An Imperfect Analogy

There is a quote floating around on the internet grief sites that says:  I don’t think people understand that when I say I think about you every day, I really mean every day.  That quote struck me as inaccurate.  Then I thought about it some more.  It came from a normal grief site, not a site for grieving parents, so maybe it is accurate for some types of grief.  But I think it is a gross understatement for a grieving mother.  I tried to correct it in my head.  I tried every hour, that wasn’t right.  I tried every minute, but that wasn’t right either.  It isn’t a thing that can be measured in time.   It is more of a measure of intensity.

By that I mean, that there is really never a second I am not aware of my daughter and my grief.  Sometimes it floats in the back of my consciousness and I function quite well, almost like a whole person.  Other times it punches me right between the eyes and I do not function at all for a while.  I came up with a little analogy that I like quite a lot.

Grieving my daughter is like I imagine it would be to lose my left arm.  I am right handed.  I can function with my right hand.  Some things are going to be a little inconvenient with only one hand (opening a door with something in my hand).  Some things will be much harder (turning a cartwheel, pushing a wheelbarrow).  Some things I will have to completely relearn to do a new way (type, tie my shoes).  Other things are simply impossible (playing a clarinet, carrying a large, heavy object).

One thing I know for sure, I will never be unaware that I don’t have that arm any longer.  It won’t slip my mind.  All that will change is the fierceness with which I am missing that arm.  Am I frustrated by an inconvenience or am I screaming with rage and frustration at what I can no longer do?  It just depends on the circumstances. 

Do I feel my arm still?  People say you do.  I certainly feel Michaela still; sometimes more than others.  Do I still unconsciously try to do things with that arm before I realize it isn’t there.  I’m sure I do that too.  I certainly still think, at times, that I need to remember to tell Michaela something, or I should buy something for Michaela for Christmas.  Less often now than I used to, just like eventually I would get used to not having my arm.  I wouldn’t forget about my arm missing, I would just adjust to not having it.  It would be futile not to adjust.  It would be impossible not to adjust in some way.  I’m sure some people adjust in more healthy ways than others.  Some people might lose their arm and find a way to excel as a one armed person.  Others might hold onto anger and never really adjust.  

 

I’m sure that when I would be thinking about my missing arm, that I wouldn’t be visualizing my fingers and my fingernails and my wrist.  I would be missing the functionality of that arm.  I would be missing the essence of that arm.  That is how I miss Michaela.  I don’t have her face plastered in my mind every minute of the day, but the essence of who she was (and who she would have been) lingers around me like the smell of flowers on a spring day.  It fades and swells and sometimes blows across my face with such a sweet smell that it makes me lift my head, breathe deeply and smile.

A Rainbow is a Poor Substitute

I’ve written several blogs on what (not) to say to a grieving parent, but as my years of experience in this role grow, so does my patience dwindle.  First, let me say that I always assume that people don’t have any idea what to say, and if they say the wrong thing it is probably not intentional.  But there is one ‘compliment’ that I get from time to time that just irritates the heck out of me.  I can deal with the obviously ignorant comments like “she is in a better place” or “everything happens for a reason” or even “it is good that you have moved on with your life.”  I just figure the person is ignorant, and blessed to be ignorant, of what I am oh so knowledgeable of.

First though, let’s take a step back in time.  I remember when my children were very young and I was in the Air Force, working every day and leaving my children at day care.  It seemed like every single stay-at-home mother I knew complained about people making comments about their ‘not working’ or ‘how nice it was they didn’t have to work’ and we all wisely nodded our heads and said comforting things about how being a stay-at-home mom was a full time job.  But those same women, almost without exception, said to me at one point or another, “I admire you for being able to juggle both a job and family (or something along those lines)” and immediately followed that with “I just couldn’t bring myself to go back to work after Junior was born.”

Does anyone else see the backhanded compliment in that?  Perhaps it was intended as a genuine compliment, and the speaker was just too wrapped up in herself to hear the implication of the statement.  Perhaps I am oversensitive and hear an implication that wasn’t present.  But my ears heard “I am a better mother than you.  I love my children more than you love yours.  If you truly loved your children, you wouldn’t have been able to bear it either.”  And I always wanted to respond (and sometimes I did), with, well, it wasn’t like I had much choice.  I wasn’t independently wealthy or married to someone who could single-handedly support our family in the way we wanted our children to live (read 'not on food-stamps').  I see now that those women must have felt some kind of insecurity in their own status in the world, and were taking it out in a passive-aggressive way whether they realized it or not. 

My new pet peeve is also delivered almost exclusively by other mothers.  It too, starts out as a compliment.  Something along the lines of “I’m really impressed with your strength” or “you have done such a great job of dealing with everything” and then is immediately followed up with “I just don’t think I could go on if something happened to Junior.”  Do you see the parallel here?  I try not to judge, but I have trouble believing that they can’t see the insensitivity of that statement.  My ears hear exactly the same thing they heard all those years ago when I had to let other people take care of my children to put food on the table, "I love my child more".

I have to remind myself that they don’t know what they don’t know and they are blessed to remain ignorant.  What they don’t know is that I wasn’t given any choice in the matter at the time and I’m not given any choice in the matter now.  What they don’t know is that to get through any given day I have to force thoughts of my daughter to the back of my mind so I can function.  They don’t know that coping, by forcing thoughts of my child away, incites incredible feelings of guilt.  They don’t know that I can only force her to the back of my thoughts for so long before it (my grief) will find its way back out and knock me off my feet, sometimes for days at a time.  They don’t know that I don’t sleep at night and don’t function very well during the day.  They don’t know about nightmares, night sweats, and panic attacks.  They don’t know that every time they see me, I am putting on the “I’m Okay” show…I’m pretty good at it.  They don’t know that everything I do is twice as hard as it used to be; that life’s every little frustration is a huge hurdle for me; that every petty meanness that is thrown at me, even a rude driver, rubs against my skin like sandpaper; that every joy, every beauty, every moment of fun, is colored with sadness.  They don't know that for all of my positive posts about rainbows and miracles, that a rainbow is a poor substitute for a daughter.  They don’t know that not 'going on' isn’t an option.

They don’t know what they don’t know; and I honestly hope they never have to know. 

What's the worst?

I remember about six months after Michaela died, around Christmas time, people started asking me this question.  THE question.  The question I get asked more than any other.  What time of year is the worst?  Is it the holidays?  Her birthday?  The anniversary of her death?  At the time, I had no idea.  What kind of a question is that to ask someone in my situation.  My answer then would honestly have been...every day.  Every single F-ing day is the worst.  Every day I have to wake up is the worst.  They are all the worst and each one is worse than the one before. 

We just passed the third anniversary of Michaela's death.  I still can't put a date on it.  I noticed this year that her friends recognize the date of the accident; after all, she never woke up, so maybe that is the day.  People underestimate the wisdom of youth.  It is something I have struggled with...the date of the accident, the date she was declared dead, the date she went for organ donation, and the date we put her ashes in the ocean.  All separate and painful memories for me.  The whole week throws me...not by calendar dates, but by days of the week and surrounding events.


Michaela's accident was on the last Sunday of June.  That it was a Sunday was important because it defines what we were doing that day.  We were home.  I had been on a photo shoot the day before.  We were still in our lounging pajamas at 3 in the afternoon.  I was editing photos.  Bill was watching sports.  Michaela went to the beach for the afternoon.  It only makes sense on a Sunday, so regardless of the date, in my mind it will always be that last Sunday of June.  At the other end of the spectrum is the day we placed her cremains in the ocean.  That day was the 4th of July.  There is no other way to think about it...I couldn't tell you what day of the week it was.  It isn't important.  So from the last Sunday in June to the 4th of July...those are the days I relive the impossible. 

I have a better answer now, I suppose, for those who ask that question.  The answer is the anniversary of her death followed very closely by her birthday.  Sure the holidays are hard.  But anyone who knows, knows.  Every day is hard.  Every single day.  It numbs.  It gets easier, sort of.  But every day will never be like every day used to be.  I will struggle to get out of bed and put on a smile and do what needs doing; some days I will succeed, some days I won't.  But those two dates...they are killer. 

Here is why...simplified.  All of the holidays involve all of the family.  Kids, friends, parents, other family...there is usually a crowd and a lot going on.  Cooking, cleaning, presents--you know the drill.  But those two dates were (and are) all about her.  Birthdays are about the birthday girl.  As her birthday approaches, I think about all of the birthdays she had...what we planned, what we did, what she loved and even (stick shift car) when she wasn't pleased. 

But the anniversary of her death is worse yet.  In the month coming up to that, my mind is filled with what we did that summer.  We had a wonderful summer (a blessing).  The time is filled with memories of "the last time"....the last road trip, the last ice cream at Del's, the last visit with David, the last argument, the last hug, the last "I love you", the last, the last, the last. 

And then there are the messages from her friends.  Oh how I love the messages.  Oh how the messages make me cry.  I hope the messages never stop, but I know they will.  The messages are so bright they make my eyes water to look at them.  I love them.  I need them.  But they hurt too.  I would love the messages to come at other times.  I love that they come then.  But so many, all at once, I can only read them in short bursts.  The beauty of the Internet is that those messages stay and I can go back, during leaner times, and look at them one at a time.  When I am not so very raw. 

As an experienced griever...what a terrible thing to have on your life's resume....I know now that I can't look straight on at my grief very long or very often.  It is like looking straight into the sun.  You can glance at it or you can see it in your peripheral vision, but if you look right at it, it makes you cry.  It hurts.  It could blind you with its power.  It isn't safe at all.  It is much better just to grab a glance now and then.  You know it is there all the time.  It wakes you up in the morning.  It pops in and out of the clouds.  It warms you and sometimes it burns you.  It is ever present, but you don't think about it every minute; it is just part of your existence.  That is how my grief is.  More importantly, that is how my daughter is.  She is ever present.  She is part of my existence.  She colors everything else I see.  And when I can't feel her, all is dark.