Birthdays, Deathdays, and the Middle

Someone told me that when I didn’t make my typical anniversary post they hoped it meant that things were finally getting better. That I was healing, or moving on, or whatever. I don't know if that's true or not. Can you get better? I think you just settle into different.  



I've heard that grief never goes away, that it just hits you differently over time, and maybe in less expected ways. So... that's a super positive outlook on the rest of my life. 



The reality is that I’ve really been struggling the past few months. I feel like I left Elannah Rose when we moved to the other side of the country and I feel this complete sense of guilt. My brain knows this doesn't make sense but my heart can't get over it because the life she lived and knew was in another place and that means we're moving on. Which is just not fair, because I wanted to bring her on all of my adventures and to witness hers. And because there is nothing I can do about it.



I miss my kid. I miss her every day and lately I miss her so much that my eyes just constantly leak. My heart lives in my throat, my emotions hang out under the thin surface of my skin... and I just kind of pray that, as in past years, I'll be okay after Sunday. After her birthday has passed. I already made it through the deathday, so I just need a few more days to finish with this cycle and then the new, normal, mostly dry-eyed me can return to residence. 



But then, there's this ugly part that has been pretty intense lately.



I feel robbed. I feel jealous of every mid-twenties young person I see. Not actually of them, but of their mothers who get to witness the rest of their offspring's lives. Because their offspring's have lives. This horrible disease stole my firstborn child and the ugly part of my heart just keeps screaming... why her?  



I have spent my life striving to be gracious, to think of and treat others with kindness and dignity. I am ashamed for these thoughts and feelings and yet they claw their way to the surface in an especially painful way when those twenty-somethings were her friends.



Occasionally, I read something by or about the parent of another addict. I am always struck by the fact that there is nothing unique about my grief, other than the fact that it’s mine. It's a horrible population to belong to and it defines us in a way that is life altering.

What do you call a mother who lost her child?



A failure. A mess. Or, in polite circles, you just hope she'll stop mentioning it.



On the other hand, I am amazed by these orphaned parents who become champions for every other child. I understand them. I strive to be a part of that population. I believe that it is the best we can do, whether it is for our own healing and self preservation, or to honor our loved ones, or for a truly selfless act. It is our path to salvation, to hope. To the future that we wish our lost ones had and to an end to this disease.

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.