I received a note this week that threw me back into my childhood days and came from a close friend whose mother was killed in a horrid automobile accident when we were all very young. Her path, an unusual one, she moved far away and eventually landed on the other side of the planet where she raised a family and is now teaching. Her aunt attended one of our book signings and asked me to inscribe a copy of ‘Griefland’ for her. A few weeks later, when I received the note, her words chilled me to the bone. She spoke of never being allowed to cry for her mother, of being instructed not to shed a tear or whimper. Implored to be strong and stoic for her father’s sake (to be a brave little girl), she buried every ounce of emotion. Her note hinted at the deep trauma surrounding her inability to grieve out loud. She described herself as a prisoner now – trapped, numb and frozen, devoid of feelings. My heart aches for her tonight, sensing a tsunami of emotion stirring inside her, a riot of noise and color assaulting her very essence. She said reading ‘Griefland’ brought a lot of unfinished ‘stuff’ to the surface. Tonight, I want to wrap my arms around her, grant her permission to cry, scream, and wail.
Last week I also heard from nurse who shared with me an Oprah book club episode she had recalled from years past. During this particular show, they were discussing Toni Morrison’s book, “Beloved.” The women were all sitting around a large dining table and Toni was reading an excerpt from the book when one of the women began to cry. The excerpt had brought back memories of a loss to her. She was trying to restrain her crying, apologizing, trying to explain when Toni Morrison got up, walked around the table, wrapped her arms around the woman and, as the woman continued to apologize, Toni kept repeating, “Doesn’t matter, doesn’t matter, doesn’t matter.”
Let’s settle this once and for all: grief has no statute of limitations, no expiration date. We must all embrace the pain and give it permission to just be. Tonight, that is my wish for all of us.
Emily’s birthday is tomorrow. She was born on a Saturday, 5 days before Thanksgiving in 1983. As I remember the day, like yesterday, the grief washes over me. Pain, loss, guilt, and sadness for a beautiful life so brief. Max Lucado wrote: “Death is God’s way of taking people away from evil. From what kind of evil? An extended disease? An addiction? A dark season of rebellion? We don’t know. But we know that no person lives one day more or less than God intends. “All the days planned for me were written in your book before I was one day old” (Ps 139:16) It has been 1 year and 4 months without her. I find comfort knowing she is in heaven and she will never have to suffer loss like this, illness, loneliness, sadness – the evil in this awful world. She is safe in the arms of our Savior. There is no expiration date ~ I awoke yesterday crying, as I am crying now. It is a cleansing release, for me best done alone.
Alone, or with a good friend who understands, there is no right or wrong here. It’s about feeling safe. Safe in releasing the terrifying emotions that build up inside us and make us feel insane if they are forced to stay locked up. Or if we don’t know what to do with them. Because of course the little darlings just don’t sit there or dissipate with time. They fill up with pus, they get ugly, they make us do crazy things or think crazy thoughts. They seep through our skin, leaking out into the world anyway. Being stoic has its price, as Armen and you are also saying, Dayna. The next time I see someone crying I want to stop and just be with them for awhile, not even say anything. Often there is nothing to say, but in sitting with someone, you are letting them know they are not alone and that you are recognizing their grief, and most of all — that it’s not scaring you away.
For Dayna ~ wherever and however you are today, be still and let your sorrow come out from hiding. Nancy and I send you our love and support on this special day of remembrance. Words are not at all necessary – just the recognition that Emily is remembered, loved, and deeply honored on this day. And so are you, dear friend and sister. Thank you for sharing her brief yet important life with us. Little did she know the profound impact she would have on the world.
I am crying so hard that I can barely see the password. I was so touched by Dayna’s post. I too lost my daughter one year and 7 months ago. She became very ill two years ago this Thanksgiving. We thought it was just the flu but it was a very rare, horribly aggressive cancer. My beautiul precioius 33 year old daughter suffered terribly for 41/2 months and then was gone. I continue to grieve and I cry. I miss her more than words can ever express. Thank you Dayna for posting the Mac Lucado passage…it also brings me comfort. And thank you for reminding us that grief has no expiration date, it just is. I had people tell me after a year that I needed to get over it, stop grieving. How can I ever stop feeling such sadness…I lost my daughter, my best friend, my confident, the dearest, kindest, most loving and compassionate person one could ever meet. Her smile lit up a room. She was the best.
Oh, Ann, your post is cutting me to the quick today as I’ve been reeling myself the past few days. I did try to go to the Web site that your son-in-law Matt created and it’s down now. Is he going to be putting it back up? I recommended it to my son and several others and they told me they couldn’t access it, so I wanted to ask you about that. Oh, Ann, as you try to get through the hours, the minutes today, please know I am right with you, holding you, or sitting next to you, ready to melt into the earth along with you if necessary. The one thing I want us all to remember, we of the cemetery club that none of us ever wanted to belong to, is that although this journey is lonely on one level, it’s also fraught with tons of other members, all waiting to pick you up off the ground, but only when you’re good and ready to get back up. — Holding you tight this moment, Nancy
Ann, before I left for my work day on the 20th I wrote a long reply through tears and my password didn’t take so my entire message to you was lost. I managed to make it through Em’s birthday and Thanksgiving, another holiday without her. I am writing today (having cut and paste the password instead of typing it) and trust you will forgive my late response. First I want to say thank you for sharing your daughter and your pain with me. My, I have said those very words, “I miss her more than words can ever express.” My goodness, I can not imagine watching your daughter suffer for 4 1/2 months. My heart goes out to you as a mother there can be nothing worse. I have thought about you and your daughter through the holiday weekend as I have missed my sweet Emily. I found myself going through pictures over the 5 day weekend and printed many for frames all the while cherishing the moment each one was taken – emotionally exhausting. Ann, our girls have found joy. I believe they don’t want us to be so sad, but to find comfort in carrying on their legacy – their amazing smiles, quirky sense of humor, their love for life and the lessons they have taught us through their life and death – we can’t do that while paralyzed by grief. I pray we can both find strength and comfort. This year and 4 months has been a difficult journey, and I expect it will continue to be. Along the way, it has helped me so much to find other people walking this same terrain, to learn their stories and share their precious lost. Armen, I am so grateful for your compassion and love that comes to me off your keyboard, thank you friend. Nancy, dear sister thank you for your encouragement and sharing your precious girl. I can not tell you how wonderful it is to be able to share my girl with all of you <3
Dayna, this is why we come together, isn’t it? When one of us is falling apart, she can feel safe in knowing there are others here in Griefland who get it and won’t hide out or not show up. We have to keep sharing with each other how we are making it through this rugged terrain, how we are surviving the moment to moment existence of life without our beautiful daughters and sons. Sometimes I look behind me and the previous day was a blur, full of meltdowns and insights. I just keep trying to think about putting one foot in front of the other and to come here and write when I feel myself teetering on the brink of sanity. This is Rachel’s month, of course. I am coming to despise Christmas, with all its expectations and memories of families laughing, little girls with red ringlet curls tearing open packages and running around the house. I want to hide my head under the covers and go to bed until January, believe me, but my husband is insisting on hanging lights this year. And he’s putting up a tree. We haven’t had one since the night Rachel died nearly 4 years ago. It feels like it’s happening all over again, as though no real time has passed. I hear clocks ticking but the hands don’t seem to move. As though we’re all frozen in time and space and life keeps going on around us but we inhabit some different sphere reserved only for those who are grieving. I am so aching with you right now over your beautiful Emily, and thank you for reaching out to Anne and to all of us. Love you to the moon and back, dear lady.
Nancy, Oh my ~the time has gone by and I hadn’t come back to this blog to see your sweet words. The holidays passed and I didn’t want to do anything. I didn’t go any where; I didn’t go to parties we were invited to or see family, except my sister, who came to me. And, we together stayed in the whole time. I don’t want to ignore Christmas, Emily loved it so much. But, here I am in March, almost Easter, where did the time go? Everything is so beautiful and new and Em’s still not here. I feel like you, lost while the whole world goes on without me, without my amazing Emily ~ and your beautiful Rachel. When I read your words “Love you to the moon and back”, I heard Emily’s voice saying it as she had so many times along with “I love you from the concrete to the sky!” What a wonderful surprise it was to see that in type. I love you, Nancy – I think of you so often and your sweet girl. Dayna
If I remember, Dayna, you say your name is Em when you order Starbucks’, to keep her more alive in your memory, as if you could ever forget. If I’m remembering that coffee story correctly, I wanted you to know how powerful that image has been for me. Once recently, when I ordered a Starbuck’s coffee, I told them my name was Rachel. It may sound insane, but it made me feel like she was more present. This is what grief is so much of the time, isn’t it? This continual presence of the absence. And it only seems to magnify for me the more time passes. The world is passing, as you say, and yes, it’s so beautiful, Dayna, but I miss Rachel so much right now. I’m so glad my words reminded you of your precious Emily. I’m wrapping my arms around you now, on this eve before Mother’s Day.