time and grief

Baby girl, 

Your little sister is older than you now. I think about that a lot. She’s crossing bridges that are lost to you, as she travels toward her future.

What a crazy thought, that she could outgrow you, outrun your life experiences. And someday your baby brother will, too. 

It’s almost another year. Time crawls, sprints, drags on in a world without you. Your life is frozen in our memories and recently I find myself worried that I’ll forget the details. 

I can’t imagine how that would feel. And what if I didn’t even realize that you were slipping away? I can’t lose any more of you than I already have. 

I miss you. I would have done anything to keep you. All this time later and I can reason through your loss, I can talk about it. But I don’t understand it. I mean, I do scientifically, but not in that cosmic plan kind of way that we all keep trying to divine about our own lives and those of our loved ones. 

I want you home with us. I want to plan trips to see you wherever you are and relish in your adventures. I want to hold you while you cry and celebrate your victories.

I’m sorry. I’m sorry for every moment that I was too focused on something else and didn’t see what I should have been seeing. I’m sorry for everything that failed you. I’m sorry for all of the times that I failed you. I’m so sorry. 

I’m sorry because I know that I’m a better, more patient, more understanding person now and I wish this version of me had been there for you.

I’m sorry for the dark, sad things you thought about yourself. Sorry that you even had the opportunity to make those choices that led you away. 

I’m sorry that I don’t get to hug you anymore. Or hear your voice or your laughter. And I know that’s selfish because maybe you’re just at peace. 

It doesn’t get easier. But I still wouldn’t trade one moment of our lives with you for this grief. 

I carry you in my heart, every day. 

Love,

Mom

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.

Fissures (5 Years)

Baby Girl,

I haven't written in so long. To be honest, it started to feel like I was just repeating myself and I could only imagine what torture that was for anyone who read my words. But I cannot let this day pass without talking to you. To say that we miss you is a gross understatement. We yearn for you to be back with us.

I was going to say that my heart was broken again, but that isn't true. The truth is that there are deep fissures in my heart, and although they may scab over and develop scar tissue they will always eventually crack open again. This is an absolute truth that I imagine will follow me to the end of my days.

This year it began with the holidays. It is always hard to celebrate without you, but this year was harder. I am sure that it has something to do with the fact that your sisters life was launching into new territory and she stands at the threshold of a lifetime of adventures with no limits. Your life, though, is frozen in time to the point that I have to do math in order to remind myself of how old you would have been. 

You may  be frozen in my mind but I can still hear your laughter if I close my eyes. I can see you spinning and dancing in the kitchen. I can't stop imagining everything that could have been. I can't stop wondering why US? Why couldn't you just ask for help? Why didn't I go in and hug you on that last morning? Why didn't we make you come home? Why did that boy leave you? There are a million of these why's and this makes life so bittersweet.

A friend asked me recently how she will raise her children to make the right choices and to be safe in this world. Is any attempt that I make to answer that question even remotely acceptable? Am I a fraud if I try? Is your sister safe because we taught her better than you? No. She makes her choices because you taught her to be safe. You showed her the worst that reality could bring and she navigates life with those cold truths. I wouldn't wish this on anyone.

On the best days, I think of the best of you and that is enough to keep me content with what I had. The me that became on the day that you were born was bigger and better than anything I could have imagined and motherhood has since defined me. Every choice about how to lead my life was inspired by the best choice I could make for my children.

On the worst days, everything reminds me of you. The good things and the bad things and there is nothing that can change that. And although I still make my choices in life in order to be the best mother that I can, I wonder on those days how that can ever be good enough.

I wanted to scream when we visited you today. I sat there cleaning your gravestone while we played the music you loved and I wanted to scream. It's not right. It's not fair. And it's not getting easier to live without you, though I suppose that I have come to accept it. What insanity would it be if I didn't?

I wonder where you are. I hope that you watch over your sister and brother and feel pride and joy in them as we do. I hope that you are singing and dancing. I pray that there is a something and a somewhere and that I will meet you there someday down the road, when we've ridden this life out.

I miss you, Baby Girl. And I love you more than a million red M&M's. More than all the stars in the sky. I hope that you are at peace.

Love, 

Mommy

Just Breathe (Pearl Jam) has become our song for our lost baby girl. I wanted to share it today.

Fear

I keep thinking that this loss happened in our family because we can find a way to recover and to make something meaningful out of our experience. That I can use the loss of my daughter, and all of the details about her beautiful spirit, to educate people, to support them. That I can take all of the love in my heart and turn it into a world of love for all of the children in my life.

I go for months feeling strong, like each lesson is a victory, each person touched by my daughter or by me is a sign that I am doing what I am supposed to be doing.

It doesn't take much to knock me into a spiral of fear. Underneath whatever I am doing to fool myself, I think I'm always waiting for the hammer to drop. And I have to face the fact that I am afraid.

I'm afraid that history will repeat itself. I am afraid of what life holds for my children. I am afraid that my kids won't see how special they are. I am afraid that they will not see what amazing potential they have. I am afraid that a harsh and unforgiving world will squash the wonder and joy out of them. I am afraid of what would happen if these fears came true.

I want my confidence back, the part of me that was OK with the little mistakes, that knew that with all of the love my kids receive they will be alright. I used to believe in the school of hard knocks, now I wish I could protect my kids forever.

I am tired of being afraid. I despise this void that exists in my life, in my heart. I hate how much it makes me realize how much healing I have left to do.

The truth is that I still miss my baby girl every bit as much as I did on day one. The truth is that if I stop pretending, I'm still screaming inside. 

Before all of this, before the saga of addiction took hold in our lives, I was confident and far more laid back. I worried about normal things, I was able to place risk into appropriate buckets.

But, today I found myself asking someone to "make sure that (they) tell me when the sky is not falling. Because my gut always tells me it is".  There is a lot of shame, for me, with being this person who is so ruled by fear. I used to believe I was so strong.

I want to know when this ends. When I cross over into my old stability. When I stop worrying again. Not just for a little while, but maybe for most of the time.

High School Assembly - November 2014

I was honored to be invited to speak at a local high school assembly today, to share my families story. When the assembly was over, a young woman hugged me and thanked me, telling me how much it meant to her to hear it. This was the greatest reward I could have wished for, and the reason that I won't ever stop talking about my baby and everything that we went through to try to save her.

I have shared the speech below, in hopes that it will do good for others as well. 

There is no adult who can look at a teenager and say "I know exactly what you are going through", because life has changed since we were kids. But that’s OK, because the point of advice, of sharing our stories with you, is to hope that there is something within them that you will be able to relate to.

We can't tell you that you can lead a life free of mistakes, because for most of us, our lives are chalk full of them - that is what makes us grow into successful and wise adults.

What I can tell you, is that some mistakes change your life forever. Some of these life-changing mistakes can turn out to have a positive outcome, you can learn from them and make better choices, and become a wiser person.

Other choices will turn your life into a nightmare.

My daughters’ mistakes cost her her life. Her choices, and my reactions to them, have taught me many horrible things.

I’ve learned what it looks like to watch your daughter change from one person, who is good and kind and strong - into another, broken person who wants to be all of those things, but doesn't believe that they can be anymore.

All because of a series of mistakes.

I can also tell you what it is like to mourn that person. I can tell you what it's like to know that someone left your child to die, alone in a gas station bathroom - because those are the choices you make when you take drugs like heroin.

I can tell you that my daughter, Elannah Rose, did not overdose. She took a drug that would have killed her no matter what - it wasn't safe in any dose and there was always going to be a day that she died from it.

The craziest part of everything that happened to my daughter is that she was an addict for three years before we knew it. At this point, every time I tell this story, I feel compelled to acknowledge what I believe all of you are thinking. What kind of a mother doesn’t notice that her child is messed up for three years? This is something I think about every day.

I believed I was a good mom. I did everything I could to provide for my daughter. I talked to her about everything I was supposed to talk with her about. My husband and I made sure that our kids knew they were our first priority.  We ate together, we hung out together, and we did everything we could to prepare her for the world and to be there for her. But I still missed it.

There were certainly signs that she wasn’t alright. Looking back I can see them with perfect clarity. Unfortunately, the signs were never things that we knew to look out for. And because she was so good at hiding her drug use, and so good at appearing to be the same person that we knew, we missed it.

I will never forgive myself. Even now, two and a half years after she died, I lie awake at night thinking about everything I missed, and everything I lost. I don’t blame my daughter, I blame myself. That doesn’t mean that I don’t hold her responsible for her choices, but I was her mom, and I was supposed to know. And I was supposed to save her. From everything bad in the world.

That was certainly my job when she was thirteen. It was my job until the day she died.

When my daughter was sixteen, she started using heroin. She had convinced herself that she could try it and stop, just like she had been able to “experiment” with every other drug she had tried.

It didn’t take long for her to realize that she was not going to be able to stop. Within a couple of weeks she realized that she had made a huge mistake, and she asked for help.

The daughter I saw that night was trying to be sober for the first time in years. She was shaking and picking at her skin… she looked extremely ill and a little insane. It was such a huge and sudden change that I almost convinced myself that she was faking it.

For months we watched her. She begged us not to send her to rehab and we didn’t understand that people don’t get clean at home… so when, once again, our little girl seemed to be perfectly together, we believed her. It was as if all of our prayers were answered.

Throughout this time she maintained a job, she received promotions, she graduated from high school… the drug use came up a few times, but she was so capable in everything else that we didn’t understand that she had a major problem. And it was never heroin again, it was a drink at a party, or a little bit of pot. She was living a double life, and she was good at hiding her other one.

We did this little dance for the next few years. She slipped, we caught her and became more vigilant, she got herself together, we gave her back her freedom, she slipped, the cycle started again.

Until one day when I was opening our mail and there was a letter from a lawyer offering to defend her. She had been arrested for possession of heroin, and this was how I found out. She had spent so much time hiding her activities that she never even considered we would discover the arrest.

By then, she’d been clean and sober for months, as far as we knew. She’d been talking about joining the military or potentially looking into a law enforcement career.

Now she was a felon.

We took her to court, and I cried through the whole thing. I was terrified for her, terrified for her future. And every time we went to court, I saw a side of her I didn’t know. A side that was created out of this other life, this addict’s life.

Even then, we didn’t stop trying to save her. I was so convinced that it was all my fault that I kept trying to fix everything. I kept believing the things she told me. I believed that I was helping her.

And then she got high at home. I caught her smoking heroin in our garage, and I had to kick her out.

This whole time… all these years of helping her… we had two other kids in the house. It never occurred to me that she would be using in our home with her brother and sister there. We had never found any evidence of drug use in the house; we had never actually caught her high.

I didn’t understand an addict’s behavior. I didn’t understand how good she was at hiding things. And even those things I should have understood, I didn’t want to believe those things about my daughter.

But this time I couldn’t ignore it. She was putting our other kids at risk and I couldn’t allow that, couldn’t risk losing them. Elannah Rose was an adult, our other children weren’t even close, and we couldn’t continue to make them suffer because of her choices.

Kicking Elannah Rose out was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. It was also probably the best decision I made from the moment I found out she was using up until that point.

It wasn’t long before she begged to come home, she finally agreed to go to rehab, and she was willing to do anything not to lose her family. And she did. And we had a wonderful break from all the craziness, and she was back for a while.

The problem is, the heroin had changed her. It had altered her body chemistry and she just couldn’t feel good anymore. And one day, it was worse than not be able to feel good, she hated what she had become, this person who never felt right no matter how hard she tried. So she tried to cut her wrists open, and she was taken to a mental ward and placed on lock down.

And she got better again. And she was given medication that helped normalize her. But she knew she would never be right, and even though she went to a new rehab facility, and eventually got through to sober living and then came home, she never liked herself again. She never really believed she had a future.

She was grateful to have a chance to be a big sister again, to do it right. And she did for a while. She helped her little sister with her homework, she shared a room with her baby brother and cuddled him when he woke up at night. She loved them, and she wanted them to know it.

But eventually her meds needed to be adjusted, something in her life shifted, she met up with the folks she used to use with… and she couldn’t maintain anymore.

A few days before she died I started feeling like she was slipping, and I mentioned it to her, but she’d made so much progress that I didn’t want to press her too hard. I just asked her to talk to me if she needed help. She teared up, and smiled, and promised.

A day or two later she stayed up late cuddling with her dad and me and watching some goofy TV show. The next day she skipped her AA meeting to go out with a friend. They were supposed to be studying, but they were shooting up heroin. That was the last choice she ever made.

I still can’t remember what they said when they came to my house, I know I kept asking where she was, and that my husband collapsed on the floor. And I started screaming. I don’t remember a lot about the next few days. I remember different things at different times, but even though it was only two and half years ago, it’s the foggiest part of my life.

I do remember picking out her grave-site. I remember lying down under a tree, and looking up and knowing that that would be her view forever.  This little person who had been with me for more than half my life was going to stay in this place until her body was no more.

And that is what I thought about for months. Her body decomposing in that box, images of it would wake me up screaming at night, until I got to the point where I just tried to avoid sleeping.

I’m not sure I will ever be normal again. At least once a day I have to talk myself out of crying in some public situation. My emotions are always boiling just below the surface. This is not because I’m a woman, it’s not because I’m an emotional person, it’s because my heart was broken, and that is a real thing.

Sometimes, when I think about Elannah Rose, I am grateful that her struggle is over. I don’t think I can say that without sounding a little nuts, but it’s true. I am so grateful that she doesn’t have to fight her addiction anymore and that she is at peace. But I also know that my struggle will never be over. Parents are never supposed to bury their children, it is not how the world was meant to be.

And I am here, telling you this, because even though I know that I cannot ask you to live mistake free, I hope that some of you will be able to learn from mine, and from my daughters.