In Support of Grieving Mothers

The internet is a dark and scary place these days. Everywhere you turn it’s full of divisive commentary, disheartening stories, and an endlessly unnerving string of insults lobbed back and forth between the nameless, faceless entities hiding behind their computer keyboards, typing with all the courage of someone who will never face the ramifications of their actions.

Nothing is sacred online. It’s a paradoxical reality juxtaposed against the scenes we come into contact with, in everyday life, face to face. A life that for most of us over the last six months, due to the limitations of COVID restrictions has been forced to be one lived further removed from the ever-important act of human connection.

While some find this form of isolation to be a hindrance and struggle with their mental and emotional health, others have found themselves freer than ever to use it as a shield as they perpetuate hate and spread cultural and societal dissonance all from the safety of their computer screens.

Surely, one would think there must be some things we as a whole can agree on. The belief that at heart, people are basically good tells us that in general and by majority most people wouldn’t want to harm us, speak ill of us, or degrade us in any way. It’s this belief that keeps society running as we interact with each other on even the smallest account or inconvenience; such as bumping into someone with your grocery cart or shifting over on the sidewalk to make room as you pass by another person on their daily walk. It’s these small circumstances in which we show the basic model of humanity in consideration for others’ wellbeing.

I’m not sure why the comments I read on the internet surprise me anymore. Moreover, I’m not really sure why I continue to read any internet comments at all. It’s a predictable cesspool of tirades, insults, and bizarre trajectories. I often wonder where these people come from, and who talks like that. As I mentioned before, you’d never see it face to face.

If there’s anything at all you’d assume we could collectively agree on it’s the sanctity of the depth of grief for a mother of loss. And if you did indeed assume this, unfortunately you’d be undeniably wrong. In a world where every individual happening is readily available to be seen on an endless loop it’s also often picked apart by internet vultures like nothing more than roadkill on the highway.

Earlier this week Chrissy Teigen and her husband John Legend announced they had suffered a miscarriage. Furthermore, Chrissy was far enough along in her pregnancy that she then had to deliver their son, Jack, stillborn. In a poignant and touching act of empathy for others and in commemoration of their son’s life that was never to be, they shared their most intimate photos of themselves holding him for their first and only time.

It should be noted that there are organizations devoted solely to the documentation process for these families. In the midst of their grief and pain, they meet these families in their lowest moments to make sure they capture the only photos they will ever have of their child. It’s an act of service few are called to offer, and even fewer will receive. It’s akin to sainthood to crawl down into the chasm of the grief of the bereaved parent to offer a light in the darkness of their dwelling. Sometimes, it’s a lifeline as well.

As with all parents of loss we want to know more than anything that our child’s life mattered. That it does still matter, as much as the living children of anyone else. We want so desperately to say their names, to show their photos, to share them with the world just as any proud parents would. As I sit her typing these words on what would have been my daughter’s twelfth birthday, I’m so drawn to the heart and vulnerability behind the photos Chrissy and John shared, and grateful for the illumination it provides for those who have traveled down this emotional road themselves. It’s a road that often leaves you stuck solely in the shadows.

Parents of loss are enigmatic creatures to those who stand on the outside of the circle. It’s not surprising that it is so difficult to fathom the enormity of grief when you’ve lost a child, and how it permeates every aspect of one’s life, if you yourself have not experienced it. How do you describe the array of colors of the spectrum to someone who can only see in black and white?

What is surprising is that even in the most heart rendering situation, like child loss, is that there are those who are so far removed from the ability to sympathize with even a modicum of care, concern, or sorrow that they have conversely been propelled into the realm of criticism and judgment.

I was astonished to find that on pictures of Chrissy and John holding Jack from Chrissy’s hospital bed, IVs attached, exhausted and crying, but looking at him with such love and longing that so much hate was spewed at them on the internet. Comments came flooding in.

“Doesn’t change the fact that you’re evil. God doesn’t like what you’ve done.”

“Typical behavior from celebrities. It’s all about the publicity.”

“You willingly sacrificed your unborn child.”

“What is wrong with you? Are you that desperate for media attention?”

“Um who does a photo shoot after a miscarriage?”

It was too much. I honestly couldn’t believe what I was reading. I shared with my husband what I had seen. We were both incredulous. No person who has been forced to hold their dead child in their arms would ever say these things. It’s because we know. We know the heartbreak and trauma. We know the pain and isolation. We know the feelings of longing, and loss, and failure. We know these photos are all we will ever have.

I share the same photo of my daughter over and over. She’s sitting in her adaptable chair that provided safe, comfortable support, seemingly looking right at the camera, and has on an adorably brightly colored outfit, complete with feathered headband. I love it. She looks so animated here. Her cheeks a rosy glow, and on her lips a hint of a smile. Two weeks after it was taken, she died in my arms of the terminal genetic illness she was born with. We knew our time was fleeting and now it’s the last picture we’ll ever have. If we don’t continue to say her name and share her photos, who will?

The Burden of Blessed Life

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Crying
Screaming at the sunlight dancing across the sky
Detesting its carefree movement
Despising, yet savoring each cloud-covered gray raindrop
blanketing yourself in their weight
Shuttering at each and every touch
Too much warm rosé
or moscato, or chardonnay, or merlot
Not enough food
The thought of it nauseating
The inability to sweep the floor
The exhaustion of it
Wailing
Anger at a passing jogger
The sound of glass shattering
A breath held too long
Sleep that won’t come
Looks of pity
The sighs that accompany their wordless gaze
The television in the background
Your relentless thoughts drowning it out
Your heartbeat; palpable
Sobbing
Endless wandering
Purposeless wandering
Shopping, shopping, shopping
Whispers
Decaying flowers
Casseroles
Sympathy cards
Watching the clock
the seconds ticking by
taunting
too fast
too slow
Choking on air
Wondering
Waiting
Listening
Living

Kodachrome

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Start and stops, beginnings and endings. We think about them a lot this time of year; as children complete another year of school. Some move up, and some move on, forever.

Skylar is finishing her eighth grade year next week, and the moment she does, she’ll begin her journey as a high school freshman; literally the next day. She’s enrolled in summer school courses to get the jump on her high school classes and start accruing some of those twenty-four credits she’ll need to graduate. She’s only thirteen. I often wonder how, and when we got here.
Skylar 2018

She has clear-cut ideas, plans, and dreams for her future. She intends to begin collage courses her junior year of high school. I’m proud to see her taking the necessary steps to begin accomplishing her goals. And of course, in the midst of it all, I can’t help but ruminate on the effervescence that was Miss Elliott’s short life with us.

Who would she be today? What would she look like, sound like, whose mannerisms would she have? I’ll never know. And it hurts too much to attempt to imagine.

In many ways these passing’s of time remind me how I’m still haunted by the words I spoke to Skylar one early fall afternoon; October 2nd, 2008 to be exact. Buckling her into her car seat to set out for a day of fun, just the two of us in downtown Seattle. She had just turned four years old. The next day I was to be induced and Miss Elliott would be born. I can still clearly see and hear myself saying to her,

“This is the last day it will ever be just you and me”

How wrong I was. How utterly, unknowingly, unfathomably wrong I was. Back when I saw the world in nothing but Kodachrome. It wasn’t so for me; not that what has been was any less magical or beautiful in its own way, just also heavier and more solemn than I would have expected. For Skylar, I hope, as all mothers do, that she has many, many years of nice bright futures ahead of her. I hope her world never stops glowing in the brilliance of adventure and possibility. Mama will never be the one to take her Kodachrome away.

Give us those nice bright colors
Give us the greens of summers
Makes you think all the world’s a sunny day

Oh yeah

A Mother Never Forgets

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I tattooed her name on the back on my brain
but it was painted on my lips all along

Elliott forever, Elliott always.

When Love Dies Slowly

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I’m going to call her, M. I’ve known her for a long time. When recounting the fallout over the ending of her marriage, something she never expected to happen in her life, M mentioned to me that she “holds space for those who held Space for her”. I can’t tell you how much I appreciated this sentiment. In the loss of our daughter I became a different person. It all began with her terminal diagnosis. In many ways I’m softer now. I’m less rigid, more patient, but that wasn’t always the case. For a while I was angry. I was harsh. I was unyielding. I pushed people away. Luckily, through it all there were those who were strong enough and committed to loving me through it, those who gave me time and grace. Indeed, I hold space for those who held space for me. M held space for me, and in the midst of it all she was fighting her own battle. One no one around her knew she was fighting.

The themes of Grief, Love, and Life After Loss can stem form many situations, not just from physical death. M found herself in a position dealing with all three of these in a way she never thought possible. Like me, M tried to do her best to keep pushing forward in the midst of her situation without focusing on her grief, or on herself. She did everything possible to keep her carefully crafted walls in place. The walls she had built to feel secure. Slowly, but surely a crack emerged, and eventually her vulnerability began to show through. Only then did she learn the way to make it through that grief was to face it head on. Only when those walls finally came down did M find her freedom in not being contained by them any longer.

“What do I say about grief when it comes to the ending of a marriage? Lots, I say lots. There are so many layers and varied themes in my story…in anyone’s story. I’ll start with the backstory to give you some perspective, but I intend to focus on one theme throughout: grief. I come from a long legacy of lasting marriages. Both sets of my grandparents celebrated fifty years. and my own parents are coming up on that same milestone. I am proud of this legacy and had every intention of adding to it. So, divorce, when it came to my own marriage, was not in my vocabulary. It was unfathomable.

It all began when “good” Christian girl married “good” Christian boy. They had a huge, lovely wedding and went on what was to her, the most bewildering ten-day honeymoon. He barely touched her the entire time. She was baffled. Based on their belief culture, (read: they had saved themselves for marriage) she anticipated his response to being married would be sex, lots of sex, but strangely, that was not the case.

The pattern continued for the entirety of their marriage. Along with a lack of physical intimacy came a lack of emotional intimacy. He worked long hours, played online computer games, and slept more than most adults. They did not talk about feelings, he didn’t want to. They did not go on dates, he didn’t want to. If she asked for these things, or any things at all, he made it clear that he felt burdened and pressured. In disagreements she was always the one to take the blame and need to change to make things right between them. She felt like he was willing to throw her under the bus to get what he needed or just to be right. She did not feel valued by him, she did not feel like a priority in his life. They were not partners, and what friendship they had started with faded yearly. She felt she must be doing something terribly wrong. But, she kept trying to be the good little Christian wife. She would lean in, and he would pull away. She would lean in even more until she was worn out. He sometimes would give her just enough, just a trickle of love to keep her in the ring. She’d regroup and go again. She had committed herself before God, family, and friends that she would do this with everything she had. And, she was not a quitter.

Somewhere in there they got something right, and made two really amazing humans. She got busy being Mom, and that filled some voids in her life. Daily doses of affection can do amazing things for a person’s heart, so do appreciation, and fulfilled purpose. They can also help to mask other underlying issues, for a while anyway. Motherhood gave her all these things. She had hoped that her husband’s heart would be softened by the little people. Maybe it was, but there were no outward signs that it was softened towards her.

Right around the eleven-year mark, she started feeling something she had never felt before. Trapped. Desperate. She prayed a prayer to be released. Oh no! What had she done?! God certainly was NOT going to answer THAT prayer. She re-committed herself to being the best little Christian wife she possibly could be. Guess what? It did not change things for the better. He detached even more. He kept rejecting her. He gaslighted her left and right (she just didn’t know what that was yet.) By thirteen years in, she felt another new thing: Done. She felt spent, drained, hopeless. Then, ugh, she found herself dwelling on thoughts of another man, a friend. What?! This was not her, not at all. She was shocked by herself. Of course she had been hit on before, flirted with by cute coworkers, even attracted to men who crossed her path, but never once had she considered anything romantic with any of those. She was NOT okay with this. It scared her. Once she realized just what she was doing, that her marriage was in such shambles that she’d even go there, she got herself into counseling.

She told her “good” Christian husband about all of it; about the other man in her thoughts, about the counseling, about the hopelessness and the brokenness of their marriage. He was blank, initially. He listened in silence with zero emotion shown. She made demands. He needed to get into counseling, and then they would eventually go together. He got angry as if her asking for him to get counseling implied that he held some blame. She could see it in his eyes: blame and contempt. Why should he go to counseling when she was the one with the problem? But he did go.

Right away counseling uncovered the landmine that decimated her heart and explained everything simultaneously. She was married to a sex/pornography addict. His counselor identified it in his first session, and he told his wife about it that same evening. Her husband said he was flabbergasted. How did the counselor know, she wondered?! Why hadn’t she known?! She was in shock. Waves of disgust and self-loathing descended upon her unexpectedly as she would go about her life in the days just after his revelation. The ick factor was huge for her. At their first joint counseling session, the female counselor, unprompted, identified his addiction as well. This time he was angry. Why would that woman say such a thing about him?! (Side note: men who regularly partake in pornography tend to objectify and undervalue women in general. Notice the difference in his responses to being found out.) As counseling progressed, he walked a fine line of rationalizing/defending his behavior and owning up to it. He did enough to look like he was working, but not enough to actually change. He had been addicted since he was fourteen. At this point he was over forty. It was his coping mechanism. It was his release, his escape. It was the most nurtured, and deeply hidden piece of his identity. It was one that needed to protect at all cost.

She understood that no marriage was perfect. She knew one person isn’t solely responsible for a breakdown of this proportion, but by this time, all the deception and lies, all the rejection, all the detachment, all the holding his wife in contempt, they were all byproducts of his addiction. She could see, in hindsight, the signs that should have clued her in years ago. She was an unwitting enabler. When he blamed the dirty movies that would pop up in Netflix’s “recently watched” tab on a glitch in the system or the sweet teenage babysitter; that should have been a red flag. When she found Archie McPhee figurines posed in a variety of sex acts each time she and the kids would pick him up from work and he would quickly knock it off the shelf to keep her from seeing; that should have been a red flag. When he would turn down sex with his wife and then fifteen minutes later disappear into the bathroom with his phone for forty-five minutes; that should have been a red flag.

Again, she tried to be proactive, but after much counseling, studying, support grouping, separating, praying, and soul-searching, she decided she couldn’t do any more. She couldn’t fix this. She called for divorce. There was fallout…so much fallout. He blamed her and shamed her, threatened suicide, got angry, but never once took ownership of what he had done to their marriage. She was criticized by several people. She was shunned by a few. Her kids didn’t understand. Mainly, sorting through her own feelings was the hardest part. Guilt. Hope. Uncertainty. Smallness. Heartbreak. Grief.

Grief. The big one. Overarching all the feelings was her grief.
My grief.

I was grieving my marriage long before my divorce. Or, I should’ve been
grieving it, because it was dying since the get-go. I don’t know if it’s the way I was raised, the way I’m wired, or the years of being objectified and undervalued, but I did not feel worthy of my grief. I did not allow myself to grieve. I would tell myself, “Hey, look around! There are so many people who have legitimate reasons to grieve.” I just got stuck with in a horrendous marriage. That doesn’t compare to losing a loved one, or a limb. He didn’t beat me. He was never blatantly awful to me, just subtly awful. Do you see that? That’s what I do. I minimize my grief. It was my coping mechanism. It’s too hard to feel. I don’t deserve it. My life is not hard enough for me to deserve grief. All told, my life is pretty good…if you ignore a few little moments here and there:

• a cross-country move leaving my childhood friend/sister behind
• rehoming a beloved dog
• a miscarriage
• rehoming another dog
• a fourteen-year long marriage that was empty, lonely, and devoid of affection
• grappling with my husband’s porn addiction and mental illness
• a divorce
• the loss of independence that comes with a smaller income
• watching my children’s lives be turned upside down

Don’t let me lie to you like I lied to myself. Those things deserve to be grieved. Along with the loss of love, the loss of trust, the loss of one’s sexuality and sexual identity, the loss of a plan or a goal. And sometimes, hard times bring the loss of friends. That happened too, and needed to be grieved.

So, what happens when we minimize our grief? Give it a brief nod and then go on with life? What happens to that grief that doesn’t get acknowledged? That doesn’t get truly felt? I believe it eats us up in a variety of ways. I believe it can be responsible for physical ailments. I believe it can be responsible for the inability to move on with life in a healthy balanced way. I believe it skews our view of the world and of the people in it. When I minimized my grief, when I didn’t allow myself to feel what I felt it ate me up. Literally. I lost a large amount of weight quickly which, on my small frame led to other health issues. I lost sleep. I lost my temper. I lost my focus.

My faith wavered. This was a first for me. Nothing had shaken my faith
before, and it was scary. Unresolved grief can weaken the faith. I mentioned the title “good Christian” several times. It’s because I am a Christian, and I try to be good. I really try. I love Jesus and He loves me. But, questioning the state of my marriage and my beliefs about marriage certainly made me look long and hard at my faith.

I eventually came back around…to the grieving. It took time. It took coaching and it took some really great counseling. It took me learning my worth. I did that by trying to see myself through God’s eyes. It took me humbling myself to realize that I am not strong enough to avoid feeling. I couldn’t stuff it down inside myself any longer. (Side note: Isn’t it funny how pride can make us feel unworthy and overly confident at the same time? That’s another discussion, though.) It took me learning that when the wave of grief comes crashing down on me, the best thing to do is ride it. To go with it wherever it takes me. If I’m driving down the freeway when looms the icky realization that he preferred online sex with airbrushed, silicone-filled porn stars over sex with his wife, then I will pull over and scream and cry if I feel like it. It’s okay. Feel it. Feel all of it, and feel it fully. It’s not easy, but it is necessary.

Then what? Feel it all forever? For me, the waves gradually became smaller and more spread out. They still come sometimes. I acknowledge them, feel them. But, I don’t dwell. I won’t wallow. That gives the hurt too much power. I’m not sure I’ll ever be completely “over it.” My filters have certainly changed. For instance, Hugh Hefner’s recent passing was a personal trigger for me. Previous to all this, I would have hardly noticed. I certainly did not grieve him, but how he is praised for the legacy he left behind sure did a number on me. It brought a wave of pent up grief and unresolved anger crashing down on me. I still get triggered, which usually brings one of these waves. The difference is they’re manageable now. I no longer need to pull over on the side of freeways to scream-cry. And, the grief no longer fills me. Since I’ve learned to let it pass through, the space it took up has been freed to hold other things. Joy. Love. Wonder. Patience.

And where is this “good” Christian girl now? As I said, I am divorced. It was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. I wouldn’t say it’s like pulling the plug on a loved one who’s brain dead, but it shares these similarities: technically my marriage was still alive, but in all respects other than technicalities, it was dead. And, I had to let go of the hope I had held for so long that it would eventually be what God had intended marriage to be. So, now I have found happiness again. I put all the weight back on, and then some… My kids are okay. I am remarried, happily so. I am married to a man who understands grief and feelings and intimacy. He’s faced his own losses, dealt with them, been honest about them, felt all the feelings, and grew from them. He shares his struggles with me. I feel safe sharing mine with him. We verbalize that we have it as a goal to talk about whatever we need to talk about, to stay connected, to be partners, to be lovers, and to be friends, to hold each other accountable, and to keep our faith as the keystone of our marriage. It’s a very good thing. It is real and honest and ugly at times, but that’s how I believe it’s supposed to be.

A word about pornography: For me, pornography was a betrayal. It was an act of infidelity. It was secrecy and lies. It was cheating. It went against everything we “good” Christians believe and hold virtuous in our marriages. But, ultimately, it was my now ex-husband’s unwillingness to recognize this that lead to the demise of our marriage.”

For more information about how pornography use kills love, please visit fightthenewdrug.org

Running Away and Joining the Circus (and Finding Myself in the Process)

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I first met my dear friend, Shelly Ogden in the most unfortunate setting; the hallway of a hotel in St. Petersburg, FL after our first session of the NTSAD Annual Family Conference in 2010. We were both attending for the first time. Miss Elliott, who had infantile Tay-Sachs and Kaleb, who had infantile Sandhoff were nearly the same age, and had both recently been diagnosed. What I remember most clearly is Shelly stopping me in the hallway and telling me that she just wanted me to know that I was saying all the same things in that session that she was feeling, but couldn’t bring herself to say.

The thing about living with these rare diseases, and impending loss is how instantly, and how intimately the bonds we parents forge are. Both Miss Elliott and Kaleb died in 2012, and while Miss Elliott died in February, Kaleb died on October 3; Miss Elliott’s birthday. Shelly texted me early that morning to let me know that Kaleb must have wanted to go be with her to help her celebrate. I was gutted for her.

And the thing about outliving your medically fragile child, is that in many cases you’re suddenly, nearly completely lost. When your everyday life revolves around continuous care, medications, positioning, appointments, therapies, etc., the silence can be deafening. Constricting in your lungs like a lack of air leaving you writing in pain, desolation, and despair.

As Shelly shares below, though she couldn’t run away from the pain she was feeling, she was desperate to find a reason to be, and to find meaning, and value in her life. She was desperate to find Shelly again. And she did so, by looking in the last place she would have expected to go searching:

“I ran away and joined the circus after the death of my son. Okay, not really, but let me explain. Kaleb had infantile Sandoff disease and died just eight days after his fourth birthday. Grief can consume you, especially when you are grieving the loss of a child, if you let it, and I was determined that I was not going to let it. I never wanted my surviving child, Christopher, to feel like his life was less important, so I decided to show up for him, and continue to live for Kaleb, who didn’t get that chance. Even when I didn’t want to do it. Even when it was a struggle to make myself do it. I owe that much to the rest of my family – and also to Kaleb.

Ogden Family

After his funeral, when family went home, and Dave went back to work I had nothing. I felt lost. I felt like I was wandering without a purpose. I’d go window shopping to kill time but even that was too hard. I’d see a mom walking with her son and I’d literally have to run out of the store or risk breaking down in front of everyone. I then found myself making daily trips to the cemetery because that is where I felt close to him, and because I couldn’t stand being inside our empty house. On my way back from one of those trips, I stopped into a women’s only dance studio and bought a membership. I decided it was time to start taking care of myself. I thought I’d start off easy and attend an aerial yoga class, but when I got there, the instructor warned me that what I was about to take was an aerial silks class. I was already there, and I didn’t know the difference, so I decided I’d stay.

Little did I know what I was in for. I am a retired law enforcement officer, and I’ve been through some tough training but this class was the most physically demanding Shelly Aerial thing I’d ever done. First and foremost, I am afraid of heights which was a challenge. The silks physically hurt my feet, and my forearms, hands, and biceps felt like they were one fire. My entire body was screaming, but for one hour I found that I could focus on something other than the pain in my heart, and that was an amazing feeling. One thing I have discovered, as I dove head first into the world of circus arts, is that the more I learn to “fly” the closer I feel to Kaleb, I no longer feel the need to visit the cemetery every day.

The friends I have made in the aerial world are some of the most supportive and caring people I have ever met, and they’ve changed the way I look at a lot of things. My first instructor, Jessie, played such an instrumental part in my healing process. There are countless times when she would sit with me and just let me cry on her shoulder, which was very therapeutic. She’d encourage me to join class when I was ready during those difficult days where I felt like I was constantly on the verge of tears, and I always felt better out of class.

This past August, I asked my current instructor, Lauriel, to choreograph a piece for me to Danny Gokey’s “Tell Your Heart to Beat Again”. I told her I wasn’t the kind of person who could perform in front of an audience, but I wanted to record this piece and post it on social media in honor of Kaleb’s angelversary. I explained that this anniversary would mean that Kaleb would be gone, longer than he lived. What she came up with was even better than what I expected, and was packed with so much emotion. I was so proud of what she had done and when I finally got it recorded we sat together hugging each other and crying. The release of having finished it, was more than just finally recording the piece, but the emotion of the song and the action that was put into the routine all hit me at the end.

I have always been the quiet observer, the wall flower if you will. I like to see everything going on around me, but I prefer to stay out of the lime light, until recently Shelly Circus when Lauriel talked me into performing. I stepped out of my comfort zone and become a performer equipped with identification that titled me “Talent”. So, for one night, I joined the circus, and the spotlight was on me. It was oddly both terrifying and exhilarating at the same time. I was bolstered by the fact that my oldest son and husband were in the audience to support me and I know Kaleb was in the air right next to me.

I’ve decided to continue to live even when my world has been turned upside down. It was a choice I had to make, and it didn’t come easy. Some days the grief is crippling, but I think about the life Kaleb had to live, one that left him paralyzed, in silence, tormented by seizures, unable to enjoy the taste of food, and he reminds me, if he can do that, I can do this – I can live fully and honor him. I have discovered that in order to navigate through life after the loss of a child you have to find your “thing,” your passion. My faith gives me hope, my family gives me a reason, and my aerial world gives me wings.’

“There is freedom waiting for you,
On the breezes of the sky,
And you ask, ‘What if I fall?’
Oh but my darling, what if you fly?”
Erin Hanson

Adorned In Grief

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What was odd is that it wasn’t chilly. It was a February morning in Seattle and I remember not being cold. All the more odd because I’m always cold. Always. I can’t remember if it was sunny, but I know it wasn’t raining. Again, odd for Seattle on a February morning. February 12, 2012, to be exact.

I was wearing a black cotton spaghetti strap, v-neck dress with a satin lining that flowed over my knees. I’m not sure where I got it, because it was already in my closet and I hadn’t worn it often. It was a summer dress. I wore a black shawl over my shoulders and black patent leather heels. No pantyhose. Does convention still call for them? I was young enough not to care. I put on a black 1920s style cloche hat to hide my face. I had gotten it on vacation a couple of years earlier. I didn’t want to look at anyone and I didn’t want them looking at me. I wanted to shrink into that hat completely.

I can’t remember most of it, the funeral. I do remember someone telling me it was beautiful. I wanted to punch them in the face. I remember someone else telling my they had never seen a coffin so small. Again, mental face punch. Then, someone told me I was beautiful. Actually several people did. But someone told me it was the most beautiful I had ever looked. Really? At my daughter’s funeral? Jerk.

I don’t even remember who it was. I just remember thinking that maybe I was little more beautiful at my senior prom…or my wedding…or basically any other day than this.

They just wanted to be nice. I know they did. I don’t blame them. I don’t even count it as ignorant or outplaced. I was simply being swallowed alive in that moment by the death and subsequent burial of my daughter. All-in-all, I think I’ve held it together pretty well.

There were so many people there. I felt their eyes all over me and it burned. I didn’t look around. I will never know who actually was there, or how many people in total, but I know the cemetery was full.

Our preacher said some words. I think my brother lead a prayer. I said nothing. I watched as they lowered my daughter’s body into the hole previously dug for her. I wasn’t sure what to do. Was that it? Was it over? What did I do now? Just leave? How? How could I just go? Once I left, that was it. Never a reason to return. The last that remained of her physical being was gone from me forever. How could it be? How, after the years of caring for her day in and out, providing for her every need twenty-four hours a day, could I just go?

What mother leaves her baby cold in the ground and just walks away?

One face stood out to me. A friend, who was a light in the darkness of my day. She didn’t speak. She simply walked up to me and her searching eyes said everything there were no words for as she pressed her lips together and stared into my soul. I was grateful for her understanding, and though our eyes met, I was silent in my reply.

I don’t have the dress anymore. I don’t know where it went. Did I give it away to Goodwill? I think I did, but I don’t remember doing so. I knew I would never wear it again. The shoes and shawl are both gone. I will never wear the hat again, either, but it I still have. I see it in the back of my closet, a grim reminder of the one and only time it adorned my head. I don’t take it out. Sometimes it topples over when I’m digging for a pair of shorts or an old purse. And I remember.

Headstone

Onward, Soldier. Onward In Love.

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The dark does not my steps impede
Your memory, now the guiding light through my crucible
My drive, steeled by the absence of your beating heart
to seek out a world of love and hope
They must connect;
future born of past
in order to become new
To rise after the fall
To toil evermore
Growing
Searching
Reaping for all mankind

Love Them and Let Them Grow

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“If I know Becky,” my dad says, “she’s going to spend the next two weeks saying to herself, ‘Is she ok? Is she having a good time? Is everything going alright’? She needs me! And if I know Skylar,” he continues, “she’ll just be having a great time, being the life of the party, leading everyone around.”

He’s right. On both accounts.

It’s day one of her two weeks at sleep away camp. I miss her. I was on the verge of tears last night as she’s never been away from home this long. I am thinking all those things my dad said I would think. I’m also wondering how I get through these two weeks without her. I always do. I’m a worrier. More accurately, I’m a planner. I like things orderly and under control. I like to be able to anticipate the next move.

One common theme I hear from many parents who have lost a child is that they don’t sweat the small stuff anymore. Problems no longer seem so big, so daunting. Not after the unimaginable loss they’ve suffered. I wish I could say that was the case for me, but conversely, it had just seemed to make me into someone who now finds themselves acting neurotic. Suddenly everything seems to be an issue. Little things feel like big things. I struggle to keep every moving part in its place. I want consistency.

Some parents of child loss have told me that they actually find they are distancing themselves from their children. It’s a psychological need to guard their hearts. Hearts that can’t handle another loss like the one they’ve already suffered. A preemptive attempt to soften any oncoming blows.

I understand this thought process. My reaction after the loss of our Miss Elliott, however has been to grip everything tighter. To hold on a little longer. To savor every second, even after it’s gone. Feeble, I know, but nonetheless, if I could will time to stop I would never let another second tick by. I’d live in this current moment forever.

The struggle is to find balance. I haven’t (yet) let the neuroticism take over. I actively try to make sure that I’m allowing her to grow and thrive, and experience life on her own terms…well, sort of. Evaluating every day to ask myself; was I too strict, too permissive, etc. What’s the magic formula?

My husband tells me it’s the worry that let’s you know you’re a good mother, because really, when you break it down, worrying (within reason) just means you care.

First day of kindergarten, eight years ago. Ready to take on the world from day-one.

She’s strong and outgoing, and like my dad said, she’ll probably be running the place by the time the week is out. We joked that there’ll be no tearful phone calls home in the middle of the night asking us to come pick her up. And I’m proud. Proud of her strong will, gumption, and tenacity. Proud of her unbroken spirit, outspoken opinions, and every-present resiliency.

After the summer she’ll be going into eighth grade. I only have one more year until she’s in high school. How did it happen? Where did the time go?

The most important lesson my parents have taught me that carries over into my own parenthood is just to “love them”. In the end it’s the only thing you really do have control over. Just love them, and let them grow.

A Grieving Parent’s Growing Pains

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“Good night”, she said. “I love you.”

“Good night. I love you too my sweetheart”, I replied. I was reading on my bed when she came in. I watched her walk away and marveled at the amazing young woman she has become. And I questioned how it happened, when.

I blinked and here we are.

We spent the weekend attending various graduation parties. Life is in full bloom for these new young adults. Their wide eyes begging to take on everything in sight. The increasing pace of their beating hearts palpable to anyone near them as they overflow with the anxiousness to take that first step in their new journey. Laughter and joy abounds. Their parents, an incompatible mix of immense pride, yet also the lingering pangs of sadness over that fact that they will soon be leaving, the fact that they are no longer needed the way they once were.

“Five years and we’ll be here ourselves”, I tell my husband. I can hardly believe it. Just stop I plead with Time. Just wait. Just give me a little longer. Where did it go? Was I even present for it? I can’t remember it, I think to myself. Where was I? What was I doing? When had she stopped being a little girl? Have I done enough, taught her enough, instilled in her our values so she adopts them as her own?

I become misty eyed, feeling like every mother must, in losing my little girl to womanhood. I know my time with her is limited. And I know that she, like every other child who grows up, must want the freedom and ability to experience life on her own terms, too.

Then, on the other hand, I’m grateful for every bit of it because she’s growing and flourishing. When I look at her, I see all the same magic and inspiration I see in the eyes of those graduating seniors. And I want her to have every bit of goodness and opportunity the world can offer.

I try my best to prepare her. I’ve never wanted to fill her head with fairytales. I tell her it will be hard, she’ll have to fight for what she wants, push through her trials, and to never take a back seat. I encourage her to pursue her dreams, with the understanding that being smart, while she is (astonishingly so), isn’t enough on its own so she knows she has to be willing to go out there and go after what she wants instead of sitting around waiting for it her find its way to her.

As much as it pains me (but of course I’m proud of her and happy for it) to see my child changing before my eyes; becoming her own person, blossoming into a being all her own; not needing me, I know that the alternative is far worse. I know from experience. And there is deep sadness. The hole in my heart reserved for our Miss Elliott, gone more than five years now opens a little wider in these moments. In the undeniable moments that reaffirm each time we live through them that there will never be these milestones and celebrations for her.

I will never know who she would have grown into being. What she would have accomplished. Whose lives she would have changed. She will always be three years old.

As the gap between my girls continues to widen exponentially, I can only hope she will carry her sister’s memory with her as she navigates the roads of life. When she has no siblings at home to share secrets with, fight with, turn to, or champion one another I can only hope that in her heart she feels a connection to her sister and knows she’s not an only child, even if she has to live this life as one.

I hope she will use her loss to propel her to reach new heights in both love and life. I know that she is by far more compassionate and understanding of others and their own plights, at such a younger age than she would have otherwise been. And while I would have never asked to place this burden on her, as a grief counselor once told me:

“We must be good stewards of our grief.”

In that spirit I will not wallow in my sadness, I will not stunt her own growth and development, but I will use it to further advance my daughter’s dreams and aspirations as she grows and matures, to the best of my ability, in honor of a beautiful life cut far to short. In honor of the live I have, and always will for both my beautiful girls.