We are two and a half months into our second year without Melinda. Even as I write this, the words don’t make sense to me. It’s almost 15 months since I’ve seen her, held her, heard her voice. It’s been almost 15 months! People who said year 2 is harder are proving to be correct.
When the realization of missing Melinda hits now, it is as debilitating as it ever was, but without the shield of fog. It brings me to my knees literally, and I find myself sobbing uncontrollably. I’m always aware she’s gone, but there’s a difference between knowing it and feeling it. When I feel it, the hole inside me expands exponentially and it’s immediately filled with pain, both emotional and physical.
The last few days should have been positive as we worked on further developing a memorial foundation in Melinda’s name and took steps to help others in her memory. On Thursday, I went to see our family doctor because of my racing heart and light headedness. After much crying and talking, he put his hand on my knee and told me how happy he was to see me in his office “taking care of this.” He said it was good to see I cared enough to come. I just smiled. I didn’t go because I’m worried or because I care what happens to me. I went because others do, and I promised my husband and daughter I would have myself checked. For me, it still doesn’t matter.
After that appointment, my husband and I met with the owner of the café where Melinda worked and another franchise owner who are helping us set up a fundraiser in Melinda’s name for her birthday next month. We will be supporting school lunch programs in some of the high needs elementary schools in the inner city. As the four of us talked and planned, the ideas flowed and excitement built. Their enthusiasm for the foundation was heart warming. Their willingness to work on making this fundraiser a success made me realize that Melinda’s goodness never needs to stop. They’ve even designated September 16th as Melinda Green Day. During the meeting, the possibilities of what we could do through the foundation seemed endless and encouraging. But that all ended as soon as my hand touched the door on the way out. What struck my then was why we were doing this. I wouldn’t have been in that meeting if Melinda was alive. We wouldn’t be jumping government hoops and spending time and money establishing a foundation. If Melinda was here, we wouldn’t have need to, and that’s what struck me when my hand touched the door. That fundamental, basic bottom line was able to wipe out all that had kept me going that day.
On Friday, I contacted a non-profit which provides the lunch programs to the schools we want to help. The woman in charge of events and programs was so appreciative of our desire to support their programs with our fundraiser. As I told her about Melinda and what we hoped to accomplish with the foundation, she was amazingly encouraging. We talked for a long time, and it felt good, at least until I hung up the phone and realized how much my hands were shaking. Once again, all the good we are doing was swept away in the understanding, the knowing, that the only reason I had that call is because Melinda isn’t here.
That’s what everything comes back to…Melinda isn’t here. No matter what else I do or don’t do, the ending is always the same. I could save every child in the city, in the country, or even the world from ever going hungry again, but that doesn’t change that Melinda isn’t here. The goodness can sustain me for a while. Folding cranes for other grieving moms, crocheting scarves for the homeless, developing Melinda’s foundation all give me reasons to move through the day, but they don’t actually change what’s most important. They don’t replace what’s gone. They don’t fix what’s broken. They’re all good things, but they’re not good enough to make a difference to that bottom line or to make me want to be here.
Year 2 is proving to be harder in a different way than year 1. The anticipation of “firsts” is gone. The knowledge that all those special days and events in our lives will never again include Melinda has set in. Learning to incorporate the pain into daily life is constant. The hurting dull pain is ever present and now just expected each day. But the fogless realization…. the unhindered realization that Melinda will never again spend a day with us on this earth is a new level of pain.
I don’t know how year 2 unfolds. Hell, I don’t know how the rest of today will, but I know that I have no choice but to keep getting up each day. How I get through each day is a mystery until it happens. I’m tired of being exhausted, of being sad, of feeling hopeless so much of the time and I doubt that year 2 will make any of that better.
The only thing that still has the strongest impact on keeping me sane is believing, knowing, Melinda was spared a great deal of heartache because she did not have to learn the truth about the young man she loved and she didn’t have to build a life on a foundation of lies and secrets she knew nothing about. Right or wrong, that thought allows me to breathe throughout the day. Right or wrong, that thought is likely to be the reason I get to the end of year 2 still breathing.
A Working Grief 
All of the good deeds in the world won’t bring back our girls. Yet, doing these lovely deeds in memory of these beautiful young women keep our minds and hands busy and continues their legacy. Your efforts will help so many, Mira. Melinda most definitely gives you the energy to accomplish so much in the midst of your deep sorrow and despair. The reality is more than any parent can handle. Wishing you peace, my dear friend.
Thank you Dee. You’re so very right. We have to continue our daughters’ legacies. I know both Melinda and Amy are pushing us to do all we can for others and ourselves, and I know we will both do whatever we must to make sure they are never forgotten. Some days I just can’t seem to fight past the “why” without being taken aback. It’s a life long learning curve I wish none of us had to learn. Sending hugs my friend.
Mira, I found your blog from a link on Dee’s blog. You and I are about the same time into this journey. It’s been 16 months, almost 17 months, since my 29 year old daughter Julia died unexpectedly. Your posting about the 2nd year really resonated with me today.
Today was a really rough day for me and I had a complete meltdown while I was out in the garden. The anguish was so much that I went inside to lay down, and as I did I remembered that phrase “They say the 2nd year is harder.” As simple as that sentence was, it did help to remind myself that others have been here too. I am not alone, others have been here too, and I felt more normal, if you can ever call this normal. I curled up on my bed and slept for a bit over an hour, a blessed escape from the worst of the pain.
I’ve read pieces of your blog and my heart goes out to you. May you have a rest from this wound.
Hi Dru, I’m so sorry for your loss and the struggle you now face each day. Thank you for reading the blog and your kindness. As horrible as it is, there is comfort in knowing we’re not alone. I’m not sure how or why it happened, but very shortly after the first year mark, I found myself having more and more difficult days. The best I could do was attribute it to the numbness fading and the reality setting in. I completely understand your meltdown in the garden. I have them often and without warning. There are days I truly believe I won’t be able to take another step and yet I do, we do. Sleep is really the only refuge, but it doesn’t come easily. I hope tomorrow is better for you. Wishing you peaceful days.
Mira, meet Dru, my West Coast friend, who has been one of my biggest sources of support during my first year, despite being in the midst of her own deep mourning. Less than 1 week on the other side of “the 2nd year” and I admit to be frightened that it could possibly get any worse than the first year, but time and time again I read testaments that it can and it does.
Hi Dee, I “met” Dru last night when she commented on my blog. It’s both comforting and horrifying that others are facing this anguish as well. As I’m out in public, I frequently wonder how many others are living with this pain and have just learned to hold it in. I no longer look at sad and tired faces and wonder what their problem is. So many of us hide this pain as we try to live in a “normal” world. I don’t know how the rest of the year unfolds, but I do know the first couple of months have brought more shaking and more crying. I didn’t think I could produce so many tears. I suppose it could explain why I’m perpetually dehydrated. I think the best thing we can do is just hold on to each other. Who else could understand and hear our cries without wanting to run. Wishing you both peaceful days.
Hi Mira, I have just found your blog. I am so sorry for your loss. I had no idea there was a pain this intense. I am 10 weeks into this nightmare and each day gets worse. I have learned very quickly how we each grieve differently and at different paces. I also have discovered that unless you have lost a child you cannot know this pain. I do not wish it on anybody. Not even on the mother of the man who killed our son, Scott. We still have few real details of the crash that took his life. He was a firefighter who has saved many lives, received awards and recognition for such. He hated that part. To him it was just his job and calling. He had a wife, a son who starts college in a few weeks and a daughter who started high school today. All without their daddy. Life is so unfair. Unfortunately, I see and feel myself in your writings. Scott enjoyed origami as a child so this has really had that extra connection for me. I pray for you and all those who have lost a child.
As I read that last sentence, I realize that I am a lost child right now, too. Lost in grief with no sign of help nor hope.
I’m so sorry for your loss. I remember all too well what that first several months are like. I wish I could tell you that things will get better soon, but I can’t. They will change, and you will learn to incorporate the pain into your life. All that you’ve learned so far (grieving differently and others not understanding) is just the beginning. Each day is a new learning experience because of triggers and reminders and sometimes just emotional ambushes. If you experience those as I did, you will learn to deal with them with time. I’m also sorry that your grandchildren will have to live their lives without their father beside them, but I hope they know his love is still guiding them.
The origami was something Melinda loved as a child. Doing a variety of crafts was something Melinda and I shared and it’s not something I’ve been able to enjoy since. I recently started crocheting for the first time, and it’s become an obsession. I am making scarves for the homeless. I’ve found that keeping busy is the best way for me to keep breathing. We also found that planning in advance for “special” occasion is a must. Letting birthdays or holidays go by was much harder. I wish I could give you or tell you something that would take the pain away. Instead, I can tell you that I’m always an ear and a shoulder if you need one. You’re right that those who haven’t known this kind of pain can’t truly understand it. Wishing you and your family peaceful days
Dear Mira,
The good deeds we do in our children’s honor and memory will always be tinged with pain because of why we are doing them. I certainly didn’t need to lose a child to help other people. Yet sometimes other people forget and act as if what we are doing is so wonderful. I would like to remind them that these activities come at the cost of my child’s life and I’d give up EVERYTHING to have him back.
We’re at 2 years and 2 months and I still cry every day. I am never not thinking about him, no matter what else I am doing and I think I still can’t really believe that I won’t see him again. Some part of me holds onto the notion that somehow I will be able to undo the events that led to his death. How can I not see him again? I will never really accept that.
I wish I could shield you and Dee and other moms from this excruciating pain. All I can do is to be here and listen (read) and share your grief.
Thank you so much Jennifer. I too wish I could just wrap my arms around all of us and make everything better. I understand how you feel about being a giving person even before our losses. We were the same and raised our children to be giving and considerate of others. Like you, I hate the reason for doing what we do now. The giving is the easy part. Realizing each time why is what tears us apart.
I don’t know your personal beliefs, but I do hold on to believing that I will see Melinda again, maybe not in the same way or form, but I have to believe we will be together again. The hard part of that is waiting. I don’t consider myself religious, but I do believe that there is something bigger than us and that a soul doesn’t just disappear. The energy has to remain somewhere. I suppose I could convince myself of anything if I had to just to make it through the days. I wish I could heal your heart, Dee’s, all the other grieving moms, and my own, but I also know the best I can do is help others in Melinda’s memory. There is nothing more important to me than making sure Melinda is never forgotten, but I’m sure you feel the same way about Graham.
Wishing you peaceful days my friend.
Dear Mira,
I honestly don’t know what I believe about what happens after we die. I know what I WANT to believe and I fervently hope that you and other mothers are right and that somehow we will meet our children again. I am always looking for signs, but I don’t even have dreams about Graham. My husband does dream about him and I listen eagerly to his dreams and I sincerely hope that they are actually visitations. I take some comfort from the visits and signs that others receive from their children and I am completely open to accepting that there is the possibility that we somehow don’t disappear completely. But I am trying not to deceive myself simply because I can’t bear the thought of never seeing my son again.
I think the confusion and forced reexamination of our beliefs is very typical. We want to have answers and to understand. I have a hard time believing anything I can’t prove so this is not easy for me. One book I read shortly after Melinda’s accident is called “Proof of Heaven.” It came to us through our oldest daughter’s friend. At first I was skeptical since when I read “Heaven is for Real,” I just became angry. The difference is that the Proof book is written by a neurosurgeon who did not believe in God or any form of afterlife. The book relays his experience and describes both the scientific side and the spiritual side of his near death experience. It helped me believe.
The signs are more difficult for me. I had 1 dream with Melinda, and it was unlike any other dream I’d ever had. I was certain she was in the room with me, sitting beside me. When I asked her if she could stay and begged her to do so, she smiled and said she couldn’t but that it was ok because she was happy. I envy those who say they receive signs regularly, I would welcome a full on haunting if it meant I could see her again, talk to her, and maybe even touch her, but so far nothing. I’ve been told by other grieving moms who are much further along this road that the signs come but only when you’re truly ready to receive them. I’m not sure I know what that means, but I’m still waiting to be ready. If I stop completely believing that I will never see Melinda again in any way, I would be flinging myself out the window because of the pain. The wavering belief I can deal with for now so I keep holding on. I hope you are able to find some peace and some understanding to help you.