A dear friend took me away this weekend. We became friends when our daughters were in preschool together. As our girls got older and went to different schools their friendship drifted apart, as happens. So my friendship with the girl’s mom also faded. It’s true our kids often dictate our relationships. This friend never completely disappeared, though, and she made a point to really be there when it truly mattered. She planned this trip away, not thinking it would fix anything, but hoping I would find some peace and relaxation. The change in scenery and weather was very welcome. The vitamin D therapy I was looking forward to didn’t quite happen because we didn’t have much sunshine, but it was warm and mostly dry so we were able to spend a lot of time outside, which is always good for the soul.
At dinner one night my friend asked if I ever have periods of happiness. And I didn’t have to reflect on the answer at all. The answer to that question is no. I have had smiles and moments of laughter, but I cannot call it being happy. I might find something amusing, laugh at someone’s joke or a funny story, but I can’t call those moments happy. They don’t feel happy, even in the moment. Because Ariella’s absence is always on my mind so even what should be joyful moments, just aren’t. She also asked if I ever feel just relaxed. This time I thought about it but again the answer was no. The closest is when I’m asleep but lately I’ve been having very vivid dreams. Not necessarily about Ariella or even remotely related, but because they are so vivid I do not wake up feeling rested. I have a sense of anxiety and unease, even in my slumber. There are times I come close to feeling relaxed. When I’ve participated in a therapeutic activity such as painting pottery. Or after an intense workout. Following time at the spa. But I never fully get there. Because my mind is going a mile a minute with thoughts of Ariella. Always. This is why grieving is so exhausting. Because there is no break, no time-outs. It’s constant and in your face. Grieving is always being on guard, watching out for triggers, being invaded by pervasive thoughts. So relaxing is next to impossible. It’s when things are the most quiet, the most calm, that the brain won’t shut up and allow any kind of peace.
I enjoyed my trip away. But even though it was a place Ariella never had been, she was with me everywhere. In the cute little towns we walked through and adorable stores in which we browsed. The little items that she would have loved and asked me to buy her. The paper store with cute and quirky items. A store that she loved to go into. The festive decorations and the families spending quality time together. The beach and ocean that she loved so much. She was with me in the hotel, in memories of all of our hotel stays. She was with me on the plane, in thoughts of the travels we took. There was so much she would have loved, that I wanted to share with her more than anything. I could picture her delight at all of the dogs we saw. Her awe at the pounding surf. Pure joy as she ran along the sand and put her feet in the water. So though the time away and spent with a friend did me good, the constant feeling of emptiness followed me.
Anytime I’ve been away since Ariella died I’ve asked her to give me some sort of sign that she’s with me, even when I’m not surrounded by her things. And there were definitely signs. A heart-shaped cloud when we were horseback riding. A butterfly that barely kissed my skin before flying off. Bunches of sunflowers. A feather falling to the ground in front of me, seemingly from nowhere. Fight Song playing in the restaurant at breakfast. Things that may be construed as signs always give me pause. I love to believe they are real. But even if they are, they don’t make the present any more tolerable. No matter where we go, what we do, where we travel, there will always be someone missing. We will always feel incomplete.
Last night was the first night of Chanukah. And I’ve done nothing to mark it. Usually I would make latkes from scratch, and David would make chicken noodle soup from scratch. We would light the candles and Ariella would open a small gift each night. There is no holiday without her. And yet, there is. For everyone else anyway. Evidenced by the cards we are receiving with smiling, happy, intact families. Often just pictures of the kids. And it kills me to open these cards. It’s great to be thought of at the holidays. But it doesn’t feel like people are thinking of us when they tell us to have Happy Holidays! with their smiling children. Because clearly the holidays aren’t going to be happy for us. And it just feels thoughtless. The cards I was grateful to get are the ones that were personal. There was a nice handwritten note. It was relevant to us and our lives now. There was thought and effort put into it. I know that people probably don’t know the right thing. They don’t want to exclude us. But please think about what you are doing before you do it. When it comes to us, or any other grieving family, think about how it might feel to get a picture of your perfect family when ours was torn apart. Our lives are different now. We are different. And thought and care needs to be put into a relationship with us for it to survive. What works for the majority will no longer work for us. And I’m not saying this to make anyone feel bad. I know intentions are good. But I also need to protect myself. And hopefully help others navigate relationships with other grieving families. Because I know people want to be there, want to offer support, and often just don’t know how. I don’t want people to feel like they have to walk on eggshells, but caution does need to be taken. I’ve never liked to be one who needed taking care of. And I certainly don’t like to admit it now. But I can’t just let things go and there are things that just really hurt. I appreciate everyone who is learning along with us and walking along the rocky path with us. I know it’s not easy to be friends with a bereaved parent and there are many that are choosing this, and quite a few who have chosen this recently so are clearly not doing it out of a sense of obligation. Like an old friend/acquaintance I caught up with over the weekend when I was away. We had been in school together since elementary school but never really spent time together as friends. But that didn’t stop her from reaching out repeatedly since Ariella died. Trying to learn how to support us, and others who may be going through something similar. Everyone who is still here for us. Who are still present. Really want to be here. They are choosing to be here. And I am eternally grateful to all of you who are choosing to be there for us. Even if missteps are taken, or the “wrong” words are uttered. I know who is sincere and that is what matters. The effort, the texts, the company. That is what matters. And I couldn’t get through the days without you.