Tag: bereaved mother

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Mother’s Day/Second Anniversary

It’s Mother’s Day and two years to the day I became a childless mother. What does it mean when my dear sweet girl, the one that made me a mother, the only one to whom I am a mother, dies? If she made me a mother and she is no longer living, no longer here to care for, am I still a mother? Yes of course I am still a mother. But I feel stuck in some kind of limbo. All the Mother’s Day ads and store promotions and displays and commercials don’t seem to consider the bereaved moms, the moms with no children (except for Home Depot; someone shared a picture in one of my support groups of Home Depot’s Mother’s Day display and they had flowers considering all. I’m also not forgetting those who are grieving their moms, this day is hard for them as well). I’m not the kind of mother these ads and displays are targeting. I have no child making me a handmade card and gift, or searching for the perfect item. Ariella was good at that. She made cards for no reason at all and was thoughtful with her gifts. The last gift she bought me, with her own money were matching mother/daughter necklaces. She was buried with hers and I am never without mine. Sometimes I feel like I need the reminder that I was a mother. That I AM a mother. Because it doesn’t feel like it.

I never put too much stock into holidays like Mother’s Day. It’s not like we ignored the day. Growing up we always did something as a family and once I became a mom that continued. I always did reserve time on Mother’s Day to do something with just Ariella or just the three of us, like getting pedicures, or going to the zoo, or such, but we also didn’t need a designated day to have our family time. Family time was very important to us and weekends, especially nice weekends would find us at some outing or another. So until recently, until I became a mom, one Mother’s Day wasn’t more memorable than the other. My first Mother’s Day of course I will always remember and then there are a few more that I will never forget.

Mother’s Day 2017. The first after Ariella was diagnosed. The first where I actually wondered if it would be my last with my beautiful daughter. We went as a family to the aquarium with my mother and David’s mother. We got the tickets through Casey Cares and were between treatment cycles. Ariella always loved the aquarium. And there is something so calming about watching those fish. Sinai Hospital, where she was treated, actually has an aquarium cam. There is a camera in one of the tanks so you can watch the fish from the TV in the hospital room. We had a blast searching the tanks trying to find the camera so we would know which fish we were watching during the next hospital stay. After that we went to a sandwich shop for some lunch. The weather was beautiful and it was so special to have such a lovely day in the midst of something so horrible.

Mother’s Day 2018. Oh but how hopeful we were. At that time Ariella was cancer free. We went to a Mother’s Day tea hosted by Casey Cares. We had food and made crafts, and even met some Ravens players. Ariella loved to wear hoodies and she always had her hood on. There was news coverage of the event and in the background there was Ariella working on her craft, with her hood on! I do not remember what we did after that tea but it is highly likely we went out for snowballs. On this day I most definitely wasn’t worried that it would be my last Mother’s Day with a living child. All I felt was joy and relief. Little did I know it actually would be the last.

Mother’s Day 2019. Was I even a mother anymore? This day I don’t remember because it was a blur of the days before and the days to come. Ariella had died three days earlier and we were burying her the next day. I was mostly numb. Isn’t that fascinating? How one can be numb but in colossal pain at the same time? The fact that it was Mother’s Day wasn’t even on my radar.

Mother’s Day 2021. The two year anniversary of the day I became a childless mother. The anticipation of these milestone/anniversary/holiday days is often worse than the actual day. Having these two days in one just increased my anxiety twofold. But on the other hand, I would only have to endure one day rather than two. In the end, I don’t really know if the days leading up were worse, or if having both on the same day was worse. I can’t, nor is there any reason to, quantify my anguish and heartache on really any given day. Some days are better, some are worse. Sometimes there is a reason for it, like a holiday or diagnosis day, or anniversary of death, and sometimes, though the pain and shadow of grief is there every day, the pain increases exponentially and crashes over me out of nowhere, like a tsunami, for no apparent reason other than I miss Ariella. And that of course is reason enough.

We have recently learned of the death of a friend’s son. You’d think I know what to say. But I don’t. Because I know the despair and desperation, torment and grief this family is living. And I know that nothing can make it better. And I know that it’s two years later and my grief still feels so raw and so new and I don’t want to put that burden on another grieving family. I can’t separate my pain from theirs, to give any semblance of hope that things will be okay. The truth is, it will never be okay. And no one has found the magical words that make things better. That doesn’t mean you say nothing. It means you say “I’m here”, “I’m listening”, “Tell me about your child”, “I’ll just sit here quietly next to you”. Or anything else that isn’t advice or some crappy platitude.

To the one that made me a mother, my dear sweet Ariella. The day you were born was the best day of my life and the day you died I had to learn a new way to be your Mommy. Not a day goes by that I don’t think about you. I still cry everyday, missing you, thinking about all the happy times and grieving all the moments we will never have. I will never forget your big, bright, smiles and your tight bear hugs. I miss those squeezes. I hear your giggle, and your evil laugh and am devastated that I won’t get to witness any more of your pranks (though the smoke detector going off at 1:00 AM, was that you?). You lit up the stage when you danced and you were a true leader who would have gone on to do great things. Who am I kidding? You already did great things. Your kindness and generosity, your ability to make friends wherever you went, and of course Ari’s Bears. I know that had you lived there would have been no stopping you. On this day, 731 days since you died, I want to share some of my favorite memories. There are too many to list them all, but of course not nearly enough. We were supposed to have a lifetime of memories. When you were little you had a funny way of saying some things, as all children do. You used to say “little billet” instead of little bit, “gulk” instead of milk, “man old man” instead of man oh man, “goofall” instead of goof ball, “what you said”. I sometimes say little billet even though it had been so long since you had said it. We had such great family moments; going to the beach and amusement parks, Disney World, California. I will never forget your fearlessness. How the bigger and scarier the ride, the better. How you raced down hills on your scooter and couldn’t go fast enough on Mr. Randy’s boat. How much you loved diving through the waves in the ocean. We had so many adventures. Fruit picking, going to the zoo and museums and the aquarium, girls trips to New York, dance competitions. But I loved more our quieter moments. Our family movie and game nights. Reading to you in bed and us quietly reading our own books together. Helping you with crafts. Just being in the same space as you. It is so quiet without you. I still haven’t gotten used to the silence. Noise and joy and laughter and yelling and exuberance were your essence. I still cannot fathom how someone so filled with life and enthusiasm can just be gone. But as I’ve told you many times, life just isn’t fair and sometimes we have to figure out how to live without the ones that make us whole. I still haven’t figured out how to live without you, but somehow I’m doing it. I’m still breathing despite the pain I feel with every breath. Dearest Ariella, the world is a less bright place without you in it. Your flame was extinguished way too soon and I will do everything I can to keep your legacy alive. I miss you more than you can possibly know and I have a hole in my heart that can never be filled. I love you to the moon and back, infinity times. Love, Mommy

731 days without my sweet girl. It doesn’t seem possible. And yet here we are. This second year was harder than the first. Year three is now ahead of us. Just two years down with a lifetime to go. Still doesn’t seem survivable.

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Here Come the Holidays

Here we go again. The holiday season. The days of anticipation, the smell of cinnamon in the air, the crisp breeze, the family togetherness. The days get shorter and colder, but they also used to be cozy and inviting. Now they are just dark and dreary, lifeless. I used to love sweater weather, getting outdoors, then coming home and curling in front of the fire. Now I just want to hide, bury myself. I would love to just curl up into a tight little ball, lay under a mound of blankets, only to emerge in January when the joy and excitement has passed me by. I want nothing to do with any of it. I just want to envelop myself in darkness and ignorance, go through the motions to just get through the days, and hide away once again. And to be honest, that is probably what I will do.

Ariella loved Thanksgiving. She made placemats and decorations for the table. She wrote a menu. She set the tables hours before our family was going to arrive. Thanksgiving without Ariella is just not Thanksgiving. And while I know that there are many things for which I could be, should be, thankful, the only thing I really feel thankful for anymore is that I got to be Ariella’s mom. That I got to know, and parent, and love Ariella, and feel her love in return. That I got to feel her hand in mine, feel her arms around my neck. That I got to share in her joy, nurture her, see the world through her eyes. Otherwise, not feeling grateful for much of anything. Other than sadness and pain, I don’t feel much of anything. I am definitely not feeling any type of joy or happiness for the days to come.

Last year David and I went away for Thanksgiving. For several reasons, that isn’t possible this year. But the last thing I want is a traditional, family dinner where all I will notice is Ariella’s glaring absence. So we aren’t doing it. We aren’t spending Thanksgiving with the rest of our family, where people will be laughing and joyous and happy to be together (and with Covid numbers on an alarming rise it’s not a good idea to have gatherings anyway). We aren’t having a Thanksgiving that looks like our usual holidays. I don’t know how we will mark the holiday, if we even will mark it in some way. If I could go to sleep the Wednesday before Thanksgiving and wake up Friday, I would. If I could go to sleep Wednesday and wake up in January I would. Because Thanksgiving is just the beginning. I know there are plenty of people grieving the holidays because of the pandemic. Because they may not get to spend the days with their loved ones. Because the holidays will look different for most, not just us. But for us, it’s permanent. We will never get to spend another holiday with complete joy and excitement. We will always feel incomplete. We will always feel Ariella’s absence, not just on the holidays, but every day. And the last thing I want to do is celebrate anything without Ariella.

I don’t sing along with the radio anymore. I don’t dance. I no longer find joy in the simple things; a beautiful day, a field of sunflowers, a happy song. I’ve heard that one day I will feel happiness again but right now I just feel empty, numb. Wondering what the point of it is, the point of life. I am certainly not finding joy in the holidays. There is none, not without Ariella. Please consider this when caring for someone who is grieving. Don’t wish them happy holidays without thought. Sure, your intent may be good but there comes a time when intent just doesn’t matter anymore. Insensitive comments hurt, well-intentioned or not. If you have a relationship with a grieving person, you have to put thought and care into what you say. Don’t ignore them on the holidays. Let them know you are there, that you are thinking about them. If they don’t want to celebrate, bring them a meal so they don’t have to cook, or take them out for a drink, or go grocery shopping for them so they aren’t slapped in the face with the holiday dĂ©cor and foods, or offer to take care of their pet so they can get away. Meet them where they are, not where you want them to be. It’s not fun walking on eggshells around someone you care about, but you may just have to at times if you want to keep a relationship with a person who is deeply grieving.

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Halloween (Again)

Halloween looks different this year but I know that families and children will find a way to continue to make it festive and fun. With or without trick or treating I know there are plenty of family activities going on for kids to partake in. I know Ariella would have come up with some creative way to enjoy one of her favorite days of the year. Maybe watching scary movies, playing games, and of course planning pranks. But on the other hand, I don’t know this. Last year I could imagine her on Halloween. I knew she was planning on being Harry Potter. She planned that the year prior when she was Hermione. I’m not sure if she would have gone trick or treating, she may have wanted to do something with her friends. But I do know she would have participated in Halloween festivities in one way or another. But this year, I just don’t know. Her last Halloween was two years ago. She would be 13 this year. A lot can change in two years as we learned in the most awful way possible. Would she still like Halloween or would she be too “old” for it? Would she still want to trick or treat or would she rather go to a friend’s party? Would she wear a costume or would she have outgrown costumes this year? And the truth is, I just don’t know. And this just shatters me. Because I don’t know what my daughter would be like at 13, at 16, as an adult. I know she would continue to be sassy, spunky, silly, kind, and generous. But there is just so much I will never get to know about my girl, that I can’t even begin to imagine. Today, when I was thinking about how she would celebrate Halloween during a pandemic, was the first day I think I truly realized that I can no longer know what Ariella would do or say or how she would react to a particular situation. I don’t know what her likes or interests would be. I don’t know if she would still be dancing or if she would have decided to do something else. I don’t know what her favorite book or movie would be and what show she would binge. Even though intellectually I knew this, it really hit me today when I couldn’t imagine her on Halloween. She slips away from me more and more each day. Of course the memories are there and always will be, but the future is gone and I can no longer imagine her in it. Because I don’t know who she would be. For those who think there is a timeline for grief, think about not just the milestones, but all the mundane daily routines your child will experience in their lifetime, and imagine them missing most of them because they died. Imagine not knowing who your child would become, not knowing their desires and wishes at each stage of their life. Imagine being faced with other children, then teens, then adults, reaching those same milestones that your child never got to achieve. I am confronted with this daily and so far, it hasn’t gotten any easier. You never stop missing your child. Never. And you always wonder. And it gets harder and harder.

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No Control

I went to a shooting range the other day. I had never in my life held a gun before, unless you count a Nerf gun or BB gun. I was nervous at first, handling this deadly weapon. Such a powerful feeling, to feel the heft of the gun in my hands. For the first time since Ariella’s cancer diagnosis three years prior, I felt truly in control of something. Nothing like a cancer diagnosis to make you realize how little control we actually have over our lives. Sure there are plenty of things we can control, but ultimately, we are not in control. Anything can and does happen no matter the precautions we take. But at the shooting range, facing that target, I was the one in control.

Shooting a gun requires intense focus and concentration. There was no room for the stray thoughts and images that are usually burned in my mind. This was the only time since Ariella died that my mind was clear of everything but what I was doing in that moment. For any other activity in which I am engaged, no matter what it is, my mind is pulled in multiple directions, leaving only a part of my thoughts with the task at hand. My ability to concentrate has significantly declined. My memory is shot. Mornings I typically get the coffee pot ready for David after I pour my coffee. The other day I put the coffee in but not the water. One night when cooking dinner I was looking for the Parmesan cheese. I was looking everywhere in the fridge, knowing we had an almost full container but couldn’t find it. I resigned myself to not using it but when I turned back to the counter, there it was, mocking me. I had zero recollection of taking it out of the fridge. I start things but don’t finish and feel incredibly scattered. In fact, I started writing this post a week ago but couldn’t put down more than a couple of sentences at a time. I have plenty to say, just can’t seem to translate that to actual writing these days. Strangely enough the one thing that I can usually concentrate on is reading. I still get distracted and may need to read a paragraph more than once, but I can get through books as long as they hold my interest. So while reading doesn’t keep the pervasive thoughts completely at bay, it does help.

None of this has gotten any easier. In fact it continues to get harder. I am just missing out on so much and each day is another day I’m missing Ariella. Each day is another day of experiences and living that I don’t get to share with Ariella. Each night I lay in bed, missing the days when Ariella and I would cuddle together with books. My whole identity was taken from me and I’m struggling to move forward living a life in which I find no meaning. Before Ariella died I wouldn’t have said she was the only person or thing in my life that gave me purpose. But now that she’s gone, none of the rest of it matters. Anything else that may have given me reason before, just doesn’t cut it now. Pretending to live life is exhausting. I don’t want to do this anymore.

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Seven Months

It’s been seven months since my heart was ripped out of my chest and shattered into a million pieces. Seven months since everything changed but also stayed the same. Because besides living without my heart, my center, everything else is the same. I get up everyday, exercise, go to work. The sun still shines, the world still turns. Day becomes night becomes day again. People continue to live their lives. We continue to live our lives, even if we are just going through the motions. Everything is vastly different but impossibly the same.

Seven months and already the calls and messages are dropping off. I get it. I do. People have their own lives to live. They have other things to think about. They aren’t living with the devastation every day. We are not the first thing they think about. But you would think that family would be there from the beginning and that they wouldn’t disappear. And most of my family has been great. But it’s friends that have really stepped up. In some cases people I barely knew before who have gone out of their way to be present. Friends going through their own shit still make it a point to let us know they are present. And I am eternally grateful for those still here. I still need you. I will need you for a long time. Maybe forever. I may not say it or ask for it. It is very hard for me to be the one reaching out. I try to acknowledge every text and message. But sometimes it’s just too much. And sometimes I forget. But every text and message and phone call is appreciated. It does help to know I’m supported. That I’m being thought of.

I forget a lot of things these days. If I don’t respond to a message immediately I likely will forget to respond. Yesterday I made coffee and forgot to drink it. I couldn’t remember if I fed the dog. I forgot to leave something at the door for someone (though he forgot to pick it up so at least that worked out). If I don’t write it down it won’t get done. But even then I often forget. I need to set alerts in my calendar to really remember things. This is grief brain. It’s a very real thing. I am still in a fog much of the time. In my own world, where everything is hazy. I can’t see clearly. It’s a chore to get from point A to point B. Doing anything takes significant effort even if it doesn’t look that way. Because my mind is in the past. I am living in the past. Happier times. Wondering “what if”. Just, everything. This isn’t living. It’s merely existing.

I’ve seen some memes or posts saying things along the lines of 2019 sucked, here’s to a better year next year. But next year can’t be better. No year can be better. Because every year from now until I die is a year without Ariella in it. Maybe the sentiment is the hope that nothing tragic will happen but nothing worse can happen. I am living through the worst thing that could possibly happen to me. So I’m just in for decades of bad years.

I panic at the thought of the next few weeks, few months, few years. My respiratory rate increases, my heart races, and I shake. There is a pounding in my head, a lump in my throat, and pain in my stomach. Grief is physical. It beats you up, shreds you, and kicks you while you are down. It manifests in so many ways but I find for me sadness, apathy, and anxiety to be most prevalent. The anxiety has ramped up lately, I’m guessing due to the time of year. I just don’t know how I’m going to get through this.

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Be Fucking Merry

There are a lot of demands this time of year. Go shopping. Hit the sales. Buy gifts. Be merry. There are also a lot of complaints this time of year. Complaining about the chaos. Complaining about the money. Complaining about family obligations. The focus seems to be on what has to be done, rather than on what’s most important about the holidays; being with friends and family. What gets me though, is that people bring this on themselves. It’s not necessary to go all out. It’s not necessary to spend a fortune. Most of what is complained about is not necessary to have a meaningful holiday. And hearing the complaints now make me want to scream. I want to yell at the top of my lungs that none of it matters if you have your family with you. Because it doesn’t matter. Please, don’t lose sight of what is important. Because there are many people who would trade places with you in a second. There are family members missing from the dinner table. There are fewer presents to be bought. One less person to help decorate. Everything can change in an instant. Why spend precious time on things that don’t really matter? On things that aren’t bringing you joy but rather annoyance and frustration? When in the end it’s not what you have, but who you are with that matters.

I always loved this time of year. I enjoyed the festiveness. I liked shopping, trying to find that perfect gift. I would get so excited for Ariella to open her gifts, one small gift for each night of Chanukah with a bigger gift the last night. She appreciated everything she got, no matter how small or inexpensive. She was easy and fun to shop for.

So many traditions surround the holidays. We always made latkes and chicken noodle soup one night of Chanukah, both from scratch. We would drive around the see the light displays. Go to the train gardens. See the Nutcracker. After Thanksgiving Ariella would help decorate my aunt’s Christmas tree and set up the Christmas village. She would decorate cookies with her cousins. Though we are Jewish we have family that is not. We spent Christmas Eve with one side of the family and Christmas Day with another. New Year’s was spent with our neighbors and their daughters, last year adding a bunch of Ariella’s friends into the mix. There was always tons of food, sparkling cider for the kiddos, and then Ariella and I trying to make it to midnight. She made it twice. It was always a very busy time of year but I wouldn’t have changed a thing. I enjoyed the busyness. I looked forward to all the family time. We had a lot of fun.

Now all the traditions mean nothing. Ariella is not here to share in them anymore and I want nothing to do with them. Holidays are about family and my family has been torn apart, with the most important person gone. I don’t care about any of it and plan on ignoring all of it, including my birthday, over the next few weeks. I won’t be buying gifts for anybody. How can I shop for others when all I want more than anything is to be able to shop for Ariella. I don’t want to acknowledge any of it. Without Ariella the holidays mean nothing.

It is really hard to be anywhere this time of year, surrounded by reminders of the holidays everywhere. I had to run into a store the other day and I barely made it. Walking past the holiday displays. All the small gifts items that Ariella would love. The clothes she would ask for. Hearing the Christmas music. The holidays are the topic of conversation this time of year. I don’t want to be around happy, merry people who are excited for the upcoming weeks. I can’t relate anymore. I don’t want to be merry. I don’t want to partake in any of it. I don’t even want to hear about it.

Every day it’s a new obstacle. I’m constantly walking through a minefield and this time of year there are land mines everywhere, on top of the constant grief. No place is safe and I just want to curl up under the blankets and not emerge until January. Honestly, I would rather never emerge. I would prefer to go to sleep and not wake up. But against my will I keep on living.