I feel that every year at this time I write a post that starts, “So many years ago, my beautiful daughter died.” And here I go again. Four years have passed, and as some of you who have lost children know, in some ways, absolutely nothing has changed from the moment of getting that nightmare phone call telling me that my beloved Jessica had been found dead. A year ago, I wrote that I didn’t feel that I had it in me to go on, that I was too bone-weary exhausted and heartbroken to face each day, not only without my child, but watching this world getting crazier and crazier. But here I am. I have dragged myself, sometimes kicking and screaming, into each day and attempted to “fight the good fight” for the people I love, the values I hold dear, and for the salvation of this beautiful planet that we all call home. Sometimes I’ve felt that my presence has made a difference to someone or something, so I’ve given myself a mental pat on the back, a “You go, Girl!” to acknowledge my effort. Other days, I’ve beaten myself up because of my failures, those that might have inadvertently contributed to Jess’ death and the others that are merely the signs of my own imperfect humanity. But at the end of many, if not most days, I’ve often doubted that I had the strength to rise the following morning like Sisyphus and push that damn rock back up that unholy hill. Often, it all just feels like too much.

Yet, I continue to live if not thrive, with or without any wholehearted intention or desire to do so. I’m constantly amazed at how hard it is for some to be rid of life while others die so easily. I’ve met quite a few parents who have outlived a child, and we are as diverse a group as any really. Some manage to at least appear to get back on their feet relatively quickly. They have their faith, which provides them with hope and purpose perhaps, or they take on a cause that somewhat fills the empty hole within them where their child once resided. They refuse to get stuck in the hallways of their minds where the unanswerable questions echo incessantly (why her, why me, why mine?). They choose to move beyond (no one really moves “on,” I believe, from the death of a child). Others flat give up. They fall apart and never mend. They silently or noisily go mad with sorrow and get stuck in the moment of loss, never reentering the world of the truly alive. I have wished at times I could join them. Many, many are like me, kind of lost, stumbling around, but doing their best to play the part of heroic survivor, wringing whatever is life-giving and nurturing from what often feels like the dry bones of existence, fearing the inevitable next phone call.

I recently visited the counselor I saw during the first year of my grief. I had literally lost one of my dear cats (she later was found dead in the wood pile) and Tom Petty, my absolute favorite musician, on the same day. The cat I had had for probably 15 years, Tom Petty for decades. I was bereft. I still am. I told my counselor that I have a grief closet in my soul (I may have written about this before) and explained that every time something I love dies, I have to open the grief door to add in the latest victim. When the door opens, all of the old grief spills out because it is a very full and messy closet. I can see this picture in my mind where I’m leaning with my whole body against the closet door, with legs and arms and cat tails sticking out, and pushing with all my might to slam it shut. But the closet’s too full, and there are simply too many bodies, and the best I can do is stand there forever trying to keep the mess enclosed. That’s what my grief feels like. Part of me is forever leaning against that fucking closet door even as I go about being highly efficient at my day job and enthusiastic in my night teaching job, and managing to remain passionate about so many causes, all the while clinging to the memories of the ones I have lost. What’s it all about, Alfie? I honestly don’t know. I keep reaching for the answers, but as one songwriter said, “My hands come up empty.”

But it is what it is, and life goes on. Why is it that platitudes have turned into mantras for survival? Well, they’re better than, “You’re so strong!” or “God wanted another angel in Heaven!” The fact is THIS IS REAL! Not all pain is surmountable. You simply deal with it and get on. You carry it with you in every breath and heartbeat. I speak for not only myself but so many others who are coerced by society into putting on a good face and “getting on with it” because, after all, four years is really an awful long time to be miserable and “hold” onto your grief. God protect the person who has the audacity to say to my face, “Jess would have wanted you to live on and be happy!” YEAH, WELL, SHE FUCKING SHOULDN’T HAVE TAKEN THAT PILL THEN, RIGHT? She should have come to me and said, “Mom, I’m really sad right now cuz Nana just died, and I split up with my boyfriend, and I don’t feel well, and I’m kind of feeling out of control. Can you help me?” And I would have dropped absolutely everything and held her and told her that it would all be OK, and we were going to make it through this together, and why don’t you spend another night, and I’ll feed you and take you shopping and run you a bubble bath and hug you and make you laugh, and all the things I CAN’T EVER DO NOW! THAT’S REAL! THAT’S NOT GOING AWAY!
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And that’s the truth I live with. So far, the pain hasn’t dissolved. It’s become more manageable, and I believe that as time passes, it will continue to do so because, really, memory plays a part in grief, and as the years go by, memory fades, and the daily stuff just crowds in and takes over. Maybe that’s why the grief community talks about the magical “nine years” that it takes for joy to return. Perhaps it takes that long to dull the memory enough for joy to have a fighting chance at survival. Who knows? I’ll probably still be here writing about the journey at year nine, and I’ll share what I’ve learned. I do know I am now able to choose to see the beauty around me whenever possible. I acknowledge what soothes my soul and gives me respite. And I remind myself constantly that many in the world have lost far more than I, that my loss, while painful, is shadowed by greater suffering and horror that are a worldwide daily occurrence.

Meanwhile, thank you to all the people who love, encourage, and accept me for the broken merchandise I am. Please don’t try to change me. If you can’t abide, I understand. But I will remain forever present and true to my reality. As my counselor told me, “You’re still taking care of Jessie, and you’re never going to stop. Because you’re her mom, and that’s your job.” I have other jobs too, and I try to do them the best I can. I’m a mother to my darling, beautiful Sarah, and a wife to my beloved husband Chris, a stepmother to Carly and Cody. I’m a friend to many and a relative to few. But I will forever be my Jessie Bear’s mom, and that’s a role I’m not willing to part with.

Sweet girl, come whisper in my ear. I’ll listen and wrap you in my love. I’m never going to abandon you, so come find me, darling. There is still great beauty in this world, but I will choose the darkness over the light if it means feeling you near.