here we are

It’s been a good, long while. I am here now, but not transcribing a letter I have written to Mila as I have in other entries. I haven’t written her many letters as of late. I have more to share here, older letters, sequential to what I’ve offered thus far, that I will post soon. My hope is that my trail of bread crumbs through this wilderness of grief might help someone. Somehow. Whatever “help” even means. I suppose, to me, it means connection or solace in someone out there knowing and understanding our deepest pain. Not exactly. Not perfectly. But that’s impossible anyways.

I mostly speak to Mila now. I speak to her inside my heart. I speak to her out loud. I even laugh sometimes at her sense of humour, the way she speaks to me, too. A month or so ago, my husband and I went to the cemetery early in the morning, just as the sun was rising. We brought a blanket and a thermos of coffee and we sat there, talking aloud. We have a little vintage Ziggy mug that I bought Mila years ago. On it, chubby Ziggy proclaims, “I like a little coffee with my cream.” Mila wasn’t a huge drinker of anything hot, but if there was cream, she would make an exception for a splash of anything to legitimize an otherwise 95% mug of steaming sweet cream. So, when we went to share the sunrise with Mila, we brought her cup, too.

We were sitting on our blanket, looking at the beautiful headstone carved by the hands of a father whose own beautiful daughter also died at a tender age. We were talking about our grief, about our disappointment with our isolation in our grief from others, of our deepest gratitude for each other. We were talking about how much life changes when death reminds us it is always a breath away. The gnawing space that yawns and stretches and seems to seep into every bit of our lives. Mila took up that space, but now there is the ting of hollowness echoing through everything.

While we were talking, a dragonfly came and landed on the headstone. Dragonflies have been a wondrous constant, showing up in truly unbelievable ways since Mila has died. Still, this appearance was strange given the time of year. The dragonflies are long gone now, none to be seen in autumn’s chill. But there it was. I felt elation and then, immediately, a cynicism. I said, aloud, “Mila, is this just us wanting this to be you, us trying so desperately to connect to you or are you there?” Within a few seconds, a second dragonfly came and landed by the first.

Ah! You are there!

How can one not laugh at that? Not cry and laugh and accept bewilderment at such a beautiful mystery.

And still…

And still I sometimes feel the weight of her in the room out of nowhere. Me cooking supper. Me tying my shoelace. Me feeding the dogs. And her, the weight of her with no accompanying words. The microsecond when “Oh! You’re home!” followed by the obvious tumble. No, you’re not.

I try to stay in the part where I can feel her, but I am a limited, physical human being. I am not spirit or soul released. Sometimes I feel so close to her, many times I feel so severed. And that is what it feels like, a severing. A limb lost. A chunk of my guts ripped out, left bare. And at other times, I sit with my eyes closed and see her sitting across from me, our knees touching. She smiles with her sweet, shy smile. I smile back. We cry. “Bring Dad,” she says. She knows how hard it is for him. So I do, I pull him into our circle and we all sit, knee to knee, staring at each other, wordless. Just warmth and love. It’s painful and it’s a balm. And it is as real as the hand that writes these words.

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I have so little capacity or desire to participate in the worry over the minutia of life. It’s left me, that ability. I can muster compassion for the human experience, for what we think important and troubling, but it’s not my way anymore. I feel like I live in the middle of a raging, white water rapid, always resisting a current that will handily take me if I loosen the grip of my toes on the bottom, if I let my thighs give way. Sometimes the current wins and I am taken. I let it take me then. Too late to resist, I’m gone. I am thrashed about, banged up, raw and bloody, but I’ve been here before. I now know I’ll find my footing again. Eventually. I will dig my toes into the gritty bottom again. Solidify. Lean into the strength of the man behind me. He’s got me and my, what a thing to know I am gotten.

What are the options but to be in those raging waters? I could sit on the surface, ride a little dingy, stay dry and flaccid. On it but not in it. But then I miss the moments when the temperature is just right, when the heat of the sun warms the top of my head. When the lick of splashing water drenches my thirst. The water can’t surround me, move around me, through me on the boat? And whose body would my husband hold?

I was told, by other parents whose children have died, that the second year would be tougher than the first. It would be “softer”, but harder. I couldn’t understand that distinction then. I do now. Shock carries you much of the way that first year. A raw, burning sometimes blunted by the impossibility of its veracity. But now, the shock dissipates and in its wake the unrelenting reality of a life punctuated, sometimes minute after minute, by the realization that my baby, my last born, my enchanted and enchanting Mila will not return to me. To us. Not here. The truth more entrenched as the days go on. Nobody wants to hear that.

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Relationships are tougher now. There were, of course, the relationships that quickly ended after our daughter’s death. Friends that never called or avoided us altogether. People that pretended nothing had ever happened. Everyone has stories like that but it doesn’t diminish the pain or disappointment. Then there is the human tendency to pretend that compassion comes from leaving someone alone. As if the best we can do for someone is to stay away or to never mention their beloved’s name aloud or to even ask if the bereaved want to talk about their beloved. Instead, we protect ourselves under the guise of offering them privacy. I’ve been in enough bereavement groups now to know that this is an additional layer of pain for those that are already mourning.

We have found ourselves in a rhythm where we are able to speak of our Mila, sometimes in tears, sometimes with laughter. But our experience, the depth of our anguish, is guarded and shared with each other and those who have been with us. A casual, “How are you doing with everything?” from friends or family during a light hearted chat on the telephone seems flippant and jarring. I’m learning that I do not have to share my most tender parts. That’s been a lesson for me to learn as well. I have always felt like I had to open up to such questions because I’m such a person with a desire to connect with others in a very real and vulnerable way. I never want to respond with superficial chatter. It feels dishonest to me. But opening my heart and then being left alone with it when my offering wasn’t reciprocated, didn’t feel good either. Too much, I suppose. It’s just too much for most. I’m getting much better at protecting what is mine to protect all while connecting more deeply with those that are willing to connect with me on that level.

I am blessed by the love and open heart of my husband and my children. They are my constant and my comfort. I hope all of us have someone, even just that one person, who allows us to peel off the gauze and speak with candour and anguish - long enough for the tears to purify us for a time. If you don’t have someone close to you that you can speak these things to, in person bereavement groups can be such a blessing. Just to share space with others, to know this pain is not exclusively yours to bear, can help us to feel less isolated. But for me, outside of my husband, it’s speaking to God and Mila that brings me the greatest peace. I can ask to be filled with love, ask to be love and that is what I am given. It’s not small thing and it will never be enough. I trudge on looking to “delight in whatever sunshine remains”.

p.s. If you’re interested in learning how high THC marijuana products hijacked our beautiful daughter’s mind, you can read more here.