On Learning to Stand With Death

Yesterday, I met the gentle sorrow of an ailing dog during a euthanasia consultation—a moment that reminded me how deeply intertwined my life has become with the final chapters of living. The owners, having exhausted every avenue—from countless tests at an emergency clinic to multiple veterinarians opinions—faced the heart-wrenching reality that answers might never come. In the end, they chose to let their cherished companion pass peacefully, sparing her further suffering as her condition worsened.

In the quiet that followed their decision, the room filled with a solemn reverence. I stepped away to give the couple space for their private goodbye, while behind the scenes we prepared the paperwork and the medication needed for the procedure. Whether owners stay for every heartbeat of the farewell or depart as the process begins I make the promise to stay with the animal, especially if they leave—ensuring that no creature has to face its final moments alone.

It has been nearly two decades since I lost my daughter—a loss that forced me into an unchosen, lifelong dance with death. I did not decide to walk this path rather I was forced upon it. Death chose me, marking my existence with a sorrow and a solemnity that would forever shape my understanding of loss and compassion. Bringing to the forefront the truth about the fragility of life. 

In the raw aftermath of her passing, I raged against the merciless force that had stolen her from me. A mother’s heart, meant to cradle and protect, was left with an unfillable void—the agony of not being there in her final moments fueled an intense, burning anger.  I would have fought with every fiber of my being to keep her safe, but this turn of fate’s wheel left me powerless, forcing me to confront a reality that I neither selected nor could change.

With time, the sharp edges of my anger softened into a quiet, persistent sorrow. I began to understand that death was not an enemy that could be vanquished, but a part of life’s fragile continuum. We are conditioned to fear death, to see it as a thief that robs us of those we love, but in truth, it is a presence as certain as birth.

It is the final exhale, the closing of a story, a transformation rather than an annihilation. It is not the darkness we assume it to be, but a return to something older than memory itself. 

In everyday tragedies . . . a bird injured by the world’s indifference, a stray cat seeking warmth in my arms, or a beloved pet whose eyes slowly dim . . . I recognize the sacred ritual of letting go. These moments teach me that while death is unyielding, it is also a tender transition, imbued with a dignity that I had once failed to see.

Death is not a singular event, but a process—one that begins long before the last breath is drawn. It is the subtle decline of a once-vibrant body, the softening of a gaze that no longer sees this world, the surrender of tension as the spirit prepares for departure. And in this process, there is a profound need for presence. The act of witnessing, of standing beside another being as they slip away, is not just about comfort—it is an acknowledgment of their life, an assurance that they are seen, valued, and loved until the very end.

I learned that my response to death need not be one of unrelenting fury. While I know I could never offer my daughter the calm and compassionate farewell I now provide for animals, it is in these shared, quiet moments that I have found purpose. Standing beside a creature at the threshold of life and death, I offer them the comfort of not being alone—a small act of grace in an otherwise relentless journey.

This intimate understanding led me to seek certification in euthanasia. Not to seize control over life’s final act, but to ensure that a peaceful, dignified passing is available to those in unbearable pain. I have held trembling bodies as their suffering eased, whispered quiet reassurances as they slipped away, and supported grieving owners with the empathy of someone who has weathered profound loss.

I had to choose how I interpret death. How I relate to it. How it fits into my life. Death is with me everyday and learning to coexist with its presence was necessary in order to survive. 

Death has become my quiet companion, no longer an adversary but a presence I have learned to stand with. I have seen its gentler side—the way it frees the suffering, the way it offers release where medicine no longer can. Yet, even as I have made peace with death in many forms, I remain forever scarred by my daughter’s absence—a loss that will always echo in my heart. Some losses are too vast, too cruel to be reconciled, and hers will always be one of them.

Still, I have learned that while the weight of passing is heavy, it carries within it the quiet dignity of life itself, a reminder that even in our final moments, we are never truly alone. In standing with death, I do not seek to overcome it, but to bear witness to its presence with grace, knowing that to honor the end is also to honor the love that came before it.

Don’t Forget Her – Please

I’ve always wondered what the moments immediately following my daughter’s death were like for her. Was she scared? Confused? Angry? Sad? Maybe all of them. Probably all of them. I can let my mind ponder these things for only so long before I dissolve in tears. Recently, I saw a contest that invited the writer to choose one of five prompts and craft a story around it. I chose a simple prompt: write about someone who is afraid of being forgotten. I knew I could use the question to dig down into losing my daughter, Becca. 

None of us want to be forgotten. Not when we are alive but especially after we die. I started to imagine how Becca would have taken some time, before leaving this plane, to ensure she didn’t easily disappear from people’s thoughts. What would she have done? Who would have mattered to her? How could she affect physical action when she no longer had a corporeal body. A story started to form and I decided to enter the contest with my writing.

Those of you who knew my daughter when she was alive understand when I say she is truly unforgettable. Those who never met her . . . I hope my writing brings her to life for you. 

Below is my piece entered into a Reedsy Prompt Writing Contest.  

“Don’t Forget Her, Please”

In the quiet place between life and eternity, the in-between place dividing then and now, there was a girl named Becca. In life she’d had an infectious laughter and a lightness of spirit. Truly a gift to those who knew her. Where she stood now, there was a solemness and her being felt stuck. Becca had died too young, with dreams left unfinished and a heart heavy with the weight of time she would never have.

She had spent her twenty-three years filling journals with poetry, capturing the world in sketches, and weaving laughter into the lives of those she loved. As she had grown it had felt as if time passed slowly. But in the grand scheme of things, she feared it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t enough to have made a difference in the world, to have left her mark. What was a handful of years compared to the vastness of forever?

Becca stood in the place between, a division of two very different realities, an ethereal landscape of soft lights and whispering winds. A soft humming hung in the air around her. From which side did it emanate? Was it the buzzing of the activity of the living or the soothing, somewhat disconcerting, sounds of timelessness?

She could see the world she left behind, a hazy fragile globe cradled in the hands of the living. Her mother, her twin brothers, and a few close friends—they mourned, they remembered. Becca could feel their pain. But she knew memories were fleeting things, like footprints in the sand, washed away by the tide of time.

“I don’t want to be forgotten,” she whispered to the nothingness around her. The universe didn’t answer. It rarely did.

And so, Becca resolved to make herself unforgettable.

Her first act was to find a way to linger in the minds of those she loved. She watched over her mother, who sat at the kitchen table every night, holding one of Becca’s old notebooks and looking at her daughter’s picture. Guilt gnawed at Becca’s spectral heart. If only she had written more, she thought, left behind more words. She longed to touch the pages again, to whisper in her mother’s ear and tell her to share the poetry with the world.

“Let them see me,” she pleaded, invisible hands brushing over the paper. And somehow, her mother’s hands turned the pages to Becca’s favorite poem. With the line “she was here in the beginning and there in the end – don’t forget her please”. A soft smile touched her mother’s lips as she traced her fingers over her daughter’s handwriting. Becca felt a whisper of relief.

But she needed more.

Becca wandered through the lives of her brothers, whispering old jokes into the air between them, nudging them toward memories they had buried under grief. She slipped into their dreams, crafting moments of their childhood—midnight snacks, summer days spent by Lake Michigan, their yearly Halloween parties where the whole neighborhood celebrated. Slowly, they started talking about her again, as if she were still present, as if she had left more than a fading shadow.

Still, it wasn’t enough.

She turned to the world outside her family, haunting the spaces she once loved. She watched as her best friend, Linda hesitated considered deleting Becca’s number from her phone. Becca felt a moment of panic. That number was a thread connecting her to the world of the living. So, she whispered into Linda’s thoughts, planting the idea of writing down all their adventures. A memoir of sorts— through Becca and Linda’s eyes. And Linda, sensing something more than nostalgia, began to write. As she wrote, her endless tears mixed with moments of laughter and her heart began to heal.

But even that didn’t feel like enough.

In the next moment Becca found herself in her old college library, floating among the shelves where she had spent so many hours. Her plan had been to be a teacher and use art to help children learn. A thought struck her—what if she could leave behind more than memories? What if she could lead people toward the books, she had left her sketches in?

With a determination only the dead could muster, Becca began nudging people toward the forgotten corners of the library, where her sketches were tucked away inside textbooks she had once studied. She watched in quiet joy as strangers stumbled upon her drawings—little pieces of herself scattered through the world. Some took pictures, some smiled and moved on, but the thought that her work might continue to exist beyond her death filled her with a fragile kind of hope.

Still, the fear lingered.

Becca knew she couldn’t stay forever. Spirits weren’t meant to cling to the living world for too long. And so, she made her final effort—an act of quiet defiance against oblivion. She whispered into the hearts of those who knew her, urging them to live boldly, to carry pieces of her within them. She wanted them to chase dreams she never would. To create in ways, she didn’t have the chance to, and to live the life, fully, she no longer had in front of her.

One by one, they listened.

Her mother shared her poetry on a blog she wrote about healing from the loss of a child, where strangers found solace in both of their words. Her brothers took her dreams of travel and embarked on adventures they knew she would have loved. Linda finished the memoir, sharing Becca’s stories with anyone who would listen.

And Becca? She watched it all unfold, a soft presence in the breeze, a shimmer in the corner of their eyes. Eventually, she felt the tug—the quiet call of the beyond, the promise of peace. And though she was afraid, she realized something profound: being remembered wasn’t just about clinging to the past. It was about inspiring others to carry a piece of you into their future.

With that, Becca let go, drifting toward the unknown with a heart that no longer feared being forgotten. She had left enough echoes behind.

And that, she realized, was enough.

On Eighteen Years of Grief

Tonight is the hardest night in my grief journey. The countdown until my daughter dies again has dwindled from months to weeks, then days, and now mere hours. Yet, the number of years since that unbearable night continues to rise. Eighteen years tonight. I can’t stop it.

As the clock creeps past the 2 a.m. mark, on January 21st, the weight of knowing my daughter was breathing her last breath is almost too much to bear.

In those early years after she left this earth, I would stay awake all night, unable to let the moment pass unnoticed. I needed to feel it, to acknowledge it, to be present in my pain as if my awareness could somehow tether her memory to me more securely. As if my being aware of what was about to happen would somehow allow me to stop it. The pain, now, is a different kind of unbearable. I find myself hoping for sleep. Needing unconsciousness to mercifully shield me from reliving those final moments once again because, try as I might, there is nothing I can do. My heart cannot withstand losing her over and over.

The night she was killed in 2007, I had an unsettling feeling that something monumental was about to happen. I didn’t know what it was, but I wish I had. If only I had known, I would have done everything in my power to keep her by my side. To hold her close until the danger passed. I would have protected her. I would have kept her alive.

I woke abruptly from a restless sleep, that night, moments after she died.

Someone had sat gently on the edge of my bed and rubbed my leg, the way she used to wake me. I know it was Becca. I felt the shift in the mattress as her weight pressed down, her familiar touch. She had come to me in that moment, to say goodbye. I know it was her. I will always be thankful she came to me.

Eighteen years have passed, and I still don’t know how I have survived without her. My first true love. My only daughter. Each day feels like forever yet they blur together with a quickness. 

Today, I went through the motions of work, caring for the animals at the clinic while my mind replayed her final hours. She was supposed to go to her grandparents, but when her new computer didn’t arrive on time, she changed her plans. A family friend had called, hoping she could babysit, and I know she would have said yes. So many tiny decisions, so many inconsequential moments that could have, should have, led her away from the place where she died. But instead, they conspired to lead her right to it.

People say, “time heals all wounds,” but I know now that isn’t true. The pain doesn’t lessen; it burrows deeper, intertwining with every fiber of my being. The grief becomes heavier, and though I carry it every day, I will never become strong enough to bear it with ease. My soul remains fractured, an open wound that time cannot and will not mend.

So here I sit, crying as fiercely as I did the moment I learned she was gone. The raw, primal wail of a mother who has lost her child—a sound born from the deepest pits of anguish. I cared for her, I cherished her, and yet someone else treated her with such cruel disregard and stole her from me.

I often strive to offer hope and encouragement in my writing, but tonight, I cannot. Tonight, I am shattered. I am angry. I am a mother who longs to hold her daughter once more, to feel the warmth of her embrace, to hear her laughter fill the room.

Becca, wherever you are, know that you are loved beyond measure and missed in ways words cannot capture. I see you in the delicate hush of dawn, in the soft glow of twilight. Your laughter echoes in the babbling brook, and your voice whispers in the wind as it brushes against my cheek. I search for you everywhere, and I will never stop searching because the truth is, I can never fully accept that you are gone.

On Navigating Grief

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I’m sitting in Denver International Airport as I write this, the echoes of my visit still vivid. I spent three days with my son and his family, meeting my new grandson. Those moments were magical—soft, fleeting reminders of life’s beauty. Yet, yesterday was my deceased daughter Becca’s forty-first birthday, and her absence hovered, both painful and profound.

Every time I find myself in an airport or on a flight, my thoughts turn to Becca. This time was no exception. As the plane ascended into the sky, I watched the edge of the new day breaking on the horizon. A thin, delicate line of pink separated yesterday from today, and in that liminal space, I felt her presence. I imagined her fingertips tracing the soft colors, delicately weaving through the dawn as if waiting for me to draw closer. For a fleeting moment, I felt so near to her that I half-expected her face to materialize just beyond the oval window, smiling in that way only she could.

Flying often feels like being untethered from the weight of the everyday, floating somewhere between earth and eternity. In those moments, I cry. Something about being suspended in the sky, outside of normal time, brings me closer to the everythingness of life. I sink into my thoughts, letting the vastness of the heavens make sense of the tangled grief and joy within me.

This season, my season of deep sorrow, has been especially heavy. My emotions simmer close to the surface, ready to spill over at the slightest provocation. Irritation—whether an emotion or simply a state of being—has overtaken me so often that I’ve had to apologize to those around me. It’s not that I want others to carry my grief; it’s that I feel I will implode if I don’t release it.

As the sky shifted from pink to gold that morning, I silently talked to Becca. I told her where I was heading—though I’m certain she already knew. My sons and I often talk about how we believe she has known my grandchildren before they came into this world. She must have guided them, whispered reassurances to them, and protected them as they prepared for their new lives.

Shortly after her death, Becca visited me in a dream. “Mom,” she said, her voice steady and sure, “I couldn’t do what I planned in life, but I can still do it here.” She told me she was helping children who had crossed to the other side, soothing their fears and uncertainty, just as she had planned to do as a teacher. “I’m still helping children,” she said. It felt so deeply her—her nurturing spirit, her fierce love for others. Knowing this, it makes sense to me that she would guide her brothers’ children as they left her space to enter this realm.

Holding my newest grandson, I marveled at the thought that he had been with her more recently than I had. His calmness carried an echo of her giving spirit, and I feel her presence in the stillness of that tiny moment.

Writing is a strange process for me—so much to say, yet so often, I can’t find the words to do my feelings justice. But in the in-between of travel, when the weight of the everyday lifts, the words sometimes come. I scribbled notes in the airport, trying to transform fleeting thoughts into sentences. Writing demands emotional vulnerability, especially when grappling with grief. It feels like opening a wound that will never truly heal, yet I’m compelled to try.

Flying over the Mississippi River on the final leg of my journey, I watched it stretch below like a living thing, winding and meandering without apparent direction. From the air, the river seemed both chaotic and deliberate, as though its detours were as vital as its course. It reminded me of life—how we imagine it as a straight path but find ourselves pulled in unexpected directions. I thought of Becca, her life like a tributary that veered away too soon, fading into the landscape before it could meet the sea.

We spent her birthday together, my family and I, sharing stories and laughter through our tears. The heaviness of grief became too much at one point, and I excused myself to sleep—a reprieve from the unrelenting sorrow. The passing of time doesn’t ease grief; it sharpens it. Each memory is another act of mourning, a reminder of what was and what will never be.

As night slipped in and pushed the day away, I found solace in the quiet truth that tomorrow would come. Grief remains, but so does the hope carried in each sunrise. Writing this has been its own act of healing, however small.

In sharing our stories, in embracing even the smallest acts of life, we find moments of connection and healing. And perhaps, in some way, we draw closer to those we’ve lost, their love continuing to ripple through us like the great river’s winding path.

I look forward to traveling again soon. When a stream of consciousness flows through my thoughts without direction, and I can experience where I end up and what healing awaits me.

On Years Passing

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hello, 2024.

On Christmas Past

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

On Her Birthday

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shadows and Other Gray Areas

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

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

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

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

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

Like my motivation to write. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Other Becca

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Why?

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

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

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

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

We can do this together.

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