When you lose a child, birthdays and death-days are normally the two hardest points in the year to get through. The day your child came into this life, and the day she left. Whether your child had three minutes of living or 64 years, you, the parent, bear the loss of her throughout your life, feeling the wrongness of outliving your offspring.

Tuesday was Jessica’s birthday. She would have been 27, and I can’t help but wonder about the “Jess” she would have morphed into in the year and a half since she died. Jessie inherited from me the tendency toward change. Don’t get me wrong. I’ve been working at the same place for 15 years, and I’ve always been in long-term relationships. But internally, spiritually, I have always allowed myself the space to grow and evolve into other versions of me. I think my core has remained the same, but the external attributes—beliefs, goals, the way I “move” in the world—have all continually transformed into new, and hopefully improved, manifestations of Bernie. I’m certainly not the person I was at 19—a very conservative born-again Christian, depressed, fearful, with very low self-esteem. I outgrew that person and, fortunately, embraced other ways of being that provided me more freedom. And yet I know so many people who have remained basically the same as they were way back when. No problem with version-control for them! I really can’t imagine a life without growth and change. I keep what works and embrace new ideas and ways of being if I believe they will benefit me.

Jess was like me in this way. She was always trying on new ideas and roles. She was, in fact, a bit of a chameleon. She could choose who to be, applying different aspects of her many selves, in order to adapt comfortably to most situations. So who would she have been now? I’ll never know, and this hurts me deeply, recognizing that her infinite potential slammed against a solid wall the moment she died.

But while Jessie no longer has the ability to grow and change, I do. It’s interesting for me to stand back emotionally and look at how I’ve changed during the year. I have more peace this year. I cry less often. I have longer periods of grace during which I can smile, behave normally, maybe even experience enjoyment and laughter. I can accept that the future holds possibilities even though at this point I have no idea what those might be and no belief that I can ever be a truly happy person. When people ask me how I am, I have actually answered, “Good!” a few times. These are huge gains!

So I realize that while I can never bring my daughter back, that my old life was destroyed, that who I was I’ll never again be, I can accept that with time I will grow even more accustomed to this new life with its loss. In a much smaller way, imagine having badly broken your leg in your youth. Perhaps being a very physical person, an athlete, defined who you were, and so you suffered more than just the physical leg breakage. Some days, the bone aches so much you can barely stand, and you have to take medication to help you bear the pain. You know that you need to keep moving, so your leg won’t stiffen from disuse. Then on other days, you get up, feel the twinge of pain, but go through your day able to accomplish your tasks with minimal discomfort, although you unknowingly favor your whole leg and tend to walk with a bit of a limp.

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The scarred bone will always be there, the compensation for the pain always a necessity. You will never be the star athlete you were. Others who haven’t experienced such a loss suggest you take up another sport. Will the pain lessen in time? Or will you spend your life having to compensate for the breakage you experienced at 17? Some people live their whole lives looking back at the glory years before the breakage. Some use the experience of loss to help others in similar situations. Some use the pain to push them to living their greatest potential in life. And some just sit down and wallow in beer and pills.

It’s easy to feel “Poor me” no matter what the loss. Poor Jess. She made an unknowing choice that cost her everything. Poor us, her family, whose lives have been irrevocably derailed by her death. Poor world, which will never benefit from the presence and energy of my incredible daughter. But here we all are, and while we might not be able to embrace change, we can still choose to remain open to the possibility of it and grateful for the changes that help us to continue on our paths, scars and all.

Chris and I have abandoned the farm to a caretaker and are in Costa Rica for two weeks. The trip has been magnificent (except for driving in San Jose–thank goodness for GPS!), filled with challenging activities ranging from zip-lining 328 feet in the air of the cloud forest, traveling up to 45 mph for a half mile, to SCUBA diving 70 feet under the sea, to rafting down the class 3-4 Pacuare River. I will be 56 next week but am amazed at what my body can still manage with little more than aches, bruises, and blisters resulting.

When focusing on a challenge, be it mental or physical, I can relax that part of my mind that remains in constant anguish and pain since my concentration is needed for the task ahead of me. In theory, anyway. But Jessica is wily and manages to intrude even when I should be totally in the moment. Because I know that she would love to do the things I’m doing. She’d be yelling, “Bring it on!” volunteering to be the first to zip-line above the cloud forest canopy, or as the front paddler of the raft, taking on white water plunges. She would be awed at the huge spiders, beetles, and cockroaches on the night hike (not so much, Sarah…). Jess would be the extreme adventurer because that was part of her attitude toward life: try everything, experience it all, don’t think of the risks or consequences. That was my girl, and that’s why she’s not here anymore, because she didn’t count the risks or understand her body’s limitations.

I keep telling myself I’m getting better. Chris told me the same thing last night over drinks and dinner. I don’t feel it in my heart much of the time. I feel like a great pretender, an actress supreme: “Look at that older woman, laughing, taking on the white water, fearless, living life to the full!” Fearless, yes. I’ve experienced my worst fear and am having to live with it daily. What’s my old fear of heights compared to having lost one of my dears? But I laugh at myself when I think, “Falling while zip-lining would be a quick and easy death” because I know I would not be that lucky. My fall would be softened by the fern branches, so I would arrive at the bottom broken but alive. I hear this voice laughing at me, “I’m not letting you off that easy.”
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But the pretence of wholeness seems required. No one wants to listen to me talk about my daughter (especially on vacation), moan about the things she’ll never get to do or enjoy. My tears are for the most part silent and private, which means that while I’m putting on my great act, I’m actually somewhere on the outside of reality critiquing the show and living my counter-life of grief. If you’re living this nightmare life, you’ll understand what I mean. If you’re lucky to have been spared this pain, you probably won’t get it. Meanwhile, the pressure builds, and I know if I can’t find an outlet to express my pain, I will blow. I don’t even know what I need most of the time. To talk or not to talk, that is the question. To cry, to scream, to wail. Nothing will bring her back. The real question is, “What will bring me back?”