Tag: grief

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Shoes

I go to the gym every morning before work. I pack my bag the night before. I grab my outfit and shoes and toss them in the bag, not paying too much attention. This morning when I got dressed at the gym I realized I brought the shoes that I wore for Ariella’s funeral. Shoes I haven’t worn since then. Shoes that still have the mud on them from the cemetery. Mud I could not bring myself to clean off this morning. I don’t know why, I have parted with many of Ariella’s belongings, but I could not part with the mud. When I wasn’t working I visited Ariella at the cemetery quite a bit. I don’t have as much opportunity to get there now. Even though it’s just her body there, not her spirit, I feel the most connected to her when I talk to her at her grave site. I have to drag myself away after my visits. I never want to leave her. The mud on my shoes today was that connection. I didn’t think a pair of shoes could bring me to my knees.

But that’s not necessarily true. As mentioned, I have parted with most of Ariella’s belongings. We kept special objects but clothes and things of little importance were donated. But two pairs of her shoes. Ariella did not care much about fashion. She was happiest in sweats and an oversized hoodie. Shoes weren’t a priority for her at all, but she had to have Ugg boots and black Chuck Taylors. The Chucks were actually to wear with a party dress. When I was going through Ariella’s things, I pulled those shoes out as well, but ended up putting them back because they belong in her closet. I often will go in her room and just sit for a minute or two. Not long but seeing her shoes in the closet for some reason gives me some comfort. But it has to be those shoes, because those were actually important to her (as important as shoes can be). They exude her personality and I like having them around. But it is also gut-wrenching to see those shoes there. Just waiting for her feet, never to be worn again. Desolate, and lonely. Without a purpose. Like me.

There is one other pair of shoes that I wish I had, but they are in their right place, buried with Ariella. That pair of shoes is her custom tap shoes. A special gift from her dance studio when Ariella started dancing in earnest again. She loved those shoes so much and practiced tapping all the time, just so she could wear them. As much as the constant tapping drove me crazy, I miss it so much. Would give anything to have Ariella tapping all over the house again. She was so proud when she began tapping again. She couldn’t wait to perform. She dazzled on stage and had the shoes to match. Ariella worked hard for those shoes and she earned them. She deserved to have them with her.

I still have her littlest shoes; her first pair, her first ballet slippers, and her first tap shoes. So tiny, filled with the feet of someone with so much promise and potential. Potential we could never imagine would go unfulfilled. When you look at shoes so small, and you look at the child wearing them, you envision the future. You wonder if they will continue dancing or if they will trade those dancing shoes for soccer cleats, or running shoes. You never think that one day the feet will stop growing, not because of age, but because of death. You never think that this tiny person’s life will be cut short. In fact you often lament them growing up so fast. They outgrew another pair of shoes, another pair of pants. Stop growing up you want to say. You want to hold on to them when they are little, keep them young forever. Until they actually are forever young.

When Ariella was in the ICU and we had no idea how bad it would get, I had asked her what she would want, or what we would do to celebrate when she finally got out of there. And with all the hell she had been through and was still going through, all she said she wanted was a pair of shoes. A pair of slides. I want to keep buying shoes. I want to buy her all the shoes. I want to be sad because she is growing up, increasing her independence, not because she never gets to grow up. I hate this life so much. I want her and all her glorious mess back. I want the pile of shoes littering her closet floor, not just the pairs I kept. I just don’t want to do this anymore.

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Numbers, Psychics, and Mediums, Oh My

I was hesitant to blog about this. The idea of spirits communicating through mediums is quite polarizing. There are those that believe without a doubt that there is an afterlife and that their loved ones send signs and are able to communicate through mediums. There are those that believe in the afterlife but don’t believe spirits communicate through mediums. And others that believe without a doubt that once we die, that is it. The signs we see are coincidences, nothing more. And that mediums are scammers, just excellent at reading body language. There are also those that fall in the middle, like me, not quite sure what to believe. Before Ariella died I never thought an afterlife was possible. But a grieving parent will look for any hope that they will see their child again. And the hope that their child was not cheated. That though their life here on Earth was short, that wasn’t it for them. They still get to “live”, just not in the same way (though they are cheated, there are so many earthly experiences they miss out on). After Ariella died I remained skeptical but was more open to the possibility that she was communicating by sending signs. Large, bright colored butterflies were in abundance this summer. Would they have been there anyway? I don’t ever remember seeing so many noticeable butterflies. Are the rainbows really sent by her? I definitely have never before seen so many rainbows as I have since May. The things I have mentioned in my previous posts, even those that seemed outlandish (purple elephant, blue lizard); signs, or coincidences? The deer that just hangs out nearby, that doesn’t run away when we approach. A sign? Or just a deer that has finally gotten used to being around people. Now if the deer was a unicorn, that would be definite sign. I have received every sign I have asked for but I don’t know that I will ever be fully convinced.

But then I went to see a medium. It was booked for Friday the 13, also the night of a full moon. Definite sign. Ariella loved the spooky, the creepy. She most certainly would have chosen the spookiest day of the year. If Ariella was going to show up, it was going to be that night. A friend of mine took me and she sat in the session as an observer. She did her research and chose someone highly recommended. I did not book the appointment so the medium truly knew nothing about me, not even my name. She did not know why I was there.

She started with numerology and a life path card reading. I won’t go into details as this was not the reason for the visit but I will say the numbers and cards were accurate to me. Something that did stand out was my role as a caregiver and she emphasized that this is the year that I need to take care of myself and put my own needs first. Remember, she knew nothing about why I was there.

Then the spirits supposedly arrived. She warned us ahead of time that often others, like grandparents, will come through to say hi, even if that’s not who we are there to speak with and even if we never knew them in life. I will admit, initially it did feel like she was fishing. According to the medium, David’s relatives were coming through (they wanted to say hi to the one who is really into music, which does describe David) but really I couldn’t verify any of it. So who knows? There are some things that can be verified but I haven’t bothered to go beyond David to try. I wasn’t there to hear from them and I would know soon if it was all really a scam. They did say happy anniversary to us. Our anniversary was just 4 days prior to this reading.

Next it was my relatives coming through. I still felt like there was fishing and guessing/correction going on, though she did get some things correct about my grandparents that would have been very random guesses. And again several things I couldn’t verify because I just don’t know. I wrote it all down though and may try to verify with my family. Though she got some things right I wasn’t impressed, and of course by this point I’m getting frustrated because I haven’t heard from the only person I cared to hear from (well also my dad, will get to that later) and I’m thinking my friend just wasted her money.

The next person to come through was a female who loved games and puzzles. The medium asked if that meant anything to me. I told her it did and she asked who, but I would not tell her. Ariella needed to come through on her own. I was not going to help the medium along. She stuck with the games and said this person really liked her games (we had game night every week) and she got the sense she died recently, less than a year ago, and that she was someone younger. So yes, she could have guessed age and whatnot based on who we already talked about, but the game thing? The medium realized Ariella was my daughter and asked if she had a lung problem (her cause of death). She said she saw Ariella playing with something stringy which makes complete sense to me. Ariella loved silly string, spraying her doctors, friends, and even her teacher with it any chance she got. In fact one of her last pranks was in the hospital with the silly string. The medium said she had a horse over there, or maybe it was a unicorn. That unicorns were very important to her. Ok, yes, horses and unicorns are popular with young girls. So maybe a good guess. But my friend pointed out that just a couple days earlier David had shared a memory of him and Ariella walking through the hospital with unicorn horns on. People wore unicorn horns to her funeral. They were a big deal to her. She knew I put a unicorn in her room.

This next thing though, is what got me. According to the medium, in Ariella’s words, she is honored about all the money that has been raised in her honor to help others in similar situations. That she knows it is difficult for us to continue to do it but she is happy we are because it helps others and that is what we are here to do. When I talk to Ariella, I have told her many times how hard it is to continue with Ari’s Bears without her. The medium completely got Ariella’s giving nature, that she cared more about helping others.

Some other things that also made total sense. She mentioned moving furniture. We redid Ariella’s room when she was in the hospital. Furniture was moved out and back in, slightly rearranged and her room was painted. She knew about her fingerprint that I wear as a necklace along with the necklace she bought me. She knew I got rid of a lot of her things but kept her wig and 2 pairs of her shoes. She sent a lightning bolt which also made perfect sense to me given Ariella’s love of Harry Potter. In fact her plan was to be Harry Potter for Halloween this year (she loved Halloween and planned her costumes way in advance, last year she was Hermione). And her love of swimming came through.

It gets more surreal though. We were wrapping up, Ariella had left, the spirits were supposedly gone, and we were talking about a prediction for a question I asked (will let you know later if it comes true ) when all of a sudden the medium asked if I am connected to a male that loves sports, especially baseball and football. And there was my dad. He emphasized that he is a big baseball fan, (a big part of my childhood was going to games with him) and is also a football fan. He said to tell me that he is here and that Ariella is with him. This was crazy to me. I was a little salty that I didn’t have more time with him but then it hit me that earlier that day I talked to both Ariella and my father, asking them to meet me. I told my dad though that while I would love for him to say hi, I wanted to spend most of the time with Ariella. And he listened. He hung back (let all the other crazy relatives through, lol) and when he realized it was ending jumped in to make sure I knew he was there. That right there was just insane to me. Our time was up, the medium was shutting it down and in comes my dad described to a t.

All this to say, it seemed pretty real. Well some of it. I would try again, but maybe with a different medium. The things that she got right, she got right. A lot of it was quite accurate and things she would have no way of knowing. A lot I couldn’t verify but I will be interested to see if any of the stuff with the other relatives does pan out.

I imagine there are plenty that believe, and plenty that think I am delusional. That I am a sucker, willing to believe anything. Which is why I wasn’t so sure I would share about it. But I ultimately decided to share this because this is life after child loss. This is my life after child loss. This is me, trying to get by, trying to find some, any comfort. This is a common road grieving parents take. Bereaved parents are in the majority of those who seek the services of a medium. In fact, a retreat we were considering attending offers the services of a medium as part of their programming for those who wish to partake. Is it real? Is it all a big hoax? Does it really matter if it brings some comfort and peace to the grieving parent. Ok, it does matter a little because they are plenty of scammers out there preying on the vulnerable. Maybe all mediums are scammers. I don’t think so. But I would approach searching for a medium the same way you find any service. Do your research, read reviews, and find someone certified (yes you can be certified to be a medium, who knew?). Stay anonymous so they can’t research you prior to the visit. Give nothing away during your reading, and keep an open mind.

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Changing of the Seasons

The change of seasons. Something I used to anticipate, look forward to (except maybe winter) is now something that I dread. I feel this pit in my stomach, a sense of panic, and pure anguish as we head towards fall. Ariella died in spring. Part of winter and all of her spring was spent in the hospital. We didn’t pay attention to the change from winter to spring. It was unremarkable with Ariella fighting for her life. We have had about one full season without her. Evidence that time marches forward no matter how hard I will it to stop, to go backwards, to bring me back to happier times. This summer was excruciating. The days dragged. I had no interest in doing anything I used to do during the summer. Summer is made for families. The vacations, lazy days at the pool, amusement parks, carnivals. David and I went to a festival one weekend. Good music, good food. But families everywhere. Kids dancing, kids playing catch, kids running around. Ariella used to enjoy going to festivals and listening to live music. She would have had a blast. David and I had gone to events like that without her in the past. But now it’s different without her. She is noticeable absent. She should be here.

I used to view the changing of the seasons as a fresh start. A time to rejuvenate. Especially summer into fall. The start of a new school year, for both Ariella and me. A time for growth and new beginnings. Ariella always loved the fall. It was her favorite season. Her three favorite days are in the fall; her birthday, Halloween, and Thanksgiving. She loved decorating the house for fall, jumping in piles of leaves, playing outside in the cooler weather. It was once my favorite season as well. The spectacular colors. The smell of cinnamon permeating the air. The air becoming cool and crisp. Sweater weather. So many fun family activities took place in the fall. Apple picking. Enjoying hayrides, corn mazes, and pumpkin picking at local farms.

Now the changing of the seasons just takes me further away from Ariella. I am no longer longer looking forward to fall. It used to be the most magical season for me. Usually not too hot or cold (though not always the case in Maryland) and the landscape is blanketed with bright oranges, reds, and yellows. Fall always felt comforting and cozy. Like being wrapped in a soft blanket in front of a fire. Perfect for playing games, watching movies, or just reading a book. Also perfect for hiking and riding bikes and getting outdoors. There was nothing better than spending the day as a family at a farm or pick your own orchard and then curling up on the couch with my girl to relax on a cool fall evening.

Fall now feels cold and empty. Instead of being wrapped up in love I feel lost and alone. Vulnerable to the elements. Reminders everywhere of what I’ve lost. Of what I’m missing. Of whom I’m missing. I want to bury myself in a pile of leaves and not emerge until… when? Never I guess. Because there is no good time.

The changing of seasons is just further proof that life goes on. It doesn’t just stop when something tragic happens. No matter how much I don’t want it to, morning arrives each day. People continue to go about their business. I am going about my business as hard as it is because I have no other choice. I look around me and see all the people living their lives and it devastates me to know that I will never again live life pain free. I will never again be carefree, have unrestrained happiness, will never feel like my life is complete and perfect again. This is no way to live.

Today it has been four months since Ariella died. It also happens to be David’s and my wedding anniversary. I have no interest in celebrating. David and I never made a big deal of the day. We would usually go out to dinner but that was about it. We don’t exchange gifts. So it wasn’t a day that stuck out to Ariella. But last year when she heard us talking about it she wanted to give us something. It was the day before our anniversary so she didn’t have much time but managed to put together a very cute little gift for us.

She had good reasons for the items she chose and it was such a sweet and thoughtful gesture. It is heartbreaking that I will never again receive one of her special homemade cards or gifts or drawings again.

I don’t feel much like celebrating anything. Holidays, birthdays, anything. They all just seem so meaningless. Just another day. Another day without my baby. Ariella made celebrations great. She gave special gifts and just loved decorating for any occasion. I don’t want to celebrate without her. I don’t want to acknowledge birthdays when she will never have another one. Special days just aren’t special without her.

Days are colorless and devoid of any sense of purpose. One day is just like the next regardless of the date on the calendar. Day after day after day. Endless misery and sorrow. Just trying to survive until bedtime. Only to wake up and do it all over again. It feels futile, like Sisyphus rolling the boulder up the hill for his endless punishment. Each day feels like trying to dig out of the depths of hell using a shovel, only to be buried deeper and deeper.

This weekend we had a table for Ari’s Bears at a local festival. Lots of kids helping us out. And yet it still was missing someone. The most important someone. The reason why Ari’s Bears is in existence. The reason we were there at the festival. She would have been in her element. But we have to do it without her. It is so painful to do it without her. People say they can’t imagine losing a child. I still can’t imagine it. I know how it feels right now, but trying to imagine a lifetime of this? It doesn’t seem survivable.

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Each Morning

Each morning I wake up
And it hits me again
That my darling sweet girl is no longer here

The shadow of grief follows me
All through the day
Hanging over my head
While I try to go through the motions of living

There are moments
Very brief moments
When I am able to focus
When I am able to smile

But they are short lived
And the shadow of grief wraps me in its cloak
And plummets me back into the depths of despair

I long for the day
When those moments can be strung together
When there is happiness equal to the sorrow

But that doesn’t feel right either
My daughter died
How can there be joy
When the one I want to share it with
Is no longer here

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Back to School

Here we go. The back to school ads are everywhere. School supplies, clothes, uniforms. Parents celebrating that the summer is over, the kids are finally getting out of the house. The parents lamenting that their kids are growing so fast. They wish time would slow down. They don’t want their children to grow up. Be careful what you wish for. My child never got the chance to grow up.

The first day of school posts have been here for weeks now. I try to avoid the posts. I don’t do much on Facebook. I post updates of course about Ari’s Bears, maybe share some articles, but mostly stay on social media to keep up with the children I follow. The other posts hurt too damn much. In all honesty, even the posts about the children with cancer hurt because they are still alive. They have hope. In many cases the posts are about celebrating remission, end of treatment, ringing the bell. And many of those kids are starting school and engaging in typical childhood activities. But I worry about them. I want those kids to be cured. I want them to survive. I know them, I know their families and it is important to me to know how they are doing.

So of course I inevitably start scrolling through my feed. Usually at the top of my feed are the bereavement groups I’m in and pages I follow. But then the regular posts come. They are in my face showing me everything I am missing. The happy, intact families on vacation. The children at a dance competition. The parents attending various events for their children. The parents upset because their kids are growing too fast. The parents missing their kids who are at camp. Parents crying about their empty nest now that kids are heading to college. Each post another punch in the gut, a knife through my heart, a slap in the face. I quickly shut it down, tears streaming down my cheeks, wanting to throw up. And now the first day of school pictures. I will never have another first day of school picture of Ariella. I will never again see her standing in front of our house with her book bag on her shoulders, smiling so big because she loved school. I will never again have someone to help with homework and projects. I did not enjoy helping with projects. There was lots of yelling and complaining. Papers slammed down, pencils thrown. But I would give anything to have another project, another math sheet, another book report.

I never again get to share in the anticipation of the first day of school. Hearing about the classmates and teachers. Which friends are in the same class. Which electives will be selected. I never get to have another first day of school picture. No more comparing how much Ariella grew from the previous year. No more pictures at all. So I will share all the first day of school pictures I was blessed to have. I had to dig deep to find some of them because I did not always post them on Facebook and I don’t keep all my pictures on my phone (I have them all printed). I figured it wasn’t anything special. Every child has a first day of school, why do we need to share all the pictures? Little did I know. It never occurred to me that we would not get to have first day of school pictures through 12th grade. It never occurred to me that Ariella’s life would be cut short, that her school memories album would end in the the middle of 6th grade. I never imagined that I would be so desperate to find her first day of school pictures because they are all I have now.

  • 1st day of preschool (2s)
  • 1st day of preschool (3s)
  • 1st day of preschool (4s)
  • 1st day of Kindergarten
  • 1st day of 1st Grade
  • 1st day of 2nd grade
  • 1st day of 3rd grade
  • 1st day of 4th grade
  • 1st day of 5th grade (in January when she returned to school after treatment)
  • 1st day of 6th grade

The pictures should not end there. We should get six more first day of school pictures. We should get a going off to college picture. This should not be it. How? How did this happen? Why did this happen? How could this beautiful life be cut so short? She had so much more to do, so much more to give. Look at that face. Pure joy and excitement. And that was a chemo week for her. Chemo wasn’t going to keep her from school. How can anyone look at this child and think this would be her last first day of school? That in less than 10 months, this child, this beautiful child with so much hope and potential would be dead? I still can’t fathom it. That this beautiful, dancing flame was extinguished. That this brilliant spark of light no longer shines. She was supposed to survive.

Today should be Ariella’s first day of 7th grade. But instead we have empty steps in front of the house, an unused book bag hanging by the door, unfulfilled dreams, milestones that will never be reached. This last picture was a new beginning for Ariella. A new school. Middle school. A private school where most of the kids had known each other for years. But that didn’t daunt Ariella. She jumped right in and made new friends almost immediately. A wonderful, supportive group of friends. To them she wasn’t the kid with cancer. She was just weird, loud, goofy, and outgoing Ariella. She very quickly planned get togethers and sleep overs. Her entry into this new school was seamless. The world was hers for the taking. She had so much promise. How did everything go so fucking wrong?

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Back to Work

First I just want to express my appreciation for all the kind messages and well wishes I received this week. I do appreciate the messages, even if I don’t respond. It’s hard to respond to those because I never used to be a person who needed taking care of. I don’t necessarily like being taken care of, even if it’s something I may need. I don’t like being the person that needs taking care of. I just want to be me. Nothing special, no extra attention. But on the other hand, the attention reminds me that I have all the support I could want.

Being back at work just outright sucks. I hate it. I work in multiple schools so there is plenty of staff in each school that I only know by sight. They know nothing else about me. The first person I saw when I walked into work on Tuesday was a teacher I just know from passing in the halls. She asked me if I had a great summer. What the fuck do I say to that? Do I say “my daughter died sooo…”? Do I lie and say it was great? I just said it was okay. And this is my issue with working. Some people know, some don’t but that doesn’t even matter. What matters is that I have to compartmentalize my life now. I have to go to a job every day and act like everything is okay. Act like I am anything but the shattered, broken shell of my former self. I have to participate in life and it is fucking exhausting. And it is painful.

Being privy to others’ conversations is just as difficult. Many talk about their kids, what they are doing, etc. I can’t join in those conversations unless I want to be a complete downer. Conversations not about kids don’t appeal to me either. It all seems so trivial and petty and I just can’t bring myself to give a shit. But those who don’t know my situation may just think I’m unfriendly.

Being back at work feels to me like I am “moving on”, living life, doing normal every day things. It feels so unimportant and meaningless to me. My daughter died. How can I care about anything else? How can I switch my focus from what’s most important to me? I can’t. All day at work running through my mind is “My daughter is dead. None of this matters.” There is nothing more important than Ariella and yet the world keeps spinning, the pages of the calendar keep turning, and life goes on. But I don’t want it to. I am not ready for life to go on. I don’t feel right doing these everyday, normal things and all I want to do is be at home, in my safe place, hiding from the world.

I cry everyday, multiple times a day. I never know when it will hit me. The tsunamis of grief come when they want. I can’t schedule them to drown me at my convenience. It takes all my energy to not allow them to overcome me at an inopportune time. What’s going to happen when the students return next week? Some of them know I have a daughter. They didn’t know she was sick or in the hospital but what happens if they ask about her or mention her? I need to be able to hold back the tears when I am with the kids. I just don’t know that I can do it.

I have found many things bereaved parents have in common but I think there is a split when it comes to work. Some, like David, have found work to be helpful. They welcome the distraction. They are relieved to be kept busy, so they can push the grief aside. I am the complete opposite. I am not distracted and all I am doing is counting the minutes until I can go home. The grief keeps asking me “Why are you doing this? What is the point?” And the truth is while I used to love my job I am only working now because I have to. Because I don’t see the point. Nothing else matters to me except that I had a daughter and she died.

Coming home from work is no easy feat either. There is no one to pick up from school on the way home. There is no rushing around trying to get to dance or get homework done and dinner on the table. There are hours to fill after work. And yes, without work I would have more hours of the day to kill but what is hard is the transition of coming home to that empty house without our regular after work and evening routine.

I really don’t want to do this. Before going back to work I was surviving. I don’t know how I am going to survive this. Life just feels that much more stressful and overwhelming. And all I want to do is cocoon myself in a blanket to never emerge.

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Grief is Everywhere

Grief is everywhere. It’s there as soon as I wake up in the morning, facing yet another day without my favorite person, the one that is and always will be a part of me.  When I look at the clock and wonder why I should get out of bed that day. What is the point? I have no purpose anymore. Nothing to live for. The one person that needed me. That truly needed me, is gone.  I have no one to take care of anymore.

Grief is there when I am walking my dog.  She should be walking the dog with me. Grief is in the rocks she would have collected, the pictures she would have taken of the flowers or the sky or the deer we sometimes see, and in the bugs she would have screamed about and run away from.  

Grief is there when I force myself to run or go to the gym.  It’s in the songs that are played that make me think of her, whether it’s the lyrics, a particularly meaningful song, or just a song she liked.  It’s when I take an exercise class I think she would enjoy. It’s when I think about being uncomfortable when exercising and then remember all the pain (physical and emotional) and discomfort that she tolerated and realize my exercise is nothing compared to that.  It’s when I then push myself even harder, almost to my breaking point, almost like a punishment.  

Grief is there when I am in the shower.  Nothing else to distract me, just thinking about my girl.  The thoughts vary but they are always about Ariella. Memories we have and memories we will never get to make.  I think about everything I am missing.  

Grief is there when I am in my car.  Again in the songs I hear. Listening to the talk radio show that we listened to whenever she had morning appointments.  Seeing the picturesque sunrises on the way to those morning appointments, maybe even pulling over so she could take a picture.  Remembering all the times I drove her to appointments. Remembering picking her up from school and then racing to the dance studio. Missing the silly things she did in the car; taking video of me driving, singing made up songs, sticking her head out the window, playing “sweet and sour” (waving to people in other cars and seeing who smiled or waved back), messing with the radio.  Mostly missing all the conversations we had in the car.  

Grief is there when I go to the grocery store.  Seeing the bear that is hidden in Trader Joe’s for children to find.  That was always her mission when going to the store, to find the bear.  And more recently she enjoyed having her own list of items to shop for. Grief is in all the food I no longer need to buy.  Cheese sticks and the yogurt she liked, granola bars, the snacks she liked. Every aisle a reminder of who is missing. Grief is seeing the employees who knew Ariella from a toddler. Who announced her birthday over the intercom and gave her flowers (before she was ever sick).  Who supported her and us throughout her illness and continue to support us now. They even sent us a Trader Joe’s bear and made a donation to our foundation. Trader Joe’s was actually the hardest place to return to after Ariella died because we know the staff there and until more recently was a place Ariella always went to with us (as she got older she often chose to stay home rather than shop with us).  But grief is not just at Trader Joe’s, it’s at any grocery store. In her favorite foods, in the toy aisle when she would beg for the crappy items, in the whining that it was taking so long. And grief is in the possibility that I will run into someone I know, and have to make small talk or talk about how I am doing.  

Grief is there when I watch TV.  In the commercial jingles that she would sing along to (“We are Farmers..”, Liberty, 1-800-Contacts, etc.).  In the shows we don’t get to watch together. I actually don’t watch much TV anymore. It just all seems so meaningless to me.  I mainly have HGTV on, often just for the background noise. But she would love some of those shows on there. The grief is in not being able to talk about those shows with her. It’s in not being able to watch the newest season of Stranger Things because she loved that show and was looking forward to binge watching this season with her cousin through FaceTime, who lives across the country. I can’t watch it without her. Without being able to discuss it with her.  It’s in never finishing even one season of Gilmore Girls with her. We started watching together when she was in the hospital.  

Grief is there when I am cooking dinner.  It’s in cooking for two, not three. It’s in not hearing her complain about setting the table and in not being asked for help with homework while I’m trying to cook.  Grief is missing her excitement when I was cooking her favorite foods. Grief is missing her potty mouth at dinner (I never could win that battle as it was her father and her against me) and her dumb jokes.  It’s the empty place at the table.  

Grief is there when I am with my friends.  It’s knowing their families are intact and mine isn’t.  It’s knowing their children are doing things Ariella should be doing along with them.  It’s knowing that the younger children will soon surpass Ariella. It’s in hearing about their children when all I can share about my child is memories.  

Grief is even in activities I find therapeutic.  In painting pottery or doing a canvas paint night.  I have found those activities soothing and yet grief is ever present.  Those are activities Ariella and I often did together. Even in the few months after Ariella was born I took her to a pottery painting place to paint her footprint on pottery pieces.  I see all the objects Ariella would want to paint. I remember all the times I took her to the kids canvas painting workshops. She loved those activities. We will never get to share them again.

Grief is there when I am settling down for the night. It’s in not having to pack Ariella a lunch for the next day. It’s in not having to check homework and then persuade her to get in the shower. It’s in not watching TV together before bed and in not reading together. It’s in not having her give me her special stuffed animal when I’m not feeling well and in not being asked for a back scratch. It’s in all the empty time I have to fill. Time that once seemed so hectic and busy but what made my life meaningful. Grief is in trying to fill all that time until it’s a reasonable time for me to go to sleep.

Grief is everywhere.  It’s in the conversations I hear around me.  “How are your kids?” “What grade are they going into?”  “Do they play any sports?” “My kid is so excited for…” “My summer was great.  How was yours?” It’s in a beautiful day I can’t share with my daughter. It’s in a funny story I can’t tell her.  It’s in the cute animal picture I can’t show her and in the funny video she can’t watch. It’s in every day, routine tasks because she is missing from them.  I was actively parenting and now I’m not. When your role shifts so dramatically there is no escaping the grief. Parenting was my life and now I’m lost. I’m missing Ariella immensely and along with that I am missing my identity, my most important role, and all the future moments we will never get to have.  I am not only grieving the loss of Ariella but also all the future milestones never to be reached, the unfulfilled plans and dreams. Every moment is touched with grief.

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Iced Chai Latte

I can’t. I just can’t anymore. I just wanted a fucking iced chai latte and that was too hard. Trying not to cry all day long but every fucking thing is a reminder. Drove someone to an appointment at the hospital where Ariella was born. The best day of my life. Never in a million years would I have imagined that less than 12 years from that day she would no longer be here. She was perfect and healthy at birth, even though she was born by c-section. She was rarely sick and I couldn’t imagine that I would only get to be a mom for 11 1/2 years. And don’t tell me I will always be her mom. It’s not the fucking same. I don’t get to see her grow up. I don’t get to teach her to drive. I don’t get to hear about boys and take her shopping for a prom dress. I don’t get to send her off to college and help her plan a wedding. I don’t get to brush her hair and tuck her in at night. I don’t get to hug and kiss her. I don’t get to cook her dinner, pack her lunches, share sushi with her, watch her dance. I don’t get to read to her, read the stories she wrote, receive the cards she always made. I don’t get to help her with her homework, take her to musicals, take her on vacation. I don’t get to see how she would have turned out. I don’t get to see the amazing adult she would have become. I don’t get to continue the amazing mother-daughter relationship we had. I don’t get to have grandchildren. I don’t get to just be with her, every day. I lost everything. I am missing out on everything. And I feel guilty about it because I should be sad for her, for her life being cut so short but I am sad for me, for all I’ve lost and all I will never have. And yet I am wasting this life I have. Maybe I should try to enjoy life, go on living because she can’t. It seems wrong to not “live” when all she wanted to do was live. But it also seems wrong to live when she can’t. When she deserved it. Why should I get to live when she can’t?

The second appointment of the day was at an imaging center. The same center where Ariella had her follow up x-rays. I will never forget the anxiety walking into that place. My heart pounding, adrenaline pumping. Literally shaking. And that feeling would linger until we got the results. It was an x-ray done at this place that showed her relapse. While waiting there I tried to distract myself. I read and watched a show on my phone. But my thoughts always went back to all the times I was there with Ariella. And the tears would start.

It had been an especially rough few days. I just wanted my iced chai before heading home after a long day. In the parking lot. A Baltimore Symphony Orchestra bumper sticker. Reminded me of watching the BSO perform Peter and the Wolf at Hopkins when Ariella was there for her BMT. She was feeling so good. I just don’t understand what fucking happened. And I just want to go back and change the variable that made everything go to shit. Remembering the good times, remembering the bad, makes no difference. It all leads to my child dying. Sometimes remembering the good is harder because it only reminds me that this never should have happened. Cancer didn’t kill her. It was a perfect fucking storm of everything that could go wrong with the treatment. So the good times, even in the hospital because there were some, just serve to show how naive our optimism was. How we should never have done the transplant. Because that transplant took the life of the girl in the hospital who was just days prior dancing in the hallways, silly stringing her teacher in her hospital room and pranking her nurse with a scary clown mask. She wasn’t sick. She didn’t look sick. She didn’t act sick. But still she died. It’s not fucking fair.

All of that from a bumper sticker. But I wanted my chai and after navigating probably the world’s most awful parking lot I couldn’t leave empty handed. So I composed myself and went in to get my drink . But right there in front of me in line, a girl about Ariella’s age, with her mother. They were joking with each other. Laughing. Ariella could always make me laugh. Even when I was angry with her. Sometimes I had to hide my laughing because she did or said something she shouldn’t have that I found funny. Sometimes her tantrums (and yes, even at 11 she had tantrums, she wasn’t perfect) were so over the top I couldn’t help but laugh, even though that set her off even more. But she was funny and silly. She made weird and funny faces. A few days after she had her trach placed I was having her make funny faces with me. She made up songs that made no sense and if you told her she was weird she said “thank you.” I miss laughing with her. I miss the sound of her laughter. It was contagious. I have laughed since Ariella died but it doesn’t sound the same to me and it doesn’t feel the same. Many times I’m laughing at something I wish I could share with Ariella because she would also find it funny. My laughter feels hollow now. It’s tinged with sadness. It’s not as loud, not as strong, fades as quickly as it started.

I made it through the line though my eyes were tearing up. While waiting for my drink I decided to check my phone. I wanted to check in on the writing group I’m doing which is on Facebook. I opened the app and had some notifications and I made the mistake of looking at them. One was a beautiful post by the mom of another girl with Ewing’s sharing Ariella’s page and website. I loved that she shared it but I wasn’t expecting to see it and it made me cry. Another had shared a picture of Ariella and her cousins 3 years ago, before it all went to hell. And at the top of my newsfeed was a post with pictures of the Dancers Against Cancers hope stories who are now angels. Just one year ago we were in LA with Dancers Against Cancer (fabulous organization by the way, check them out) for the Industry Dance Awards. Ariella met and bonded with other hope stories and was reunited with friends met that previous April. I never dreamed just a year later she would be there again, but this time in a remembrance video.

I make it home, finally. To this.

Just one more in your face reminder. Fuck you Amazon. Kind of ironic though because Amazon has been my lifesaver. If I need something but am not up for going somewhere, I don’t have to. And you can see from this post why I don’t want to go anywhere.

I just can’t do it. I can’t go on without her. We had so many plans. So many things we wanted to do. It’s not fair that I get to go on living when she doesn’t. I don’t want to go on living. Why couldn’t it have been me? She had her whole life to live. She had so much good to do in the world. She was only just getting started.

There is nothing good that will come from this. There is no lesson to be learned from my grief. Anything I may have needed to learn or do did not require my child to die. At the end of each day I feel like “Yay, I made it.” But for what? What am I making it for? I just have to wake up and do it again. Day after day after day. Just going through the motions. Not enjoying it. Suffering from pain and heartache most of the day. Who wants to live a life in pain and yearning for the one person you can’t have? It just seems so daunting, so hopeless. I don’t know how to continue.

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A Letter from Grief

Dear Erica,

You thought you knew me.  We were acquaintances. I have made several appearances throughout your life.  I was disruptive but not destructive. When your friend died in high school I hung around a bit, an almost comforting soul reminding you of the memories you cherished with your friend.  I was not the powerful force to come later.  

Even when your father died I had yet to be a destroyer.  I was a dark shadow dampening your spirit, darkening the days.  Initially I was everywhere, invading your every thought, creeping into your brain with my long, thin fingers.  But I did not have a powerful hold over you. After some time you grew stronger than me. You were able to push me aside and allow other thoughts in.  

But now, Erica, I am a force to be reckoned with.  I am no longer this frail figure hiding in corners, easy to overcome.  I am a monster. A huge, burly creature that will crush you with the weight of me.  I will pound you, shake you, batter you until you are hurting in every bone, aching in every inch of your body.  I am a mist, a fog that will seep inside your mind, spreading into every cell, until you will be so consumed that you will be unable to complete even the most simple of tasks.  No longer a mere acquaintance, I am your constant companion, never leaving your side even for a moment. I am there when you shower, there when you exercise, there when you are with your friends, there when you are trying to avoid me.  You can’t avoid me. Even when you think you can I am hiding under the bed, in a corner, behind the trees, ready to leap out at you when you least expect it.  

But I am not the bad guy.  You need me. Because the most important person in your life died.  The person who completed you, who made you whole, is dead. You cannot ignore that.  I will not let you ignore that. I am here for you. I am here to make you feel, to make you face your loss.  Because only once you face me, every hideous inch of me, can you learn to live with me. I will never go away.  I have picked you up, shaken you, and turned you upside down. I have dropped a bomb on your world, causing an explosion to reach the ends of the Earth.  That cannot be fixed. I cannot be defeated. However one day you just may be stronger than me again. You may be able to push me away sometimes. I may not always be able to flood your brain.  You may even find periods of happiness though they will be tainted with the shadow of me. And I will always return. You may not know when or how but I will be there, for the rest of your life. Get used to me.  Get used to my heavy presence, my oppressive soul because I will be weighing you down, causing you pain and shattering your world over and over again. You will never rid yourself of me but you will get used to me.  In fact, you will hold on to me.

Something else you should know.  Others will think you need to let me go. They will think you are stuck on me, that I am not healthy for you, that I am holding you back from living.  As I said, I am not the bad guy. I am here for you as long as you need me to be. But I cannot make others understand me. I cannot make them understand that though I am ugly and scary and invasive I am a necessary evil and not something to just “get over.”  I cannot make the others understand until I am the same companion for them. The only way to understand me is to know me. You and I have a complicated relationship. You may hate me and you may cling to me. You never know when I might appear and that makes you angry with me.  But you need me and will know me forever.

Yours to hold forever and always,

Grief

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The Retreat

This weekend David and I went to a retreat in Tucson, AZ.  It was for bereaved parents whose children died from cancer.  There is a lot to process from this weekend, but it was good.  We flew across the country to a vastly different landscape and though of course the heavy weight of our grief followed us there, while there it felt different somehow.  I didn’t feel like I was in my real life.  Real life felt far away.  There was a moment when I left dinner to grab a sweatshirt. It was so dark and quiet and peaceful when I was walking to and from the room. I just wanted to soak in that peace and beauty, knowing it wasn’t going to last. I wish I could have stayed there.  Pretend like my life now was a horrible nightmare.  But that would be pretending my past life didn’t exist, and I could never wish Ariella away. 

When David and I were first invited to this retreat we accepted almost immediately.  We were invited within the first month of Ariella’s death so I had no inkling as to how I would be feeling by the time the retreat rolled around.  As the weekend inched closer, I started becoming a bit hesitant.  Not to the point that I wanted to cancel but I was certainly nervous about what was in store for us.  Ariella’s death is still so raw.  There has been no healing, no scabbing over of the wound.  The cuts are still fresh and I don’t know how much more I can bleed from my wounds and still breathe.  I didn’t know if I would have the strength to share my grief with a room full of strangers.  And I didn’t know if I would have the strength to share in their grief either.  But what I realized almost immediately was that these families were not strangers.  It didn’t matter that we had not yet met. There was an instant connection.  Our hearts knew each other.  They knew me in a way no one else can.  This weekend bonds were forged, connections made, and a new family was formed.

David and I left at the crack of dawn Friday, our hearts heavy, leaden with sadness, but anticipating the weekend to come. Two flights, a couple time changes, an emotional breakdown in the Atlanta airport, and 9 hours later we arrived at a ranch in the hot, dusty, dry, Arizona desert with bugs on steroids, an abundance of massive cacti, and breathtaking views. We had time to explore before the retreat officially began and took in this scenery that was so unfamiliar to us. I wrote previously about the desolation and loneliness of the desert but there is so much beauty in the desert as well.

There were 15 families at this retreat. Fifteen dead children. Fifteen families forever changed. More than 15 siblings whose hearts are just as broken. Some, like us, were still fresh to this new life while others were further from their loss. But it made no difference. We all cried just as much, the pain was still evident and raw and present no matter how far along the path. We cried for ourselves and we cried for each other. We felt each others’ pain so deeply, in a way that those who have not been there cannot. But while I was worried it would be too much to share in the other pain, it actually made me feel lighter somehow. Not so weighed down underneath the burden. Because others were there to help me carry my grief, to lift it from my shoulders, to allow me to straighten up, lift my head and talk about Ariella while they really listened. We started to get to know each other. We talked about our children but not always. We are able to talk about other things as well. Where we live, what we like to do, just general life. But we never for a second forgot why we were there, why we met, why we felt so connected. Hugs were freely given, pictures were shared, and stories were told.

We decorated candles for our children and shared our messages that we wrote in a candle lighting ceremony. Most heartbreaking were the messages the children wrote for their siblings who had died. Some had never met their brother or sister while others just said “I want you back”. But deep down the messages were all the same. A deep love for the children that will never fade and persistent pain and heartache. A pervasive yearning for that child and knowing that something will always be missing. That no matter what the families will no longer ever be complete. The ceremony was tragic and beautiful.

Saturday was an emotional roller coaster. We talked about our children. Not so much about how they died, but about how they lived. Even the youngest of the children left their marks on the world. They all had cancer but the circumstances of their deaths were different. Some died from the cancer. Others, like Ariella, from the treatment. And others still from diagnostic procedures where the death of their child was the last thing on the parents’ minds at that time. All tragic. And no matter the official cause we all feel anger and guilt. But no one tried to talk us out of those feelings. No one told us to move on, or that time heals all wounds, or any other trite platitude. We could share anything without judgement, and without others trying to fix us and make it better. Because we all know that we don’t need fixing. Grief is not an illness. We are not sick. But we also all felt blessed to have been the parents of our children that died, even with all the pain we feel now. And it was wonderful to be in a room where everyone understands.

The mood was not always heavy and somber. Saturday evening we gathered for some drinks and then we all had dinner together (all our meals were together). Conversation varied and did not center around our children (though inevitably the talk would always circle back to our kids) and there were definitely lighthearted moments with smiles and laughter. But you could see it in everyone’s faces. The sadness behind the smiles. The smiles that don’t quite reach the eyes. The feeling of “how can I be laughing when my child is dead?” It was a comfort to have my feelings reflected in the faces of others. Grief is a very lonely road and while it can never truly be shared it is a relief to be with others who understand.

The last morning we (except for David-he rode a mountain bike) went on horseback through twisting, hilly, trails to an outdoor breakfast. Despite being bit by one of the horses in the beginning and then having my horse take off because he was knocked into by another horse I really enjoyed the ride. Though I was a bit (extremely) nervous going downhill I mostly relaxed during the ride. Just me and the horse and the beautiful scenery around me. I was able to really quiet my mind and just take in my surroundings. I wish I wasn’t there. I wish none of us were there because of the 15 reasons we were there. But I was grateful to be there. And it was the quiet morning on the horse when I really reflected on the weekend (well other than when we were going downhill and I felt like I was hanging on for dear life). And I started to experience another sense of loss. Because we would soon be leaving our people. These people we already knew before we met. These people who are now family.

The weekend wrapped up with a lovely remembrance ceremony. Pictures of the children were on display. Despite the horrible disease they were facing, their light and joy shone through in their photos. Such vibrancy, such zest, so much potential. A video was shown with the families describing their children in five words. How do you sum up a child in only five words? Those five words cannot begin to describe those children. We heard about each others’ children all weekend and the number of words it would take to capture them would fill a book. And there should be even more. As they were supposed to grow and change there should be more and more words to describe them. Their work here was not done. Their lives were way too short. Fifteen beautiful children who never got the chance to really live.

My words here cannot sufficiently describe this weekend and the emotional impact it had.  This weekend was hard.  At times it was excruciating. There were tears.  So many tears.  Some times quietly streaming down the cheeks and other times ugly, loud and relentless. But there were also smiles and even some laughter. Instant connections were made.  Many hugs were given.  We all understood each other.  It was a safe place. We felt our kids there. David received a blue iguana that he asked Ariella for as a sign. There were multiple rainbows the last day. The siblings bonded very quickly with each other. It was a very meaningful weekend. Humans desire connection. We need it. When your child dies it seems impossible to connect with those that don’t really understand. And we don’t want others to really understand. We wouldn’t wish this on anybody. This retreat gave us the opportunity to make uncomplicated connections. No explanation needed. That is what I have been craving, needing. I was worried it was too soon. But it was the place I needed to be.

Returning home was tough. It hasn’t felt like home since Ariella died. This weekend didn’t feel like my real life and I did not want to return to the quiet, empty, house yet again. I woke up feeling heavy again, bowed down with the weight of grief. I know that grief is here to stay. But that’s okay. Because grief is not the bad guy. I need grief. Because the most important person in my life died. The person who completed me, who made me whole, is dead. I will never learn to live with grief if I don’t face it head on. This weekend was the start of me realizing that one day, maybe, I will be stronger than grief. That I will be able to sometimes push it away, though knowing it will always return.