Change

There’s been so much change in this house the last month that I’m surprised my head hasn’t exploded. I do everything I can to accept change and ride the wave it usually brings with it. But often, change is extremely hard for me. It always has been. It makes me shut down a little, retract. Retreat to a safer place inside my own head until I know which way is up again. But this time, I’ve made a conscious effort not to do that. I’ve woken up every day and willed myself to accept the change and ride the wave and at the same time remain as, if not more, engaged with everyone and everything around me. And the crazy thing is that it’s been much easier than I had anticipated.

Although today, I’ve had to stop several times and just breathe. Remind myself that this is massive amounts of change, yes, but it’s also really exciting change and to be present in every moment and really live it, I need to open myself to it. I think today was different because up until now, the change has been theory. I know we’re moving at the end of the month. I know we’ll pack our entire house and move to a new house. I know the kids will be in new schools. I know I’ll have to go through the process of making new friends. I know all of this is coming, and quickly, but I hadn’t really had to do much of it yet. But today, I started on my memorial tattoo for Laurel and the girls. There is now the beginning of a huge, colorful masterpiece of a hummingbird and flowers on my arm that will be there for the rest of my life to remind me of these amazing people and also to remind me that I lost them.

And that is huge. It’s the first real tangible thing (other than us taking Hannah and Zoe’s bunk beds, hand-me-down clothes and toys) that I’ve embraced that makes their absence real. And permanent. The tattoo artist I chose knows Alex and the whole family and we sat there talking about Laurel and the girls and Alex and even then, it was still tinged with the surreal. But then I got home and looked at my arm and saw this amazing artwork, knew in my heart how much Laurel would love the Columbine and hummingbird I chose for her and how much the orange Cherry Blossoms would have made sweet Zoe smile. I know that Hannah would have blushed and gone quiet at the sight of the bright pink Hydrangea and little Lucy would have poked incessantly at the lotus blossom. And suddenly, it all sank in a little deeper that they are gone forever.

I suppose this shift is appropriate with tomorrow being the 3 month anniversary of their deaths. But it’s a point I never thought I’d reach even a month ago. There are definitely still moments when I miss them so much I cannot breathe. And I’m sure there always will be. But today, I got a glimpse of how it feels to miss them completely, but be able to smile through it. To have the whole they left in my life feel utterly tangible, but not quite as raw. To know, that continuing to love them does not mean I will always be in pain.

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.

Orange

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

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

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

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

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

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.