Happy 34th birthday, Beautiful Jess! I miss you so much, Girl, and I wonder, as usual on your birthday, who you would have been today if you were here. Would you have been married with a home, job, children, a traditional life? Would you be studying or working a high-pressured job writing or photo-editing, staging sets for photo shoots? Would you be happy or depressed, or both? Would you be broken or whole? Would you be enjoying your journey? These questions will never be answered, but, of course, there are so many more, many of which begin with “Why…” that haunt me day and night.
But time has moved on, and part of me has moved with it. The thing is that ever since I heard the words “Jessica is dead,” I’ve been two people. A part of me, a piece that broke off from the whole, survived because it had too. There were others I loved deeply and could not leave, and so that morsel held on tight to life and has grown over the years. She’s almost the same as a normal person but tamped down like an ember rather than a flame. But the vast me-ness died with you, and there was nothing I could do or even wanted to do to stop that departure. What people don’t get is that the life I led until that moment disappeared in a single second, and everything I was came to an abrupt end because in my essence, my personal identity, I was a mother of two wonderful daughters, and now one was gone, never to return. Now many of my qualities and attributes grew into the morsel, the “clone” of Bernie, and survived in another life. But the shocking pain of immediate loss was a nuclear bomb that detonated in my soul. That’s just the way it was. As I say all the time now: It is what it is. And, really, now, eight and a half years later, I’m OK, incredibly better in the last couple years, for sure. I’m actually happy sometimes. I experience joy and peace, things that were missing for so long. And I’m grateful for every single blessing in my life because I’m always aware that things could be so very worse. Even with my loss and grief, I still reside in the “fortunate” pan of the scales of life. I need only listen to the nightly news to know my life is both easy and good. My wonderful child though gone, died peacefully in her sleep. That is a blessing for which I’ll always be grateful.
So, yesterday, we sold five young goats and three young sheep. It had to be done. Every year, we reach the point of culling the herd. Anyone who has ever been around farm animals innately understands the concept of exponential growth. Today, you have five animals. Without culling, four years from now you have 35 animals. In nature, the die-off would keep the numbers more balanced, but if you’re a good caretaker of your animals, they quickly over-produce beyond their acreage if it’s limited. The other issue is inbreeding. I never bring in new animals because with them comes disease. Our animals are all vaccinated and healthy. They still grow old or get sick and die occasionally, but inbreeding causes weaker animals and still-borns and other problems. So, we must sell off the young ones, but we do our best to sell for grazing not slaughter.
I’m always relieved when it’s done, but it’s never easy because all mamas grieve. So last night, as I lay in bed with the window open, I could hear the ewe crying for her lambs. I closed the window. I could still hear her plaintive plea, and I could hear the voice that was screaming in my head for days and weeks after Jessie died: “THEY’VE TAKEN MY BABY! OH MY GOD, THEY’VE TAKEN MY BABY!” Why did I hear those words? Jess was 25, not a baby, and she died because of a drug taken when she unknowingly had pneumonia. No one stole her from me, and yet, my gut was frantically searching for my stolen child. Was I reliving something that happened in a previous life? Very possibly. Nonetheless, as I listened to the ewe’s cries, which continue today, I hold the guilt of knowing I took her babies away from her. It is because of me that they are gone. And that, along with Jessica’s birthday today is painfully wrenching my heart.
So, last night, unable to sleep, I went to read in the den where our new PTSD dog, Honey, a 16-month-old golden lab mix, lay in her bed. I gave her cookies and rubbed the cats who wanted loving, but I kept looking into Honey’s eyes. She’s not had an easy life so far. She lived on a farm with 50 other rescued dogs and farm animals. She’s definitely not an alpha, so when the farm owner got sick and she and the other animals were turned over to a rescue agency, she was half starved and the mother of 11 growing, healthy pups. She was only a year herself, way too young for a litter that big without special caretaking. So, she is a bit of a wreck but healing a little each day. She’s a remarkably emotive creature as her face shows when she’s scared, happy, “laughing” at us, or sad. And, last night, she looked sad. I realized she probably missed her beta pals from the farm. She must have been part of a sub-pack of more mellow dogs. But then I realized her other loss. “Do you miss your pups, Honey?” As I said “pups,” her ears shot up, and she looked at me wide-eyed. Bingo. While I’m sure 11 demanding pups were a pain in the belly, I’m also quite certain that being abruptly separated from them only added to her trauma. Yes, she is another mama who grieves.
If you love, you, ultimately, must welcome pain and loss as your companion. So many of my friends and family have experienced deep, abiding losses, and we all know that the experience changes you forever. But, thankfully, today I can be grateful for the years I had with my daughter, even those years of rebellion, wildcat behavior, and drug addiction. “It’s better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all” is easy to say when you aren’t writhing in the agony of having your soul ripped asunder. But now, the high pitch of pain has softened enough that I can be grateful. The shadow part of me that forever grieves walks alongside my reborn clone who smiles and whispers her thanks for all the beauty in the world. Hopefully, someday the two mes will merge and burn brightly together as a single flame. We’ll continue the journey together, hand in hand, until we meet all those we have lost along the way. And, Jess, after we hug and cry, you’ll have some ‘splaining to do! Until then, rest in the Light, my love.