Author: Diane Neas

I'm a mother, artist, writer, animal rescuer. Eighteen years ago my daughter was killed by a drunk driver. I find writing, and painting, heal me. Sharing my story of loss and healing lightens what I carry. And, hopefully, my words help another along the way.

Just F!ck.

First, I’d like to issue a warning about this blog. I’m irritated and my words may include some strong language. This happens now and then. It’s happening now.

I follow quite a few “pages” on Facebook. Often there are shared posts which are meant to be inspirational. The “me” I was before my daughter’s death would have, undoubtedly, found motivation in their musings about love, life, and the world. The “me” created by her passing isn’t so positive they are completely true. Furthermore, I believe they can only be true for those who have not lost a child.

A few days ago, I ran across just such a post. I won’t share it in its entirety here . . . but I’ll share the lines that gave me pause:

“And then it happens. One day you wake up and you’re in this place. You’re in this place where everything feels right.”

It goes on to explain how you will be at peace with all you’ve been through . . . everything you’ve experienced.

It’s not as often as you think that I comment being that I am a writer. My replies are not as snarky as they were when I was newly bereaved. I was deeply hurting and could not see anything positive, anywhere. I’m willing to concede this might be the case, today, as well.

After reading the meant-to-be uplifting words pertaining to life’s journey that brings you through hard times . . . I had a genuine question. Can we all reach this place? This place I envision as balancing atop the crest of mountain, seeing all that was and all that will be, down below? Where the air is pure and the sun warm and everything in its appropriate place? So, I added a comment.

“I wonder if someone who’s lost a child can reach this. It’s a great concept but sadly I don’t think everyone can reach this place.”

As you can imagine, there were many who replied, and too many who didn’t quite understand. Two replies irritated me much more than they maybe should have. One of them is on my list as to what to never say to a grieving mother: Time heals all wounds. No it doesn’t. Some wounds never heal no matter how much time passes. I know the person saying this is trying to help us but they aren’t.

The second comment that pissed me off is one I’ve not heard in the eleven years I have spent as a grieving mother. I believe my exact response upon reading it was: you’ve got to be fucking kidding me. Believe me, it was not because I was elated someone had finally given me the secret to healing from the pain of child loss (if only).

More so because the one word thrown at my question was “willpower”. Willpower! Is that the answer, Christine L. from Doesn’t Matter, USA? All I need is willpower?? Why didn’t someone tell me this sooner!! Holy shit!!

When I’m cradling the marble urn holding my daughter’s ashes I’ll just put it down and sternly tell myself to have more willpower in letting her go!! Each night, as the tears fall onto my pillow I’ll remind myself that all I need is a little more willpower to stop my crying!! As dawn breaks, and I am having difficulty forcing myself out of bed to face another day in a world that doesn’t hold my daughter anymore, I’ll chastise myself with the reminder: All you need, Diane, is more fucking willpower!! Stop being a little bitch!!! Pull yourself together . . . you can will all of this pain away!! Next time I reach for Becca’s baby doll to hold, because I can not hold her anymore, I’ll be strong and turn the fuck away. And in following your answer I will be turning toward happiness, no?

You know what Christine L. from Doesn’t Matter, USA. fuck your comment. Do you want to know why I say fuck your comment? Please, allow me to tell you.

The definition of willpower is: control exerted to do something or restrain impulses. Which part of this definition, Christine, should a bereaved mother use? Hmmm, let’s see . . . should I control my mind in a way that continually turns my thoughts toward happy things? Yes? Alright, I’ll choose a happy memory from my child’s life (ended too early) and concentrate on that!! When the sadness starts to seep into the image I’ll just tell it to go away. How’s that? Fucking brilliant, Christine!! Or maybe, I’ll use the latter part of the definition and restrain myself from from running my hand across the plaster mold of her’s. Just will myself to turn away from that which both give me comfort and causes me pain. Yes?

Let me tell you this, Christine, being alive fucking causes me pain. Her existence came through me and is in me. Attached to every happy memory there is now a sadness that accompanies it. Therein lies the reason I made my comment in the first place. Can we find a place where everything is ok. I doubt it.

We are alive . . . but we are dead.
We are here . . . yet absent.
When we laugh . . . we cry.
Grieving mothers walk in two worlds.
We are the ghost of our former self.
We are the keepers of our deceased children.
We exist. We fucking continue to exist.

So, Christine L. from Facebook, you are fucking wrong. Willpower is for putting down a donut, not healing from our pain. (Thanks for that line, Stacey) Willpower is used to exercise more . . . not for finding happiness after losing a child. Don’t add more guilt to an already monumentally difficult journey by cheapening our experience with a your fucking ridiculous single word answer. If healing were that fucking easy . . . I’d be in the place the initial post spoke of.

I will say this: I used willpower today in not telling Christine to go fornicate with herself. And, it wasn’t easy.

But, I did it.

Caring For Ourselves

It is important that bereaved mothers take time to wash their hair.

In the past I’ve shared why it’s important for grieving mothers to do so much for others. Though I can not speak for everyone, I will say, most of those I have talked to have agreed it’s something we are compelled to do. Of the half dozen moms who have lost children, in my “real” life, each one has found a way to make the world a better place. The few who haven’t are still searching for what will be the right fit to do in memory of their child.

The reasons we do this can be as varied as each mother herself. From nonprofits to help children in need or to providing free clothing to those who are without all the way through to scholarships given at the deceased child’s high school. We must “do” something.

We know the world can be a very ugly place. The truth of what can happen to our precious child(ren) is real in our lives. We’ve experienced it. Having been (and being) at the very depths of despair and hopelessness we are more attune to those who are hurting. We can see it in their eyes. Hear it in their voice. Their struggle isn’t lost on us. This is something we can (maybe) help make better. So, we try.

There is also, in us, a burning need to make sure our child is not forgotten by the world that keeps moving forth. Eventually, our family and friends move back into their normal routines. Often times, when the third or fourth death anniversary (or birthday) passes by . . . very few reach out to us to say “hey, you and your child are not forgotten”. Realizing this is a slicing pain through our already fractured heart. When we do things “in our child’s memory” we keep their name more current in a world that seems to be erasing them a little at a time. Good acts that our child would have done had they lived.

Often times, though, we give at the expense of ourselves.

I am not sure why we lower ourselves on the list of “to do’s”. For myself, I know I didn’t think I deserved to be alive. I was an old 42 when Becca was killed. She was a much too young 23. I’d lived more life than she would ever have a chance to experience. I had children. She won’t ever know the joy of holding her brand new baby. I had a wedding. My beautiful girl won’t be nervous as she walks the aisle to her soon to be husband. I had lived plenty of years and I didn’t need anymore . . . she did.

When we don’t think we deserve anything we don’t take care of ourselves. Are we punishing ourselves for still being alive after our child has died? I am often ashamed that I managed to survive her death. My inner dialogue is this: how can you be happy? How can you laugh? A loving mother would have died, herself, from the heartbreak. You don’t deserve happiness.

Many times, we think nothing matters. Worrying about clean clothes seems ridiculous to us when our child is gone. Shortly after losing Becca, my cousin Tammy called me. She was distraught and asked why we bother to do the right thing when it’s all a game of chance in the end. I didn’t have an answer for her. I still don’t have an answer as to why. But, I do know we are worthing caring for.

Quite recently, a dear friend of mine overextended herself with a promise she made to four girls. Even though she knew there was very little hope of fulfilling the promise she tried her damndest. For days I watched her run herself ragged trying to provide what she said she would. I was pretty sure it wouldn’t come to fruition but I knew she needed to try. She could barely stand up straight but she kept working hard to give what they’d agreed upon even though the last girl she helped had stolen from her. Why? Because it’s what we do. We give, even if (and especially when) it’s at a cost to our own well being.

We have to be very careful that we don’t continually put ourselves in last place.

I thought I was doing pretty well in this respect. Turns out I wasn’t. Want to know what made me realize this? Ragged underwear. Old underwear I wasn’t able to throw away. They had no sentimental value (as if underwear could) but I kept wearing them anyway. While doing laundry with Stacey she made a comment about how we deserve nice things. I agree. But then I held up a pair of my very tattered underwear and she said: throw them away. You deserve better. And, she’s right.

Caring for ourselves has to be a priority. Giving all we have to others and saving very little for ourselves just makes this journey harder. Our souls can not heal if our bodies are neglected. Our well being, physical, mental, and spiritual is braided together. When we care for our bodies we care for our souls. The best thing we can do for ourselves is to care for our child’s mother. I know Becca would want that for me. And, I’m pretty sure your child would want that for you.

I threw the old underwear in the trash. Then, I took a shower and washed my hair.

If you are having a difficult time caring for yourself . . . try doing one small thing just for you today. Then tomorrow, add one more. You don’t have to stop “doing” for others . . . but put yourself at the top of the list.

With all you’ve been through . . . you truly deserve it.

 

The Old Moon Asked

When I woke up this morning . . . my heart was full of joy! There was no sadness present.

The smell of my daughter was still in the air when I hopped out of bed. Scents from her childhood hung heavy around me. Johnson’s Baby Shampoo. Applesauce. And, maple syrup. She loved pancakes. I truly expected her to be asleep in the other room.

Hadn’t I just put her to bed? Tucked safely under her Care Bear blanket? Her blond hair spread across the small Sesame Street pillow I’d bought her? I knew when I went into her room a wisp of her hair would be stuck to her cheek because we’d missed the syrup from last night’s dinner. I couldn’t wait to bury my face in the crook of her neck and just lay there until she woke from her dreams.

My eyes, still blurry from my own deep sleep, could see her bedroom door just across the room. For a moment I felt bad that her room was really a walk in closet because I couldn’t afford a bigger apartment. She’s so small, I thought, and we won’t be here forever. She’s safe. She’s with you. That’s all that matters.

Then the door to her room turned into a framed Matisse print on the wall. I wasn’t in the small apartment in Boston from 1986. It was 2018 and my daughter had been dead for eleven years.

We have dreams of our deceased child. Then there are times when we visit with our child. What I experienced last night was something completely different all together. I travelled in time . . . back to a moment when everything was alright.

In both the dreams of Becca, as well as the visits with her, I am acutely aware of the fact that she is dead. It’s a truth from which there is no escape. Until last night. There is no other answer that I can come up with other than I was able to access the past. I wasn’t burdened with the knowledge of her absence. I was light with the joy of her existence.

When I held her chubby little hand in mine I wasn’t preoccupied in trying to push her death away. I was a twenty one year old momma holding her three year old daughter’s sticky hand. Becca squealed with laughter as I put her palm on my mouth and made noises! She closed her eyes and whipped her head back and I listened to the music of her giggles. Pure delight for us both.

“Again!!” she said . . . over and over. So I did it . . . again and again.

When she got tired, I showered her face with kisses and my baby girl rested her head in the peaceful place on my shoulder. The day was quietly ending. As her breathing deepened and I felt her relax into my body I started to recite the poem she loved to hear every night before bed:

“Wynken, Blynken, and Nod one night . . . sailed off in a wooden shoe . . . sailed on a river of crystal light and into a sea of dew . . . where are you going and what do you wish the old moon asked the three . . . we have come to fish the herring fish that live in this beautiful sea . . . nets of silver and gold have we . . . said Wynken, Blynken, and Nod.”

This is the first time I have been able to get through that bit of verse without stopping after the first sentence because it was just too painful to finish. I’m crying.

And, I realize I am rocking back and forth. I need to rock my baby again.

Again.

And again.

 

Note: The verse I’ve included above was written by Eugene Field and was published on March 9, 1889. It’s original title was “Dutch Lullaby”. I read the poem to my daughter in it’s entirety hundreds of times. It’s quite lovely and I hope you take the time to read it.

 

Creating Heaven

The past few weeks have been chaotic. In both good, and not so good, ways. But, that’s life, right? It is indeed. So, we have to find ways to ride the changes that we choose, as well as those that are thrown at us, unexpectedly. The latter are the ones that tend to be the most difficult I have found.

The last fourteen, or so, days have been very trying. I’ve had little time to just be. And, just being is essential to maintaining equilibrium in my life. Both emotionally and physically. As I said, it’s been trying. With the little down time I do have I try to cram as much into it as possible. When I do that, however, everything I attempt is lacking. Then I end up feeling as if I’ve failed, which adds even more anxiety to my life. Tonight I’ve chosen to write instead of doing anything else. But, I am going to write about what I’ve spent my creative energy on, as of late.

The picture above is of a 4 ft. x 5 ft panel. I have three of them on which I am creating a 12 ft angel. The angel is a depiction of my daughter in heaven. This first panel holds her face, the tops of her wings, and the night time sunset sky. I’m entering it into a local art show/competition.

One of the many hard things I’ve had to do, since losing my child, is to become accustomed to her not being “here”. Instead, attempting to envision her “there”. My concept of heaven, I’m sure, differs from many others. The movie “What Dreams May Come” (which I refer to quite often) explains a version that comes closest to what I believe. Initially, heaven appears as the most comforting place you can think of, using your ideas of comfort from your living life. Robin William’s character finds himself in a painted version because he loved his wife’s paintings in their life together. This happens in order to ease the person into the truth of having died. Of being removed from our living loved ones presence. I think this is the same for me, here.

When my boys move to a new place I always ask them to send me a picture of their room. It helps put my anxiety to rest if I can see their surroundings. Then I can picture them there, safe, in their bed at night. Just one of the many mental calisthenics I engage in to assuage my fears and give me the belief all is well in my world. I’ve found myself doing the same with Becca. I can’t ask her for a photo of where she is, obviously, so I try to create it myself. “Doing” for me is as important as “thinking”. I have to work through things in order to make them real to me.

About six months ago I started to paint angels. One day, a vision of an angel painting popped into my head. I knew that the canvas had to be textured because I wanted the wings to really stand out. Since then, I’ve done about a dozen or so angel paintings. It wasn’t until I’d been painting them for a month that I realized why I was doing them. Even though it’s been eleven years since my daughter was killed there is still part of me that can’t accept it. Hence, I dove right into creating angels. My soul knew it was time to understand her absence completely. In order to do this I have to be immersed in the concept of heaven and angels.

The first angel paintings were quick and easy. I don’t put faces on them. I said this was because I know I could never make their faces as beautiful as they truly are. I think it’s more accurate that I would want to make every angel face Becca’s and I wasn’t ready for that. I’m not sure if I am or ever will be ready. So, to the people I explained the lack of facial features, I think I’ve excavated the real reason why. Somewhere, deep in my soul, a tear was stitched together a little bit.

When I witness a sunset I always picture Becca gliding across the colors in the sky. Running her hands through their depths. Snapping her fingers she sends the hues skittering across the horizon. I know she is laughing. I see her this way because it is what makes sense to me. It’s what soothes me. Her new surroundings are what I am trying to replicate with this piece of art.

This is the largest piece I’ve ever created. My children are the best things I’ve ever done in life. It only makes sense to bring them together. Creating is my prayer. This piece is a pilgrimage. Moving me toward acceptance. I don’t think I will ever be done “accepting” her death.

So I will just keep creating angels.

Note: If you are interested in following my progress on the art piece I’ve mentioned, please go to “Touching Heaven”, on both Facebook and Instagram. I’d love to see you there.

 

Her Wings

Earlier this week I started to build the wings of a very large painting I am doing of my daughter. When I started to cut the chicken wire to shape the wings, I wasn’t sure if I was doing it the right way, but I forged ahead regardless. You see, I didn’t go to art school so I have no formal training in anything I do. I just do it. Sometimes it works . . . other times it doesn’t. This time, it did.

Let me give you a little back story about the painting to which I am referring.

Last year, I started to paint angels. Partly, because my mind is grappling with the fact that my daughter is one. Initially, I painted angels which were non descript. No characteristics which belonged to my daughter. In a sense, I was circling around the truth of her being in heaven, without getting to the center immediately. It’s a hard concept to accept even if you have seen your child’s dead body. I think painting angels has brought me closer to accepting the truth. In little steps.

Mid January of this year, I decided I was going to confront myself, and my hesitancy to see Becca in the form she is now. To do this, I started a project that has blossomed into something so much bigger than just me accepting my daughter’s latest incarnation. I’ve found it is also a way for others to join me in my grief journey. I think this is going to be something big.

The painting consists of three separate 4’x5’ panels, hung vertically on the wall, giving it the appearance of one big canvas. Each day, upon waking, it seems I have an addition to what I plan to do! Building the wings to project out of the panel was something I knew I wanted to add. Chicken wire was the best way to form strong wings, which would fold slightly at the top, and look like I picture my Becca’s.

So, I grabbed the staple gun and went to work. Now, I often feel Becca near me, but that day I knew she was there without question. I was listening to U2 and the song that was playing at that moment was “Walk On”. “I know it aches . . . and your heart it breaks . . . you can only take so much . . .” and I just lost it. The words felt as if they were coming directly from her. I sank down onto my knees, dropped the staple gun, and cried into my hands. That’s when I felt her presence envelop me. I could feel her wings wrap around me and I felt her warmth. My daughter was holding me because she knew I was working through something enormous. She’s the wise one now.

I didn’t get very far with the wings that afternoon. Crying hard really takes it out of me. I stopped, shut off the lights, and went upstairs. Thinking I’d cried all the tears I had in me. I was wrong. There are always more tears.

Laying in bed, I decided to send a few of the photos to my friend Teresa. She is running my angel project for me. She also knew my daughter. While we were discussing the pictures. and expressing excitement about watching it come to fruition, I started to cry again. I told Teresa and she did her best to comfort me. But, as I lay there I wondered why this was hitting me so hard. Then I remembered the other time I had made wings for my daughter. When she was five.
Becca desperately wanted to be Tinkerbell for Halloween. I couldn’t afford an expensive costume so I decided to make it myself. I bought green felt material and cut out a dress with the little points at the hem. The top of the dress resembled Tink’s attire, but instead of letting Becca go strapless,I sewed it to a white turtleneck. White tights with little green socks were on her feet. I pulled her hair up into a tight bun and gave her a wand. Her wings, though, her wings were the best part of the costume! I used two wire hangers and attached the curve that you hang them from to each other. On the longest part of the sides I pulled the metal out slightly to give them a more natural appearance. I stretched a white gauzy remnant material over them and voila! She had her wings.

Becca loved the costume. She loved the wings the most. At the Halloween party we threw she kept running around, tapping people with her wand, and asking them if they liked her wings, too! Even though I told her it would be uncomfortable she insisted upon sleeping in them that night. I remember peeking into her room after she was asleep. Her hands clutched the wand. The tight bun was coming undone. Her face was smeared with chocolate. But she lay flat on her back because that was the only position the wings would allow. My heart filled with joy just looking at her.

I’d forgotten about that day, until the wings I am building now, shook it loose. At one point during the party, I had seen her standing across the room from me, not moving. She looked at me intently, holding my gaze for nearly a minute, then flashed me with a huge Becca smile.In her eyes, I could see happiness and a thank you, and it was as if no one else existed. Time stood still. Just me and my girl. She was perfect.

I am building her wings for the wrong reason this time. She shouldn’t be dead. It wasn’t her time to become an angel. I desperately want to be back in the chaos of that day. Staring at my child while our souls connected without words. And, that’s why I was crying so hard. I needed to birth a memory. Birth is always painful.

Tomorrow, I am going to spend time working on her wings, again. They need to be huge so she can travel far. They need to be strong because I know she is doing a lot of flying where she is.

Fly high my baby girl. I know you are smiling because our souls are still connected.

I love you.

 

Empty Chair

This past Tuesday, I had to take a four hour class about the safe serving of alcohol. I need the certification for my job. About fifteen minutes in, after all of the intro stuff, I started to become very anxious. The woman who was starring in the class was pro drinking and having a great time. Yes, she was training us to do this safely . . . but the information brought up so many things from Becca’s death.

For the majority of my children’s lives I was a restaurant industry worker. From a server to bartender and eventually manager. My job was to make sure people had a good time, make the establishment money, and earn tips. Very rarely did I consider the fact that I could be an accomplice in getting someone hurt or killed. I’d never been close enough to a death due to alcohol for it to impact me deeply. In fact, the happier your customers were the better tips they would leave!

When I had been told I needed to get the certification it never dawned on me that I would be affected, in this manner, by the subject.

The class was divided into four modules. The first dealt with the liability. Criminal, civil (which includes “The Dram Shop Act”) and administrative liability. My first thought, in context to how my daughter was killed is the fact I had learned about the Dram Shop Law while talking to a lawyer the day after she died. He explained to me that I would be able to sue multiple parties. The driver. His parents. And, the bar. I was within my rights to sue the server or bartender who overserved the young man. Unfortunately, the bar couldn’t tell us who that was due to the fact that they had very little accountability when it came to service.

The second module centered around the strength of different alcohols. An 80 proof vodka is 40% alcohol. A 100 proof liquor is 50% alcohol. A five ounce glass of wine is generally 4% to 6%. There is a wide range of alcohol content in beer due to the fact that many micro brews are higher than common beer. I learned how much a “standard” drink is and how to “count” drinks by the alcohol content NOT the number of glasses served. I was shown different ways to keep track of the drinks counted. How to alert co workers when the limit of drinks allowed has been reached so no one else serves someone who has been “cut off”.

The bar that served the driver that killed my child had NONE of these protocols in place. Not one. Multiple sit down “rails” were available. The bartenders at either end of the building didn’t communicate with each other. No one counted drinks. There was a big galvanized tub near the front door that held bottles of beer and chilled Jagermeister so people could get a drink within seconds of walking into the establishment. The person running this didn’t let the bartenders, or servers, know that most people had a shot or two before they even found a seat. I know all of this because I went in to see it for myself when my lawyer told me these facts would help us win.

In this module, I also learned about BAC. Blood Alcohol Content. The term is pretty easy to understand. The nationwide alcohol content that is considered the legal limit is .08. Did you know that one teaspoon of alcohol in a 150 lb. man will give a BAC of .08? I didn’t. A BAC of .30 (meaning ⅓ of your blood is alcohol) can put you into a coma. Remember that number.

When I was in court to hear the driver being read the charges against him I learned his BAC was .24. He was less than a teaspoon away from a possible coma. One more beer or shot of tequila, his drink of choice, and he might have passed out and not killed my child. If only. He would deserve to be dead because he had done it to himself. But he didn’t. He did it to my only daughter.

If the bar had been doing their job, and checked his ID, they would have known he had a suspended license due to his previous drunk driving offense just six weeks prior. They would have turned him away and Becca and his path would not have crossed that night. After this class, I understand just how much responsibility the bar had. How very easily my daughter’s life could have been saved. Why did they not follow laws? More money, I imagine. More sales is more profit. Intoxication loosens up the customer and cash flows easier.

As I said previously, I used to waitress and tend bar. After her death, I just couldn’t do it anymore. Though I didn’t know all the facts I do now I did know that I could not be a part of any situation that might thrust a family into the one I was in. I knew that I would make the decision to cut every guest off after their second drink. There would be no way I could laugh along with a customer, as they got smashed, because it would get me better tips. The death of my child would not allow me to be the type of bartender most establishments would need in order to turn a profit. I had to leave the food service industry.

The certification I received, after passing the exam yesterday, will allow me to legally serve alcohol. I am happy to see that the industry is becoming more serious about preventing alcohol related tragedies, however, I’m not sure I am ready to serve alcohol again. I no longer drink. It’s a choice I made for many reasons. I don’t know if I can be a party to anyone drinking, period. Yes, there is protocol I can follow in order to minimize events but there is nothing I can do to guarantee everyone’s safety. Except NOT serve alcohol at all.

When I let my mind go to the fact that there were very simple things that the bar could have done, but didn’t do to protect their guests, I get pissed. Any one of the numerous precautions could have saved Becca’s life. She would be here. Next to me. Maybe my blog would be about being a grandmother. Not a grieving mother. How different life would be.

I guess I am writing this particular blog for two reasons:

First, as grieving mothers know, a trigger can hit us at the most unexpected times. We’ll be rolling along in our day, when out of nowhere, the truth of our loss brings us to our knees. There is no preparing for it either. We just have to ride the wave until it wears itself out. There is some control in knowing these times will come and we can get through them.

Second, no one’s life is worth another’s good time or monetary gain. Alcohol consumption is a part of everyday life for many people. Go to the local sports bar to down a few pitchers while the game is one. Take advantage of an open bar at a wedding. No one wants these things to lead to a tragedy.

Responsibility, for each other, rests within all of us.

 

Puncture Wounds

About ten days ago we had a fight between two of the dogs in our household. Both large animals, and used to being in charge, once in a while they have a scuffle. Neither wanted to back down, so I foolishly and without thinking, put my arm in to separate them. In the frenzy of fur and flashing teeth, my dog mistook my reach for her collar as the “death bite” and she laid into my forearm. When it was all said and done . . . I realized I had must have been bitten pretty bad. Blood was running down my hand and when I took my jacket off I could see two very deep puncture wounds.

My first thought was: shit. Now I have to go to the hospital and I can’t afford it!! The second thought was: shit. Now Cecily is going to have to be put down for being an aggressive dog. I was wrong on both accounts.

Fortunately, Stacey is an RN. She pulled out her emergency kit and went to work. Within a few minutes, the bleeding had stopped and I was feeling less pain. Twice a day she checked the wounds for me and, to her surprise, they began to heal up very quickly. Each time she said she was satisfied with how they were looking. I kept asking her if I should leave them uncovered so they could dry out. Her response: “No, puncture wounds have to heal from the inside out or all of the infection gets trapped inside and festers.”

She continued on to say that I needed to keep the wounds covered and moist so they wouldn’t form a scab and seal themselves off. I was intrigued by this concept. As a kid, I was always told to uncover cuts so they would heal faster. I told my children the same thing. Always checking the outer condition of the wound without thinking of what was happening inside the flesh. I’m very glad my lack of knowledge never cost my children in their healing!!

I kept picturing the bottoms of the wounds on my arm. How they would heal and become less deep with each day. Eventually, working the healing up until there was no longer a hole. Amazing!! Then the itching began. It drove me mad and I wanted to claw at the skin. I mentioned this to someone else and they said: “That’s just your flesh literally knitting itself back together.” Not quite as clinical as Stacey’s explanations but it made sense to me.

As I have explained before, much of what happens to me passes through the spider web of Becca’s loss that stretches around my mind. We process things through our experiences and perceptions.So, as I often do, the facts I had learned about puncture wounds wrapped themselves around the aftermath of my daughter’s death. How could they not?

The two words themselves are so accurate as to what happens to our hearts, aren’t they? Our hearts were punctured in a single moment. So deep that we are sure there can never be healing. Puncture wounds take time to heal. And, time is all that can help us heal the loss of a child. There are many other ways these two things heal that run parallel in my mind.

The wound must be kept moist so it doesn’t dry up, scab over and seal what’s inside. My heart wound was moistened by my tears every day. For hours I would cry until there just weren’t any tears left. I wonder, can you become dehydrated from turning all of the liquid in your body into tears? (I’ll have to ask Stacey tomorrow.) In those first months, I remember sitting still, and having wave after wave of tears falling down my face. I couldn’t stop them. Now, I don’t think we should. They serve a purpose. Our pain is moved up and out and isn’t left to fester inside of us.
If we don’t start to move the anguish around it will quietly grow into something much worse.

Covering the punctures keeps other infectious material from getting into the wound. We are protecting it from further problems. Our damaged hearts need to be protected, too. There is never a time when a person is more vulnerable, I think, than when their heart has been cleaved in two by the death of their child. Cover yourself with your faith. Or your family. Or your beliefs. Or solitude. Or whatever you choose. Just protect the wound.

It’s going to take time. A puncture wound takes much longer to heal than a cut. A cut heals in a linear fashion. Across its length. A puncture, in it’s depth. This takes time. And patience. And the belief that the healing is taking place even though we can’t see it. Even though it’s not evident as quickly. But we can feel it . . . oh we can feel it.

The image of my flesh knitting itself back together immediately made me think of my wounded heart. We heal in the smallest of places every day. Though we don’t often see it we feel it in our spirit. We laugh, genuinely. Or see the beauty in a flower. We walk into the sun and realize it isn’t making us angry that day. The laughter of children is a pleasing sound again. It’s amazing to have a singular experience wherein we can say: “That tiny piece has changed. Has healed.”

A puncture wound that appears to be healed on the surface may be holding back a very dark truth. Just as if we fake being “more healed” in order to make others happy . . . our dark truth is we are carrying the pain in a way that will eventually erupt. For healing to stick it must be true. And for it to be true we have to handle it enough to make it’s edges smooth.

Two days ago I took the bandages off of my puncture wounds. I am going to have a set of nice scars. It looks like a vampire with a crooked smile chomped on my arm. Even without stitches the skin healed together nicely. The edges are raised and red still. There is a hard bump under each. Scar tissue Stacey said. For the most part, though, I think they won’t be very noticeable.

This, too, is common to both. My heart will heal as my arm is. But, I’ll always have a scar. When I run my finger across my arm, there is some pain when I hit the healing wounds, and it’s the same for my damaged heart. I just have to give both injuries time to do so.

At the beginning of this blog I shared my fear that Cecily would have to put down. She doesn’t. I talked to a few people who work with dogs and it was explained to me that the fight wasn’t about aggression. It’s called a “kennel fight” and happens when dogs are stuck together, in small places, and get sick of each other. Like kids. Cecily is an old lady with arthritis and she needs her space. So, I patiently maneuver the animals around so none of them are in tight quarters.

I was also told that this isn’t a situation we can fix. Rather it has to be “managed”. This piece of truth is also applicable to grief and a punctured heart.

We can never fix the death of our child . . . we have to manage it.

Heal yourself, slowly. You deserve it.

 

Standing At The Edge

The day after Becca was killed there was little left of my world. Our world. What remained wasn’t recognizable. I am fairly certain I didn’t see the extent of the damage, initially, because too much debris still hung in the air. It was probably a good thing I couldn’t. The sight would have been catastrophically overwhelming. It takes time for the brain to process the enormity of utter annihilation.

After some time, when the smoke did clear, there was devastation as far as I could see. What was once solid was now rubble. What had existed so completely was simply gone. When I lowered my gaze to the earth beneath me I could see pieces of the ground falling away. I stood on the crumbling edge of a huge crater. And, there was nothing for me to grab to steady myself. Did I really want to, though? A big part of me wanted to tumble into the chasm. But,I chose not to.

Every day, since losing my daughter, has been a variation of that first one.

Upon waking, I swing my legs over the side of the bed and place my feet on the same crumbling edge. As I sit there in the early morning light, I toe the boundary of the massive hole, wondering what I should do.

There are days when the dark swirling depths beckon to me, insistently. I’m mesmerized by the images and sounds calling to me from my life before. They are like a song drifting past my ears. If I stand transfixed for too long . . . I can feel myself slipping. Currents of air flow up from the bottom and toss my hair around me. They feel like hands pulling me down. Unless I want to spiral into the darkness, I have to move. Not just move away from the edge . . . but toward something. Instead of falling . . . I have to rise.

That’s the hard part, isn’t it? Making the conscious effort to move forward because it feels like we are leaving our child behind. I’ve had to find a way to carry Becca with me. Wherever I go. Figuring out how to do this has taken a very long time. Years. It hasn’t become second nature, yet. I still have days when I have no idea how to move in any direction at all, let alone forward. So, I search for ways to be actively working within the world I now inhabit. Doing things that keep Becca beside me.

I was talking to a friend on Sunday about life after child loss. Her boyfriend lost his son two years ago and is, understandably struggling. In the midst of his pain, though, he helped me with a project that I am working on. I know that just as Becca was with me that day . . . his son stood next to him as he built canvases for me. Did the two of them stand side by side, I wonder, arms around each other? Watching their parents come together because of their deaths? Did it bring them any peace to see us working through our pain in this way? It brought me peace. I hope it brought this man peace, too. We both carried our children through the day.

In the past year I’ve gravitated toward painting angels. Not because I am religious.But because when I picture my daughter now, she’s an angel, soaring through the universe on strong white wings. There is an obsession to connecting to and being able to visualize our children now. At least there is for me. (In truth, I ask my sons to send me pictures of their rooms, wherever they are, so I can see/know where they are . . . yeah, so there’s that) I think I try to recreate Becca over and over in the paintings I do of angels. This is how I keep her with me.

The canvases built for me are going to depict my daughter as a 12ft angel. It’s an image I feel driven to create. I’ve shed many tears for this project and it has barely started. It’s going to be healing, I hope, for both myself and my surviving children. And, others.

There is a contentment in finding your way to carry your child. Keep searching for it. I promise it’s there. And, even on the days when you don’t how to move forward . . . believe a reason to keep going will be revealed.

Tomorrow, I know I will awaken and place my feet on the same edge as I did the day before. I’ll hear the murmurings from below. A siren song. I don’t want to crash on the rocks. I have a purpose, for now. I have a way to carry my Becca with me.

Instead of being pulled down, I will let the warm air currents carry me to the skies and I’ll soar.

Maybe, I’ll see Becca!