sucker punches

My daughter died.  One morning she was a normal happy, laughing, frustrated 21 year old.  She was excited about the apartment she was about to move into.  She was worried about signing up for her last classes for graduate school.  She was worried about if she needed to sign up for the college offered medical insurance (Are you sure, mom?  I'm about to click no).   She didn't want eggs and bacon only cereal (strange).  She was worried about her new job, her new school, her relationship, her personality, her friends, her future, her being.  She slept late, checked email, facebook and post secret, registered for classes, ate cereal, took a shower and left for the beach with a bye, love you, can't wait to see your pictures.  

And I never heard her voice again.  I saw her.  I held her.  I talked to her.  I prayed over her.  I rubbed her feet.  I held her hand.  I kissed her face.  I stroked her hair.  In the end, I prayed for her to stop breathing on her own or God's will be done, whatever was the right thing, because I knew she wasn't in that body any more or if she was, she was just holding on for me; waiting for me to let her go.  No matter what, the doctor said, Michaela was gone.  Yes, there are miracles and Lord knows we prayed for one, but I have to admit that I didn't want her to wake up irrepairably damaged with no quality of life whatsoever.  If she could be happy, in whatever state she came back, so be it.  If she couldn't walk, talk, or function normally, that would be ok if she was happy.  But if she lost her incredible intelligence and wit, then she wouldn't be Michaela anymore, right?   She had already had an amazing life; why be afraid of what is next for her?

I didn't pray alone.  There was a force of us.  Her dad spoke the words out loud.  I don't know what everyone else said in their hearts.  My heart spoke his words.  We all held hands.  We prayed together.  And when we came out of the room we were in, two minutes later, she was gone.  There were legal formalities, but she was gone at that instant.  I had left her with two of my friends.  It was my wish that she have at least two people with her all the time so she would never be alone.  When I came out of that room she was alone.  I was furious.  I thought they had left her, selfishly.  With 20 people in the waiting room that didn't seem likely, but I was confused.  As it turned out, the nurse had sent them out.  While we were praying, she stopped breathing.  They sent them out so they could do the test to declare her legally dead.

It has been 15 months.  Fifteen terrible months.  Up and Down.  Back and Forth.  Ok and not ok.  Life goes on.  That sucks but it is the truth.  Life and death go on no matter how much I want to crawl in a hole and stop.  Since then both of my husband's parents have died.  Why is it so hard for us to say those words?  Dead, death, died.  They died.  Alternatively, they passed away.  That seems to work for older people, but doesn't seem to fit a quick, young death.  You will never hear me say I lost my daughter.  I absolutely did not lose her.  I hate that expression.  It implies carelessness.  You lose keys, not children.  And besides, I know she will turn up again...neither she nor I are lost...we just can't see each other right now or perhaps I just can't see her. 

When my husband's father passed on Thanksgiving, it was more than I could cope with.  I wasn't there to help him deal with his grief in any way.  I was still a complete mess.  This last month his mother passed and I was honored to be at her death bed.  Death no longer scares me.  I had the words for my prayers as Dixie drew her last breaths.  I'm in no hurry for death for myself or my loved ones, but I no longer doubt what the future holds.  I grieve for my daughter constantly, but I am more attuned to the beauty of this world than I have ever been in my life.  I have been constantly searching for a balance between what I want and what I have to do to get it.   

Most days I just live my life like anyone else.  Most days I am just Katy,not the woman whose daughter died.  Most days I work, eat, rest, and worry, just like everyone else.  Most days I drive my car, hate my job, listen to music, plan trips, and shop, just like everyone else.  Today I got my teeth cleaned.  Just like everyone else.  But I'm not just like everyone else.  I have a hole in my heart as I do these things.  I breath a little shallower.  Some days I don't notice so much.  When I am overwhelmed with the rest of life, I don't notice so much.  But it is like an overdue loan.  Eventually I have to pay the price for surviving.  Eventually all of the good days will cave in to a day of mourning, of grieving.  I will have to give in to the inevitable.  Each time I think I know the signs of impending gloom, it changes.  I suppose it will change for years.  Until someday being without her is the norm and although I will never stop missing her, the person I become will be able to cope with the loss.

I wonder how they managed in the 'old days' when so many children died.  Was that just the norm?  Did mother's grieve briefly and then get on with life or did they grieve on and on and just hide it from society.  Were they too busy doing what needed to get done to ensure the survival of the rest of their family to dwell on the one, two or more that were missing?

Today was a day of sucker punches.  It was the first day in awhile that I wasn't overwhelmed with the here and now.  And today, I missed my daughter at the silliest times.  At Walmart.  In the car.  At home talking about a trip to NYC.  Time after time today I was reminded that although I know she is in the best possible hands, she isn't here with me.  I will never, in this life, see her again.  And it is like a sucker punch to the gut every single time.  They come less often than they did in the very beginning, but they hurt no less.

I love you Michaela and I miss you.