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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.