Musings of a Middle-Aged Woman

It's been a hectic few days here in my little corner of the world. I watched my friends bury their father, watched my niece take her first communion, and watched a young mother as she shared with me the agony she just experienced of burying her daughter who was born still.

For all the highs, there are the lows.

For all the lows, there are the highs.

What is in-between is the "stuff" that makes us who we are.

I was a pallbearer on Friday. I have never done that before. I was honored (and scared) to help carry the casket of a man I knew for most of my life to his final resting place. I grew up with his twin daughters and his son, and it was a freeing feeling to be able to do something for him as a way to almost repay for the years of memories his family gave me. A safe place to play. A father figure I could admire. A family unit that remained intact until the end.

On Saturday, I watched my niece participate in one of the biggest blessings of the Catholic church. She was bursting with pride at her accomplishment, and it was a joy to see her happiness. I am a firm believer that religion is essential to children as it gives them something to believe in, aside from their family. The traditions and prayers of the Catholic church were soothing and comforting and apart from Miranda in a LOUD whisper asking me why there was a guy on a cross hanging on the wall, it was a lovely day.  There are so similarities in Catholicism and Judaism, and I think Miranda and her cousins will grow up very well rounded having experienced both. We support them, and they support us. It's really amazing.

Yesterday was a shiva call, and it was so cathartic to sit around and tell stories and share anecdotes about the deceased. It does not help that he passed before anyone was ready. It does not help that my friends will never again hear their dad's voice, but the sense of community and the prayers sung in unison do give comfort that is unlike any other.

And then just when I thought the weekend was about to come to a close, I met a grieving mom and my heart burst wide open again. We went outside, amongst the kids playing frisbee in the yard and the clouds rolling in, and talking about what it is like to lose a child. What it is like to hold a baby in your arms that never cried. What it is like to want to shout to the world that you have two children, even if there is only one in the stroller. The agony and despair and love that was seeping out of this mother who had a due date of May 15th (and mine was May 11th). You never forget those dates as that is all you have. There are no dates of first teeth and first steps and first days of school. Just dates that were created before you knew that your world could shatter.

I stood before this mom as proof, though, that life goes on. I do not know how, but it does. She will smile again. She will laugh again. She will heal and take the memory of her baby with her as she grows into a different person than she ever thought she could be.

In spite of all the loss and tears of the weekend, I felt good when the sun peeked through my blinds and woke me up this morning. In reality, it was the sun as well as a perfectly timed pounce by one of my cats that woke me.

Time marches on. We all move on. Death is something I see far too much of in my opinion, so I try to see the joy in the life that is all around me. The giggle of my daughter which can make my heart soar. The pride of watching my family and friends succeed and do great things. The beauty in a sunset. The excitement of new connections and new friends. 

The way I look at it, I have lived half of my life, and I have about half left to live. I do not want to waste a moment!

Surviving the Sadness

I do not know how many people die per day. I do not know how many funerals there are per day. I do not know if more people die from natural causes than at the hands of themselves or someone else or random acts. 

I do know that there was at least one funeral held today for a man I did not know. I may not have known him, but I know his wife, and I have met his children, and through them, I know he must have been someone worth knowing. 

His wife was not someone I know well. I see her once a year at our annual Pollyanna party and maybe one or two other times at a block party or some other such event. One time I accidentally sat in the same row as her at a Pink concert. Random, I know.

Since I learned of her husband's passing last week, I have not been able to stop thinking of them. Of the kids who will grow up without their dad and the wife who no longer has her partner by her side. How utterly unfair.

You would think that I would be familiar with grief by now. I know the agony of empty arms and unfulfilled dreams. I know the longing in my soul that sometimes makes something has simple as breathing seem like a chore. And yet, while I know how to grieve and miss and yearn for my daughter who died before she had a chance to be born, I can't wrap my head around this family's grief. The empty spot at the table. The quietness of his absence. 

Shortly after Allie died, Gary told me he wished he heard her cry just once. Not me, I said rather harshly. If I heard her voice, I would have wanted more. I am the type who always wants more. 

My uncle died when he was in his early forties. He also left behind two young children and a devastated wife. Maybe I am comparing my memory of what it was like to lose him and transposing it onto this family. Could be.

Death is so final. So abrupt. There is so much left unsaid and undone. 

Maybe people say that death makes you stronger. I would rather be weak and have my daughter here than be strong and live a life without her. I imagine my friend feels the same way about her husband.

I am at a loss to help this woman that I barely know. So I turned to my writing to see if it could ground me. In a way it has. Writing down how loss does not define us feels good. It feels like I am doing something instead of just being sad.

Somehow, in grief, we make it through. The hours turn to days and the days turn to weeks and then it's a month or two or three, and you have survived without that person. You feel guilty when you laugh or do not think about your loss every second of every day. Time does not heal, but time allows your heart to feel other emotions again.

Make it count. All of it. You never know when the chance you have could be the last chance you had. Do your best to survive the sadness. It's all you can do.

Chapter Ten

During this time, we called a funeral home and made arrangements for them to pick up our daughter. Gary and I had never talked about funeral arrangements for ourselves and now we were faced with what to do with our baby. I am Jewish and Gary is Catholic, but we were planning to raise Allie in the Jewish faith.  We were in touch with a family friend who called a local rabbi looking for guidance. Neither Gary nor I wanted a funeral so we decided on cremation. I think funerals tend to be for the living and I wanted the people in our lives to remember our daughter as we had talked about her for the past 37 weeks - with excitement and joy and wonder and love. I did not want anyone to think of her and think sorrow and caskets and misery. I wanted the love we had for her would be what everyone would remember.

____

When I decided to turn my "story" into a book, I did not realize how painful it might be for me to live through my tragedy all over again. I also did not realize how much love and laughter I would have when I got up close and personal with that time in my life and the person I was then.

Allie made me a mother but I did not feel like a true mother until we had Miranda. Looking back now, five years later, I see how silly that was. I was a mom the day I knew Allie was in my tummy. It's as clear as day to me now.

I sometimes forget how much excitement there was around my pregnancy. I was creating a life and that was nothing short of a miracle. To have that life taken away for no reason whatsoever, ughhhhh. No wonder I grieved the way I did.

If Allie were here, we would be shopping for back-to-school items as she would be starting kindergarten this year. That's a big girl! She would be potty trained (unlike her stubborn and sassy sister) and she would be ready to ride on a school bus. She wouldn't need me to brush her hair but maybe she would want me to anyway. She might not need me to pick out her first day of school outfit, but perhaps she would allow me to anyway. I will never know.

It's the unknown that haunts me. I miss her with a part of my soul that is so deep. My longing for her has become a basic need like eating or sleeping. It's just a part of who I am.

Miranda often tells me that Allie is her best friend. When she sees a butterfly, she squeals that it must be Allie. She does not understand death but she tries to process our grief in her own way. Soon we will have to explain more to her, but I am not sure she is ready yet. Or is it me that is not ready? 

One day I will have it all figured out. Maybe. For today, I will keep being a mom, writing our story and doing the best that I can. That's really all I can do.

Olympic Headband - a sign of things to come?