May 2020
Yesterday was my Mother’s birthday.
I am 38. She should have been 68. Nice and even.
As anticipated, it was a struggle to get through the day, but it went better than Christmas. We swam and sunned and cried and sat. I made my mom’s lasagna and my eldest said a prayer that resulted in quiet tears. My mom would love that we were together.
For the past 16 years, whenever my husband coughs more than twice in a row he says, in my mom’s voice, “I’m having a coughing jag.” I can close my eyes and see her say it. Yesterday, we took turns having crying jags. When one child jagged, the other worked a puzzle. When my dad jagged, my Sister-in-law watched Tik Tok videos. So it kind of balanced out.
On Friday evening we made a plan for Saturday morning, my brother would go play disc golf at 7am. My dad and I would join him to walk the course, something peaceful to begin a tough day. Halfway through the course, we came upon an empty park with a bench. I told the others to move on while I sat for a bit. It was quiet and hot, but not scalding, yet. After a few minutes of reflection, I noticed a lone bird about 15 feet in front of me, near a bush. We were the only breathing things for as far as I could see. The bird looked to be searching the ground for worms or bugs. It hopped a little.
I closed my eyes to try to still my nerves.
I opened my eyes and noticed the bird lay it’s head down.
Odd.
I closed my eyes to make still my brain.
I opened my eyes and the bird’s body was still.
I stood up, moved a few feet forward, and stomped my foot.
It was dead.
Upon closer inspection, I discovered it was a dove.
It’s believed that on the 40th day of flood, Noah sent a dove, who brought back a sign of life. Peace.
Later, in the pool alone with my youngest, a bright yellow butterfly flew overhead. My daughter gasped. It was a variety of bug that we must not have at home. Her smile filled her face, “It’s Maya. It’s a sign!”
I am not big on butterflies, but I was pleased for my little lump. She then said, “If Maya could have been an animal after she died, what do you think it would be?”
My mom wasn’t big on animals. I forced a smile and proclaimed, “a butterfly.”
Next, my girl asked, “If you die, what would you want to be next?”
“Your cat. I don’t want to be without you.”
“Hmmm. OK,” she replied.
A few months ago, my eldest daughter came to me in panic induced tears and confessed something that had been weighing on her heavily. At The Helping Place, she has made a connection with another child her age. We all respect the privacy of our group members, so I know very little about their peers beyond that we are all there for the same reason- we have lost our “person.” My daughter was still distraught about her friend’s answer to a group question from earlier in the week.
Torn, she didn’t want to break the privacy pact, but eventually caved upon my pleads to assist her in her clear turmoil. During her prior session, a group leader had posed the question, “Do you think your person watches over you?” There were varied answers. My daughter’s friend replied, “No. My person wouldn’t, even if they could. I only ever annoyed them.”
Their person was an older sibling who told this child to call an ambulance and then went in the next room to pull the trigger on themselves.
….. I’ll be out in the garage, if you need me, gnawing on the car battery in an attempt to break down the new rock in my stomach….
My child said to me, “you never told me that a kid could do that. you left all that part out. why? why, why, why?”
When I went to bed that evening, I felt angry. We attend The Helping Place for help. For us. And now my empath will seek to first hear her friend’s answers, feel for her, before she ever does it for herself. My daughter ended our conversation with, “I don’t think we qualify to go to group. Our loss isn’t big enough.”
My dad’s cousin has always lived one town over and his kids are near the age of my brother and I, two boys. When I was in college, the older boy, Jason, was playing pool at a hotel near my campus and was stabbed to death. The killer fled to Honduras and has lived a free man. A week later, I watched as his toddler son waddled around the casket while his wife sobbed as they played a sad country song.
This past year, just weeks after my mom died, the younger brother died of cancer.
The parents are outliving both of their children.
I escorted my dad out of that funeral service as the man’s teenager children closed the casket on their dad.
Ya. No.
Fairly frequently, the boys’ mother shares her collection of angels on Facebook. She is a strong religious woman who finds great comfort in her faith. For me, angels are a curious matter. The bible states that God creates angels. It is not ever declared, to my understanding, that dead souls become angels. My thought has generally been that God watches over us, that angels are assigned duties…and I’m mixed on Saints.
Many people describe their departed loved one as, “an angel watching over me now.”
Even the regular Joes? What about my daughters’ Maya?
Souls vs. angels is an interesting arena to circle around in for awhile. It seems Hallmark has put their money to favor one side.
For my Mom’s birthday, my dad decided he wanted to release purple balloons in a park near my brother’s house. Honestly, I thought the idea was stupid. We are going to sacrifice some wildlife via latex inhalation to mask our pain?
After our lasagna, post it notes were filled out to press on the balloons. One for each of us. I hid in the bathroom. I did not write a note, but I did get a glimpse of my youngest child’s note. Part if it read, “I think you are in the Good Place because you were so kind.”
Is my baby debating heaven vs hell? what have I done to her?
I loaded my soldier self into my brothers car for the quiet ride to the park. The sun was setting, the weather was perfect. Youngest to oldest, we released one balloon at a time. And it was like a flipping movie. There was a bit of magic as each flew so high into the pink sky, we could count all 6 of them as they got smaller until there were none in sight. And it actually gave me a tiny slice of peace. My dad cried and thanked us. My conscience found his gratitude and comfort fair enough currency to balance out 100 desert owls dying via litter.
Baskin Robbins was a forever favorite of my mom and it was a rare treat. I had requested that we all go for a scoop after the balloons. As we sat outside the shop, we smiled and chatted, it was almost time for bed.
On the short drive back to the house, I received a text from a former coworker at a school where I had taught. She informed me that one of my former students back in Michigan, 19, had died, just an hour earlier. I forced myself to halt my tears until I was alone.
In a strange occurrence, when my parents moved to a new house they had built 5 years ago, this particular student and his family bought my childhood home. My grandpa had built that house and my folks had lived there for 35 years. Until just a few years ago, it was the only home I had known.
Somewhere along the transition, the family from school had shared that this boy, along with his younger brother, share my former bedroom.
I knew my student had been sick, but wasn’t aware of the severity. I am broken for his family. As I lay in bed last night, I received a message from the oldest brother, also a former student. It was heartbreaking. He explained that his brother had been playing a video game in his bedroom with a sibling, took a deep breathe, and passed right there.
He died. In my bedroom. On my mother’s birthday.
I am numb. I am manic. I could eat a dead dove. I could bang my head against the concrete. I could climb a tree and scream like Tarzan. I could sit and have someone brush my hair for 2 hours. I could slice open my husband’s chest and crawl my fat ass inside. I could walk into the pool and stay. I could hold my babies and rock like an orphan for hours.
I can afford plane tickets to Arizona in a panic. I can hold onto the living members of my family. I can ask for prayer. I can read each text from friends and feel the sincerity.
I do not know where my balloon reached. I do not know why I was alone in the middle of the desert and out of all the open land, a bird died in front of my face. I do not know if my mom even liked butterflies. I do not know why a child heard their sibling end their own life. I do not know if people who die watch over us. I do not know why my teenage student died in my childhood bedroom. I do not know what I believe.
Seven people, somehow closely connected to me, have died since last March. Two of them lived in the same house, leaving my dad alone. One of them lived in my old house, leaving four siblings.
I do not know if God is trying to get me to surrender. I do know that I am blessed and privileged. I do know that, generally, parents die before children and mine died. I know that children in other countries are starving to death as I type.
Last week, a friend and I met up on her back porch, 6 feet apart due to the current pandemic, and chatted about my emotional state. I adore and trust her.
Sad.
That’s how I told her I feel about faith.
I keep seeking, but not finding. Or maybe not seeing.
My friend suggested a simple prayer of just asking God if he is real.
That is something I have not done.
Prior to this past year, I would never needed that question. I felt sure.
For a few seconds there, in her cozy chair, I pondered her suggestion.
Holding my tears behind my eyeballs, I said I could try, but then admitted that it felt too hard.
I am afraid.
If I ask it, I may get a final answer.
I am afraid.
Not That Good Grief 