GRIEVING

Perhaps it is too soon to say. It's been only three weeks since she's been gone. Only three weeks - three weeks that have both rushed by and have felt like months. But, regardless, my experience thus far with grieving the tragic loss of my youngest daughter is not what I expected.

I've always said that I don't fear death - just untimely death, and that was always in reference to my own moment of passing from this life. I had never really considered the loss of one of my offspring. Well, every mother fears losing one of their own, but it was a thought I never contemplated. Instead, as a mom, those thoughts would run through my head causing a shudder and perhaps a tear, but then the internal shout of "NO!" - banishing the thought from consciousness. Too painful to contemplate. No, the statistics were on my side: Mothers just don't bury their children.

I've had to face loss only minimally - until now. When my paternal grandmother died as a result of her diabetes, I was a young teen and had never been close to her. I went to the wake, saw her, and her death became part of my family history. No tears. No sadness. Just a fact.

When my maternal great-grandfather died, it was again a non-traumatic event. He was old. It was his time. Then, years later when my maternal grandfather died, I felt grief. But not like this. I was sad because I loved him like a father and I cried because I knew I'd never see him again. I thought about all the good memories I had of him, but again, he was old enough for it to be "his time" and a simple fact of life. I cried and knew I would miss him, but accepted his passing as a natural part of life.

Then, about ten years later, my maternal grandmother died. A week or two before, my mother had called and told me, "You may want to go see your grandmother. She doesn't seem to have long to live." I went to see her and clearly she was dying. She was transferred to a facility where she could get more care than the assisted living site she'd been living in for years. I went to see her again. Took a picture of her. But, it was clear she was on the threshold of death. I barely recognized her. She looked so small. One week later, she died. Again, I felt grief, but not like this. While she was like a mother to me my whole life, it was her time. She was ninety-two. I went to the wake and funeral and shed tears. But, I accepted her death, like that of my grandfather's, as being a normal, expected part of the life cycle.

Those have been my primary experiences with death. Peripheral acquaintences have passes, unexpectedly, and those were sad; but they did not involve grief - just shock, sadness, and then quickly processed. My life went on, in spite of their tragic departure.

Then, three weeks ago, my youngest daughter took her own life. At first, my grief was experienced as shock and numbness. It seemed so hard to believe - even though it was me and two other family members that took her down from where she hung herself. In spite of that visual memory that cannot be purged, it initially seemed unreal, surreal, and more like a bad dream than reality.

In the days that followed, I was side-tracked and distracted by phone calls, visitors, and planning her funeral. How do we explain her absence to her two small children? How do we pay for services? Where shall we bury her? What should she wear? She was an organ-donor?? Why didn't she leave a note? Can we put her piercing back in for the burial? Then, there were all the usual mundane tasks that still persisted each day: dishes needed to be done, clothes needed to be washed, kids needed to be fed, bathed, and comforted.

The day of the funeral, I felt as if I was attending some generic family gathering. Again, it seemed unreal, as if I was physically present, but not mentally. Emotionally, I was still numb and it seemed like things were moving too fast. I wasn't ready to bury her. I still needed to see her...to touch her...to process the fact of her passing. But that was not an option...at least, not one that I could afford.

Internally, I knew that it would be only after the funeral that the reality of my loss would sink in. Once there were no more calls to make, no more final plans to tend to, and once guests and visitors returned to the normalcy of their daily lives, only then would it likely hit me.

And that is the part that has surprised me the most so far: the paradoxical nature of my grieving. I can be functioning in one moment, as I tend to the tasks of daily life when suddenly, without warning, I feel overwhelmed with apathy, and find myself just sitting, mindlessly, lost in altered state of...emptiness, shock, pain, sadness, and yet wanting to scream, yell, and cry out loud to the world, "HOW DARE YOU ALL GO ON WITH YOUR LIVES?!! MY DAUGHTER IS GONE!! FOREVER!!!"

How can something that has caused such a profound and permanent change in my life not affect the rest of the world??

And then there are the disjointed thoughts that run through my head as I sit in this immobilized, frozen state of forced acceptance of a reality I want nothing to do with: How will her children ever know who she really was? What am I supposed to do now with all of her personal possessions? Do I say now that I am the mother of five children, or will I always be a mother of six - or, six minus one? Will she - can she - communicate with us from the other side? Did she plan to do this, or was it just one final impulsive act that was done without much forethought? Did she think we would find her in time to save her? What if it had been her kids that found her?? How often should I go to her gravesite? How long will I continue to walk through life feeling as if she took me with her??

And then, there are the changes in my daily life: I sleep for a few hours, then wake, drinking cup after cup of coffee hoping to feel alert. Then, back to bed. Sleep through most of the afternoon. Get up again. More coffee. Not hungry. Not motivated to accomplish much of anything. Evening comes, and along with it, deep sadness - as if the sun going down alerts me to the fact that another day has gone by, without her. The facts have not changed. And night falls. I am alone in the silence and find contentment and peace with the solitude, until the birds begin to chirp - and another day dawns.

The death certificate is ready for pick-up. Cause of death: asphyxiation. I knew that. But seeing it written on the formal, authentic, notarized, government-issued form jolts me into reality: Christina is dead. Cry some more.

Thank you notes need to be written and sent. Another welcome distraction. "Thank you for your kindness and generosity." "Having you present at my daughter's memorial was deeply appreciated." "The flowers you sent were beautiful. Thank you for your condolences."

Back to having nothing to do but ruminate. My religious beliefs are being questioned - by others and my my self. What do I believe? I remember telling one of the funeral directors at the cemetery that our family is "inspired more by nature than by scripture," and that best summarizes the foundation of my spiritual beliefs. At a spiritual level, I accept the life-death-rebirth cycle of life; but does that help me now? Only somewhat. I am agnostic; while I am open to the possibility of a god, a creator, a Master of the Universe, I also realize that all of our current religions are based upon mythological tales. Mythology can be inspiring, but they are made-up stories. While I am inspired by stories about Demeter, Persephone, Jesus, the Buddha, and many, many more, I realize that none are real gods - and that's okay; they remain inspiring. But, because I don't believe in a literal Heaven or Hell, I wonder: Where are you Christina?? Have you been reborn, reincarnated into another life? Have you been returned to the Earth only to return to basic, organic compounds? Is your soul, your spirit, lingering, watching from above, or just a figment of my wishful imagination?? And, I am frustrated by the lack of proof regarding the afterlife. While I am open to all the possibilities, I am also skeptical without scientific evidence and realize that my desires for signs and wonders from "the other side" is rooted deeply in wishful thinking.

A call comes in: Christina's teacher from the GED classes she recently finished. Christina's graduation has been scheduled for next month. "Ms. Stone, I chose your daughter of the 150 students I had this term to be the one I would honor by reading some of her essays - which were wonderfully written." I tell her what has happened. More condolences and shock. We are welcome to attend and would someone in the family like to accept her diploma on her behalf?" The call adds to my disbelief. How could she have done this when her life was finally beginning to show promise??

Then there is the room. That Room. The place where she did what she did. We removed the beam. It wasn't structurally necessary, except for Christina's last act. But now, it will always be "the room where it happened." I avoid it. Yet, every few days I approach the doorway, look inside, and see the events of that morning flash through my memory: her screams of anger? frustration? despair? I thought she had seen a spider that freaked her out. Hadn't she screamed like that just a week prior when she woke up because a spider was crawling on her? Flashes of her throwing herself down on the couch in that room, crying. Me begging her to tell me what was wrong. The next time I would see her - only an hour later - she'd be hanging there from that damn beam. Taking her down, lying her on the couch. The paramedics, laying her on the floor, injecting her, trying desperately to bring her back. And then, I must walk away. No. That room. It will never be anything other than...That Room.

So this is grief?? This madness? This altered terrain of flashbacks, longing to hear her voice, and unanswered questions? This is what it feels like to suffer the loss of a child? And, worst of all, I won't wake up from this, will I? No. It will only become more real. And me? I will be forever changed. Forever.