Good Bad Dreams

Last night I dreamt that Elannah Rose was still alive, she had just run away from home. She wouldn't talk to me and kept dancing away.

Facts are fluid in dreams and so as this one wore on, she became younger. Toward the end, Elannah Rose was a little girl and she was being cared for by a woman who had been led to believe that she was protecting ER from me. The dream became chaotic, a crazy combination of events all geared toward ending any chance of reunion. Every time I thought I had conquered one thing, a new trial began.

When I finally woke up, I felt desperate and defeated. I must have hit snooze 42 times because as horrible as the dream had been, the chance to see ER's face and hear her voice was impossible to give up. The part where she was alive was amazing.

The problem, of course, with dreaming that she's alive is that waking up is devastating. For a few brief moments there is confusion and a renewed sense of loss.

I was reminded of my early and irrational hope that it wasn't Elannah Rose that they found. That she had run away and would return once she had made peace with her demons. Of course, I knew this wasn't the case, but I'm sure I'm not the only person who has tried to reason her way out of her loss.

I would give anything to have not lost my oldest child. Part of my heart went with her. I think often about what I did to allow that to happen, and I punish myself for what I didn't do to stop it.

I wonder why my subconscious chose last night to punish me a bit extra. Is it, perhaps, because my other two children are stretching more and more toward their own versions of independence?

I let my son walk home from his friends house yesterday after school. It's two blocks and I followed him in my car, moving forward half a block at a time so that I could make sure he was safe. His walk may have been short, but it was a big step for him. As significant to him as his sisters cross-country journey just a few days before. My inner untrained psychologist imagines that these giant leaps are the reason that my brain is suddenly focused on loss and danger.

Danger. I'm obsessed with it. With trying to ascertain what is real and what is overblown fear.  I strive to let my kids grow up normal and free. I refuse to let my loss turn me into a helicopter mom, although "free-range parenting" is probably eternally out of my reach. I tell myself daily not to punish my living children for the mistakes we made, for the mistakes ER made.

I can even reason away the fire that erupted at the end of my dream. It makes sense, this final devastation, considering that the California wildfires seem to have raged non-stop for the past several years.

Reason doesn't matter, though, when my heart feels like I lost my daughter yesterday. When I will jump into the nightmares that I've spent my life trying not to have, just to see her again. When my imagination tries to show me that I could have avoided all of this.

For my friends

Dear Friends,

When I was a little girl, I struggled to make friends. I could make the connection, sure, but I had to build up the confidence to talk to people first and this was kind of my kryptonite. 

My grandmother said that if I could fill up my fingers with the number of real friends I had in my lifetime I would be lucky. She wanted me to understand that though I struggled to make friends it wasn't a big deal. Quality verses quantity and all that.

Making friends never became particularly easy for me, as much as I do love people I have never stopped dreading the small talk that happens between the introduction and the moment that friendship begins to form. Maybe because it wasn’t easy, I understood the message and I deeply valued the folks in my life that I was blessed enough to call my friend.

No matter how much I thought that I appreciated my friends, though, it wasn't until tragedy struck that I realized how very blessed I was. 

This year as the anniversary of my daughters death passed a friend reached out to remind me of my strength and her faith that I would come out the other side of that awful day.  I wanted to tell her that that strength was greatly owed to her, and to all of the friends that have proven that the value of true friendship is immeasurable.

When our lives broke, you held us up. All of you.

You cleaned her room and packed her things, because I couldn't.

You fed me, because I couldn't.

You put on my lipstick, because I couldn't.

You made sure we talked, because you were afraid I wouldn't.

You gave me an outlet for my pain and made sure my voice was heard.

You listened to me scream.

You picked the flowers and understood everything.

You carried her to her final resting place.

You made me laugh again.

You made sure there was always someone watching, in case I couldn't bear it.

You did so much I don't even remember because I was broken.

You demonstrated a level of friendship that I would bet many people don't even realize exists and maybe I hope they never do.

I do feel strong now, and I believe that much of that is because you let me borrow it from you for such a long time.

Thank you. 

6 years, 16 days

I was accused, this past year, of talking about my daughter to get attention. In my weaker moments I've wondered if that's really what people think? Could I be that person and not know it?

How can you understand the devotion and joy that comes from being a mother and think that? But it's one of the factors that has kept me from writing.  Because, as painful as this whole process has been, do I really want to open myself up to continued criticism?

I was already overthinking every post. There was a constant internal dialogue...

• Do I want this out there?
• Do I want people to google me and see this?
• I should change it back to an anonymous profile.
• No, I'll leave it.
• I'll delete the blog.
• I just won't post anymore.

And then my job changed and instead of working with the same old safe people who knew my history I had thousands of new coworkers and a new chain of command.

• Do I want them to know? 
• What if I have to look for a new job. Do I want them to know?
• Will people see me differently when they see me wearing my emotions on the internet? Will they think I'm broken and skip me over for opportunities?

Well, everyone I know knows eventually. There is still an awkward moment when the truth comes out. When someone asks how old my oldest daughter is and if she's off at college.

"Oh... well my oldest would have been 26 this year, but she's no longer with us."

Yes, I still refuse to say that I only have two children. It feels like a lie. So even when it's exhausting or I really don't want to explain it, I do.

I got to be the mother of this amazing little sprite who doesn't live here anymore. She's still my firstborn. Nothing can take that away.

And what if I can help someone?

I thought... who is going to google me anyway?

So I discarded any notions of removing the blog or making it anonymous again. But I let the anniversary pass in relative silence, at least publicly. I didn't write a letter to my daughter. And I felt guilty for skipping it. I don't miss her any less, and I wanted to talk to her. I wanted to acknowledge her.

And then someone at my new company stumbled upon my blog. I felt my heart sputter when I realized what had happened.

Why do I care? Because I have to pay my bills. How we expose ourselves to the world has an impact. That's a lesson I try to instill upon my kids, I'm not going to ignore it.

I'm not ashamed, but I still asked... Is it weird that it's out there?

It's weird for me anyway. I'm not an exhibitionist, I'm trying to do something good. And sometimes that something good is as small as having an outlet for my grief.  Sometimes I really do believe that I can find a way to help some other parent, or even help save a life. 

And this gracious person said "Don't ever think it's weird. It's beautiful. And what if you help someone?"

And the world didn't end.

And here I am writing about this and realizing that the weird thing is that my grief should cause me any doubt or shame. Because what if I help someone? What if my baby girl has the chance to help someone? Even if it's just me.