Some days a good cry is just what you need. And some days you can’t fucking stop crying. You cry freely in your car, loud and hard until your throat is scratched raw and you have nothing left. Or so you think. You cry silently at work, your eyes welling up and no matter how hard you try to fight it, the tears eventually come dripping out. You curl up on your couch, clutching a blanket, trying to nap, to escape this pain but the tears have a different plan. They remind you that there is no escape. That you are doomed to this life of pain. You collapse to the floor of your kitchen, hugging your knees, rocking back and forth, your whole body shaking with your sobs. You’re literally pulling your hair, crawling in your skin with no way to ease that turmoil. This has been one of those days. You think you are doing okay. That you are no longer busy dying, that life is actually worth living. But then. BOOM! That pain pushes it’s way back to the surface and completely knocks you out. Reminds you that the pain is your shadow, sometimes hidden but never gone. And you’re a complete fucking mess. And you just want to give up again. I guess the difference now is that I know the better days will return. But today really caught me off guard. I knew it would be a tough day. These holidays and milestones always are. But it was exponentially hard today. And this really fucking hurts.
A Song
A song. One single song. Can cause me to become undone and completely derail my day. Without fail “Fight Song” has this affect on me. No matter where I am or what I am doing, when I hear that song my eyes immediately tear up, I start shaking, I get a lump in my throat, a pit in my stomach. I find it hard to breathe and every part of me just wants to flee. Sometimes I can prevent the tears from escaping, but not often. They sneakily push their way out, drawing salty lines down my cheek, making it impossible for me to pretend like everything’s okay. “Fight Song” became Ariella’s anthem during treatment. She sang it frequently and even recorded the song in a professional studio. “Fight Song” was synonymous with Ariella. “Fight Song” was playing as Ariella took her last breaths. “Fight Song” Ariella’s version was played at her funeral. This song will never not be tied to Ariella and her spirit and sass and spunk and resilience. It brings me back to our house, out front, on a beautiful day when she was using her phone to record herself singing it. It brings me back to that recording studio and the pure joy on Ariella’s face while she was singing, which was just a small part of a much bigger day celebrating her end of treatment. It brings me back to the harrowing moment in the hospital room when her soul left her body while David and I were holding her. And it brings me back to her funeral. Hundreds of people and the only sounds you could hear were Ariella’s sweet voice and the sobs of her loved ones.
As counterintuitive as this may sound, I have “Fight Song” on some of my running playlists. Because while it has the affect on me that I explained above, it never fails to remind me of how Ariella never let cancer stop her. I typically do not prefer using words like “fighting” or “fighter” or “warrior” or “battle” when describing those diagnosed with cancer. It implies that if you fight hard enough, you will survive. That there is some choice in the matter. Ariella didn’t fight cancer. Her toxic chemo tried to fight the cancer. But Ariella lived her best life despite cancer. She gave cancer a giant FU by continuing to live joyfully, by participating in her activities, by continuing to dance, and by spending time with her friends. And this song motivates me to do the same in hard times. And it’s perfect for running. Because when the run gets hard this song reminds me that Ariella endured so much worse so I can certainly endure a tough run. The other day I had a long run in the rain. And towards the end “Fight Song” began playing. And it was glorious. The rain mixing with my tears, no one around, and I could cry with abandon. Rain and tears both cleansing my soul, and I felt such a release and sense of renewal following that run.
Trauma. It follows you, clings tightly, and will not release its grip. Trauma is sneaky. Because as time goes on you think its hold on you has lessened. You breathe more easily, you start living again. You smile and laugh more and think you just might one day be okay. But the landmines are still there. They are further apart which makes them more dangerous. Because you are less cautious, less prepared for when you step on one so it catches you off guard. And the explosion hits and completely takes you down. And you have to claw your way out of a deep, dark hole to recover. Sometimes it’s a bit easier to dig your way out but other times, when you find something to hold onto as you drag your way up, you hit another landmine and another part of the wall comes crashing down, bringing you back down with it. These past few weeks have been like that for me. I celebrated Ariella’s heavenly 16th birthday, my Dad’s heavenly 80th birthday, someone I know was killed by a drunk driver, I’ve learned of kids relapsing with cancer and others that are not doing well with their treatments. Israel is being attacked and it’s a scary and uncertain time to be Jewish even here in the US. There’s more but that’s not for me to share here. I didn’t think it was possible but my heart continues to break and it’s getting harder and harder to put the pieces back together. Inevitably each time it breaks pieces get lost. With the death of Ariella I knew my heart would never be whole again, and the hole she left behind keeps growing.
All this to say you never know what someone is going through. People wear masks, pretend like everything is fine when inside they are barely hanging on. But then they step on one of those landmines. And they drop the façade. Maybe they just heard their own trigger song, reminding them of a loved one they lost. Maybe they were grocery shopping and passed the cereal aisle with that giant box of sugary goodness that was a favorite of their child that has died. Maybe they stumbled upon their person’s favorite place, evoking bittersweet memories. I know that when I hear “Fight Song” my mood can change instantly. However sometimes it is for the better. I always cry when I hear the song, but sometimes I smile too.
Sweet 16
Dear Ariella,
Another milestone birthday. Your Sweet 16. But there is nothing sweet about this 16th birthday. This is your 5th birthday since you died. And these days never get easier. Actually, it’s the days leading up to the milestone days that are so hard for me to get through. They are fraught with anxiety, panic, dread, and sadness. I can feel it physically, in the pit in my stomach, in the way that my heart pounds, in the shallowness of my breaths. These days should be filled with your anticipation and excitement, looking forward to the freedom of being able to drive. I should be worrying about you behind the wheel of a car, not visiting your gravesite. I should be hanging on for dear life annoying you while I press my imaginary break as you drive me around because I know you would be a speed demon. You my fearless child who loved to go fast (except when we needed you to do something, then I never met anyone slower) would probably be terrifying as a driver. I should be showering you with gifts, not decorating your tree at the cemetery. And it saddens me that I don’t know what you would want for your 16th birthday. Well, other than a car. I do know you would have wanted some kind of convertible.
How would we celebrate this big day? Dinner out of course at a favorite place. Would you want steak? Or your favorite taco salad and churros? Or something completely different? But you definitely would do something with your friends. Your friends were your world. What else would we do? It pains me that I just don’t know. I don’t know who you would be anymore and it just keeps getting harder to imagine your life now. I do know that you would still be your sassy, goofy, spunky, kind, smartass, self and I wouldn’t have that any other way.
Your birthdays were always extra special because we celebrated with Pop-Pop, whose birthday is the day after yours. Did I ever tell you that when I was in labor Pop-Pop actually said to hold on until the next day so you would be born on his birthday? He was joking of course (I think). This after you were already 10 days late. You always did do things on your own time, never in a rush. In fact, as mentioned above, I think you are the slowest person I have ever known. Anyway, your last birthday with Pop-Pop was in 2015, though of course we didn’t know that then. Just 4 months later he died and we were definitely missing him on your 9th birthday.
Your 9th birthday was your last normal, birthday. We missed Pop-Pop but unbelievably it was going to get worse. Our world was about to implode. On your last normal birthday you got a phone call from Mickey Mouse (or maybe it was Goofy) telling you that you would be going on a Disney Cruise and trip to Disney in April. That trip never happened. Little did we know that your hurt leg was more than just a dance injury. That it was cancer cells, mutating and growing, about to change our lives forever. Little did we know how much our lives would change. Never could we have imagined that you would live through only 2 more birthdays and that you would be fighting for your life for both of them.
I am glad you got the opportunity to experience what it feels like to fly on your 11th, your last birthday. The freedom, the weightlessness, a few minutes away from the cancer and illness and fear. There is no feeling quite like it. I wish that I could fly, leave this earth, and join you where there is no more sadness, pain, fear, and illness.
What do I want you to know on this milestone day, this 5th birthday without you? I’m actually in a better place now. Here is the post I wrote on your 12th birthday, the first one we had to spend without you: 12th Birthday. I’m sharing it here because it shows my survival. It shows how far I’ve come out of that very dark place I was in (and it’s a nice celebration of all your birthdays). I’m not healed. I never will be healed. And I’m still sad of course. Sadness will always be a part of me. Your absence is ever present and there is never a moment when I’m not thinking about you and missing you. But I’m learning how to carry that pain with me in a way that is no longer oppressive. I’m learning to live again, not merely survive. I know you want me to be happy, that you’re probably relieved that I am finding joy again. But you always understood that it was okay to be sad and scared and worried and it was okay to express those feelings. In fact you often expressed those feelings, and quite loudly I might add. You were never taught to hide them and put on a happy face for the sake of others and you wouldn’t want me to do that either. You would want me to be happy, but in my own time, and for me, not for anyone else. And I am getting there.
That’s not to say that I’m not still hurting. I hurt for me and for Daddy and all your family and friends that miss you greatly. I hurt for all those who never experienced the joy of knowing you. I hurt for you and all that you missed and will continue to miss. You were looking forward to so much that you will never get to experience. And when I think of all those events, not just the big milestones but also the smaller, mundane moments that make a life, I miss you that much more. I’m learning to live with “and” rather than “or”. I can be sad that you are gone and sad for all you went through AND I can experience joyful moments in my life. I can be angry that cancer stole you from us AND I can be grateful for the time we had together. I can cry for our loss AND I can smile and laugh at all the beautiful memories that we had. I’m reminded of these lyrics from the song “Beautiful Anyway” by Judah & The Lion: “That’s what makes this life so wonderfully awesome And horribly awful Yet somehow it’s beautiful anyway”.
Even though I look for signs from you everywhere, I’m still uncertain as to what I believe happens when you die. One thing I am certain of is that if you are still alive in spirit somewhere, you are with Pop-Pop celebrating both birthdays together. I’m sure you’re also with your friends (too many friends there with you now), probably planning some epic pranks. Please don’t forget to throw some signs our way amongst your partying.
I love you kiddo, to the moon and back, infinity times. Words truly cannot capture how I feel without you. Just know that I love you always, will miss you forever, and look forward to the day we can be together again.
Love,
Mommy