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.