Tag: writing

Don’t Forget Her – Please

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

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

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

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

“Don’t Forget Her, Please”

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

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

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

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

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

And so, Becca resolved to make herself unforgettable.

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

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

But she needed more.

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

Still, it wasn’t enough.

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

But even that didn’t feel like enough.

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

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

Still, the fear lingered.

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

One by one, they listened.

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

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

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

And that, she realized, was enough.

On Navigating Grief

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

On Years Passing

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hello, 2024.

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. 

On Writing

There are multiple times each day in which an idea for a blog presents itself. They often come at inopportune moments, though. I used to tell myself I would remember them for later but I rarely did. To remedy this, I’ve taken to carrying multiple pads of paper to scrawl thought segments on (one pad would be too easy!) and I also send myself voice messages if one of the many pads isn’t handy. It’s not a perfect system, by any means, but I am remembering more than I forget now!!

Being constantly given connections for writing balances on a very thin line between healing and falling. My goal is to use my writing to heal myself, and hopefully help others, but at times the subject matter is just too heavy to delve into each day. On the days when it is just too much to write about I feel a tremendous guilt and shame. The fact that I am letting down my daughter keeps screaming through my head. Shouldn’t she be the first thing I do every day? Every time?

I’m reminded by the inner voice, if the wound is deep you can not let it scab for too long or the injury will become infected and start to fester. But, I reply, if I continually pick at it I’ll bleed constantly. A bereaved mother, trying to heal, is walking a razor’s edge. To slide down either side hurts.

The truth is: grieving the loss of a child is exhausting. Another truth: we must take short breaks from the healing work or we will wear ourselves down to nothing. Refilling our well is necessary to do the hard work we know we will face. It’s an ebb and flow.

When I need to step back from writing about my journey of loss, love, and healing, I find some other creative outlet to spend time doing. Sometimes, it’s writing about something else. For nearly two years I wrote my own zombie apocalypse story! My main characters were so far from who I am . . . a female dog trainer who is blind and a 14 year old Indian boy . . . that I don’t have to think about myself or my situation. My mind swirls with ideas and spirals down into back stories for each character! I can lose hours writing imaginary worlds filled with people I create and name. If you’ve never tried it . . . I suggest you do!!

Do you know why I suggest you do? No matter what we are writing . . . we will find healing. The words you put to paper need not be for anyone but yourself. They don’t even have to spelled correctly and your punctuation doesn’t matter. Just let the words flow! Let the the thoughts loose! Make up a character and put her through outlandish situations!! You’ll be surprised what you end up with! Some of what you read, after you’ve written it, will ring true to who you are now. You may find answers to questions you didn’t know you had. Or find questions in things you thought you understood fully. You will come to know yourself deeper and connect with the world around you, wider.

I recently wrote a blog about the century old house I am living in. The Irish part of me is drawn to the history the walls have seen. I imagine the sorrows they have absorbed. Laughter that bounced around in the corners. Little lives that took their first breath here . . . and those that took their last. Growing families and stories unfolded. I desperately wish the walls would whisper the houses secrets to me. Maybe she is but I don’t know how to hear them. I’ll have to figure out how to listen more clearly. Or more deeply.

The first week I was here I saw the bottom edge of a curtain ruffle itself from one side to the other. I was walking from my bedroom into the dining room and to the kitchen. Nowhere near the parlor. The ceiling fan was broken at the time. None of the animals were in the room and all of the windows were closed. I had hung a lace curtain over the rather large window that faces the neighboring home. I glanced in that direction when, from left to right, it appeared someone had run their hand along the bottom seam. It just fluttered out, rippled along, and then laid flat again.
At the time, it unnerved me slightly, but now I’ve come to think maybe it’s one of the home’s former occupants. A sweet lady, from the early 1900’s, admiring the lace and joyful to see the home being returned to its former finery. And, just like that . . . I’d created another character!

In my Google drive I have four unfinished blogs waiting for my attention. Each day that passes, without me opening up the documents and writing, adds anxiety to my already anxious existence. I know I must complete each one. They were important enough to start and they deserve my full attention to reach their completion. Upon waking, I have every intention to do so, but lately I’ve had shitty follow through. I silently yell at myself for not making the ramifications from my daughter’s death a priority. Losing her was the biggest thing that has happened to me. It should be of utmost importance to write about. But I get stuck. A form of writer’s block, I guess.

Today, I told myself: You are going to write. Period. Instead or attacking one of the half finished blogs I started an outline for an idea I have for a novel. A story inspired by the blog I wrote about hidden healing. A novel I am going to write with my cousin, Linda. The outline maps out characters and time periods and important events. As I was writing it . . . dozens of scenarios presented themselves to me and I couldn’t write fast enough!! I thought, it feels so good to be writing about something that has nothing to do with my child dying! (insert tremendous guilt here). I was checking historical dates and meeting new characters as they formed in my head and it was magnificent!!

Then, as I re read what I’d written, I realized (again) I was writing about myself over and over. The words held the questions that I wanted answered. If I re read it again, maybe there are answers I haven’t been able to see.

In the zombie story I mentioned above I have a character named Allison. She is a mother of four who lost her husband in the first wave of dead. The first zombie she encounters happens to be the young daughter of a neighbor. Allison decides to end the child’s unnatural condition and upon doing so, takes the little girl’s bracelet to give to her mother, if she ever sees her again. This starts Allison’s “job” in the apocalypse. She believes her meaning in life is to collect artifacts from those she must kill and return them to the relatives. To let them know their loved one is no longer here, in any condition, and they were treated with mercy at the end.

I find myself in those paragraphs. A part of me exists in Allison’s character. Just as a part of me can be seen in the blind heroine. And, maybe, the Indian boy she is traveling with is me, too.

I can assuage my anxiety by continually realizing that writing, any writing, is working through my grief. Whether it’s a blind woman, a disenchanted psychologist, or a spirit . . . it all stems from my mind, my experiences, and my existence. I still feel bad that I haven’t been able to sit down and tackle one of the blogs. The shame and guilt is still there.

But at least I sat and wrote today.

The secret is to start.

Shifting

The morning I woke up after having the dream was the closest to feeling completely happy I’ve felt in a long time. My daughter didn’t feel eleven years, or another world, away. Her essence clung to everything around me. The warmth of her body hung heavy in the air. It’s as if she had just walked out of the room! I had been in her presence.

Details of the dream were difficult to hold onto at any length. Flashes of images, throughout the day, helped bring them into clearer focus. Over a few hours, I stitched the pieces together into a complete picture. Even remembering I’d been incredulous, during the dream, at being with my daughter again!

A six year old piggy tailed Becca came rushing into the room to see me! A pink and purple puffy jacket squished in my arms as I picked her up into a hug. I held her tight as I kissed her flush face and she giggled! Her sticky little hands held my face and she kissed me!! Somewhere in the dream I asked myself how this could be happening. I pushed it aside and concentrated on the joy of having my child in my arms!

My mother started to pack up Becca’s clothing which signaled to me that my parents trusted me to take care of her again. I don’t know why my child was staying with them but I was elated that I was able to take her home with me. The little voice, that seemed only interested in relaying bad news, told me that this wasn’t real. Not to be too happy because it would all be over soon. As I watched my daughter rushing around gathering her toys I told it to go away. Seeing my daughter so happy, so alive, was amazing and I didn’t want it to end.

But, as dreams always do, it ended.

As I am apt to do, I spent the day ruminating over and picking apart everything that happened in my dream. Why had my parents been caring for my daughter? Why wasn’t she living with me? Becca had been so happy to see me, as if she’d not seen me in a while, how long had we been apart? I’d completely forgotten about her pink and purple jacket . . . why had she been wearing that particular coat? How had I forgotten about it? Why did I remember it now? Had Becca chosen to appear to me as a six year old, and if so, what was her reason? Honestly, I drive myself crazy some days trying to figure things out! I can’t help myself.

My mind whirling with dozens of question I told myself to stop. Out loud I said: “Just stop.”

None of that matters. What matters is that you spent joyous time with your child! You had a beautiful visit with your daughter. A visit that is all too rare. Don’t lose sight of what is important here. So I stopped dissecting dream moments to find hidden meaning and instead put my attention towards the incredible joy in the experience.

To me, though this realization may seem small, it is truly monumental when applied to the entire journey through the aftermath of child loss. The change in perspective from one vantage point to another means a world of difference to the viewer. It’s like looking at the day to appreciate what we can see instead of trying to find what we know is missing.

When our child dies we are plunged into deep mourning. There is not one piece of our world that has not been touched by our loss. To know this truth is to understand why we spend a very long time focusing on the child’s death and not necessarily their life. I don’t believe it is a conscious choice we make to do so. It’s all part of the coming to terms with and eventually accepting that our child has died.

Very simply: we need to celebrate their life instead of only mourning their death. Easier said than done . . . believe me. But, as the years pass, how she died isn’t the first thought that comes to mind. Notice in the first sentence of this paragraph I wrote the world “only” before mourning. We will always mourn. The tragic fact that our child died before us will forever bring a great sense of loss and sadness. However, the beauty in the fact they lived and the memories we carry will begin to present themselves more often. That’s when the shift in perception changes our lives.

This shift can be difficult. It was for me. Being happy felt like a betrayal to my daughter. Still does. Not thinking about the unfairness of her death made me feel as if I was saying her death was ok. I’m not. Her death isn’t ok. How she died, because of someone else’s decision, makes me rage. All the things she missed out on are unacceptable. Some days I won’t be able to think about anything else but how my daughter was cheated. Her twenty three years (and six weeks) held so much more than the split second in which she was killed, though.

For myself, I have to concentrate on how my girl lived, not how she died. Just as in my dream, I need to tell the voice to go away and let me concentrate on the years filled with our life. Often, I repeat it to myself many times a day. It’s easy to slip back into mourning. Expect to slip . . . a lot. I still do and I am in the twelfth year A.D. (After Death) and I expect it to continue. Just don’t get mired there. Our children don’t want our lives to be completely about their deaths.

The life our child lived, and lost, is both an anchor and a balloon for us. On the hardest days the weight of their absence will drag us to the bottom of the ocean. On the best ones, the memories we carry will be balloons that lift us toward the sky.

Let the shift in perception happen. Allow yourself to be lifted more often. Your child will smile with you. And, together you will fly!!

An added note: The photo above was taken by a very dear friend, Kristina, who makes it a priority to put my Becca’s name wherever she visits. This started with people writing Becca’s name in the sand for me and has blossomed into a tradition very near to my heart. I’m blessed to have many different photos of her name around the world. She’s been seen in places she’s never even been!!

 

 

When Time Wobbles

After work today, I met up with my friend, to have a quick lunch. I asked her if she wanted to go to a popular breakfast spot, because we’ve never been, and I thought it would be fun to go somewhere new. She said no because she’d only been there once, with her daughter, before she was killed. I completely understood. I thought to myself, it’s been a very long time since I’ve felt that way about going somewhere. I thought I’d crossed all those bridges over the past ten years. How wrong I was.

Have you ever been in a situation where time seems to slip, back and forth, over itself? So completely believable . . . you forget which day you are really in?

When my boys were little, they loved the pictures that you could tilt one way to see an image, then move it slightly the other way, for a completely different image. To them, it seemed like magic!! The picture changed, so quickly, from one to the other. This afternoon, time wobbled and I was in two different days at once.

As I pulled up to the light, getting ready to take a left into the parking lot, I realized I’d been here before. The snow, which had been falling steadily all day, melted away. In its place, there was a blanket of brightly colored leaves, spread over the concrete. The air around me grew warmer as the time of year clicked back to autumn . . . twenty five years ago.

I pulled my van into a parking space, but when I got out, I was looking at the silver Mazda I used to drive. I shook my head in an attempt to gather my senses. I was doing well . . . until the automatic doors swooshed open and the store was almost exactly as it had been the last time I was there. With a ten year old Becca. That moment tore the breath from my lungs. I should turn around and leave, I thought. But, I didn’t.

It was too much. Tears welled up in my eyes. I couldn’t leave, though. There is something about being in a place where your deceased child has been. Like part of them is still there . . . waiting for you to find it. I couldn’t leave because around every corner I could hear my little girl’s laugh. I could hear her sweet voice, float over the aisles, towards me. Chasing it, I found myself standing in front of the cereals, watching the shimmering memory of my daughter reach for her favorite one. Swinging herself around, her hair fanning out behind her, big eyes begged me to let her get it. I’m so glad I did.

I’m not sure how long I stood there, today. I was trying very hard not to cry. Someone walking past me, looked at me oddly, and I realized I was breathing as if I was in labor. Those short, open mouthed exhalations, that help to work through the pain of giving birth. I didn’t care how I looked. I was standing there, watching my daughter, alive again. It was beautiful heartache.

I walked up and down the aisles, searching for what I needed, and what I needed was my daughter. Just as in life . . . she was one step ahead of me. I caught a glimpse of her sun gold hair just past the pile of apples. I quickly made my way around the islands of fruit but she was already gone. Always moving, just out of my grasp.

I begged her: please wait please wait please wait . . .

I never caught her. I did see my ten year old daughter one more time, in the store, though. She was standing in front of the flowers and smiling at me. With her little hand, she waved, and was gone. Oh sweet girl . . . my heart aches for you, tonight.

I stood in the spot she had just been. I could still feel her. I thought, the last time I was here, I didn’t know the next time, my daughter would be dead. Who knew a simple trip to the grocery store, a quarter of a century ago, would hold such precious memories? We don’t know until much later.

I picked out a bouquet I knew she would love. Colorful, just like her.

I won’t go back to that store again. As I loaded my items onto the conveyor belt, to pay for them, I realized I’d picked up much more than material goods. Sweet memories, that I’d forgotten, were the most important things I could have found. I was reminded of her musical giggle. The scent of sunshine clung to her hair. Her beautiful eyes, looked up at me, full of perfect love.  A gap toothed smile told me she was happy.

She was amazing.

For a few precious minutes . . . my little girl was with me again. And I was complete.

Because We Must

A handful of years back, I had a friend tell me that I always bring up my daughter’s death in conversations. His next statement caused much inner turmoil: It seems you see yourself as a grieving mother before anything else. Did I? Was that wrong to do? Am I wallowing? An attention seeker? Do I want pity? Am I being offensive? Off-putting? Am I completely messing up this grieving thing??

I thought about what he’d said to me. I DID bring it up in a lot of conversations. About that he was right. But, was it inappropriate to do so? I can not tell you how many hours I chased the reasons, and answers, to this question.

Initially, I was hurt by the words. The anger came later.

Was he telling me I needed to stop talking about my daughter’s death? How could he expect me to do that? Did everyone want me to stop talking about Becca? When is the right time to mention my dead child? Does someone need to ask me, “Is one of your children deceased?”, before I bring her up? Is there a handbook of grief protocol I didn’t receive? Not only was I reeling from her absence in my life . . . I now had to remain quiet about it. Maybe he was right, maybe I shouldn’t bring it up in polite social interactions. Screw that.

Then the righteous anger came. Yeah, so what, I DO bring her death up a lot. F*ck him, he doesn’t know. Who the Hell is he to tell me I talk about her too often! Both of his children are alive . . . so he can take his observation and shove it. What I do, what I say, is none of his business. He can f*ck off for all I care!

As the anger dissipated, I started to try to figure out the emotions connected to this situation. First, why did it bother him so much that I did this? Obviously, he felt uncomfortable. He could see the awkward looks on other’s faces as I spoke. Second, why did I feel the compulsion to do this. What he said was true, and after taking the tone of judgement out of it . . . I wanted to know the reason.

Was he uncomfortable because child loss is a terrifying possibility and he didn’t want to think about it? Maybe. The truer answer, probably is, we (read society) don’t handle grief well. It’s foreign because it’s been removed, for the most part, from our life. Years ago, generations ago, death was a part of everyday life. Most families had many children because it was understood some might not make it to adulthood. Child loss was more real, to society as a whole, a hundred years ago. Not so in today’s world.

Does the feeling of awkwardness, in others, stem from our grief being too intimate for them to see? Have we forgotten how to behave when someone else is emotionally hurting? Is our raw pain just too much for outsiders to handle? Yes, yes, and again, yes.

When someone bares themselves to another person, there is vulnerability from both sides. Being vulnerable can be very uncomfortable for many. In our world today, there are so many ways to interact with someone else, that isn’t face to face. We are forgetting how to just “be” with another person. And, as far as the rawness of child loss pain, it can be very overwhelming for those who don’t understand it. Scary, even.

For a while, after my friend made this observation, I tried not to bring up my deceased daughter. I didn’t want others to look at me as if I might be a bit off. But, as I rolled this truth around in my head, I came to realize, there are very real reasons I do this. I needed others to connect with me on this level. I was in a lonely and desolate place. I had to share the pain, share her story, otherwise it remained a silent nightmare. In a world that no longer held her . . . I needed her name to be heard.

The biggest reason, though, was because her death was a monumental life event for me. Think about the huge events that happen to a large number of people: 9/11, the Challenger explosion, any mass shooting. We all gather, in groups, and say, “did you hear?” or “can you believe it?” We share the pain we are all feeling. We need to know we are not in it alone. It’s the same for us. We need a connection. We need validation. We need understanding. We need care.

Becca made me a momma. Her birth completely transformed who I was. It would be foolish for me, or anyone else, to think her death didn’t do the very same thing. Losing Becca changed me at the deepest levels of my being. Of course I am going to talk about it. About her. About my experience on this path. I have no other choice. And, that’s ok.

Let us talk. We need to share. Please . . . listen. Laying ourselves bare, in front of you, is not easy for us, either. Those first months, when we are desperately trying to fit the truth into our hearts, we need to be connected to others. It helps us to accept our new reality. It’s where we start to heal.

We need you.

 

This Is Not Goodbye

“Now I’m the one going ahead . . . I’m not afraid . . . I can be brave, too . . . “ – Beth, Little Women

For a years, I’ve gone over nearly every aspect of losing my child. I imagine there are ones I’ve not thought of yet . . . but I have the rest of my life for them to find me. I’ve healed in some ways, not completely (never completely) and there are others which I’ve not inspected too closely. Simply, I’m not sure I will survive them. Yet, they stay visible in my peripheral vision . . . waiting their turn. This one, the one I’m attempting to write about, has been heavy on my heart since the moment I knew my daughter was dead.

Each detail of that night is like an autumn leaf that I keep pressed between the pages of the book of our lives. Most are worn from being held, in my hands, multiple times. If I turn to one page, in particular, one I’ve skipped past dozens of times . . . the leaf is in perfect shape. Vivid colors, the veins still strong. The smell brings me right back to the moment my boyfriend stepped out of the back of the police chaplain’s car.

I could tell by the look on his face that the young woman’s body was that of my daughter, Becca. As he held me, he told me they had allowed him to kiss her still warm forehead. I kept screaming, “I need to help her . . . I need to help her!” Later, he told me her spirit had ridden back with him in the car. I believe him. I asked him what she looked like. He answered, confused . . . lost.

When I think about this, anguish rises in soul and I can’t help but think I failed her at the most important time of her life. The end.

Mothers teach their children about life. I wasn’t given the chance to help her through her death.

When I took Becca to school, the first day of kindergarten, she and I both cried. She didn’t want me to leave and I didn’t want to go. But, I knew at the end of the day, she’d be home again. I could talk to her about all the new things. She would know I would be there to pick her up and she could trust that I wouldn’t leave her. Our time apart was more acceptable because we would hold each other again. This made the separations much easier on both of us.

Her death, I couldn’t hold her after and tell her everything was going to be alright. Lately, I’ve found myself wondering what that conversation would have been like.

“Mom, mom . . . what happened?”

“Come here,” I’d say, taking her in my arms, “you were killed in a car crash, honey.”

“But why? Why? How?” she would ask, confused, as I held her close to my chest.

“A drunk driver killed you . . . oh baby, I’m so sorry!”

“What do I do???? Where do I go? Do I have to leave you?? I can’t leave you, momma, the boys, I can’t go. I’m afraid. I don’t know what’s there!”

“I know honey, and I’m so sorry I can’t go with you. I don’t want you to either, but we don’t have a choice, my Becca.”

“But what do I do??? How do I go??? How do I leave you??”

“You have to be brave, sweetie. You have to be a brave girl. I know you can do that. I know you are strong enough to do this. It’s scary, I know, but just like when you went to school . . . I’ll see you again after, I promise.”

“Mommy . . . momma . . . I don’t want to go!!”

“You have to turn around and walk away, honey . . . “ even with these words, neither of us loosens our grip.

I take her face in my hands and look into her beautiful green blue eyes, “You have to go before all of us. I didn’t want it this way . . . but it’s what we have to do right now. I will always be your momma and you will always be my Becca. My only daughter. The one who made me a mother. I know you are scared, I’m scared to be without you . . . but our love will never fade. You are beautiful and smart and strong and brave. I promise I will be there with you one day. We will all be there. The boys will come. We will all be together again, I promise.”

I can feel her head shake slightly in my hands.

“Go now, my Becca, go and wait for us. Be strong. Soar through the heavens. Glide past stars. Dance in the winds that blow around the entire world. Play. Laugh. Visit us when you are lonely. And know, you are always loved. It’s been such a privilege to be your mother . . . you were my first true love, my girl.”

I would gently kiss her forehead and let my hands drop to my side, as my daughter turned away and bravely walked into her heaven.