bereaved mother – Page 4 – Words Can Express

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 31^st 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 24^th doing anything but going to bed early not feeling excited for the arrival of the 25^th. 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.

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.

Cookies

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dreams Fulfilled

Last week I made a dream of my daughter’s come true.

I stood in front of a class at a local high school as a “teacher”. A visiting artist, actually. I spent three days, an hour each day, leading the students in a watercolor demonstration. Nervous initially I ended up enjoying myself, immensely.

Upon graduating from high school my daughter decided she wanted to attend Grand Valley University. Her major: criminal justice. The reason: she thought Scully was cool. For those of you who don’t who Scully is . . . she is the female FBI agent and partner, to the X-Files Mulder. Becca liked the suits Scully wore, her “accessories” i.e. gun, handcuffs, smart mind, and her close proximity to Fox Mulder.

Becca’s freshman year courses changed her mind about going into law enforcement, though. She said to me: “Mom, did you know that officers lay their hand on the back window of a car they are approaching at a traffic stop in case something goes wrong? Then there will be proof that the car, and people, were involved in whatever happened.” That terrified me. It scared her as well. She decided to change her major, slightly, to work with kids within the system.

This was the path she walked for a few semesters. Then came a moment, actually working with kids for a class, when she changed her major again. Becca said, “Mom, it’s heartbreaking. It’s like once kids get into the system for being in trouble they rarely get out again. I’d rather work with kids when they are young. When I can help them get onto a course in life that will keep them out of trouble.” Once again, her major changed.

She decided to pursue a degree in early elementary education. It was a perfect fit for my girl! She was often the “go-to” for parents looking for a good babysitter. One of her jobs, while attending college, was at a daycare center. She absolutely loved the children. Her job, when she was killed, was as a nanny for a little boy. My daughter, my Becca, would have changed the lives of any child she encountered positively. Of this, I have no doubt.

Last week, as I stood in front of the class, I thought of my daughter. A future that could have been, SHOULD have been, rushed in. How would she have decorated her classroom? Would her students love her? Would she, as she always planned, be working in a bilingual school? What would be her favorite part of being a teacher? Would I be a visiting artist in front of her students?

All of these thoughts made my head swirl. I silently stopped myself from spinning out of control.

Diane, I told myself, you are standing exactly where your daughter wanted to be standing. Exactly where she should be standing. Don’t think about the should haves, might haves, could haves . . . those will paralyze you. Think about Becca. She’s with you. She’s here. Do this for her. Don’t waste this chance to fulfill a dream of hers, momma. Do this for your girl.

So, I did. I did it for both of us.

I stood up and confidently told the class about myself. The art teacher, Danielle, shared pictures of my work. She showed two pieces I had in a local art competition. Both of them are about losing Becca. Then, for my daughter and myself, I jumped right into the demonstration. It wasn’t until the three days were finished that I broke down to cry.

I cried for my girl who never got to fulfill her own dreams. My tears are for the children who will never know her love. I will always believe the world dimmed and is a lesser place because of her absence. I sobbed because I should NOT be the one who realizes her dreams. I cried until there were no more tears that night.

When you are a bereaved mother there is always another side to the joyous moments in our life. It’s inevitable that the “other side” balloons up and insists we pay attention. We just try to do it in private because, often, outsiders don’t understand how there is so much sadness entwined with joy. This is our existence . . .until we are no longer.

I’ll take the sad with the happy, any day. Every day. It means I am living life and carrying my Becca, through it, with me.

Below are the pieces of art I talked about in this blog.

Artprize 2018

Artprize 2015

The watercolor done during the demonstration last week.

Yesterday, Today, Tomorrow

Today is here. The thirteenth January 21st since my daughter was killed. Just over a dozen years since I’ve seen my beautiful girl. Some days it feels like she died yesterday. Others, it’s lifetimes ago. Today . . . it’s both.

Each “anniversary” seems to be more manageable. And, I hate that.

Being a grieving mother is to live a life full of dichotomies. Darks and lights. Yesterdays that we hold onto with a white knuckled grip and tomorrows which we have no choice but to face without our child.

Laughing when we really want to cry.

Living when we sometimes want to die.

Experiencing new things when we’d give anything to go back to the old.

Keeping calm when others tell us to “move on”.

Taking part in everyday activities when we’d rather just cocoon in bed.

This brings me to an important point. Outsiders (non bereaved people) do not know how strong a grieving mother really is deep inside. We may look like we are wallowing but believe me . . . we are not. The hardest healing work we need to do is that which is inside of us. Physically going through our days is exhausting, yes, but the internal struggle to find peace in the midst of the war that’s waging within us is unceasing.

I wake up tired.

However, I wake up. I get up. I go about my day. I work. I care for others around me. And, every single grieving mother I know does the same. That is true strength. We show up. For ourselves, each other, and you. I need people to know that about us.

This brings me to something I said above. I hate that each year becomes easier. Yes, it’s because I am strong (and I have no choice) BUT I feel as if losing my Becca should never be acceptable. That is part of the conflict within myself.

So, I walk that line between yesterday and tomorrow. Light and dark. What was and what will be.

About this time, thirteen years ago, I was on my way to tell the boys that their sister had been killed. I was in a weird time between when she was alive and her being dead. And, I had to shatter their world.

Today I will remember my daughter. Her laugh, love, smile, intelligence, beauty, sense of humor, strength, and amazing spirit.

I love you, Becca, forever.

So It Begins (Too Early)

The first snow fell today. Intermittent flurries of fat white flakes mixed with cold as ice rain. I was about half way through a forty-five minute drive and taking my time travelling the slippery highway. The radio station was playing a decent mix of 80’s hits . . . to which I sang at the top of my voice. Complete with what my daughter would call “car dance moves”. She had some very good ones!

Since seeing a cartoon, earlier today, of two little kids dressed in costumes – but covered with coats, hats, scarves, and mittens because of the snow, I couldn’t stop thinking about an 11 year old Becca on a Halloween long ago.

The weather was much like this . . . with more snow. Her red and white cheerleader costume was covered with her puffy winter coat. I coaxed her into wearing mittens, a hat, and scarf. She wasn’t happy. At each house she insisted on removing all of it to show her costume to the person passing out candy. Just her and I traipsing through the frozen slush. By the time we got home, her voice was hoarse and her cheeks were red and wind chapped. But it didn’t matter because she had fun!

There’s been a lump in my throat since I thought of her, then, this morning. Writing this down has brought forth the tears which have threatened to spill all day. I knew it was bound to happen. The tears coming at some point. Because, Halloween has always been the start of “the holiday season” for us.

So this evening, as I was driving home through the snow, I let myself get lost in the lyrics from four decades ago. I’d just finished a rousing sing-along to “Don’t You Forget About Me” by Simple Minds when the station announced that tomorrow they would be starting ‘the all Christmas music all the time’ for the season. My forced good mood evaporated like the snowflakes hitting the warm windshield.

November 1 to December 25 is an awful long time to hear Christmas carols. Especially when the season ushers in renewed pain for those who are grieving the loss of their child. Nearly two months of joy thrust in our direction. Seven weeks of anticipated celebration. Fifty five days of being reminded our family is one less this year. One less if we are lucky. I know a woman who lost two of her daughters in one crash. I can’t imagine.

I say this every year: I HATE that the holiday season starts earlier each year. The stores try to get us to buy more – buy bigger – buy it all. Hobby Lobby had Christmas items for sale in September! That’s just ridiculous. Greed and materialism drive this time of year. There is no time for sadness! Yet, sadness still exists for many of us.

October 31 is the official start of my yearly personal boxing match. It lasts until the end of January. There are seven difficult dates sprinkled across that length of time. Halloween, Thanksgiving, the boys birthday, Becca’s birthday, Christmas, New Year’s Eve, and the date of my daughter’s death. Spaced every two to three weeks. I barely have time to survive one when another is looming on the calendar. Punch after punch lands squarely on my body and by the time mid January comes around I’m never sure I will survive another 21st. Yet, somehow I do.

For those who have not suffered the loss of a child, please know, we try . . . we really do.

We don’t want to diminish your joy during this season. Or expect you to change what you do because of our loss. Be happy! Sing! Celebrate! Do all of the things we used to do when our family was whole. I know I am jealous I don’t experience the complete happiness I used to before losing Becca. We are happy you don’t understand the pain of an unused Christmas stocking – still hung every year – that once was filled candy canes and chocolate. It’s nearly unbearable.

To the bereaved mommas out there: I see you.

Hiding your tear stained face as you walk past the Christmas decorations for sale in every store. Gritting your teeth as you listen to “It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year…” for the millionth time this week alone. Reaching for something that you know your child will love . . . only to remember they aren’t here to receive it. Buying it anyway because you need to continue to give them gifts. Folding your empty aching arms as you watch a small child climb into Santa’s lap. Sobbing into your pillow at night to release the pain you held inside all day. I see you. I am you.

Be gentle with yourself. Be kind to each other. Feel joy when you can. Let the pain be felt, too. It comes from a place of deep love and is a natural emotion stemming from child loss. Join the festivities if you can and don’t be hard on yourself when you can’t. Reach out if you need me.

And, just breath.

Creating A Wall

For the first time, I’ve been asked to write about one particular aspect of child loss. How we seem to push others away. I hope I can answer the question, fully, posed to me. This is written using my own experience and those others have shared with me. I always hope those struggling with child loss will find a trained professional who is equipped with the knowledge and tools to help them.

There are so many things that bereaved parents share on this path. Yet, each of our experiences is completely different. Grief is as individual as a fingerprint. Even two people, who have lost the same person, will have their own unique journey. Yet, there are enough similarities that we can recognize where another person is. The subject I’ve been asked to write about is very important because if we don’t recognize it . . . it can destroy us.

All bereaved parents seem to have, at some point, the propensity to push others away from us. The reasons we do this are varied and complex. It’s done both knowingly and without insight. There are times when we can see that we are engaging in this behavior. When we do, we can work through our isolating tendencies with help, so we don’t add more pain to an already anguished situation. Other times, sadly, we don’t see what our actions are doing to those around us, and more importantly, to ourselves.

Over the years, since losing my child, I’ve realized that I had to identify who I was after her death. After the “dust had settled” and life around me went back to everyone else’s normal, mine didn’t. The person I was before no longer existed. Not only did I have to find myself – I had to figure out how I fit into a world that was new to me. I was not a mother to a living daughter anymore. I was the mother of a deceased daughter. An identity I didn’t want and had no idea how to wear. I railed against this change in my who I was.

Please understand: It is going to take us an extremely long time to accept and become comfortable in our new life. We DO NOT want this life we were forced into when our child died. The time it takes for a bereaved parent to come to terms with the death and find peace surrounding it will be different for everyone. Sometimes, it never happens for the person. But, it will be on our personal timetable, no one else’s, and we have to do the work. The tricky part is knowing what work we need to do. There is no “one size fits all” guide.

The simple answer to why we push people away is: vulnerability.

We don’t, as a society, know how to be vulnerable and not feel weak. Instead, we feel as if we are failing when we show emotion, somehow. Especially, men. Vulnerability leaves us open and raw. There is always the chance we will be hurt more. So, we build that wall . . . we push away our family . . . before they have the chance to cause more pain. We are putting a boundary between us and the outside world.

I did this to my twin sons. One of the first blinding insights I had the day Becca was killed was that if something happened to them, I would never survive it. At that moment, I didn’t even know if I was going to survive losing her. So, I told myself I couldn’t love them as much as I did. I had to pull back and create a safe space. I felt relieved when they went to their dad’s because to look at their horrified and tear streaked faces caused my heart to break even more. And, loving them might kill them. Forcing distance between us could keep them safe, and would certainly help me, my fractured mind rationalized. Without the insight of a calm mind I thought we needed a physical separation. Therefore, I allowed it to happen. It was an attempt to protect myself.

Pushing people away, however, happens in non physical ways, too.

Most often, I think, anger sprouts from pain. If we trace the root system backward, and underneath, we usually find it to be true. It is hard to see pain, for what it is, when you are immersed in it. Like trying to gauge the immensity of the ocean when we are at the lowest point between two waves.

When children are little, and don’t have the words to adequately express what they are feeling, they act out. I’m not sure it isn’t the same for adults who don’t have a way to communicate the mass of feelings they are carrying after their child dies.

Responsibility, which can will lead to shame and guilt, when you look behind it. If you don’t take anything away from this blog but the next sentence, then it will still be worth reading. It does not matter if we were with our child at the time of their death, or not, we do feel responsible.

The one job we have as a parent is to protect our child. Our deceased child’s age does not matter, nor does how far away from us they were in the world: wherever, whatever, however, we should have been able to see it and stop it. I was not in the car Becca was killed in. I was not the driver. I didn’t serve the driver alcohol that night. I was home. Asleep. Powerless.

Yet. If my daughter hadn’t seen me go out dancing on the weekends, maybe she wouldn’t have thought it alright to do. If she’d never seen me drink . . . maybe she wouldn’t have ended up at the bar that night. Ridiculous, right? See how easily we can twist facts until we are solely responsible for their death.

Then, sometimes we may actually hold some responsibility. How do we even start to work through that? I am close to someone who believes she owns a portion of the responsibility for her child’s death. Whether she does, or does not, her perception is what matters most. It is the heaviest of weights to believe we caused our child to die. Somehow, we have to figure out how to put it down or it will drive us into the dirt.

To feel we could have saved them, but didn’t, makes us feel powerless, now. All of this emotion has to go somewhere. Either we destroy ourselves or those around us. Usually . . . a bit of both.

The guilt that is coupled with holding responsibility can be debilitating. With the guilt comes the shame. We feel shame in failing. In being part of the circumstances that led to our child dying. We may feel shame at some of our behaviors in the months that follow a child’s death.

These three things: responsibility, guilt, and shame are braided together so tightly – they are sometimes impossible to break because of the strength in which they give to each other. I think this might be one of the hardest aspects of grief to unwind and figure out.

The next part of parental grief I want to talk about is the “others”. The outsiders. The people around us who don’t know what to say, what to do, and often don’t realize they’ve said something which lands like a punch. When this happens to us enough times . . . we don’t allow ourselves to get into situations in which pain is added to us. People say stupid things not knowing any better. Sometimes they do know better yest say it anyway. We lose some friendships. Some relationships because the chasm between us and them is just great to cross.

Seeing intact, happy families, can be unbearable for a bereaved parent’s broken heart. I would time going to the store, late at night, so there was less chance of running into any families. Anger would swell up quickly when I saw mothers and daughters together. Rage. Jealousy. I wanted my child and I would never have her again. I hated the mothers who still had their daughters. Hated. I felt rage toward everyone and everything. I didn’t know where to put the hostility. So, I just stopped being around people.

After our child’s death, after the funeral, we will run into people that we are seeing for the first time since the passing. Of course, they will pay condolences and we have to re answer questions surrounding the whole thing. It’s exhausting. Immediately, we are shoved back into the first days and we relive, and reignite, the deep burning pain. We don’t have to survive these encounters if we just hibernate and see no one.

Other people’s expectations of what grief is often wrong. It’s not neat. It doesn’t run along a straight path. Dealing with A does not lead to B, and so on. The “stages of grief” that people know and expect us to follow is unrealistic. I had a woman call me just months after Becca was killed and asked: are you done crying yet? I blew up at her. After the passing of some time and with a lot of self evaluation I have come to understand what a question like this truly does.

It made me feel like I was failing in how I was grieving. I wasn’t “getting over it” quickly enough. Was I wallowing in self pity?” What was wrong with me? Why couldn’t I grieve right?? Truthfully, to this day, I feel as if I’m not far enough along. When we feel judged, whether we can verbalize it or not, we pull away. It’s easier to just be alone.

Being alone can be easier. We don’t have to fake anything for anyone. We aren’t able to understand the maelstrom of emotions that have taken over our minds, yet, we react to them anyway. Sometimes, we even create situations that will force others to leave us. In an attempt to to protect ourselves. Or, to punish ourselves when we feel responsible for our child’s life ending.

The only thing we can do, to help ourselves and others, is to identify why we are isolating and pushing others away. Identify and find the help we need to do the work in order to start truly healing. If we don’t . . . we risk the chance of never finding happiness again. Of losing relationships with those we love. Of never healing.

And, our child wouldn’t want that for us.