death of a child – Words Can Express

On Eighteen Years of Grief

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

On 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.

Everyone Has a Grief Journey

While out driving, going about normal my daily activities, I noticed a line of cars parked in St. Mary’s Cemetery. The sun, which has been covered with clouds for days, was out and it glinted off the cars as I passed by. It wasn’t until the flashing of the sunlight stopped that I noticed a group of people at a graveside. They stood in somber colored clothing, huddled together, under the bare branches of huge trees. The dark gray tips of the branches looked as if they were reaching toward Heaven.

How appropriate, I said to myself.

A thought entered my mind: I wonder if any of them are looking at me driving by? Is one of them wishing that their life was as it had been just days before this one? Did one of them want to trade places with me . . . seemingly going about my business . . . instead of standing at the edge of a newly dug grave into which their loved one had been lowered into already? Or, more probable, were they so consumed in the fog that grief brings that they don’t even notice what’s happening around them.

When I found out with certainty that my daughter WAS the young woman who had been zipped into the black body bag (a weird thought just slipped in between my words: are the bags reused?) it had still been dark out. It was “still the night she had been alive in”. When the sun came up that morning, as I was going to tell her twin brothers that their sissy had been killed, I realized I was in the first day that didn’t include her alive. The sun, bright on that January morning, pissed me off. How could it come up like everything was the same as it had been yesterday??

Briefly and painfully, the fog of grief that had settled upon me parted and I saw beyond my existence. Others were driving by in their own cars. Heading to who knew where but probably somewhere they went every day. “I want that again!” I screamed. “I want yesterday!! I want Becca!!”

Rage slid into the space where the fog had parted.

How, I thought to myself, did the sun still fucking rise? The world should have stopped spinning. Everything had changed. Why didn’t others see it? My daughter is dead – how are you going to work? My child was killed – you can’t laugh. My daughter is gone – why is your child in the car with you?? My entire life had shifted sideways. Some things were the same . . . but forever different. I didn’t know it then, that first morning, but I would spend years trying to find a place where I fit in again. Truth be told, there was a long time I didn’t want to fit in at all so wanting to find a place didn’t come until much later.

Seeing the funeral today brought me right back to the feeling of isolation and utter aloneness I felt after Becca’s death. This time of year, so close to the date of her death, these emotions are closer to the surface anyway. It doesn’t take much to have the thin skin covering them ripped open and allow them to bleed out.

Just as quickly, I thought, the group of people in the cemetery are starting their own grief journey. Who, in their life, had died? Was it the expected death of a beloved elderly person who lived a long life full of love? An unexpected death of a young person who still had years ahead of them? Was it cancer that stole a future? Or, violence? Was the coffin small enough to hold the little body of a child? Maybe the final resting place for grandma, lined with her favorite color, in which she could spend eternity? I won’t know the answer. What I do know is this: another grief journey has started and they have a long road ahead of them.

I bristle when someone compares the death of their loved one (spouse, parent, sibling, pet) to the death of my child. Though the death of a parent, for example, brings so much with it . . . it is not the same as losing a child. And, it never will be. No other death compares.

Yet, I know that any death brings with it intense sorrow and only feeling the grief will begin the healing. Healing from a death is difficult. Healing from the death of child is near impossible. But, we can all be there for each other when we allow ourselves to be vulnerable to another’s pain.

As I drove home tonight, past the same cemetery, the sun had sunk below the horizon. The cars were gone and there was no one around that I could see. What a different scene from the one I saw earlier.

The trees, however, still reached for Heaven.

Say Her Name Please

I had a moment today, the kind that brings you to your knees, while I was at work. I am pretty sure I hid it well as no one asked me if I was ok. In truth, I physically stumbled as images tumbled through my mind. One connected to the next . . . going in and out of focus so quickly it made me feel nauseous. A sweet memory of a three year old Becca followed too quickly by the truth that she is dead. Nearly every thought a grieving mother has is punctuated by the truth of their child’s death.

When my daughter was three I rushed her to the doctor with a horrible rash around her mouth. I was frantic to find out what had caused it and if she was in serious danger! Had she eaten something poisonous? Burned herself somehow? Nothing made sense but I knew the circular red rash around her lips had to be examined. I remember crying in the waiting room as my toddler looked up at me with concern. Sweet girl . . . she was worried about me when she was the one who was sick! This made me cry even harder.

As the doctor examined her face he asked me questions. Were all the cabinets child proofed at home? Had she been left alone for any amount of time? Did we have a pet she might be allergic to? Was there a fall recently? None of those things were a factor in her condition. Then I remembered something. Relaxing a bit I shared it with the doctor.

“That explains it then,” he said, “your daughter has given herself a hickey around her mouth!”

The night before, Becca had been in the tub playing. Toys floated around her, and so did the cup I used to rinse her hair after I’d washed it. I’d often read, sitting next to the bathtub, while she played. At one point, I’d looked at her and she had the rinse cup suctioned onto her face, over her chin. I laughed at her and told her she was being silly! I also told her not to drink any of the bath water but I’m pretty sure she did.

Relief flooded me when I realized what had happened. After her nightly bath, I’d tuck her into bed under her Care Bear blanket, and say good night. The hickey must have darkened somehow, or I didn’t notice it in the dim light, either way . . . it wasn’t apparent until the next day. And then, of course, I panicked.

The image of my beautiful little girl with the creamy skin and red raspberry mouth and chin flashed into my mind today, out of nowhere. I don’t know what caused this memory to shake loose and float to the surface this afternoon. The happiness that was attached to the image, and the reminder of the relief I felt years ago hearing she was going to be alright, swerved into devastation when I remembered that not every situation turns out this way. I can no longer trust that “everything is going to be ok” because that last time . . . it wasn’t.

The days when I could see my children tucked snugly into bed, under my care, safe from the world are gone. No more can I kiss their boo-boos and make them all better. Kisses can’t fix some things. Moms should be able to make everything better, always. We know we can’t. And sadly, bereaved mothers have the proof.

Today’s experience of having the memory and following it to the end was a quick process. Bam, bam, and boom. She was three, beautiful, and full of giggling life. In seconds, she went from a toddler to my deceased daughter. I felt like a tennis ball, lofted into the air to be slammed back to the ground almost immediately. Soaring for a few exquisite seconds. What incredible seconds they were.

It’s like that though, as I said earlier, every memory is ended with the period of their passing. Thoughts all end the same. With identical punctuation. In grammar, a period is defined as being “placed at the end of a declarative sentence indicating a full stop”. My daughter wasn’t done writing the sentence the toddler in her had started.

And I wasn’t done reading her story.

When you think about Becca tonight, and I hope you do, please think of the giggling precocious little girl who smelled of sunshine and maple syrup. The small child who kept us all laughing. My daughter, the one who first taught me what true love really is.

Say her name for me . . . and smile.

The Old Moon Asked

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Again.

And again.

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

Be Still

No day will ever be perfect with my child gone. But, the painful truth is . . . some come close. Sunday was one of those days. Yet, I felt guilt in feeling content. I know I shouldn’t but I felt like I was betraying my daughter. I had to give myself permission to be happy.

Lake Michigan has always had a pull to me. Not because of the usual beach activities, though. It’s one of the few places I’ve been that I can feel spirit. Not spirits. But the creator spirit. I can feel the connection between everything. I believe it’s the closest I come to going to church.

Sunday afternoon, as Stacey walked way ahead of me along the water’s edge, I realized how quiet it was. So quiet, in fact, that it stunned me. Then I realized the quietness wasn’t because there was no noise. There was no man made noise. Because, when I stood still enough I could hear the world!

First, just one noise crept in: the ice cracking as the water rose and fell with gentle waves. Then, to my right . . . not only could I see the tops of the trees swaying, I could hear the creaking of the branches! The wind carried the cries of far off seagulls, ones I couldn’t see, to my ears. I kept thinking: this is what it must have been like hundreds of years ago when the Native Americans lived on this land. Very peaceful. I felt completely content. It was amazing.

One thought jolted me back to my reality: you are a horrible mom!! How can you feel content? Your daughter is DEAD. Shit. The voice was right. I am horrible. I have no right to feel content. Is Becca up there, somewhere, broken hearted because I am happy without her??

Then, I felt a presence beside me. Within me. My own soul. I felt her embrace. Her warmth. The understanding that flowed over and through me was electrifying. My soul, my shattered and tattered soul, was knitting itself back together. She wanted me to understand a simple truth. She didn’t tell me to toss the guilt aside. She knew it was part of child loss. She encouraged me to embrace it. The epiphany: the bad comes with the good and all are needed to make my journey complete.

I bought a sign a few years ago. It read “it is well with my soul”. When I saw it, I was having a halfway decent day and my mood was relatively good. I felt pride in being able to accept joy even if only for a moment. I thought, enough time has passed for me to be able to feel healing within myself. The sign resonated with me so I brought it home. Every day it was a reminder to find and feel the happy that still existed everywhere.

But, I was only getting part of the message.

The happy times can not be the only ones that make our soul full. Though important, they can’t be what we base our soul’s health upon. Our soul must accept the bad, too. To fight against it, to deny it, just creates chaos within.

Acceptance is difficult, believe me, I know. For a long time acceptance, to me, was the same as saying what happened is alright. My uncle molesting me will never be alright, but I’ve accepted it’s what happened. I’ve accepted that my childhood was stolen and I can not go back and change it. The same for the premature death of my daughter. Her life was taken by another. This will NEVER be ok with me, but I have to accept it in order to find some peace. I think, somehow, by accepting these horrible truths, by making the battle with them smaller, we make room for happiness to flow in.

I am grateful that the sounds of the beach were natural and pure enough to let me my soul speak. Or maybe it was divinity that I heard. Maybe it was both as we are all pieces of the divine, aren’t we?

As I waited for Stacey to come back to where I was, I lowered myself onto a large piece of driftwood, and turned my face toward the late winter sun. The waves had picked up and the wind had stiffened. Faraway honks, of Canadian geese heading north, floated down through the thin air. I stretched my legs out in front of me and dug my fingers into the cold sand. A sigh of contentment escaped my lips.

We need these moments. We deserve them. Our child wants us to have them. Divinity does, too. Knowing all of this, I can say:

It is well with my soul.

Becca, Always

What would you do if it was your last day on earth? If you knew it was your last . . . would it change how you spend it? Does it make you stop, and think, when you realize one small change in your plans could set you on a path from which there was no return? Do the events of the future, lock into place, seconds before they happen? My mind is a jumble of unanswerable questions, tonight. A tight knot of facts and wishes and questions.

What was Becca doing, eleven years ago, at this time? This year, the date matches up with the actual day. This, somehow, makes the living her, feel closer. Achingly within my reach. Like time has folded, and she’s closer than ever. There is a tightness in my chest as the clock creeps closer to “the minute” and I know I have no way of reaching through and saving her.

Eleven years ago, I was working at a restaurant, waiting tables. I am unsure what time I started to feel the heaviness, that told me, life was going to change forever. I don’t know, at what point, Becca’s life turned toward her death. What was the hour that the drunk driver’s decisions turned him into my daughter’s path? Were they entwined from the very beginning? He, born in another country, became the deliverer of her death when he immigrated here? Did I put her, squarely in his path, when I decided not to release her to adoption? Why do I need to know??

The weekend, Becca was killed, she was supposed to go to my parents’ house in Cadillac. Her nana was going to help her set up her new laptop. Early in the day, that long ago Saturday, a Best Buy employee called my daughter to tell her the laptop wasn’t ready. Becca cancelled the plans to drive up north and decided to go out with her friends, instead. Was this the fateful turn?

My lovely, vibrant, beautiful daughter, stood in front of her bathroom mirror, and got herself ready for a night out. Knowing her, she probably blew a kiss or winked at her reflection, before flipping the light off. Did she stoop down and kiss her cat, Sarah, goodbye? Or, run her hand along her other cat, Blue’s, back? Did she shut the door with a, “I’ll see you when I get home!”
How can so many “lasts” happen, one after the other, and we not know what they are??

Ten o’clock, eleven years ago, is about the time the heaviness I was feeling, bloomed. I knew that whatever was going to happen, was going to be big, bigger than me. Was that the time the drunk driver, Joseph, decided to climb behind the wheel? Behind the wheel of a car, he wasn’t supposed to be driving, because he lost his license six weeks earlier from a second drunk driving arrest? Was this the moment my child’s life was slated to end? Is that why I felt what I did? Did my soul know I was going to lose her?

I spent the rest of my shift, restless. The drive home took too long. I remember kissing the boys good night, then going up to bed. Again, restless. Waiting for “it”? An hour, or so, later, my waiting ended.

The room was completely dark and my door was closed. I had fallen asleep, laying on my right side, facing away from the phone. Behind me, near the bottom of my bed, I felt someone sit down. A hand reached out and rubbed my leg. I felt it’s solidness and familiar touch. I lifted my head, looking for my daughter, but couldn’t see her. That was the moment, I knew with certainty, my Becca was dead. I knew, that when I rolled over, the light would be flashing on the base of the phone, signalling a message. The message would be that she was gone. My brain screamed at me to ignore the little red light. It couldn’t be real if I didn’t hear it. But, I had to know.

The words I heard were in my mother’s voice. Chosen words, to convey the gravity, but not the complete truth. “There’s been an accident . . . and it doesn’t look good.” Even now, I wonder about those words. Doesn’t look good? Violent death never “looks good”, does it? Did my mother already know that her granddaughter had been killed?

I called the police department to find out where a crash had occurred. When I had that information, I started to call Becca’s phone. Deep inside I knew she was gone . . . but I still tried to reach her. On the way to the crash site, I kept calling her . . . six, seven, eight . . .times. I am not sure how many times I waited for her to pick up before the line started to go directly to voicemail. I think that is when I started to cry. I often wonder, who was the person who had shut my daughter’s phone off, that night? Was it too hard for them to see “Momma” on the screen when they were investigating the crime scene? Or, did I just call her so much that I drained her battery in such a short time?

I’ve been talking to Becca all day, today. Laughing at some memories. Crying at most. Where she is, does she mark this date, too? Is she restless, knowing what I am going through, worried about me? Somewhere, in the same city I am in, is Joseph anxious, too? Or, does today pass over him with no more meaning than any other? Will he remember my beautiful daughter tomorrow? Does he wonder if I am ok, if her brothers are ok? Does he remember?

I’m exhausted. The grief is heavier than it’s been in a very long time. It’s pressing on my chest and making each breath painful. My eyes are swollen and my face is red. I feel a hundred years old. I’m glad it’s dark out . . . the sun was too bright. I’m envious of every mother who has her daughter next to her. I’m not strong today. I’m frail and aged and weak. My journey has stalled as I sit to mourn my daughter, tonight. I am allowed this time, this sacred space, to mark her passing.

Even though she is no longer here . . . it’s my duty, my honor, to be by her side, tonight. So, I will sit in the candle light and tell my baby girl that she’s not alone, this time. I will wail and I will scream.

Tomorrow, I’ll get up and start walking again.

In The Coming Together

When a group of women, get together, conversation inevitably turns to childbirth. Each may forget details of former loves, times gone by, but they never forget, even the smallest detail, of each child’s entrance into the world. Sharing labor time lengths, or difficulties during birth, we bond within the universal experience of creating life. As new mothers, from the moment our child arrives, until we are grandmothers, our experience is our “war story” of becoming a warrior. A new “us” is forged in the fire of labor.

Recently, I’ve noticed, grieving moms need to share the story of their child’s death. Just as we bond over the creation of life, so must we find connection in the truth of our child’s departure from this world. Becoming a mother transformed us forever . . . becoming a bereaved mother does the same to us. And, it is such an isolating and painful experience, especially in the beginning, we must find others who understand.

A few hours ago, three of us from the latter group mentioned above, sat in the living room and chatted for a while. Two of us have known each other for just over a year. The third, Wendy, came to know our group within the past eight months. The second time, Stacey and I, spent time with Wendy, we met her at a park that her family knew well. After hugging in the parking lot, she led us through a field, along the length of a creek, to a very large tree. As we settled ourselves under its boughs, through tears, she shared the story of her son’s battle with depression and the ultimate outcome, the depression claiming his life. Pointing above her head, toward a large branch, she showed us where the bullet came to rest. Wendy needed to take us to this holy place, where Cody’s life had come to its end, and share the heaviness of her loss.

Over the months I’ve known Stacey, she too, has told me the story of how her daughter’s life was stolen from her by a deranged human being. Someone she trusted, and loved, had decided that Mckenna’s life wasn’t worth anything to him. He simply chose to end it. And . . . he did. I’m not sure if Stacey has been to the location where her beloved daughter’s body, was ultimately found, by someone walking their dog. If she wanted to, I’d go with her. Any one of us, other bereaved moms, would go with her. Without hesitation. We have to.

Sharing the story about how my daughter, Becca, lost her life is something I must do, too. The details of her death are as important, to me, as the ones surrounding her birth. Why wouldn’t they be? Her birth made me a mother, a warrior. Her death made me something much stronger.

So, there we sat. Three mothers, with three deceased children, and three completely different ways their lives came to an end. One lost his battle to depression, one was brutally murdered, and one was a victim of someone else’s deadly decisions. Different scenarios . . . with the same outcome. We are sisters who walk the path of child loss.

Though we walk the same path . . . the obstacles we encounter, differ. The shadows, that loom around us, consist of varying things. Guilt. Shame. Anger. Hopelessness. They swirl, just above us, invading our thoughts. Reaching for our hearts. Trying to snatch small pieces of our souls to ensure their own existence.

But when we come together, we grieving moms, we are even stronger than when we stand alone. Two paths, through the rocky terrain of child loss, will never be exactly the same . . . but they will resemble each other’s, just enough, that we can help each other upon this journey.

While we walk, side by side, we’ll continue to share the story of our child. From birth . . . to death.