Tag: child loss grief

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.

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. 

Chosen Paths

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

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

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

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

“You just need to keep your mouth shut.”

“You know how he gets when he’s mad.”

“You bring this on yourself.”

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

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

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

Here’s where the past makes itself visible.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I’m at peace on the path I’ve chosen.

A side note:

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

Cookies

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

ON WILDNESS AND TRUST

The summer before last I found myself in the right place at the right time to rescue a gravely injured baby possum. I had turned the last corner, heading home, when I saw a tiny gray creature staggering down the center of the road. My brain took a moment to register what my eyes were seeing. The animal had no face. But it was still moving, blindly, trying to get to safety. I realized that I was the safety it needed. 

I did the only thing I could do. I stopped and picked up the bleeding baby and tucked it into my shirt. Frantically, I called around to find someplace that could give the animal care it so desperately needed. I found the place. Fast forward since that day and I am now a sub

certified wildlife rescuer and transporter for the non profit Wildlife Rehab Center in Grand Rapids, MI. 

Since that day I have had the honor of rescuing, and rehabbing, dozens of birds and other wildlife. I’m getting a reputation around my smallish city as the one to call when there is an animal in need. I always have the time to head out on a rescue. I get to touch and care for vulnerable little creatures who need me. 

This past summer was unbelievably busy with various newborns who were orphaned. I hand fed dozens of Starlings, every two hours, and watched them go from naked little babies into fully feathered adults yearning to fly. There were a few Robins mixed in there, as well as one Cardinal. The last bird I rescued, three weeks ago, was a gorgeous red headed woodpecker. His wing was broken and there was no way to fix it.

There were two foxes. One had a broken leg, probably hit by a car, and she survived! The other, sadly, had distemper and he was euthanized. He was beautiful. All of the animals are beautiful.

I also had three Redtail Hawks! One of them we had to chase down and capture with nothing but a blanket. He was a juvenile and was tired and dehydrated and couldn’t fly. My friend and I followed him around a housing complex until he got himself cornered in a side yard. I was pretty scared as I approached him! He was on his back, wings spread, with his taloned feet clawing at the air. I laid the blanket over him and scooped him like a football and he was safe and transported to the rescue. A little rest and sustenance and he was able to return to the wild. The two other hawks didn’t make it. One had a shattered wing that was not repairable. The other had an old break, which kept it from flying, and he died before I could get him into the rehab’s care. He was starving before I even got him so there was little I could do. My heart was still broken. 

My favorites are the possums! I’ve had the tiniest babies to a big old grandad with a scarred face and missing toes. On one of the hottest days of this year I picked up a deceased momma possum that had a pouch full of babies still attached to the nipples. I can not tell you how bad she smelled as I drove the forty five minutes to the rescue. (I don’t have air conditioning in my van). Time was of importance because the babies can not detach themselves and eventually the milk flowing through the nipples will become toxic and kill them. Baby possums swallow the nipples so they can not just be pulled off or the nipple will break and the baby will choke. I made it to the facility and I was taught how to firmly hold the baby’s head and gently slide the nipple out of its mouth. Then I learned how to tube feed them. 

The tiny ones I don’t care for often. I fill in the gap between weaning and release. This year was my first year in this role and I believe I raised and released 11 (or 12) of them. The only hard part of the process is keeping my hands off of them when they are so small and cute! Their care is minimal as the goal is to keep them wild and fearful of humans. I feed them until they weigh two healthy pounds then I set them free. It is amazingly fulfilling and makes me feel like I am making a difference in the world. A world so full of pain and sorrow.

I had someone recently ask me: why don’t you put this much energy into helping people instead of animals? I mean, they are just animals.

Oh, where to start.

Animals are pure. I can not say that about humans. There are always hidden agendas and ulterior motives. We never know the truth about another person. It’s weird though . . . I will help another person at the drop of a hat. Even though I don’t trust most of them. But, the animals are different. I know they are labeled wild. At least with this kind of wild I know what to expect.

When I was cautiously approaching the Redtail Hawk, cornered in a yard, I knew the danger it posed to me. Its wings were spread as wide as they could be. He was trying to intimidate me with his size. Leathery feet with inch long talons rapidly clawed at the air. I knew they were dangerous and would slice through my skin with little trouble. I also knew he needed help even if he didn’t understand that. But, knowing the truth of the predatory bird’s nature made me careful as to how I approached it. I knew the worst that could happen.

We don’t know those things about people, do we? Each has their own set of behaviors they exhibit as we interact with them. Except these behaviors are not to warn us off but to bring us in closer. These behaviors are not unadulterated but used to garner an intended reaction. There is thought behind them. Most times, I’ve found, these thoughts are to serve the purpose of the person who is performing them. Not all purposes are for the good of both people involved. With this being said . . . how do we trust each other? I don’t know if we ever can.

I can, however, trust the wild animals that I rescue and rehabilitate. They just want to be left alone and survive. They don’t want to size me up and see what they can get from me. They don’t lie. Or hide things. Play mind games to manipulate my feelings. Or, change the rules when they’ve had enough. 

Animals are pure. Their love is genuine. Their needs are simple. 

This is why I choose to help animals. Not over people because I still help my fair share of people. But, with animals: what you see is what you get. I don’t get anything from them in return for my care. I do feel happy that I have helped a vulnerable creature and made a difference in their life. I give them what they need in order to get to the next chapter. I am a better person for it.

I can not say the same about my interactions with most people. I know that sounds sad but until we learn to treat each other with pure intention we can’t fully trust. So, I’ll keep giving my time and attention to some of the most vulnerable creatures on earth. There are thousands of organizations that are set up to help people in need. I will let them do what they do and I’ll stick to chasing hawks and fattening up baby possums. 

There is little chance of me being hurt by a wild animal . . . unless I am careless. 

The picture I shared at the top of this blog is of an injured possum I picked up this evening. The text I received said there was a “neuro possum” that needed to be cared for overnight and transported tomorrow. A probable head injury. He’s not very mobile and would not have been able to get to a warm shelter. Currently, he’s snuggled in clean straw, covered with a towel, in my basement. There is a little dish of water, some dog kibble, and a sliced up banana for him to eat. He is safe and secure and tomorrow my friend will drive him into the rehab center where he will be seen by a vet. 

I carefully lift up the corner of the towel to peek at my patient. Making sure I don’t get my hand too close to his mouth. I know he will bite me so I act accordingly. Yep, I’ll take an animal over most people any day of the week. 

If I get hurt . . .it’s my fault. No one else’s. 

Cecily AKA Big Girl

A decade and a half ago I had to make the difficult decision to have our family dog, Alex, put to sleep. She had tumors growing quickly throughout her abdomen and her legs no longer held her weight. We carried her up and down the stairs at night. Helped her outside every few hours. I would have continued to do this for her but she had no quality of life. So, I made the tough call.

Alex, also a black lab/shep mix, was part of our family before the boys were even born. In fact, she was not a happy puppy when we brought them home from the hospital! She managed to poop on anything of theirs that was on the floor. That’s talent. Eventually, she fell in love with them and they with her.

The final vet appointment with Alex was traumatic. The medicine did not do what it was supposed to do, the staff didn’t handle the situation well, and she suffered in her last moments. It was horrific. Becca was with me, unfortunately, and her heart was broken that her Alex was in pain. After she was gone, as a family, we decided it would be a while before we welcomed another dog.

Then Cecily appeared. She was a small, unwanted “mistake” in the corner of some guy’s garage. I saw her, when I went with a friend to look at a car for sale, shivering on cold cement. She was so small and her head hung down. Of course, me being me, I went over and scooped her up into my arms and held her against my chest. Except for the white chest, and the tips of her toes, she looked a lot like Alex. I reminded myself that we were not getting another dog for a while because we couldn’t replace Alex so easily.

I asked why she was alone in the garage, with no blanket or bowls, and the man replied that she was worthless. His registered black lab female had gotten pregnant by a random german shepherd and the puppies wouldn’t be salable. He’d found homes for the other ones but not this one. Continuing, he said he was going to throw her into the pond behind the garage because he didn’t want her. With this information about her future, I had no choice but to take her with me. I remember thinking, “well, I guess it’s time for another dog”.

I took the puppy. My friend didn’t take the car.

Cecily came home with me during the first year after losing Becca. I thought it might be good for the boys to have another dog to love. I didn’t realize it would be good for me, too. The first few years of Cecily’s life the boys still lived at home. But, they were growing up, spending less time playing in the backyard. Much less time hanging out on the couch, watching TV, because there were weekend activities to attend. Eventually, the time came to graduate and they both left to go to college. In retrospect, I realize that I was not easy to be around during this time, either. I imagine it was much easier for them to stay away from home and I completely understand why. That left Cecily and I alone . . . together.

Those first months, after the boys left, I plunged back into deep grief. Terror consumed me. I kept my children alive while they lived at home. Did I just allow them out into society to be killed, too? Matthew was a few hours north of me and Gabriel was south by an hour. Too far away if they needed me. Did they even love me anymore? They were so eager to get away from me. Our home. I found it impossible to keep all of the negative thoughts and difficult emotions at bay. Renewed depression clutched my life and I gave in and let it take hold. I didn’t care anymore. The best days of my life were over and I was just riding time until my life was done.

Then, Cecily.

I knew I had to make her life good because I was all she had. I would like to be able to say that I snapped out of it and we were good from there on out. It didn’t happen that way. Slowly, I started to include her in more of what I did. My life started to revolve around her instead of just “making it through another dark day”.

We started to take a walk every night. Which turned into two walks day. The walks were no longer just for her to relieve herself. Instead, they were “sniff walks” where we just meandered around to where the interesting smells pulled her. This forced me to be out in the fresh air more often and for longer periods. When I got a vehicle we took trips to different parks because, I told her, there would be so much more to smell than in our neighborhood. When I started to sleep in my bed again (I slept on the couch for a very long time) she jumped up and slept with me every night. Instead of eating while standing in the kitchen, because the table we’d shared family meals at was too difficult to sit at alone, I ate at the end where her food bowl was. We ate together.

All decisions I made were based around what was best for her. It is easier, sometimes, to care for another when you can not care for yourself. And, in caring for her . . . I began to do the same for myself. She actually did want me to be better. Cecily helped me to slowly re engage in life. She loves me unconditionally and I love her in the same way. She is my big girl.

Last week, she and I, took a hit.

During her yearly dental cleaning and physical the vet found a large lesion under her tongue. I was sitting in Denny’s when the photograph popped up in my text messages. I was devastated. Instantly, I started to cry as I sent a reply to the vet’s question as to whether I wanted a biopsy or not. I declined. The cost is much more than I can afford at this time. In my head I was screaming NO! This could not be real. Not my Cecily. It’s not time. I’m not ready for her to be gone. The vet went on to explain that it could be a lesion or cancerous but we wouldn’t know unless we had the biopsy done. A small piece was taken and stored for future testing if I decide to do so.

Getting this information was four days before the date of my daughter’s death. At that moment my mind began to shut down. When I am completely overwhelmed my mind clicks off right after it tells me it’s going to go into sleep mode. I drove to my friend’s, Stacey, job and she let me sleep in an empty room at her facility. (She’s a nurse in a medical rehab center.) I slept hard for a few hours then woke and left to pick up Cecily.

I cried the entire ride home. I told her I was sorry and that I loved her. During that ride I made the decision that I would not have the sample biopsied because it does not matter. Not now.I won’t put her through invasive, painful, or lengthy treatments. My girl is twelve. She is happy and well loved. Her life, though not perfect in the beginning because of me, has been wonderful in the past years. I will make sure the remainder of her time, as long or short as it may be, is filled with the same.

Cecily is a tie to Becca. One of the few physical ones I have left. Big girl came into our life when I was in the early throes of grief. Though I know when it is time for her to go I will be there and help her . . . I am not ready.

Right now, she is laying behind me on two fluffy blankets, licking peanut butter out of her Kong. She stops long enough to look at me when I tell her she’s my favorite girl. I want this forever.

Big girl: you help heal me and I love you with all my heart.

 

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.

Both

In Michigan, we are lucky enough to enjoy all four seasons. Though some years, it seems, that we are hurried through one of them by Mother Nature’s insistence to hurry on to the next. Winter has always been my favorite season of the four. For two very different reasons.

First, I absolutely loved snow days when the kids were home from school. The outside world, and all its problems, didn’t matter for a while. There was nothing to worry about except what was right in front of us. The pure whiteness of the fresh snow begged the children to go outdoors. I’d spend about half an hour bundling them all up from head to toe then send them out the front door. Becca always seemed to come in before her brothers were ready. Little kids seem to endure cold temperatures much better than those who are older. When they did finally give in to the elements they’d come inside with sopping wet clothes and wind chapped cheeks. Becca would help them get out of their snow stuff as I made hot cocoa for all of us. Somehow, they would be sweaty under their clothing, their hair curly from the moisture and their hats, and they’d wrap their small hands around warm mugs. Sometimes, they even had whipped cream with peppermint sticks to stir their drink!

When they were very young . . . a nap usually followed an afternoon of outdoor fun. Little ones can endure the cold but when they get back into the warmth of indoors they tend to become drowsy. They’d fall into a deep sleep, bellies full of chocolate and faces sticky from the peppermint candy. Becca might take a nap, too. Or if I was really lucky she’d nestle up next to me on the couch and we’d watch a movie cuddled together under a blanket.

As they boys grew older, naps tended to fall away from favor, and I’d often be able to cajole them into a game or two. Our family has only two games we play together. Yahtzee, which I absolutely love . . . and Sorry! which generally ends in a fight because Gabriel hates how Matthew counts the squares by tapping his finger. And, I think Matthew might aggravate his brother on purpose. We STILL talk about it to this day!

Snow days, when we were all home together, were perfect every single time.

The second reason I prefer winter over any other season is because the outer world matches my inner self. Not icy, though I’ve been accused of that a few times in the past. But rather, I am not all sunny and happy and full of fun. Even before Becca’s death I wasn’t. Winter just matches me. It makes sense. Isolation isn’t seen as something bad when everyone is stuck inside of their homes. The beach isn’t full of throngs of people – every one of them having the best day of their lives. Michigan is beautiful in each season though summer here is the one that is talked about the most. It seems almost taboo to not be full of life during this time of the year. In winter, no one is insisting that you “come to the beach” or “come out on the boat” or “we’re having a campfire”. Fun things, yes, but hard for a bereaved mother to enjoy when all she can think of is her own child missing out.

Summer isn’t me. Winter is my time. The quiet solitude of the lake, beach, and forests. The coldness in the air is sharp. Images, in front of my eyes, seem clearer and more focused. I feel more alive. More at peace. Calm. This is the space for introspective and contemplative thinking. The darkness that comes as night falls earlier across the land lulls me into a dream like state. My thoughts have endless hours to chase each other and form themselves into something with weight. There is time to poke and prod and investigate what my soul is trying to tell me. The world, covered with a blanket of snow, is quiet enough for me to hear them. Still enough for me to listen. I find myself to be most creative during these coldest months of the year.

But, with the turn of the seasonal wheel, winter brings my most difficult days. The holidays are hard, for sure, but I have my own personal important dates mixed in with them, too. I’ve often said this time of year is like being in a boxing ring for me. Though I try to prepare, one hit after the other lands on me with stunning accuracy. Halloween marks the beginning of the match and Feb. 1 is the ringing of the final bell. Roughly every two and a half weeks during that period I am gut punched and I fall to my knees. Barely on my feet . . . another punch sends me to the mat.

Interestingly, my favorite season is also my most painful. I guess, in an odd way, this makes perfect sense. The deepest love I have in this life, that which I hold for my children, also causes me the most intense pain. With great light comes great darkness.

I guess that is the truth of the world. Without warmth would we know what cold actually felt like? Sorrow isn’t as deep when we don’t have the joy to measure it against. Life isn’t as precious unless we know the void left by losing it. We grieve as deeply as we love. It’s the price of being human.

So, here’s to winter. It blew in last night appearing to have every intention of staying for a while. I am joyful to know the world matches my soul again and will rejoice in the beauty it brings. The love I have for my deceased child will be matched with intense anguish that is brought to the surface during these icy days.

Beautifully painful. Or painfully beautiful.

I imagine . . . it’s both.