Anger

Anger may very well be the ugliest part of the grief process. At least it is for me. And it is in the anger phase that I now find myself. It’s full of ugly thoughts and a want to distance myself from everything having to do with Laurel and the girls. I went through this stage with my Dad too, but I went through it when he was still alive. During a time when I had to take a break from taking care of him and my Mom or else I would have lost it and estranged myself from my family. It was ugly then too. But at least then I had stress to help shoulder some of the blame. I was pregnant, I was going back and forth between my house and theirs (a 380 mile distance) about every week, my oldest kiddo was reeling from the change of having me gone so much and I was completely separated from my friends because of the travelling and time of year (winter holidays). It was just not a good time. And I said many things in my anger that I am not even remotely proud of.

And now I find myself thinking things that I’m not even remotely proud of as I wade through the morass of this new loss. Things that I won’t give voice to, but leave ripples of guilt in their wake nevertheless. The anger comes in waves as well. Waves of feeling cheated and waves of absolute lividity at the universe for taking these people away from me and everyone else. From the world. Waves of rage that the world keeps spinning as if their deaths shouldn’t make everyone stop and cry. That there is no choice but to keep living in their absence. So angry at their absence.

I want to be all light and smiles in their memory. I want to smile every time I see their lovely faces in the many, many pictures left behind. I want to blast Ingrid Michaelson and dance like a crazy person to her sweet little voice. I want to go to Laurel’s and my favorite lunch spot and remember with joy all the wonderful conversations we had there while corralling kiddos over mid-day margaritas.

Instead, I am screaming. Screaming at the heavens. Screaming at the rain that took them away. Screaming at their memory to get out of my head and just leave me in peace. Screaming at the stereo every time “Be Ok” comes on and reduces me to tears instead of a dancing queen. Just screaming. Because it’s not fair. It’s not fair that they are gone, so suddenly and so violently and so completely. And it’s not right. And I am angry in the face of the void left behind.

Anger. It’s such an ugly thing. But if it’s planning on staying a while, I bid it do its worst and be done with it. And I bid myself to feel and be present with the anger so that I may integrate its lessons and move forward. I’m just asking for a bit of grace as I keep trying to put one foot in front of the other. Begging, really, for a bit of grace to be gentle with myself and my process.

Next

Hindsight is 20/20 and often when I’m looking for something, I tend to find it, but when I look back over my life, it all seems to fit together. A bit like Legos. One piece is fine all on its own, but you can’t build anything without fitting it all together.

Even if I look at just the past two years: if my Dad wouldn’t have gotten sick and then three-times outlived his original 4-6 month prognosis to give us all the time we needed to work through the process of losing him, I wouldn’t have been able to make it through his death with as much grace as I did. If I hadn’t been through the process of losing my Dad (with Laurel right by my side, I might add), there is absolutely no way that I would be functioning right now, a month after having lost Laurel and her girls.

But what I cannot get out of my head is, “What is THIS loss preparing me for?” I know that’s the negative way to look at this and I know it accomplishes nothing but throwing myself into the future and worrying about something that hasn’t yet happened. But I can’t help it. The last two years have been one thing right after another and almost none of it has been fun or easy. Have good things come out of the strife? Of course. I’ve realized a strength that I never thought was possible. I was given the opportunity to spend some incredible time with my Dad working through all of our baggage thus allowing us to end his life as friends as well as father and daughter. I have taken my mothering skills to a whole new level having to help my children understand death. I’ve be shown a whole new way to look at and approach life thanks to the amazing people in my life, both well known and new comers. There have been amazing gifts in this midst of all of this loss and trauma. But the pain has been nearly overwhelming in the process and I cringe to think what could top these past two years.

But again, this is just one more lesson in staying present. Right now. In this very moment. Because whatever comes, I know that somehow, someway, I will find the strength to live it. To keep breathing. To keep putting one foot in front of the other. To keep my eyes open wide to all of the gifts that keep coming regardless of whether they were paid for with laughter or tears.

School

Hannah would have started 3^rd grade today. And Zoe would have started kindergarten. Laurel and I spent many a conversation day dreaming about what it would be like to have the two older kids in school full time. We both had a long way to go until complete daytime kiddo freedom, but when you have more than one kid, going back to only have one to take care of full-time is like a little mini vacation. Especially when they still nap.

Lucy would have gone back to preschool in a few weeks. And it would have been the first time in six years that I would not have met Laurel in the preschool parking lot to walk the kids in together. We joked that I should come to drop off and pick up a few times a week just to stave off the culture shock.

We both knew this school year would bring change, and bring it in spades. But I never in a million years would have guessed that she wouldn’t be a part of that change. I never in a million years would have thought that the first day of school would bring so much sadness at opportunity lost.

I’m coming to realize that is one of the hardest things about this particular loss. Knowing that we all lost the chance to watch these three amazing girls grow up. Knowing that I won’t get to see what brilliance Hannah bestows upon the world. Knowing that I won’t get to see what kind of gigantic artistic mark Zoe will leave. Knowing that I won’t get to see Lucy continue to blossom into the sweetest, funniest little girl I’ve ever known. There will always be a what if. I will always play over and over in my head the hypothetical conversations Laurel and I used to have postulating over what our children would be when they grew up.

And today is a gigantic, tangible reminder of that. And man, does that break my heart even further, if that’s even possible. So I am endeavoring to pay that much closer attention to my own kiddos. Watching Nora Lee absolutely bloom with every passing day she spends in kindergarten. Watching Elijah be SO big and conquer all of this knowledge they keep throwing at him. And Laurel must have given Jamison her sparkler at some point (or made one for him) because that boy lights me up every single day, just like she used to do. I have these three amazing, burgeoning lives right before my very eyes. And today, more than ever, I am utterly, to the very core of my being, grateful for the chance to watch them grow, in every moment and in every day.

Loop

How do you go about wrapping your head around tragedy? How do you get past a point of mere acceptance with the stark knowledge of an altered reality and find yourself at peace? What does that process look like? Because I’d give you just about anything for that road map right now.

My mental days seem to be on a loop. It starts with disbelief mingled with denial which then leads into succumbing to knowledge that cannot be ignored which then kicks off the overwhelming grief and all of the gruesome images that come along with it, which eventually fades to numbness. Then somewhere along the line, I manage to forget for a handful of moments this horrific event and find myself absorbed back into the everyday routine; laughing along the way with friends or my children, cruising the aisles at the grocery store. Then suddenly, I will see something or say something in a very specific way and the loop starts all over again. Little sucker punches all day long.

I had a teacher tell me once in reference to grief that “all things are possible with soft belly.” When he said it, I had absolutely no idea what the hell he was talking about. Now I think I have an idea. When the loop starts I can feel the very core of my being stiffen. Harden against the acute knowledge that my dear friend and her girls are gone forever. But there are singular, fleeting moments when I can sense there is peace beneath the pain. Because I know Laurel, Hannah, Zoe and Lucy are at peace, and they are ready and willing to teach me how to embrace my own peace, I just have to soften enough to let it in.

Of course, softening also means letting the pain in. The smothering grief that comes in the face of simple acknowledgement. I always thought I’d have to be strong enough to weather this kind of grief, but it is turning out, I think, that I have to be soft, pliable, operating from the heart of grace to see the other side of this. I have to allow myself to melt into this grief, allow it to saturate my very being. Then, perhaps, I can breathe in the beauty of their lives and breathe out the beauty of my own.

Cocktails

After my Dad died , I had a friend who had recently also lost her mother to lung cancer who told me “If I could physically remove the part of you that will want to put a time limit on your grief, I would do it.” And at the time I remember thinking, uhm, ok. Whatever. I’ll grieve for as long as I need to, he was my Dad, and I get as much time as I need.

And then a couple of months went by and I caught myself thinking, “Jesus, why am I still feeling this way? It’s been 2 months already, shouldn’t I feel better already?!?” And I knew she was right. I tend to process things so quickly, that I get frustrated with myself when they take longer than I think they should. Especially new things. I get impatient thinking that I should have already picked up the necessary information on how to do something, why is it taking so long?! But here’s the thing, I only had one Dad. So, to lose him is brand new. And he was my Dad. So it’s a double whammy that is seriously screwing with my perfectionist side. I’ve never done it before and it’s an incredibly hard thing to process and integrate.

As I was running errands this morning, my mind in a fog of half remembrance of Laurel and half nearly overwhelming grief, I caught myself thinking, “Jesus, when is this going to be over?!” It’s been a little over three weeks now she since and the girls died and already I’m giving myself a hard time because it’s still difficult to take in a deep breath most days.

And I can see Laurel’s face in my mind’s eye as if she was standing right in front of me. Her nose is crinkling and her mouth is scrunched to one side. Her eyes are slightly narrowed, but sparkling as they always do. She makes eye contact with me and says, “Aw, sweet girl! You’ve got to be gentle with yourself. Seriously. This will take exactly as long as it will take and no longer. So ride the wave, girlfriend. I’ll make you cocktails while you’re waiting.” Followed by a huge hug, a rub on the arm and her very best crooked smile.

I miss her so completely it makes my throat close up.

But I will endeavor to be gentle with myself. For her. Because who can refuse cocktails?

Reflex

Reflex. It’s a pretty crazy thing, if you think about it. Your body does something or says something without you consciously telling it to. Being the control freak that I am, that’s crazy to me. But it happens, every day. My heart beats, thoughts run across my mind, I breathe in and out. I walk without thinking about it. I talk without thinking about how to make my mouth and tongue move. And apparently, there are also times when reflex takes over in conversation.

As in yesterday, when I was talking to Alex and without thinking almost my first words were, “How are you?” I did not inject any intonation. It was purely reflex. That is what you say when you talk to someone whom you’ve not spoken with in a while. You ask them how they are. That is where it came from. Utter reflex.

It got me to wondering if he’s getting tired of that question yet. I mean, every one hears it probably a dozen times a day in everyday life. But after you’ve suffered a tragedy, after you’ve lost someone very close to you, that phrase of formality tends to take on a sidecar of whole different nuance.

At least it did for me. After I lost my Dad, I got so freaking tired of people asking that. Even when it was completely innocent like it was for me yesterday. I got to a point where I wanted to respond, “How the hell do you think I am?!? My Dad just died!” But instead, in a nod to polite society, I adopted the phrase, “I’m hanging in there.” Which was true. I was, and am, hanging in there. Some days it’s by my fingernails. But I’m hanging in there.

I don’t know what Alex’s day to day life looks like right now, but I do know he’s staying as busy as he possibly can. And I hope through the movement, that he’s bending ears and shouting as he needs to. I’d like to ask him now, not “How are you?” because I’m fairly sure there’s no way I could ever accurately understand how he is. But instead, “Do you have what you need, right now?” I think because need speaks so much more to the core of the issue. How you are in any given moment is such an incredibly hard thing to encapsulate in conversation when it comes to things like this. But addressing need is tangible. It gives both the speaker and the listener something to wrap their minds and hands around. It lends purpose to a moment that might otherwise be overwhelming. It gives direction when you’ve lost which way is up.

Orange

I don’t think I ever really understood orange until I met Zoe. I spent most of my life in black and grays, being the punk girl I was (am). And then being the punk girl trying to be a professional girl that I was. It wasn’t until I met Zoe that I really even considered orange. It wasn’t even on my radar. It was outside of my purview on pretty much every subject. But then sweet, spunky, Koala baby Zoe leapt into my arms the very first time I ever met her, days after Laurel and Alex had brought her home from China, soon after Laurel and I had recognized each other for soul sisters, and suddenly, orange was in sight.

And now, I see it everywhere. Even before Zoe went home with her sisters and Mama, I saw it everywhere. It still wasn’t something I invited in necessarily, more that I noticed it actively and it made me smile to think that Zoe would LOVE that bright orange headband. Or those glorious orange shoes. Or, my, my would you look at that gigantic orange, puffball of a flower!

But now, my toes are bright, sparkly orange. And I would love, more than anything, to paint our kitchen bright orange. With some matching orange plates. It’s a color that is now something I want to actively make a part of my life. Not only because it was a tangible representation of so much of who Zoe was, but also because I finally get why she loved it so much. Because orange is alive.

Orange is not a color to be ignored. You either love or hate orange; there’s no wishy washy-ness about orange. Orange can be bright and sunny and fun, but it can also be darker and rippling and come at the end of the day. Orange doesn’t stand still. Orange doesn’t take no for an answer; it will continue to be exactly what it is regardless of whether you acknowledge it or not. Orange is burgeoning, bursting and bustling. One could probably go so far as to say that everything begins and ends with orange as I’ve yet to see a sunrise or sunset that didn’t have at least giant streaks of orange.

So today, I’m inviting orange in. I’m making orange an active part of my life. Because of Zoe, I get to open my eyes to whole new world of color. And even on the days when the world looks a bit more burnt umber than tangerine, there will still be orange. And it will be beautiful. It is already, beautiful.

Discovery

There is something amazing that has come out of losing Laurel and the girls – the legacy of friendship they left behind. Since their passing, I’ve come into a new group of girlfriends. A whole new group of women that loved Laurel and her girls as much as I did, but from all different angles. College roommates, fellow adoptive mothers, neighbors, collaborators, fellow school moms, the list goes on and on. And it’s incredible to me how this one woman and her three children could be loved so thoroughly, by so many different people, who are, in many cases, just now meeting each other.

And I love that I am now getting to know these women. And also, getting to know pieces of my dear friend that I didn’t know. Hearing wonderful stories about her past, her journey. What a gift to be left in the wake of such a loss. Today, I am so very, very grateful for the opportunity to get to know these women. They are proving invaluable in helping me to navigate this immense loss and the road to healing. I never could have imagined that the loss of such a cherished friend could lead to the discovery of so many more cherished friendships.

So today, as I am feeling wishful, wistful, swirly and teary, I’m also allowing this immense sense of gratitude to wash over me, buoy me. Gratitude and taking delight in my 10 month olds immense efforts at independence will get me through today.

Merger

“I got a new book at the library yesterday and I’m so excited to read it! I feel just like your Dad!” And that was all it took. To remind me that even though I’ve been adrift in the sea of grief over losing my dear friend and her daughters, the underlying grief of losing my Dad is still very, very present.

And so today I feel as if I’ve been punched in the stomach, again. As if I’m never going to quite get out from underneath this cast of loss. And, wow, does that ever suck.

I spent about 90 minutes yesterday completely immersed in the words of the Buddha and I emerged from that time feeling pretty balanced and like I would actually make it through this journey. I spent all day feeling like I could not only get myself through this, but help to get others through it as well. And now, that I am feeling weighted down once more by sadness and self-questioning, I’m wondering if all of the reaching out I did yesterday was of benefit to anyone but me. Reaching out is very possibly one of the hardest things I’ve ever done, every single time I do it. But I made myself do it yesterday, with the ghosts of the people I love whispering in my ear, I did it. And I did it because it rang in harmony with my heart to do so, not because I wanted a response. And that was what probably felt the best about the simple act of reaching out to people I care about, both newfound and those who have been around a while. And this morning, losing my wind as my grief once more doubled on me, I doubt all of that. Basing my own self worth, once again, on the response of others to me. Such silliness.

There is so much fear associated with loss. Especially when you are watching someone else go through it. Because in all reality, you don’t know what to do for them, because, really, there’s nothing for you to do. So to compensate for that inability, we compound that with fears about saying something wrong, or making it worse somehow. And I suppose I have a unique position at the moment, because I am simultaneously on the very outside to someone who just lost those closest to him but I am also intimately associated with what it feels like to be that person as I just lost my Dad.

And here’s what I know from just losing my Dad – I know that I appreciate every single person who reaches out to me, to tell me they’re thinking of me, or to ask how I am. I appreciate every single thought and every single gesture. And that there is no way that one person, reaching out with their heart, could ever make it any worse.

So the question becomes, how do I merge the two? How do I merge the perspectives in an effort to banish the fear and just walk as I’m led by my heart, all the time?

Less Than Positive

I have been trying to be positive. Positive when I think about Laurel. Positive when I think about my Dad. Hugely positive when I think about Hannah, Zoe and Lucy. Positive when I talk about them. Positive when I leave posts on Alex’s Facebook page. Just positive.

And today, I just can’t do it anymore. I’m angry that my friend is gone. I’m angry that we had to bury children. I’m angry that my children will only have distant memories of their Papa. I am angry that all of these things I want to do in Laurel’s honor, I need her help to do. And I miss them all so much I can’t breathe. And that literally sucks the wind out of my positive sails.

I want so badly to do something. Anything to make this feel different. To take away the just a little bit of the incredible pain that is lingering just underneath the surface. To make me feel like this was all worth it somehow. That something good will come out of this loss. And so I’ve been searching for something, some way to make all of this make sense. But it doesn’t, of course. It will never make sense that such an amazing woman died so early and that her beautiful daughters went with her. It will never make sense that a disease devoured my Dad from the inside out. None of it will ever make sense.

This is what I’ve been wrestling with today. This need for meaning mixed in with the anger, disappointment and deep grief at knowing that there is none. Not for now, at least. And maybe not ever. Probably not ever. The chances are greater than not that I will never know why Laurel and the girls were taken, so suddenly and so violently. And even though I have much greater peace around the loss of my Dad, I will probably never understand that loss either.

But none of this wisdom or knowledge even begins to come to close to filling this sucking hole in my heart and soul. And now I’m back to the anger. And now I’m pissed at how cyclical it all is. Awesome.