I suppose I should begin by telling you who I am, my experiences of life, and the jouney I’m presently on. Basically, I’m in my mid-50’s. I grew up in Oakland, California, went to UC Berkely for two years, moved to Cork, Ireland, on my own when I was 20, and lived there for nine years during which time I married and gave birth to two baby girls (this was during the ’80s amidst an incredible recession that boasted 22 percent unemployment in Cork–I call these “my poverty years”).

In 1988, my husband Eamonn and I moved to Sacramento to find work and build a more stable life. Our hearts broke at having to leave Ireland, but lacking Irish options, we had to seek out another country to plant our family roots. I returned to college this time at Sac State and graduated with a BA in journalism and English and an MA in English. I’ve taught college English and worked for a chain of weekly newspapers for senior citizens, written many online articles–when writing online was actually profitable–and published articles in magazines and independent newspapers. I presently work for a sewer district in the admin department. What can I say? It pays the bills, but my soul is starved.

I divorced and remarried twice. Third time lucky, my “forever” husband, Chris, is my soul mate and best friend and has stuck with me when other men would have hightailed it to divorce court. We live on a two-acre farm (a manifestation of my dream of having endless gardens and farm animals), which now far exceeds my energy and time. Still, having my hands deep within the soil keeps me grounded in my body when otherwise I’d be totally inside my head and emotions. As well, shoveling dirt and manure is a great way to keep fit!

Spiritually, I’m eclectic, having been baptized three times in Christian churches (just to be sure it took) and now having moved on to earth-based traditions and mindfulness meditation. I’ve been known as a witch, clairvoyant, and healer, though I just refer to myself as a “Jesus-loving Pagan.” I know many would challenge that this is an oxymoron, but my choices aren’t open for argument. I am, in large part, who I have chosen to be, and after all the churches and groups I’ve attended, I trust no authority so much as my own internal guiding voice and heart.

My girls, Sarah Bethany and Jessica Ellen (just 20 months apart), grew into beautiful, bright, and loving women whom I have loved with my whole heart and who have made me so very proud. Of course, everyone has challenges, and we have been touched by many. The tragedy of my life occured on Nov. 10, 2013 when Jessica, just 25, died in her sleep. Not knowing that she was suffering from bacterial pneumonia, she had taken a drug to help her relax (having just returned to LA after attending my mother’s funeral in the Bay Area). She slept so deeply that her lungs couldn’t fight the building pneumonia, so she stopped breathing.

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Grief is unique to the individual and has no schedule. I’m now entering my 17th month. Attending support groups for parents who have lost children , I’ve learned that while the first year is normally one of complete and abiding shock (and all the nightmare suffering listed above), the second year can bring both small improvements and a deeper sense of loss and pain–the shock wears off, and the reality of never again seeing or holding your child takes root. She isn’t traveling through Africa outside of telephone service. She is gone, never to return. The hope is that the moments of peace will increase, while the time between melt-downs widens. Sometimes I can go for a couple of days without crying (though at no moment is my daughter far from my thoughts), and then something will happen, some memory flit through my mind, a song she and I loved will play, a photo that I hadn’t really noticed before will reveal her deep beauty, and I’ll be on my knees weeping and sobbing the litany, “This can’t be real. Jess can’t be gone. This can’t be my life.”

But it is, and even though I know Jessica is absolutely fine where she is (grief and sorrow are for the survivors, not for the departed), and I can even hear her talking to me at times, learning to live with this new reality will no doubt take years (support group leaders have told me five to ten). When friends have say, “We just want to see the old Bernie,” I tell them the truth: The old Bernie is dead. She died when she heard those fatal words, “Jessica is dead.” My life and thus the life I shared with Chris is dead. I’m not the laughing, daring, energetic person I used to be. I can’t be around crowds or parties. I don’t like to hear groups of people laughing. I cannot tolerate chaos. My sense of humor, when it manages to manifest, is dark. I look at people with their petty complaints and worries and feel rage, while even acknowledging that they too know suffering. Even worse is to hear a mother say she doesn’t like her child, wouldn’t care if she never saw her again. Believe me, I’ve known some of these women. I want to shout, “Why not YOU? Why me?” even though I don’t wish death on any child. But I have always loved my girls with an intensity that is actually painful, no matter what they have done or are doing, no matter if we’re somewhat estranged or best friends. I can’t comprehend not feeling bonded like this with my children.

Grieving parents are plagued with “what ifs” and “if onlys”… if only I had insisted she fly instead of taking the train, if she hadn’t just broken up with her boyfriend, if the friend she was staying with had called 911 when she didn’t respond to attempts to wake her, if I hadn’t made her eat her dinner when she was a child before having dessert. All the unreasonable questions, doubts, and condemnations. Nothing can bring Jessie Bear back. How long until my soul makes peace with this truth?

So this is my journey, destination unknown. You’re welcome to travel with me. I know it won’t all be morose, but I’ve promised myself that I will use this space to aid in my healing, whatever that takes.