy with a hundred different things. None of which, unfortunately, was writing my blog. And that has caused me new stress.

As a grieving mother, I know there are few places where I can find peace. Often, I’ve shared that writing is one of them. The calm I find in writing is different than that which I find while painting.

When I am mixing colors on the plate or I am swiping the brush across the canvas I can zone out. The fluid movement of painting is like Tai Chi for me. My mind disengages from the constant anguish of missing my daughter. The pain is still there but some of it flows down my arm and into the brush in my hand. I need this time for myself.

Writing forces me to focus on my feelings. I must dig into them to find the correct words to convey my thoughts. In doing so . . . there is a release of pressure from the hurt I have let. Generally, I am left feeling lighter. So, reversely, when I can’t write I feel an added heaviness with each wordless day that passes.

The new house (new to us . . . 108 years old) needs so much work!! We are living in limbo between two homes. Emptying the remnants of our life from the one in Grand Rapids and setting up a new one in Muskegon. The days leading up to the move I vacillated between feeling excitement and dread. Unsure if I would have the ability to reside in a city my daughter (as far as I know) had never been in. Would I forget the little things if there wasn’t a geographical reminder? There are things, I am ashamed to say, I’ve forgotten. Only another bereaved mom knows the gutted feeling one has when we know we can’t ask our child and there is a good chance we’ve forgotten “the thing” forever. But, I’m off subject now.

One thought leads to the next and within a few moments I’m down a different rabbit hole than the one I peeked into. Such is the brain of a grieving mother.

Back to what I intended to write about.

Taking the time to do what our souls need in order to find peace, and perhaps, healing.

With everything we need to accomplish, during any given day, it’s no surprise we often put ourselves near the bottom of the list. Jobs must be worked. Spouses need our time. Our surviving children require tending to. There are groceries to get, bills to pay, a house to care for. We must fulfill the duties needed to provide for ourselves. It’s what adults do. And, doing this can take up all of our time, if we let it. Leaving our soul in need.

Yet, taking time out for ourselves, feels wrong somehow. Doesn’t it?

On Monday, another bereaved mother we know, came to our house to give us a hand. She brought with her five delightful young people who were working toward being able to go on a mission trip. They were spread out inside and outside the house tackling various projects. We desperately needed the help!! But, halfway through their time here . . . I became very anxious. A panic attack loomed in the shadows just waiting to take hold of me. I started to pace . . . not sure of what I should do. People were giving of their time to be of assistance to us so how could I duck out? I desperately needed to be in a space that wasn’t hustle and bustle and noise.

I told Stacey. “I feel like I am on the edge,” I said. Even as I was speaking the words I felt ridiculous. There were six extra people at in the house . . . not six hundred. The “noise” was merely chatter between the kids. Nothing offensive. Yet, it was like fingernails on a chalkboard to me, at that moment. I felt myself spinning out of control.

Understanding, Stacey told me to go to my room for a while. “Go write,” she said. I really wanted to do just that. But, I felt guilty and selfish for even entertaining the idea. My soul screamed “yes!!!” so I went into my room. Yet, I couldn’t relax enough to just sit down, never-mind write. All I could think about was how others were helping us and I was bowing out. I could hear my inner self yelling at me, no no no no, as I turned the doorknob and went back out into the midst of things.

I failed my soul. I let my inner self down. I MUST stop doing this!!! I am smart enough to understand that our soul needs spiritual food just as our bodies need nutrition to be healthy, More so, maybe. What is the saying? You are not a body with a soul, but a soul with a body.

Across the board, I think women have a difficult time giving ourselves what we need. We care for everyone else most days. With little left for us. You can not draw water from an empty well.

Self care isn’t selfish. Self care isn’t selfish. Self care IS self love.

Tonight, I am going to make a promise to my inner being to be more aware of my needs. To act upon them immediately, long before I find myself on the edge, and in crisis. I am going to cultivate a space, every day, in which I can just be.

I hope you make the commitment, to care for your spiritual and emotional self, with me.

Family Tree – A Sapling

The moment you realize you aren’t forced to maintain contact with those who hurt you is both liberating and terrifying. How will life be when you let the toxic people go? I mean, you are used to the chaos. Reversely, when you figure out family isn’t just about DNA, but about bonds between people, you can find happiness and peace. People treat you how you let them. Acceptance of hurtful behavior is silently telling the other that it’s ok. It’s never ok. Family doesn’t get to stay merely because there is a physical connection.

Without going into great detail, I had to do the former with my family, nearly ten years ago. I had reached a moment when the decision had to be made. I knew I couldn’t possibly work through the loss of my child and dwell in the chaos they, without fail, brought to my life. To begin to heal from Becca’s violent death I had to say goodbye to the negative I could let go of. So, for the past decade, I have not talked to them, or seen them, once.

I’ve hesitated to write about this part of my life because I don’t want to open that can of worms. As a disclaimer, when I write about this subject, I am sharing what my perception of the past is. I am quite certain they would have a much different story to tell. I am not going to mention names and will try to speak in generalities where I can. I am half expecting a nasty phone call or a letter from an attorney telling me to stop talking about them. What happens remains to be seen. I’ve chosen to forge ahead because cleaning out the bullshit is important to finding a balance . . . even if the bullshit is a blood relative.

Right around the first passing date of Becca’s death I removed my family from my life. For the first eight years, A.D. (after her death) I didn’t let anyone. I had a boyfriend, a term I use very loosely, and my boys. Now I know I only kept the loose boyfriend around because saying goodbye to another person seemed overwhelming at the time. I’d lost Becca, my family was gone, and the boys weren’t very happy with how I was existing. I isolated myself from any real connections outside of the house.

One day, I started to let people get closer to me. Just a little at a time and I still remained guarded. If I kept one foot out of the relationship door I could quickly put distance between myself the offender. You can’t be in a toxic relationship if you leave, right? Sort of. You are in a toxic relationship with yourself if you keep any form of connection at arms length. People need connections with others to remain healthy.

I’d always had trouble bonding with other women. I felt as if I was in a contest with them somehow. Especially when I was with my loose boyfriend. I never felt good enough because he continually cheated. When we were out together his eyes constantly scanned our surroundings for other women. He’d even make comments to me about how hot they were or how good they’d be in bed. This behaviour added cracks to my already broken soul. Eventually, I got to a place where he was gone, too.

Then a funny thing happened. Without having to worry about whether loose boyfriend was going to slip another random woman his number I didn’t have to judge myself against them. I found out that women can be friends. Allies. Support. They help me stay afloat when the waves are relentless.

So, I started to let them in! It was scary. In truth, it took awhile to completely trust each of them. But I am so glad I could. And did. Slowly, without realizing it, I was rebuilding my family. Creating a group of people in which I felt bonded. Safe. Belonging to something larger than just me. In doing so . . . I have allowed the sunshine into some dark corners in my life.

A few of them have trusted me enough to let me into their life. To allow me to know their children. When I look at them, all so beautiful, I can almost feel what being a grandmother is. The only thing missing is the DNA tie. Sigh, that is something I just have to accept. I am so very grateful to be anything at all in these children’s lives. Having them in my life eases some pains and brings me great joy. A joy I wouldn’t have if not for the kind moms I have met.

I used the term borrowed grandchildren. One of the moms I know said she didn’t care for that term. She said I wasn’t borrowing them, instead, I was building a loving relationship with them. She is a strong and courageous woman. She is my family, now.

I have learned that the journey through life is easier with family. My troubles are lighter when I have others who help me carry them. Moments are happier when a little one wants to share their most precious toy with me. Or, slides their blankie onto my lap so I feel comforted.

So, I am building my family. I still have people I am related to in my life. But the majority are those I have no physical connection with. I feel safe in this group of chosen members. The village has helped me heal! I am sorry I waited so long to let others in. If you find yourself in the place I was . . . you can change things. Purge the negative and allow in more positive. We need family.

And, it’s never too late to build one for yourself.

LIKE BONES

A few mornings ago I was drinking a cup of tea while I was scrolling through Facebook. My feed is filled with positive and uplifting posts that make me smile, most of the time. Once in a while, a post will hit me the wrong way and send me reeling. This particular post wasn’t negative or offensive in any way. Quite the opposite. A lovely photo of a woman, I know, and her grandchild. My friend’s words were simple, sweet, and hit me like a gut punch.

Before I started to write this particular blog, I asked her if it was alright to use her words to share my reaction. And, the why for my reaction. She graciously said yes. So, here it is. My ugly truth.

I don’t remember her words, verbatim, but they were something along the lines of God always knowing what she needs and providing her with what she needs when she needs it. Again, I haven’t gone back to look at the post because it hurt to read those words. I hope I am somewhat accurate. But, I guess, what I interpreted is more important than what she wrote if I am to convey my reaction.

Most often, when I write the word god, I don’t capitalize it. To me, the capitalization of the name gives it a Christian feel and I am not “down with” what I see Christianity standing for in many cases. A capital G is a sign of respect for those who believe in the Christian Faith, which I both understand and respect, but it’s not what I feel. In the paragraph above, I did use the uppercase letter because I care for and respect my friend and her deep beliefs. I felt this was important to explain.

Upon seeing the beautiful child’s face in my friend’s post, and reading the words, I thought: bullshit. Horrible reaction, right? Believe me, I know. I think it’s pretty bad, too. But, let me explain . . . I imagine though, to other grieving moms, no explanation is needed.

God doesn’t always give us what we need. Period. No “but He . . . “ or “He will . . .” just NO. The saying: If He brings you to it . . . He’ll bring you through it is ridiculous to a mother who’s fallen to her knees in despair so often she has permanent bruises.

I do want to say I know a few grieving moms who are devout and have a completely different outlook about this subject than I do. And, in truth, I am happy they have their religious beliefs to get them through. But, I don’t and this is my blog and I have to write what is in my heart, head, and soul.

No. god doesn’t always know what you need and give it to you. I needed my daughter to survive the crash that killed her. I need someone somewhere to figure out what a horrific mistake it was that she was taken and give her back to me. I need Stacey to have her daughter Mckenna, her only child, back with her. Patty needs her son, David, to come home from overseas. Mandy needs Megan to be in her thirties now . . . not forever 6 months old. Brookelynn needs to be running around playing soccer with Tonya cheering for her from the sidelines. My friend Amanda needs her son, Caleb, back so he can be a big brother to her Gabe.

We need our children. The children who should not have died. Our hearts need to be mended and the only thing that will ever heal them completely is to hold our child in our arms again.

I read my friend’s words and considered them for a few hours. As I struggled with why I was upset at such a beautiful display of love and faith . . . these words formed in my thoughts:

“I will listen to your godly words – I will roll them around in examination before I swallow them – then, as a snake would, I will expel the ones that don’t connect to my soul – like bones.”

There are parts of Christianity I do believe in, aspects I find beautiful, but there are others that I struggle with deeply. So much so, I don’t call myself a Christian. I think to do so would be disrespectful to those who truly are. So, I am not sure where I fit in.

I feel as if it is easier for those who have not suffered the loss of a child to believe more completely. Yet, I know there are others who have lost much more than I who have a deep belief as well. I mean, what do I say to the grieving mom who believes god had a plan for her child? You don’t understand? How can I say that to her . . . when she does, when she has buried one of hers, too?

There are numerous aspects of child loss that we have to work through, that we struggle with. Religious beliefs, spiritual beliefs are a huge aspect of the entire process, I think, for most of us. I have to believe that even the most devout have had their doubts, too.

I’m a work in progress. Much of what I was before my daughter was killed has been demolished. Broken beyond repair. But, I am rebuilding myself a little each day. Struggling with faith is a part of the process. And, sometimes, something we see will cause us to dive headfirst into the abyss.

I guess it’s how we learn. I am thankful for the opportunity to grow.

Now, back to examining the bones.