Anniversaries

A few days ago marked 2 months since Laurel and the girls’ died. It was a rough day. A few days from now will mark 6 months since my Dad died. And other than it also being Geoff’s birthday, I’m sure it will also be a rough day.

What is it about anniversaries? My brain is selective in its nostalgia. It’s been 22 years since my Mom’s car accident that left her in a wheelchair and dramatically changed my family’s life. But every year goes by and my Mom always has to remind me of that anniversary. It’s been just over 7 years since my Grandmother died, whom I adored and still miss daily, and I couldn’t tell you the exact date to mark those passing years.

But I will always remember March 27^th as the day my Dad took his last breath and July 19^th as the day that I lost one of my closest friends and her three daughters.

And, to be honest, I didn’t think this 2 month marker would be has hard as it was. Because the 1 month anniversary wasn’t too bad. Strangely enough, it was the day before that completely wrecked me. I think perhaps because I was re-living the day before I got the horrific news, but from the perspective of knowing the news was coming. So I was anxiety filled and sorrowful all day long, almost as if I expected the news to come all over again. When the actually anniversary day arrived, it wasn’t so bad in comparison.

But this past Monday was really hard. I could hears those girls’ voices in my head all day; their sweet voices. Lucy saying Jamison’s name. Hannah telling me about excited she was to start school. Zoe showing me a new picture she had drawn. And Laurel was in my head all day as I had our last play date on a tape reel going over and over again. Most days I do pretty well, the feeling of missing them is always right under the surface, but I’m doing ok. But on Monday, I just missed them so much I could hardly function. The startling clarity, which I often am able to suppress, rising brutally to the surface of how much I lost.

I hope that grace is with me on Tuesday when we mark the 6 months that have passed since losing my Dad. I hope that I am able to honor him by celebrating my husband on his birthday.

And I hope more than anything that as these anniversaries keep coming, that I am able to let go a little bit more of the tragedy and hang on a little bit more to the joy of memory.

Musicality

Music is a huge influence in my life. I’ve thought in songs for as long as I can remember. I have songs that I associate with just about everyone in my life and those songs define those people, for me. And there are songs and artists that define me as well. I’ve always been an Ani DiFranco with a large dose of Beastie Boys kind of girl.

My Dad is Creedance Clearwater Revival, hands down.

Laurel is Ingrid Michaelson with a dose of ABBA and a sprinkling of Joan Jett. She’s mostly this amazingly sweet and profound person, who also has amazing glamour and fun, but also a side that is pure, old fashioned punk rock girl. It was one of my very most favorite things about her. How she balanced those three sides of herself. And it was that common punk rock girl we saw in each other that first brought us together. We recognized in each other a need to color outside the lines and we often sounded our rebel yells in unison.

I think perhaps that may very well be one of the things I will miss the most about her. Her absolute acceptance of me as that punk rock girl. Her dedicated affirmation of that in me. Because there are a lot of people, I think, who look at me with my tattoos and pierced nose and funky colored hair and think, “Jeez, she’s having a major mid-life crisis.” But Laurel never once made me feel like any part of me was just a stage. Even when it was. She took me, wholeheartedly, exactly where I was no matter where I was. And that is such a rare thing to find in a person and it was such a gift for me to have it in her.

My Dad had that ability as well. Looking back, I wonder how much of my feared judgment from him came from my own fear and not at all from him. I think my Dad, especially as he got older, woke up every morning completely willing to accept whatever the world presented to him. And that included me and everyone else in his life. Because even though he scoffed at me the first time I ever dyed my hair purple in high school, he smiled at me a couple of years ago when he saw I had gone blue. When I told him I wanted to have a portrait of him tattooed on my left forearm after he died, he smiled to himself like he was glad of the knowledge instead of wondering what the hell I was thinking.

Maybe my Dad had a bit of punk rock in him too.

Overflow

My oldest son, Elijah, is 7 years old (well, he’ll be 8 in about 10 days). He is an extraordinary kid. He’s also one of the most sensitive kids I’ve ever known, he always has been. So when I think about everything he’s been through over the last two years, I just shake my head that he’s still functioning as well as he is. Of course, it hasn’t been easy. He’s in two different kinds of therapy and school has been a tremendous challenge for him. But he’s doing it. He wakes up every single day and goes to school and tries his hardest. He’s amazing.

But he hasn’t been talking much, to anyone, since his Papa died and definitely not since Hannah died. That’s one of the reasons why we’ve bumped up his therapy the last month. We’ve always told him that it’s ok if he doesn’t want to talk to us, as long as he talks to someone. So he’s trying to figure out who he wants to talk to. He’s been talking a little to his therapist, a little to me, a little to the guidance counselor at school, a little to his Nana. And we’ve been thrilled with that progress.

Tonight, however, the levy broke. And out flooded two years of suppressed tears and sadness all of a sudden. One minute he was in bed and the next he was in my arms, sobbing uncontrollably. The only thing he could get out was “I want Papa.” And all I could say was “Me too.” So we sat and cried together for a bit and then, at his request, I called my Mom so he could talk to her as well. And he and Geoff talked about going fishing sometime soon. And about 30 minutes later he was calm, exhausted and ready for sleep.

And as I was walking him down to his room to tuck him in, “Be Ok” by Ingrid Michaelson came on Pandora and I just about lost it. Because for me, that song encapsulates Laurel.

So during a time when I’ve been doing my level best to tuck all of this grief under the rug for just a few days because I just desperately need a break from it all, it all came rushing back in a moment and just about brought me to my knees.

I keep hoping that one of these days that grief will shift in some way. Lessen, focus, dissolve even just a little. And it’s not. The deep grief is still there, sloshing around and coating everything it touches. I just cannot get away from it, no matter what I do.

Of course I can’t. I know that I can’t. But I am so uncomfortable that I was looking, hoping, for just about any way out. Unfortunately, the only out, is through. So I have to go back to softening. Back to just breathing and being. Back to trusting that someday this will shift. That the pain will decrease to the point where there is once again only joy in the memory and acknowledgment of these people whom I love so dearly and lost.

Cost

My mom and a friend of mine have been gently pushing me to seek some sort of therapy in the face of the enormous losses I’ve experienced over the last 6 months. And I’ve been not so gently telling them that I’m fine. Because, really, I am. I’m living my day-to-day life. I’m taking care of my children. I’m doing laundry. I’m cooking for my family every day. I get out of bed every day and do what needs to be done. I’m fine.

But my mom went one step further a few days ago when we were talking about this when I asked her why she thought I needed to talk to someone and she answered with this: “Well, most people go into counseling so that they can have an unbiased person ask them questions they can’t ask themselves. But now that I think about it, you don’t need that. You are brutal with yourself in your quest for self-examination. Maybe you need to talk to someone who can teach you to be a bit gentler with yourself.”

And that made me stop. Because she’s right. I am a perfectionist with almost everything in my life. I need to do it right the first time. I research things endlessly until I’m ready to talk about them not only intelligently, but borderline expertly. I cannot stand having to say, “I don’t know.” It literally pains me.

But, as I’m sure you can imagine, this level of perfectionism carries costs. I don’t know how to be gentle with myself and my process. I keep saying those words, “I will be gentle with myself,” in the hopes that one of these days I will eventually learn what that means. It unconsciously shoots my expectations of the people around me through the roof, which leads to disappointment on a level which can most certainly be averted. It makes me prisoner to my process by not allowing me to fully reach out to others until I feel safe enough in my own knowledge to do so. It keeps me from fully showing myself to people for fear that what they see won’t be enough.

And there we reach the crux of where I am now. When I lost my Dad, I shut down almost completely to focus on my process. Because I had to be solid for my children and my Mom. I had to be together to see them through this. But when I lost Laurel and the girls, I almost immediately started reaching out. Perhaps it’s because of the radical difference in circumstances between the two losses. But mostly it was some sort of subconscious self preservation, I think. I could not figure out how to face their deaths alone. There was no human way for me to process those events without first somehow grounding myself. And I did that through reaching out to these other amazing women.

It’s been almost two months now and the time came this past Friday evening to finally meet these women in person. To make that connection tangible. And I allowed myself to use a rough week, an insanely busy day, exhaustion and a hell of a headache to sabotage that. I could have pushed through it all and gone. And probably would have felt instantly better upon arrival. But I caved to my own discomfort and, ultimately, my own fear. Now every time I think about that, I am awash with guilt. Because I was the one causing disappointment this time. I was the one who let people down. All I had to do was show up. And my own perfectionism would not allow me to do that.

How is that even remotely a tribute to Laurel’s life? How does that do our friendship and her love of me justice?

It doesn’t. Quite simply. So, I find myself at a choice point. Do I continue to berate myself into the ground for this or do I attempt to take this as an opportunity to experiment with being gentle with myself? The answer is obvious, now I just have to pray that I am strong enough to follow through.

Daddy

I wrote this on March 22, 2009 about my Dad. His lung cancer diagnosis was still 8 months away. Elijah was just finishing up kindergarten. Nora Lee was finishing her first year of preschool. Jamison was not even a glimmer in my eye. Geoff had just gotten home the month before from being deployed on Hurricane Catastrophe Duty in Houston for 5 ½ months from Hurricane Ike. And I was three months into my 365 for 365 writing project where I committed to writing 365 words every day for 365 days and in order to accomplish that, I was plumbing the depths of my childhood looking for writing fodder. And that day, my Dad came across my mind and with him the many, many memories from my childhood of going fishing with him. I was writing that day with my Dad still firmly in my grasp and I was going back to these memories not only as something to write about, but also to help explain my current position in life a bit I suppose.

And I’m re-posting it now because it’s true. My Dad was a lifelong fly fisherman and he started teaching me how to fish from the moment I was strong enough to lift a rod over my head. It was our designated together time. And while I cannot really remember a time when I loved fishing per say, I absolutely adored our time together. My Dad was the most alive when he was on the river and I cherish those memories of him the most.

“Daddy’s Girl”

I don’t remember the first time my Dad took me fishing. I just know that it was always there. An activity that bound us, gave us some common ground and allowed him to connect to me, even when he didn’t really understand much about me or the things I did.

I remember standing on the rocky banks of rivers, The Poudre and The Platte mostly, with the sun bearing down on my then small shoulders, dutifully throwing cast after cast. Following his footsteps diligently so as not to make too much noise or stumble myself right into the water.

I remember him stopping at some clearing where I wouldn’t get my line stuck in the branches as I clumsily reached back, ready to use my entire force of will to propel that lure into the perfect spot. So perfect that I was sure I’d have a fish hooked before he had a chance to resume his foraging upstream. He would get me set up with a lure, point out the sweet spots, watch me cast a few times and then carry on, looking for his own quiet spot to whisk his flies back and forth in perfect 10 and 2 rhythm.

That was always my least favorite part of our forays into angler communion. Watching him walk away from me. Leaving me alone on the riverbank. I just wanted to spend more time with my Dad. I didn’t care that there was little conversation. I just wanted him to keep teaching, to keep being there. And watching him walk away from me, even though I knew he wouldn’t be much further than 10 or 20 yards was like getting taken on the most wonderful date you could imagine and then being left to dine at the 5-star restaurant alone.

I worked hard on that time on the riverbank. I worked hard to catch a fish that would make him come running back to help me reel it in. I worked hard to perfect my lurching casts. I worked hard on being quiet even though I longed to sit and chuck perfect stones into the soft river. I worked hard on being a daughter that loved fishing.

Shared

The beginning of the summer we got a new car. A minivan. It was one of the hardest purchases I’ve ever made. I’ve always wanted to be a race car driver or a jet pilot you see. So buying a minivan just did not quite fit with my self image. But we have three kids and were completely out of room in my truck, so a minivan it was. Plus, I look forward to making the children drive a minivan when they first start driving. That’s where the real payoff will come.

We had a whole host of problems with the dealership during the purchase of this car however. They tried to screw us out of all kinds of things. The biggest of which was a new DVD for the GPS system. The fancy schmancy map and guide function was completely useless without it and the dealership was trying hard to wiggle out of buying us a new one.

In the midst of this fight, the kids and I went to Laurel’s house for a play date. It was the first time she’d seen my new ride and she went completely over the moon for it, pushing all the buttons and moving the seats back and forth. Until she heard the DVD story. Then she was livid. I think she actually stomped her foot a few times. And throughout our afternoon together she continued to seethe, on my behalf, that the dealership would have the audacity to try to screw us so completely over something so comparatively little. It was a good afternoon.

Now let me explain to you why this is such an important memory for me. Was it nice to have someone share my ire at being screwed over? Of course. Was it nice for my girlfriend to try to make me feel better about having to drive a minivan by making a big deal about all the bells and whistles? Absolutely. But what really made the difference for me was the fact that Laurel really understood the underlying angst of this purchase and wanted to try to alleviate that angst for me.

We had to file for bankruptcy about two years ago. We barely hung on through that by our fingernails. It was humiliating and hard and awful. And she was right there through the whole thing. Because we filed for bankruptcy and then two weeks later, my Dad was diagnosed with Stage IV lung cancer. And she hugged me through that month with an astounding amount of strength.

And she watched us fight and claw our way back over the next year and a half to a point where we were at least less precarious if not completely stable. So when we were able to comfortably buy a new car, with all the bells and whistles, she knew it was party time. She fully understood how important that moment was to us. And to have someone try to tarnish that for us, for me, was just too much for her.

And that is what I loved the most about her. She very quietly made my battles and triumphs her own. She cried with me, she laughed with me (often through the tears), she screamed with me, she stomped her foot with me. She did everything she possibly could to make me feel like I was not alone through some of the hardest and happiest times of my life.

And that is, perhaps, what I will miss the very most.

Disappointment

Mostly since Laurel and the girls died my memories of them have come from frozen pictures of their facial expressions. Looks, postures, gestures that were uniquely them. But the past few days, when I think of them, Laurel especially, I’m remembering conversations she and I had. Mostly the ones we had right before the accident. What we talked about the last time I saw her and the girls. But also, conversations we had when I was chin deep in grief over my Dad. Those memories are double whammies because I can see the expressions cross her face as well as hear her voice as responded to my changing emotions and experience.

And while it’s unbelievably painful to remember these things and see her brilliant face in my mind all the time, it is also serving to defuse some of the anger. And it’s also making me realize that while I’ve been taking this process head on with Laurel, I haven’t even begun to deal with the loss of Hannah, Zoe and Lucy. Right now all I can handle is the loss of my dear friend; I cannot even come close to wrapping my head around the death of these three little girls.

It’s also making me realize how much I counted on her to always just be there. There were so many things that I was working my way up to talking about and doing with her. Laurel was such a force of nature in the gentlest way possible. But to look at her and her life, and compare it to my own, rendered her a bit intimidating as well. I know she’d be laughing if she could hear this. She was just a little thing you see. She was half my size in more ways than one. I’m an intensely introverted person who has to work hard to open up to the outside world even a little. She pulled me out little by little over the five years that I knew her and still, it wasn’t enough for me to be able to talk to her seriously about adoption even though it was something that was so important to me and she was, without a doubt, the biggest expert on the subject I've ever known. It wasn’t enough for me to be able to continue to talk to her about the issues my oldest is having even though she was also a tremendous resource on struggling kiddos.

This all brings with it a profound sense of disappointment. In the fact that I will never get to ask those questions of my dear friend. In the fact that I allowed fear to keep me from someone who I loved so much and who loved me in return. In the fact that I now have no idea where to turn for the answers Laurel held so easily. In myself. And that just serves to double my own sense of loss.