Tag: child loss

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Southwest Hope and Healing Bereavement Retreat (Part 2)

Seems as if I start most posts the same way lately, that I haven’t blogged in a while. I write almost daily, even if just a line or two, but nothing that feels worthy of sharing. There just doesn’t seem to be much point. I don’t do very much, especially now that it’s summer (which is sadly nearing the end) and my emotions and motivations or lack thereof haven’t changed very much. I am by no means the only one going through a difficult time and with the grief, loss, fatigue, and malaise surrounding covid, I haven’t felt right putting all my thoughts out there. I do know anyone reading this wants to hear them, wants to know how I am really doing, but much hasn’t changed for me. Just plodding along, trying to survive day by day.

For those that have been following my story since the beginning or close to it, will have read about our experience with a bereavement retreat that we attended in Arizona just 3 months after Ariella died. If you haven’t read that post you can find it here: https://lifeafterchildloss.net/the-retreat/ The retreat was for parents whose children have died from cancer and it was a heavy, poignant, in some ways beautiful, and therapeutic weekend. So when given the opportunity to attend again, we booked our flights without hesitation.

This year, in anticipation of the emotions and heartbreak, and the weight of shared grief that we knew was ahead, David and I decided to travel to Arizona a day early and just take some time for us. This time we knew what to expect and we knew how incredibly hard it was going to be, and we wanted to ease into it. So we once again travelled across time zones, into a desert landscape with a hot climate (but it’s a dry heat!) and took in the beauty of our surroundings while preparing for the work ahead (and facing grief head on, sharing stories, meeting other bereaved families is indeed work). We spent our first day and night at a beautiful resort, having some drinks at the pool, getting in some exercise, and doing some hiking. The the desert can seem quite unforgiving but the scenery is picturesque and the beautiful surroundings add a sense of calm and peace.

Our grief clings to us like an unwelcome visitor and yet being away from home provides some relief from the ever present suffocating feeling. It felt easier to breathe, easier to move, easier just to “be”. At least in the day prior to the retreat. Whenever I’m away from home I look for signs that Ariella is there with me and this trip was no exception. I choose to believe she was there in the butterflies that kissed my arm and flew all around us on our hike. There were so many things Ariella would have loved about that hike we took (and a few she would have hated) and I wish she was there with us. Of course if she could have been there we wouldn’t have been there at all. We crashed early that first night due to the time difference and of course were up ridiculously early the next morning, which gave me plenty of time to get in a run. Some things don’t change and I continue to need to exercise to manage my anxiety. I do love running in a new place and this was no exception, though I planned poorly and went downhill for the first half of the run, meaning the second half was straight uphill. But I beat the worst of the heat and it was a good start to what I knew would be a challenging day.

Onto the retreat. Though we had done this before and knew what to expect, there was still some anxiety about what was ahead. But I needn’t had worried. Going into the dinner, decorating our candle for the candle lighting ceremony, and talking with other bereaved families, was like returning home. Some families we knew from the previous retreat, some we knew from a virtual retreat we attended, some we knew from following each others’ stories on Facebook, and some were complete strangers. But in the bereaved parents of childhood cancer world there are no strangers. We all have this one tragic thing in common and that makes us family. There is no better support than another parent who knows just what you are feeling. That dining room at that ranch in the heat of the Arizona desert was where we belonged. I haven’t felt such a sense of belonging since the retreat in 2019 and I didn’t realize I needed it until I was experiencing it.

This was a very difficult weekend. We shared our stories. We shared them without fear of judgment, without getting cliches and platitudes in return, and without toxic positivity. We didn’t censor ourselves and we didn’t worry about making others uncomfortable. We were just heard. We were seen. We listened, without distraction, even though our stories were often similar and brought us back to our own nightmares. We talked about our children and our loss and our grief in a safe space and that is a rare thing for bereaved parents to be able to do. Grief is ugly and messy. It’s disorganized and scary and oppressive and stifling, but being able to share that grief with someone else is beautiful. And I have found that sharing others’ grief helps to lighten mine in the moment.

When we first showed up at the retreat I was asked how it was different now, 2 years later, than it was when we were still so fresh in our grief. I replied that I wasn’t sure but that it didn’t feel quite as raw and that I could now talk about Ariella without crying. Except that as soon as I started to share, I started crying. And I realized that this is still new. Two years later and I feel like I am still learning to navigate this world without my beautiful daughter. Though it’s easier for me to get out of bed every day, the loss feels much heavier than it did initially. Because the numbness is gone and reality hit that this is truly forever. As the months tick by I am reminded of all the experiences Ariella missed out on and will continue to miss out on, and all that we will miss as her parents. Ariella should be starting high school next week and developing crushes and becoming more independent with her friends. Instead friends that were younger have now surpassed her and they are experiencing the milestones she never did. This really does not get easier. I guess the difference between now and then is that I know that I will survive, even if I don’t want to.

Connections were made once again and we are lucky to have yet another opportunity in the next few months to meet with these families again, this time in Florida. Many felt there wasn’t enough time in this retreat. I think there were enough days, but we spent so much time sharing our stories (which is a necessary thing) that there wasn’t time for a facilitated session. I expressed a need for more workshop type sessions such as for self-care, and more time just to be with the other families. Others expressed similar. And our gracious host generously has arranged one more retreat for the same families and already I’m looking forward to seeing everyone again. Because those are our people.

  • Blue Orb… Ariella?
  • David taking a selfie of the 2 of us…
  • Rainbow in the Pic.. a sign?

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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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Adapting

If this pandemic has taught us anything, it’s that we, (the collective we) are quite adaptable. If we had been told a little over a year ago that soon we would be wearing masks wherever we want, that we couldn’t go wherever we want when we want, that school buildings would close, with learning to take place in the virtual world, that countries would literally be shut down, we would have a hard time imagining it. We would think there was no way we could get through it, that life could not go on that way. I recently read a science-fiction book about a pandemic, that was published in September 2019, so before our world became unfamiliar. Though the cause of the pandemic was different (in the book it was a series of terrorist attacks) it was eerily prophetic. From virtual school and concerts to social distancing and no physical contact, it was uncannily similar to our world today. Part of the story was from the viewpoint of someone who barely remembers the time before the pandemic and she can’t imagine being in a crowded room, standing near strangers on a bus, or attending a live music show. They adapted. The world adapted. In this novel it took quite a while for the world to return to what we consider to be normal, and it hadn’t come all the way back to the pre-pandemic times. This science-fiction novel is our reality and though we may not like it and we may be experiencing serious fatigue, we have adapted. We have moved to online learning. We work from home. We wear our masks, some of us all day long. If you had told me a year ago I would be exercising with a mask on, I would have said not a chance, and yet now I do. We still go to the store, or if not comfortable with that, we have our groceries delivered. We continue to participate in events and activities, mostly virtually or outside. In a nutshell, we have gone on living our lives, even though they look quite different than a little over a year ago.

It’s quite incredible, really, this ability to adapt. Almost against our will. Ariella adapted to her illness. She adapted to her frequent hospital stays, her new very unpredictable life, her symptoms and side-effects. She carried a puke bucket around, decorated her crutches and made them more comfortable, bought many beanies but often went without. This was life now. As a family we adapted. We made our hospital stays fun when we could. We decorated the rooms and brought comfort items from home. We brought food and games and even wine. It became normal. Every other week we packed our bags and made our way to the hospital. David and I took turns spending the night. It was just what we did. When Ariella was diagnosed we could not fathom being in the hospital every other week for 10 months. How would we get through it? But somehow we did. And we managed to have a good life outside of her illness.

In the same way, I’ve adapted to my grief. My body has adapted to my grief. This does not mean that I am not in pain everyday, or that I don’t think about Ariella every second of every day. My grief is a constant companion, clinging to me, that I just have to live with. Unshakable. In the early days… well really, it is still early days. Not quite two years. A blip when you consider I could live decades longer. It’s only been a minute. But in the very early days, weeks and months following her death, I couldn’t function along with the grief. I did not know how to do anything through the pain. It took up all my space, my whole soul. There was no room for anything else. It covered me, cloaked me in its darkness. Prevented me from doing anything else, including sleeping. It was a good day if I made it to the couch. A very good day if I managed to eat and shower. My body hurt. All the time. I was fortunate to not have to work for several months. I don’t think I could have. But slowly I got used to the empty feeling. I was able to go through the motions of living along with the pain. Though nothing can fill this hole that is the result of Ariella leaving this world, my body has gotten used to living with this despair. I still wake up every day wondering how I am going to get through this day, and the next, and the next. I still can’t wait to go to sleep at night. But somehow I have returned to “normal” living. Though I haven’t felt happy since the day Ariella went on life support I am able to participate in life. But the pain isn’t any less. I don’t miss her any less. In fact I miss her more every single day.

David and I went for a short getaway a couple of weeks ago, to a small town on Maryland’s eastern shore. It was a place neither of us have been (but for a few hours for a wedding) so it wasn’t fraught with memories of Ariella and family time. Or at least it shouldn’t have been. But the drive there was half of a drive we took many, many times with Ariella for beach vacations. There was the place I stopped to feed Ariella when she was a baby and wouldn’t stop screaming in the car. There was the place we stopped to clean her up because she got carsick. There was the restaurant we ate at and the outlet mall we shopped at. There were the low flying planes by the airport that she always pointed out. The drive alone brought back so many memories, with no more to be made. Playing the alphabet game, I Spy, other games Ariella made up. The excitement of the destination, the vacation that lay ahead. I don’t think I will ever be able to go to this beach where we spent so much time as a family.

You’d think, though, a place we never took Ariella would be safe. We had a nice time but there were still so many moments that I wanted to share with Ariella, or that Ariella would have loved. All the little knick knacks in the cute little shops she would have asked for. The candy shop with the “unicorn horns” (flavored marshmallows on skewers). The families that looked like ours once did enjoying ice cream in the sunshine. Riding bikes. A small little beach hide-a-way filled with shells and rocks to collect. It was good to get away for a few days. The change of scenery was therapeutic. But still. Life is full of moments that I will never again get to share with Ariella. And that is what is so heavy in my heart.

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It’s Been a While…

It’s been quite some time since I’ve written a post. I haven’t stopped writing, I just haven’t written anything I’ve wanted to share. Lots of rambling thoughts and emotions, stuff that didn’t make a whole lot of sense. I just needed to get it down. Anyway, this is a very difficult time of year. Between the anniversary of my father’s death, the anniversary of diagnosis-day, the anniversary of Ariella’s bone marrow transplant and the harrowing months until May, it’s exhausting enough that I just get out of bed each day, much less work and take care of what I need to. I’m tired. I’m fatigued to my bones and once I’ve taken care of the necessities I have nothing left to give.

I still don’t know what to do with myself. I crave a family, a child to take care of, and we are trying to make that happen but I’m not so optimistic. I don’t let myself get excited about it. If it happens, it happens (I am not seeking advice for adoption or IVF or any advice at all, we have explored many options and know what they are) but at this point I just don’t think it will. And though it’s been almost 2 years I still can’t imagine living the rest of my life without a child of our own. There are so many small, seemingly unimportant moments that I am missing greatly and I still don’t know how I am going to survive. You’d think by now I would have an idea, but that’s not how it works. Even living the unfathomable it’s impossible to believe this is my life. Where do I go from here?

David and I are currently taking classes to become licensed foster parents. We have not definitively decided that we will go that route but it is something we are strongly considering. It’s a long process so we decided to go ahead and start it knowing that we aren’t committing to anything at this stage. There is so much to consider but the thought of having a child in our home again is one of the few things that can bring me joy.

So here we are. Not a lot to say. Kind of in a holding pattern. I don’t feel peace or happiness and I’m still just trying to get through the days. I’m seeing friends’ children and Ariella’s friends growing up around me and it hurts so much. The feelings are impossible to describe. I feel like a spectator in life, watching with envy all that I can’t have. Each day the same as the one before. And all I want to do is sleep through it all.

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How do you Find Meaning when your Only Child Dies?

When a girl imagines being a mother most of her life, what happens when that dream is cruelly stolen from her? I always wanted to be a mom. I had other dreams of course; I imagined myself in different jobs and living in different places, but always with a family. As an only child myself, I always thought I would have at least two children. But Ariella completed our family. David and I never felt that we needed more children. Our family of three was perfect. How lucky we were! We had everything we wanted.

While I always wanted kids, I never pictured myself as a stay-at-home parent. That desire to continue to work was most definitely reinforced after Ariella was born. Being home all day with a baby is hard! I needed time for me. Being a mom was my most meaningful and most important job, but being a parent was not my only role, and not the only way I found meaning. I am a wife, a friend, a daughter. I have a career that I love, that is quite fulfilling. I looked forward to getting out of the house each day, being with other adults, and having conversations that were not just about our children. As much as I loved being a mom and always wanted to be a mom, I did not want that to be my only identity. There was so much more to me than being a parent.

So why do I now feel like my only identity is that of a bereaved mother? That my child is dead pervades all of my thoughts, no matter what it is that I am doing. My experiences now are all viewed through the lens of a bereaved parent. Things that used to bring me joy, no longer do. Why is that the only thing that seems to matter now when trying to find meaning in life? All those things that gave me purpose before just don’t seem to matter now. All that matters now is that I am no longer a mom to a living child. Any sense of meaning and purpose has left me. Everything feels so futile to me. Rationally I know this isn’t true. I work with children. What I do is important. But it no longer feels important to me. It doesn’t give me the same sense of meaning it used to. Because nothing is as important as the fact that Ariella is gone. What it comes down to is life versus death. None of this shit matters as long as you are alive. Again I know logically this isn’t true. It matters very much to those who haven’t experienced such loss. It used to matter to me. But now I just cannot bring myself to care. All my purpose is gone. My reason for being, my reason for living. I feel like I have nothing to live for. Each morning I get out of bed and go through the motions of the day, not out of any sense of purpose, but because I have no other choice. I need to eat, I need to pay bills. If I could curl up in bed all day under a mound of blankets, I would. But against my will my heart continues to beat and lungs continue to breathe and because of that I have to go through my daily routines, such that they are.

Each day feels like the movie Groundhog Day, especially during a pandemic. Wake up, work out (the only thing that keeps me sane), work from home (no commute to help kill time), count down the minutes until I can reasonably make dinner so I can get the evening going and over with, and watch TV with my husband while counting down the minutes until I can reasonably go to bed. Of course there is some variation. I actually do go into work once or twice a week and I go to the gym a couple evenings a week. But mostly it’s the same day in and day out and not enough to distract from the pain and heartache and no other children to care for to keep my sense of purpose alive.

Even though parents have other roles, the role of parenting is generally the most prominent and most important. Lives are centered around their children. Their schooling, activities, family time. From the seemingly small tasks such as packing lunches, doing laundry, chauffeuring them around, to the big milestones such as birthdays, recitals, graduations, etc., being a parent is a 24-7 job. I never thought I would miss those mundane chores but I think they are what I now miss most of all. Because those chores are the essence of parenting. The daily tasks of keeping your child alive, healthy, and functional. I still, a year and a half later, do not know how to fill those hours that used to be taken up by parenting. So many hours that feel so empty and so very quiet.

So then how does one find meaning when their only child dies? The answer is I just don’t know. I’m certainly doing things that would be considered to be meaningful. Keeping Ariella’s foundation going is a way to find purpose again. But I wonder sometimes if the pain of running the foundation without her is worth it? Because it is so very hard to watch it grow when Ariella never got to see it through. She never got to finish what she started. It doesn’t feel good doing it without her and yet I know that’s what she would want. It should feel good, knowing I’m keeping her legacy alive, but I’m not there yet. Maybe I never will be. What about other ways to find meaning? The things I used to find meaningful I just don’t anymore. And the truth is, finding meaning will never make her death okay. I had meaning and it was stolen from me. I didn’t need to lose a child to find gratitude, to learn to appreciate life, or whatever other nonsense people spew that somehow should make it okay that your child died. There is nothing that will ever make it okay. Finding meaning does not make it okay. It just gives a reason for living. It makes life less miserable. But here is what I think. I think someone who has experienced such loss does not find meaning until they do. As in, it just happens, when that person is ready for it to happen. I read David Kessler’s book titled “Finding Meaning: The Sixth Stage of Grief” and I found it unsatisfying. I’m not sure why. I think it’s because he implies that healing and finding meaning are choices. I don’t disagree that there is some choice involved in living, in more than going through the motions. I can choose to see friends, exercise, get out of the house, or I can choose to completely disengage. However I cannot choose for those activities to be meaningful, or bring me joy. They lessen my suffering but don’t lessen my pain, and there is a difference between pain and suffering. They serve as a distraction, a way to fill my time, and that is why I do them. But happiness, purpose, that’s not the reason. I’m still too raw, too new to this pain and loss to experience the happiness those activities used to bring me. And to imply I have a choice in the matter upsets me. I feel what I feel and maybe one day I will find the meaning and happiness, but that day has not yet come. But even though I don’t particularly want to, I am choosing to live, choosing to engage, in the hopes that one day I will find moments of purpose and joy and peace. Because this existence I am living is miserable. I cannot fathom decades of feeling this way.

So what now? I continue with my routines. I get through life day by day, sometimes minute by minute. I fear that I will never again find something that was as meaningful as having a child. I can’t pretend to know what it’s like for bereaved parents who have living children. Not only are they grieving, but they have to be present for their grieving children. Does caring for their living children make things a little easier? Not their loss, nothing can make that loss any easier. But do they still have their sense of purpose? Do they have an easier time getting out of bed, going about their day? Or do they also feel lost and unmoored? I’ve heard from bereaved parents with living children that they feel pulled between two worlds. They want so much to be with their child that died, but they don’t want to leave their living children behind. How can you be fully present when you are straddling those two worlds? I’m not sure how they reconcile those feelings but I am jealous that they have other children they can nurture and watch grow, and parent daily. I miss that life with all my being and the only thing I wish for as much as I wish to have Ariella back is to be a parent again. Because I think parenting is the only thing that will bring me that same joy and purpose. Everything else just feels hollow. If only it were that simple.

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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 décor 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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Grief in the Second Year

There is a common misconception that the first year following a death is the worst. That once you get through those first milestones; birthdays, holidays, the anniversary of the death, that there is some sort of closure. That life returns to normal. That when you survive the first year, it gets easier. What they don’t tell you is that for many, the opposite is true. That the shock and numbness wears off and you are left to fend on your own. That the majority of your support system will go back to living their normal lives while you are left floundering. There are a special few who stick around, who are really there, but even among those very special people, your loss is no longer on the forefront of their minds. They have their own lives with their own routines and while they don’t forget about you and your loss, they have their own priorities.

By the second year I imagine most have started adjusting to their “new normal” (oh how I hate that phrase). I know David and I have. We’ve long since returned to work, I’ve returned to exercise, we see people, and go about our daily routines. All ordinary behavior and yet it continues to feel surreal. How? How can we possibly live our lives, act like normal people, when our daughter is dead? A phrase commonly heard when you hear about the death of a child is “I would never be able to survive the death of my child”, and yet we do. Our hearts, though broken, continue to beat and our lungs continue to draw in air. We really don’t have much choice in the matter and so we live our lives, as empty as they may feel. On the outside, we look okay. We look like we are functioning. The pain is no longer obvious to those who don’t know us. But though we may smile and laugh and even have fun, effectively hiding the pain, the pain is always there, simmering just under the surface, ready to explode at any moment. Sometimes reaching the boiling point can be predicted, and other times it’s completely unexpected. Sometimes the trigger is obvious, and sometimes, for no apparent reason, the grief and pain become so overwhelming that it literally makes me crumple, brings me to my knees. The point is, the pain is always there.

Five months into this second year and the days are harder and longer with a road in front of me filled with dread and anxiety, pain and heartache. Being in the middle of a pandemic doesn’t help matters; there are fewer distractions and means of escape. It’s like living in the movie Groundhog Day, where every day is a repeat of the day before, with no end in sight. I still cry everyday. Sometimes just a few tears and sometimes heaving sobs that take over my whole body. I still have visions of driving my car off a bridge or into a tree. I still wake up each morning with anger that I woke up at all and with the dread of the agonizing minutes and hours ahead until I can escape in sleep again. Except that sleep isn’t always an escape these days. Sometimes my dreams torture me just as much as the daylight hours, leaving me feeling unsettled for the rest of the day. During this second year I have fully come to realize what life is going to be like now. During the early days, even though the unfathomable did happen, there was no imagining how I would get through each day moving forward. Yet somehow I have made it to this point and now there is no more imagining, I know truly how terrible and painful it feels to be in this life without Ariella. And that’s what I have lying ahead of me for decades. Reality sinks in and numbness wears off during the second year. Anyone who thinks grieving should just end after a year hasn’t experienced significant loss.

I saw one of my oldest friends the other day. We have been friends 32 years. Over the years we have been in and out of touch as happens, but our daughters met a couple of times and we’ve been there for each other when it matters. We got to talking about friends and friendships and how they change. How what we need in friends changes as we get older, but also following traumatic events. And at that moment I realized that I need to stop mourning the loss of the friends and family that left me not only after Ariella died, but after Ariella was diagnosed. The friends and family that are here are here because they want to be. I have exactly the friendships and connections I need and I am grateful for them, because not everyone has that following a tragedy. I have friends that frequently reach out even though I often don’t reply. Friends that are always inviting us out and don’t get offended if we turn them down. Friends that anticipate our needs, like our friends that invited us to dinner on Halloween to make sure we aren’t going to be stuck at home having to face trick-or-treaters (if that even happens this year), knowing Halloween was a favorite of Ariella’s. Friends and family that don’t ignore my grief, that aren’t afraid to talk about Ariella, but in fact encourage it. Friends and family that understand that grief is selfish and that I am most likely not going to reach out and instead the ball is almost always in their court. Friends and family that don’t try to make it better, that don’t try to fix me, that don’t try to make me see the silver lining (there is no silver lining), that don’t think I am stuck in grief. This second year of grief has continued to be hell but being able to let go of unworthy relationships has been somewhat freeing. I’m hurting enough, I need to let go of people and situations that cause more pain.

In the second year you realize this is it. This is life from this point forward. The same thing day after day after day. Year after year. Not much to live for. Not much meaning. The second year is most definitely harder than the first.

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13th Birthday

Dear Ariella,

Today is your 13th birthday. A milestone birthday. Finally a teenager (though you had the attitude of a teen by the time you were 8) and you’re not alive to see it. What we should be doing this weekend: Not a big party, since you would have just had your bat mitzvah, but maybe a sleepover with a couple of your friends. Or a mother-daughter trip to New York to take in one of the shows you’ve been wanting to see. Or a road trip adventure to someplace you’ve never been. Definitely dinner at one of your favorite restaurants. Since this is fantasyland I am imagining what we would have done had there not been a pandemic this year. Though it shatters me to think about it, I can’t not picture what this day would look like if you were alive.

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 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.

This picture above was your 9th birthday, 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 2nd birthday without you? I’m struggling. I’m sad and empty. Many would say that you would want me to be happy, that I should be happy for you. But I disagree. Not with you wanting me to be happy. Of course you do. You didn’t want to see anyone hurting, you always wanted to make them feel better. 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.

Not much has changed since your last birthday, other than it’s just harder. It’s harder to get through the days. I miss you more and more each day. I miss your laugh, your smile, your hand in mine. I miss the excitement you had for your birthdays and the anticipation for Halloween. Random memories pop into my mind with no rhyme or reason and I love them, but they also feel like a sucker punch to the gut. I wish I had taken greater note of the memories we had but how could I have known? Not the big memories, but the smaller moments. The mundane ones that made up our lives. The funny things you said or did. The little things that you don’t think you have to remember because they will always be there and moments like that will continue to happen. I thought we would have had a lifetime of moments, a lifetime to make memories, not just 11 years and 7 months. Each day, each milestone, each birthday, each year, takes me farther from those memories. But yet they also bring me closer to joining you. Time is both a gift and a curse but mostly a curse. Because there is so much time left without you.

Things have been hitting me extra hard lately. I had to leave an exercise class early the other day because of a song. I have gotten teary in many a class but this time there was no way I could stay. I have never left a room so quickly, but to be fair, “Tears in Heaven” is a sad song on a good day. I had asked you for a sign earlier that day and I wondered if that was it. If so, next time I need happier, more uplifting sign! Or at least wait until I’m not in a public place. Everything is a trigger, everything brings up a memory. I would say it’s the time of year, but it’s always the time of year. After your birthday is Halloween and the holidays, and then we are getting back into diagnosis day and February, the beginning of the end. I am constantly plagued by the “what ifs” even though they won’t change anything. Initially, when you were diagnosed and during treatment it was “what if the treatment doesn’t work?” “What if you relapse?” “What if you die?” We imagined the worst case scenario and were terrified, but we couldn’t really imagine it. My thoughts went there but didn’t stay there. Because there was always hope. But after you relapsed it was “what if we had done something differently?” The wondering doesn’t do anyone any good but I can’t shut off those thoughts.

I’m still uncertain as to what I believe happens when you die, but one thing that I am certain of is that if you are still alive in spirit somewhere, you are with Pop-Pop and you should celebrate both days together. I would say eat lots of cake but you never were much of a cake person so have your favorite taco salad, and churros and ice cream. Daddy and I are going to celebrate your life with the same at your favorite restaurant. I’m sure you’re with your friends, probably planning some epic pranks. Please don’t forget to throw some signs our way amongst your partying. Here are just a few random pictures from some of your birthdays over the years.

I love you kiddo, to the moon and back, infinity times. There is so much more I want to say to you, but will keep that between us rather than on the blog. Just know that I love you always, miss you always, and look forward to the day we can be together again.

Love,

Mommy

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Scattered

I have been working on this post for weeks. I’ve wanted to write. I’ve needed to write. And yet I can’t put thoughts to paper. There is just too much going on in my mind. This time of year, back to work, doing my job virtually. I have a thought and then the thread just splits and splits again, and spreads, and spreads, forming an incoherent web. As a result, this post may be disjointed.

I finally got it together to write because of the date. Almost four years ago, in October or November of 2016, we had to look ahead and imagine what we would be doing four years later. We were sitting at Ariella’s Hebrew school, listening to the rabbi talk about bar/bat mitvah and choosing a date. Now Ariella was young for her grade so while most would be choosing a date for closer to 3 years from then, we were looking at closer to 4 years, just after starting 8th grade. It was a daunting task. Choosing such an important day, Ariella’s bat mitzvah, so far in advance (some schools don’t do this so far out but it seems more and more are scheduling b’nai mitzvah quite far out). Who could possibly know what would be going on on a specific day 3 or 4 years later? We put a lot of thought into the date, considering the time of year and dance season. Ultimately, since Ariella was young for her grade we wanted to wait until she was closer to 13. So we picked a couple of days in September 2020 ( only a couple to choose from because of the Jewish holidays) and one in I think January or February 2020, before dance competition season. We got our second choice, which was September 26, 2020. Tomorrow. Four years ago, when we weren’t sure what we would be doing, we would never have thought in our wildest imagination that instead of celebrating with Ariella, we would be grieving for her. We also of course never imagined we would be in a pandemic and her bat mitzvah would most likely have been virtual. This probably would have pleased her. She had said for quite a while she didn’t want a bat mitzvah. But after going to a few of her friends’, she agreed that she would have one, as long as her party could be a pajama party. Tomorrow. Tomorrow she should be becoming a bat mitzvah. When we were looking ahead in the fall of 2016, we were facing the unknown, as the future always is. We couldn’t believe we were already talking about her bat mitzvah. It seemed so far away. Just two or three months after submitting our 3 options for dates, Ariella was diagnosed. A few weeks or so after that we got the bat mitzvah date. We went from thinking about planning an exciting event, to filling binders with medical information. We went from an optimistic and carefree existence to wondering if Ariella would live to see her bat mitzvah. In that time from choosing her date, Ariella was diagnosed with cancer, went through 10 months of treatment, was declared no evidence of disease, relapsed, underwent another 9 months of treatment, had a bone marrow transplant, and died. Our greatest fear was realized. Ariella did not live to see her bat mitzvah. Tomorrow, instead of celebrating Ariella’s coming of age, we continue to mourn her loss.

On the recommendation of a friend I am currently reading (finished, now that I have finally come back to this post) Option B by Sheryl Sandberg, which she wrote after the death of her husband. Our losses are very different but some of what she says resonates with me, particularly this one quote that really struck me. It isn’t Sheryl’s quote but the quote of a woman named Virginia Schimpf Nacy. Her husband died at age 53, and six and a half years after that, her son died. She said “Both deaths are woven into the fabric of my life, but they’re not what define me.” Their deaths do not define her. I sat on this quote for a while. I turned this quote over and over in my mind. I thought about what it is that defines a person. Is it her personality? Her job? Her relationships to others? There are so many factors that make a person who they are and yet the only one that matters to me is that I am the parent of a dead child. My life, my purpose and meaning, or lack thereof, is currently 100% defined by the death of Ariella. How I think and feel and react is entirely through the lens of a bereaved mother. When your child dies, when your whole reason for being dies, how can that possibly not define you? I am a grieving mother. Not a second of any day goes by that I forget that, that I don’t feel it deep in my bones. Some days, some moments, I feel it more sharply than others, but it is always there. Following me. Inhabiting me. Driving my decisions. It may not be evident to others but it doesn’t leave me. I am forever changed. Maybe I never will feel like Ariella’s death doesn’t define me, or maybe one day I will find that my identity is not solely linked to my dead child. Today is not that day. If that day does come, I do know that as the author of the quote said, her death will always be intertwined in my entire being.

I really haven’t been well. This time of year, that used to be my favorite, now just brings more sadness and anxiety. September. Childhood cancer awareness month. I feel obligated to post, to spread awareness. But it hurts. I’m bitter and resentful that I have to do it at all. Why does it fall to the bereaved and the caregivers to advocate for something everyone should feel passionate about? When all I want to do is ignore it, I just can’t. Because if it helps just one child, it has to be done. CureFest, which we attended the past two years, is virtual this year (read here for more about our experience at CureFest https://lifeafterchildloss.net/curefest/). And I am so glad. Because I really do not have it in me this year to attend. Hearing all the stories of hope and success. Seeing the amazing and strong fighters and survivors. I am happy for them. I am. Of course I want everyone to have hope and be well. But I don’t have hope. And my child didn’t make it. And I am jealous. So very jealous. And seeing the hope and strength and fight brings me back to when we were there in 2017 and Ariella was almost finished treatment. We had the same hopeful and optimistic outlook. We thought in a few months we would be among the survivors. It was a celebratory atmosphere. And I want no part of it. I would have gone. For David. For Ari’s Bears. And there are many people I would like to see. But the rest. It’s just too much.

And now October is approaching. Ariella’s birthday. She should be looking forward becoming a teenager. Crisp air and the anticipation of the holiday season, beginning with Halloween, Ariella’s favorite. Reminders everywhere of what we lost, of what we are missing. Walking into Trader Joe’s, visually assaulted by pumpkins. This time of year every time we shopped in Trader Joes’ we came out with at least one pumpkin, sometimes several. Colorful leaves on the ground, crunching beneath my feet. Memories of corn mazes and hayrides and picking pumpkins and apples. Trick or Treating. Ariella in all of her Halloween costumes. Fall is for families.

What David and I want, more than anything, other than of course having Ariella with us, is a family. We are missing Ariella and all the things we did with her and we are missing her future as well. But we are also missing being a family. Being parents. We miss all of it. Rocking to sleep, reading before bed, first days of school, vacations, game nights, helping with homework, recitals. We miss the mundane daily routines and we miss the arguments and tantrums and eye rolls. We miss everything. The good, the bad, and the ugly. We want two things that mean anything and we can’t seem to have either. And before I get the comments about ways we can be parents or caregivers or still be involved with children, please don’t. We know our options. It’s not so easy as just deciding to be parents. So we are left adrift, trying to figure out “what next?”

Couple all of this with doing my job virtually, which is making me even more miserable, and everything is hitting me quite hard. At the gym I see a news story on TV outside of Hopkins. I see the Hopkins sign and the bridge that I drove under every single day from February 25-May 9 2019. If I look hard enough I see the room in which Ariella died. That same day at the gym I hear a song that Ariella danced to. It was a group tap dance. I watched her practice many times. She never got to perform it. I have two outlets. Exercise and work. But I hate my job right now. It is frustrating and ineffective and I have headaches every day from the screen. There is a reason I don’t have a desk job. All of this to say I’m struggling, more than I had been. Year two has been a hell of a lot harder than year one. And I feel much more lost.