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?”