Absence

I'm tired. Tired of forcing myself to be in this place of constant celebration. Tired of trying to pretend like it's ok that
my Dad and Laurel and the girls are no longer on this planet. Tired of missing them. It seems like lately, all I can feel is the
absolute absence of them. And I miss them all desperately.

I'm not sure I've ever felt this level of missing. When you move or don't see someone for a long time, years even, there's always this thought in your head that the possiblity of seeing them again could be pretty much whenever you both want it to happen. It's the possibility that keeps you grounded, balanced in the act of missing someone. You know they're still there, even if you don't have direct access to them. But now, now there is no access to my Dad or Laurel or the girls. They are simply gone. Yes, I have all the amazing memories. And I can still hear their voices in my head and see their facial expressions in my mind's eye when I go looking for them. But it's not the same. Because even though those memories and voices and expressions are magical and alive and gorgeous, they are stagnant. Outside of my imagination, they will never grow or age or change.

They have become absent. In every permanent meaning of the word. And the realization of that, the actual physical acceptance of that fact has begun. And it's made me very tired.

It takes an extraordinary amount of energy to hold onto possiblity. To hold onto that which is passed and past. And I have routed all of my energy over the last 10 months to that possibility, to the hope of never truly losing them.

And this really has nothing to do with the "but you'll always have them in your heart and memories" kind of thinking or the "but they're safe and free in heaven" either. Because I know I have my memories of them; I am awash with their memories daily. And I know they are free in the universe, glorious and alight with love. And does this knowledge bolster me? Sometimes, most times. But really, it's the physical absence of them in this world that is so hard for me right now. My children's memories of their Papa will fade, despite my best efforts. Elijah will move on from fishing. Nora will move on from sitting on laps to read stories. There will come a day when not every rainbow brings Laurel and the girls to mind and I won't cry every time I hear Ingrid Michaelson.

Those tangible triggers will fade. And then their absence will be complete. And when it comes right down to it, the world is a little less than for me without them in it. Struggling to make it otherwise is exhausting.

Today is Zoe's birthday. I've never known two girls who looked more forward to their birthdays than Zoe and Nora Lee. And to each other's as well. It seems wrong to not be thinking about what to get her for her birthday. To not have Nora make her a card. To not be talking birthday party planning with Laurel. To have all of that celebration be simply absent.

There have been so many "firsts" in the last three months. First holidays without them all. First birthdays gone by with them no longer here to celebrate. And with the passing of each one, it's driven it home just a little more for me. The depth of their absence from my life and the world at large. Each one has sucked just a little more wind out of me, pulled open the hole at my center just the tiniest bit more. It feels like instead of healing, this stage of acceptance has just exascerbated the wound further.

I miss them. I need them. Every day. Perhaps the real healing comes after acceptance.

Stripped

Loss is a many splendored thing. I’ve had that line running through my head over and over again for at least the last month. It’s the end of the year which brings the inevitable annual look over my shoulder. And that looking has brought that line to my head. Not because this year has been fun. Not because this year has been easy. But because through the immense pain and complete loss of this year, there has been beauty revealed that I never would have known was there.

Losing my Dad and one of my very best friends within 4 months of each other has completely stripped me of what holds me back. The two main culprits being ego and fear. I can trace so much of my hesitance and withdrawal back to those two.

But now, it’s as if a veil has been lifted. It’s not like I chose to rise above and cross over some line and be outgoing. When I lost these dear ones, I also lost that part of me that cared more about the world’s appraisal of me rather than simply living every single day to the best of my ability.

I find myself shocked by my response to people, circumstances and events. In the middle of something I will suddenly realize how different my response has become. The move to Tennessee is probably the biggest example. There was a time when I would have completely lost it at least once during the month long process of moving us across the country. I would have been anxiety riddled at the thought of a realtor coming to appraise our house and its worth or the movers touching all of our stuff. I would have sunk into a ball and cried, for weeks, in the face of leaving everything familiar for something, somewhere I knew absolutely nothing about. Instead, I’ve been excited and completely nonplussed by the realtor, movers and short sale process. I’ve jumped into our new home head first and loved every minute of it. And other than the bad week last week, there’s been no crying and no withdrawing. It’s amazing.

And so I’m uncovering more gratitude in the face of these tremendous losses. Gratitude for a freedom I never thought I’d have. Gratitude for a perspective which has allowed me to live in a way that not only would make my Dad and Laurel proud, but also that allows me to be who I truly am, in all of my glory and imperfection. Without judgment. Without fear. And what a truly many splendored thing that is.

Chaos

The last six weeks have been absolute chaos. Moving my family of 5 (and a tiny, but high maintenance, dog) across the country. Getting the kids into their new school. Unpacking and getting the house organized. Getting my Mom here and settled. And then finally feeling like I might come up for air and realizing that the holidays are about 3 days away. Chaos. It’s just been absolute chaos.

But even in the midst of all the crazy, there have been a handful of quiet moments here and there. And in those moments, my mind always drifts here. To this process of loss and the people whom I’m missing so dearly as the holidays approach.

I had a really bad couple of days last week where I was missing Laurel so much I could hardly breathe. Where I was having the enormity of the move and everything that goes with it come crashing down on my head and I so desperately wanted to talk to her because I know she would have let me vent and then given me just the right perspective to get my head screwed back on straight. And if not, at least she would have cussed a whole bunch with me. Jesus, I miss her.

And our new home is steeped in Civil War history. Which means that I can’t even go to Target without thinking about my Dad. His birthday is about 3 weeks away. And I miss him. So much. I want so much to go tour all of these historic sites with him and watch his face as he steps onto hallowed ground. I want him to see how big Jamison has gotten and see his eyes light up as he watches the baby discover something new. My Dad took so much delight in his grandchildren. It makes me unbelievably sad that Jamison will never get to know that delight.

Loss has also taken on a note of absolute tangibility since moving as well. As I no longer have direct access to the community it took me 10 years to build. I’ve yet to meet anyone here who isn’t just about the nicest person ever, but when I was in the midst of the bad week this last week, I couldn’t go out with my girls. I couldn’t have lunch with a girlfriend and vent and cry. That absence served to compound the loss even further. So I retreated inwards. And baked a bunch of bread. And didn’t leave the house for a week. And was super cranky with pretty much everyone. It was not my finest moment. But I am allowed some adjustment pains I suppose.

Adjustment as I weave in and out of the eye of the storm. Perhaps that is the lesson of the last 6 weeks. Learning to soften further so that I can be pliable in the chaos. Fluid enough to absorb whatever jolts and jerks come my way on this path of immense change.

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.

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.

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?

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.

Process

Process, process, process. Seriously. Grief is such a process. And it pisses me off. Mostly because it’s entirely unpredictable. I have spent most of this week smack in the middle of this horrifically awful grief. It’s all I could do to make it through the days. Thankfully, the week has been full of friends and an overflowing to do list as it kept me moving and breathing.

Today is the first real day that I’ve been able to engage a bit with the world around me. Laugh without feeling guilty. Listen to music without it making me want to go catatonic. Get excited about cooking something for my family. Planning on starting baking bread again next week. Basically wake up and look at my day with a sense of curiosity instead of dread.

After my Dad died, a friend of mine, who had lost her Mom to cancer the year before, told me that there would be days where it felt like I had been punched in the stomach for no good reason. And she was right. And she’s being proved right again with this one. The ebb and flow of the grief process feels more like knowing that I will randomly be beaten severely on those days when I think that I’ve finally healed from the last beating.

I think the trick really is to not let myself grow to be afraid of those beatings. I know they’re coming. I know they’re going to suck. But I think I can also know that I can survive these beatings and that possibly they will lessen with time. I think if I get so wrapped up in the anticipation of the inevitable pain that I can’t see past that fear, that there won’t be a process anymore. There will only be fear. And that fear will be entirely of my own creation. And surely, I have much better things to create than fear?

Fresh

Loss. It’s a funny thing. And by funny, I mean the interesting, kick your ass kind.

In March, I lost my Dad to cancer. And eight days ago, I lost one of my dearest friends and her three daughters to a tragic accident. After both incidents of loss, I spent the first couple of days basically numb. There were moments of realization that elbowed their way through the numbness. It’s amazing how you can feel so completely numb and still only have the horror and the grief less than a thought away.

There are also moments of utter disbelief. This cannot possibly be happening. My Dad simply cannot have died at the young age of 64. My sweet friend and her sweeter daughters cannot possibly be gone forever. I can still hear their voices in my head. I still think about calling them like they are only a phone call away. I still thought about what to bring them back from a recent vacation. Is that habit or denial? Probably both.

As I sat, today, in the memorial service for Laurel, Hannah, Zoe and Lucy, the idea for this blog came to me. As I sat there thinking, “Jesus, how am I ever going to get through this, how am I ever going to stop crying?” I thought, it’s time to write it out. It’s time to allow the memory of my Dad and my dear friends to live through my process of grief and loss. It’s time to go to work, again.

So here I am, typing slowly at my laptop, tears filling my eyes to the point where I cannot see the screen, trusting that my fingers will take me through this. Trusting that my Dad, Laurel, Hannah, Zoe and Lucy will see me through this. That they will continue to hold my hand now like they did so many times before. And that through this immense loss, I will emerge the other side stronger, more full of love and light and with a greater ability to live and inhabit each moment as it arrives and then passes.