Good from Grief

Tomorrow marks 19 months since Melinda’s accident.  It is 19 months of hell, agony, anger, confusion, fear, and pain.  It is 19 months of a huge emptiness, of depression, of turmoil and guilt, of unanswered questions, of strained and destroyed relationships, and of physical and emotional pains like I could never have imagined.   It has been and continues to be a daily struggle to find a way to breathe, to function, to want to live, and some days it’s seemed impossible to move at all or feel anything.  The numbness is constant and, I suppose, still necessary to shield me from the depth of pain that is my life.

In all of this we have done our best to honour Melinda and to share her beautiful spirit with others.  She was not perfect, but she was wonderful, joyous, forgiving, and loving, and that is how she is remembered.  In her name, we have reached out to help others less fortunate because that is what she did.   She made people smile; she helped when she could, and she never hesitated to share herself and her joy with others.  The foundation we started in her memory has been busy since its incorporation several months ago, and now that we are a fully registered Canadian charity, we hope to accomplish so much more.  People have told me I have been an inspiration to them.  It’s difficult to believe when I think of all the meltdowns, bursts of rage, and tears.  They don’t seem at all inspirational, but if I have helped even one person, then I will take some comfort in knowing that I have not been so consumed by grief that I have lost my humanity because that would be easy to do.

We have been fortunate to have had media interest in our work.  Two weeks ago I did an interview with the main newspaper in our city.  The reporter was working on a piece about families who suffer loss and turn it into a vehicle to help others.   The article appeared in the paper and online last Saturday.  Please take a few minutes to read the article and view the video.

http://www.edmontonjournal.com/news/insight/index.html

 

Time on My Mind

Today marks 18 months without Melinda at my side.  It marks 18 months of anguish, frustration, mistrust, confusion, anger, and so much more.  Although I’ve stopped counting the days, weeks, months aloud, I have a subconscious internal clock that sets an alarm for the 18th of every month.  Today that alarm was deafening when I awoke this morning.  The days leading up to today have been difficult and full of sadness.  This has only added weight to the grief that already comes each month on the 18th day.

On Friday afternoon we received a call telling us that our friend and neighbour of over 20 years had passed away earlier in the day.  She had struggled against cancer for years, but her body just couldn’t keep up anymore.   She was only 59 years old…a mere 59 years which should have been filled with holding her only grandchild who was born 4 months ago, a month premature.   It was as if he knew, or someone did.  The news was not unexpected, but that made it no easier to hear.   I had visited with her about 3 weeks earlier when we shared an Ice Cap and talked for hours.  She was depressed and doing her best to prepare for the inevitable.  As we talked, she repeated the phrase “but you know what I mean” as she referred to the sorrow that comes with loss.  I did know.  I understood that what she wanted was the same thing I wanted – more time.  She wanted more time to watch her grandchild grow, watch her daughter become a fabulous mom, give advice as mothers do, and enjoy the results of years of work.   I understood because that’s what I want, more time.   I want more time with Melinda. I want time to tell her I love her. I want time to feel her arms around me.  I want time to watch her achieve her goals.  I just want more time.

Last Sunday marked 3 years for a friend who lost her 17 year old son in an accident.  She and I have never met, but our connection and friendship is real.  We share something that surpasses distance, economics, education, or anything else.  I remembered this day was coming for her, and, without speaking to her, I knew the anxiety building in her.  I sent a message to her late Saturday night letting her know she and her son were not forgotten and that a candle would be lit in his honour in our home.  As we “chatted” back and forth, I was overcome with tears.  I knew her pain; it took very few words to convey it. I cried regularly and often that day, but I cried for her.   I cried because I couldn’t imagine what 3 years would look like on this journey.   We are half way there, only half way there yet the destruction has been more than I’d ever imagined possible, and it still continues.  Will that change in another 18 months?  I can’t imagine that because I can’t imagine I’ll ever stop missing Melinda and that is what creates the pain.

The last few days have been hard as well as I sit and wait to hear news about the young man Melinda loved.   His world is about to be turned upside down again, but this time it’s of his own doing.  Once again time is the only master here.

In 6 days, I turn 50.  I’ve been here half a century and for almost all of it, I’ve been joyously happy, but I don’t really remember that feeling anymore.   For me, time continues.  This is supposed to be some sort of milestone, isn’t it?   I’ve survived 50 years.  But it’s not a day I anticipate with any type of excitement.  Instead it is one more fragment of time which I hope will just pass.  There it is again….time being the master.

During all of this swirling about me, we managed to go to a movie on Saturday night with friends.  It was good to be out even if it meant sitting silently in the dark.  The movie,  “Interstellar,” was good but it was the focus on time that caught my attention.  In one scene character A asks character B if he’s afraid to die.   Character B’s answer stood out like a gong had just gone off.   There it was!!!!  In one line, he succinctly qualified a struggle I’ve slowly internalized over the last year.   Character B simply replied:  “I’m not scared of death; I’m scared of time.”

Like the character in the movie, it’s not death I fear; it’s the time until it that is the problem.  I am caught between two worlds and am equally drawn to each.   I don’t worry about dying; there is no question that I’m ready for whenever it happens.  The problem is that time is the master here too.   On one hand, I want time to slip by quickly so that I can be with Melinda again.  I want to be with my daughter again as quickly as I can be.  On the other hand, I want time to move more slowly so that I can spend every minute of it with my oldest daughter here.  I want to watch her achieve her goals, watch her get married, give her unsolicited advice on raising her children, hold my grandchildren and watch them grow and achieve their dreams as well.   I want all the things my neighbour no longer has, but I envy her because her pain has ended.  Yes, it’s a different pain, but it’s an end to pain either way.

Time is both my enemy and my friend.  I suppose it’s always been that way, but the perception has now changed.   I’ve never wanted time to swiftly slip away toward an end.  Of course I’ve wanted moments to come to an end, but not all of my moments.   There’s the shift in perception.  How does one balance no fear of death and anticipation of it with wanting to live life?   “I’m not scared of death; I’m scared of time.”

Perchance To Dream….

This morning I woke up sobbing.  Last night I dreamed of Melinda, the first time in over a year.  I’ve struggled with many things since Melinda’s death, and one of them has been my feeling of not being “connected” to my daughter.  What kind of mother am I if I can’t “feel” my daughter around me?  I’ve read about how others feel wisps pass by them, feel something brush against them, feel a weight, and I wanted (still want) to experience all this.  I want to dream of Melinda every single night, but that hasn’t happened, and that’s only added to my struggle.  How could I think of her all day, cry every day, miss her every second, and not dream of her?

Prior to last night, I’ve had one dream with Melinda in it, and two “dreams” unlike any other dreams I’ve ever have.  They were more like visitations from Melinda because they were vivid unlike anything else I’ve experienced and we talked as if she was sitting beside me.  In one of those visitations, I asked Melinda if she could stay with us, and she said she couldn’t but that she was happy.  Last night was something in between that vivid experience and a typical dream.

In last night’s dream, I was in my kitchen with music playing, as it commonly was in our household.  It was the kitchen of today, remodeled and different from the one of Melinda’s childhood.  I stood in the middle of the kitchen and sang along to the music.  I looked down to see 4 year old Melinda at my feet, looking up at me.  She smiled and said “let’s dance Mommy,” and we did.  I picked her up and twirled around the kitchen floor with her just as I used to do when she was four.  We smiled and laughed, and we danced, and then I woke up crying.

I’ve come to terms with knowing Melinda isn’t going to walk through the door, knowing my phone isn’t going to buzz with messages from her, knowing I can’t hold her and tell her I love her.  What I haven’t yet come to terms with is the loss of dreams we had for our family.  I haven’t been able to let go of what was supposed to be, of our future.   That too was lost when Melinda died in May 2013.

In my plans, in the dreams I was certain would come true, my husband and I would now be enjoying the rewards of a life for which we’d worked hard.  Melinda would be married, and her sister would be moved out and likely engaged to her wonderful boyfriend.  My husband and I would be renovating all the bits of the house left untouched for 20 years, waiting for the girls to grow up and move out.   We would be travelling to small towns in the area and visiting little shops, buying things we didn’t need but would bring beauty to a corner of the house.  We would be “dating” again and just enjoying each other’s company.  We would be enjoying time individually while crafting, playing floor hockey, or whatever else we chose to do.   We would have had a full and happy life because all those “dreams” would be coming true.  We would have danced at Melinda’s wedding; we would have watched the girls settle into their adult lives, and we would have kept busy waiting for grandchildren to spoil.  We would have done many wonderful things……

Some of those events will still take place, but not in the same way.  We will still celebrate the day our oldest daughter gets married, and we will love her children and watch them grow, but we will not have the same kind of happy that once existed in our home.  The dreams have changed.  Now they are more about getting through each day without a meltdown.  Now the dream is to have the ability to care about anything anymore.  Now the dream is to find a way to keep busy that doesn’t cause me to dissolve into tears.  Now the dream is to keep my daughter’s memory alive so that everyone remembers the beautiful spirit she embodied.  I haven’t fully found these new dreams because I’m still hurting about the ones that have been lost.

We lost a daughter and a future we eagerly anticipated.  We lost dreams we had for ourselves and our family.

Last night’s dream was painful because it was a reminder of all the beauty that was part of our daily lives 18 months ago and is missing now, but I’m also grateful to have had that sweet 4 year old ask me to dance with her again.

I miss my daughter!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

What A Wrong Number Means

Last night I was reminded just how quickly my world can be turned upside down …again. I was reminded how close to the edge I walk, and how little it takes for me to lose my footing at the cliff’s edge.
The last several days have been exactly like the roller coaster ride I described in a previous post. My emotions have been running high and then have crashed repeatedly through the days. It began with contacting the inner city schools we are helping with Melinda’s foundation. They have each been allocated $1300 to spend in the areas they need most. Some are buying food while others are seeing this additional money as a way to improve the tools use to help feed hungry children. They have requested everything from a freeze, to glasses, from pots to knives, and we will fill every need we can. With all of this confirming of purchases, I’ve had to explain to each person who I am and that I was calling from the Melinda Green Memorial Foundation. It didn’t take long before they asked about the connection to the foundation, given the same surname. Each retelling of the story only reinforced the reason I have to establish a memorial foundation in my daughter’s name. Even when I heard the excitement in the people receiving our gift, it did not overcome the sorrow.

We also found out officially that the foundation is now a registered charity according to the federal laws of Canada. When I opened the email and read it, I burst into tears. They were literally a combination of happiness that we’ve finally been approved and can now have the recognition and authenticity like much larger more established charities and the anguish we still endure in making this happen. Within minutes, my head was throbbing and my heart was racing. It’s literally been a roller coaster of emotions and I had been barely making it from morning till night.
I was resting on the sofa last night, exhausted from the waves of grief, when my husband’s cell rang. It doesn’t often ring at night. He picked it up and in less than 10 seconds from his “Hello,” I was in full panic mode as the anxiety attack took over. It was a wrong number; someone was looking for someone else with my husband’s fairly common name. When the caller asked for my husband by name, he replied in a tone commonly used when you’re unsure of who’s on the other end; that’s when the panic attack hit me. In my mind I heard my husband’s voice reply as a character in a movie when he gets “that” call. “This is he.” I’ve gotten “that” call, and I know that tone. Before another word was said, a word that would have clearly shown this was just a wrong number, I was shaking, my stomach was turning, and I was beginning to hyperventilate.
The moment when I could have rationally calmed myself down because it was just a wrong number had passed. I struggled on the sofa for a few minutes before running for the bathroom hoping not to throw up the Big Mac I’d eaten a little over an hour earlier. By the time I shut the door behind me, I was wheezing desperately to breathe. I couldn’t draw air in deeply enough and soon I was lightheaded, and then there it was…I was back reliving the emotions of the worst day of my life. With that brilliantly clear image in my mind, I began to dry heave into the toilet and to catch my breath in between. It wasn’t working as I became more light headed. To stop the spiral, I did the only thing I could think of doing. I screamed at the top of my lungs for as long as I could. Between that, the dry heaving, the labored breathing, and the coughing, my throat was left raw. Half an hour had passed before I could breathe properly again and stand upright.
My mind recreated my worst nightmare, but this time it was about our oldest daughter. She wasn’t home last night, and the cold sweat that overtook me was in reaction to hearing something had happened to her. Because now anything is possible!!!! That which could not happen to us, which happened to other people, had happened to us. We are not immune. By the time my panic attack passed, I was exhausted and numb.
It was a wrong number, but to me it was a nightmare.

A Good Thing Isn’t Always Good

At nearly 18 months without Melinda, so much has changed, and so little has changed.  After rereading a few of my earlier posts, I can see I’ve moved from the spot when I wished nothing more than to die.   Some of the changes have been good; others have not.  Others assume that time is healing me, that once past the first year, everything will become a little easier and I will be a little stronger.  The changes are continuous as we still navigate through unknown territory, but easier isn’t part of the equation.

I’ve completely stopped expecting Melinda to come through the door.  I can’t make myself believe for even a second that she’s just out somewhere…at school, at work, out having fun.   I fully understand that my daughter is dead.  No one can convince me that pain will ever end…EVER!!!  I don’t have meltdowns every day anymore, but the numbness has not subsided.   I remain emotionally numb to the world around, or I’m angry.   That’s pretty much it…I hurt, I rage, I go numb.  Shutting off is still the best option for me so I can make it through the days.  I can’t think too much because that means facing a reality that hurts too much.

Now more than ever I am certain Melinda was spared a difficult life full of heartache and disappointment, but her death is still too heavy a price to pay.   I’m tired of people telling me how strong I am.  I’m tired of being told this was God’s plan or Melinda’s journey that has nothing to do with us.   It sure feels likes it’s got a hell of a lot to do with us as we sit broken.

I’m tired of being unable to just enjoy a moment in life because it’s either a reminder of the sorrow of Melinda not being here or I’m too empty to feel at all.  I’m tired of not being able to perform what should be a simple task for a good cause without shaking so hard that I can’t hold a pen or text my daughter.  Yesterday I went to purchase dishes and kitchen supplies for the schools Melinda’s foundation is supporting.  It was a good thing.  We are helping feed hungry children…a good thing.  Half way through the purchase, I noticed I was shaking.  I made fists to still my hands and stepped outside to breathe.  It didn’t work.   I only shook more as time went on.  My voice was steady; I didn’t feel panicky, but I couldn’t stop shaking.   By the time I got home, I was too tired to do anything.  I hurt, I raged, I went numb.

I struggle with many things.   Did Melinda truly know how much I loved and still love her?  Did we provide her with a happy childhood that she enjoyed and flourished in?  Did I let her down?  How many times?   Does she know I never wanted to hurt her?  That I would have done anything to help her?  Does she know I don’t blame her?   Does she know how desperately I want to feel her around me?   Does she know how proud I’ve always been of what an amazing person she became?  Does she know how much I loved her sense of humour?  Does she know how desperately I try to recall every second I spent with her and how terrified I am that I might forget one with time?   Does she know how much I love and miss her?

Each day is a struggle…to remember, to forget, to live.

Year Two Continued…

I haven’t written in a long time because I haven’t been able to make sense of the myriad of emotions I’ve traveled through in the last couple of weeks.   I’ve moved from shear agony to relief to apathy, and even to a bit of happiness.  Even as I wrote a previous blog called “A 10 Minute Ride,” I couldn’t have imagine the last couple of weeks.

September 16th was what should have been Melinda’s 22nd birthday.  As we approached the day, we kept busy putting the last minute touches on our first fundraiser for the Melinda Green Memorial Foundation which we established to help those in need as directly as we could, just like Melinda did.   We partnered with 23 Second Cup cafes, the company Melinda worked for since she was 15, to raise funds to purchase food for an inner city school lunch program.  We were interviewed on two local radio stations to promote the fundraiser the morning before.  As we sat discussing what we hoped to accomplish, I was sickened that I had reason to be there, to talk about this, to have a memorial foundation in my daughter’s name at all.  The busy work was helpful though because it kept the brain preoccupied and unable to spend too much time on why we were doing this in the first place.   I was busy answering questions and holding myself together, and that took all my energy.  I thought I was doing “well” given the circumstances, that is until the night before Melinda’s birthday.   As I sat for a moment before bed, I glanced at the photo of Melinda that sits on our mantel.  Instantly I was sickened and a wave of grief overtook any composure as I realized I didn’t know what Melinda would want for her birthday.  I’d never know that again.   Last year, even though Melinda wasn’t here, I knew she had wanted a camera.  We’d discussed it months earlier, and she was so excited to have a “real” camera rather than a point and shoot kind.  This year, I didn’t know; I’d never know again.  I’d never again shop for just the right thing for her.  That was more than I could deal with and I was overwhelmed with the loss of everything, once again.   I went to bed exhausted and crying, feeling sick that my baby girl wasn’t going to be eating cake.

The next morning was even worse.  The fundraiser was set to go, and we’d made plans to visit the café at which Melinda worked, but that morning I was paralyzed and unable to get out of bed.  I cried, I screamed, and I called her name for almost an hour before I could drag myself out of the bed and into the shower.  I dry heaved as I got ready to do something I NEVER wanted or imagined I’d do.  There should be no reason to have a memorial foundation in my daughter’s name!!!!  The shaking was noticeable now, but there was nothing I could do to stop it.  I pushed through it and got in the car.  The time at the café was better as people stopped by to purchase a coffee and drop off change in Melinda’s memory.  We talked, cried, and even laughed, but mostly we remembered a beautiful spirit, a bright young woman who touched lives, and a truly and genuinely good person.  We moved through the day by visiting the cemetery and coming home to dinner our oldest daughter made and glasses of Sangria, Melinda’s favourite drink.  The house was full of noise again for the first time since Melinda’s funeral.  The revolving door of people had stopped long, long ago.  As nice as it was to have people around us, it was uncomfortable for me as well.  This was the volume and joy of Melinda, of days with her.  I’ve grown used to a quieter house and the laughter made me physically uncomfortable.  I’m still caught between what was and what is.  Anything that is a direct association with Melinda is hard for me, but anything “new” is just as difficult without her.

The days since Melinda’s birthday have not been easier.  My oldest daughter and I spent nearly a week collecting the money from the fundraiser.  We wanted to visit each café to personally thank them for participating, but we hadn’t anticipated the difficulty of introducing ourselves at each café as being from the foundation.  Eventually I couldn’t do it any more.  I was grateful for all their work and for the money raised, but I just couldn’t deal with walking into places and knowing they saw me as nothing more than a volunteer with some charity.   The staff didn’t intend to make us feel that way, but each visit was a tangible example of how others are unaffected by our pain and how their lives are as routine as they’ve ever been.  We are far from routine.

Amid all this, we had to live each day, get laundry done, prepare food, go to work, and make it all seem easy.  None of it was easy!!!!!  We struggled with news about the young man Melinda loved and were both saddened and relieved when we heard it, but that only added to my turmoil.  We have no relationship with him anymore and haven’t for a long time, but the relationship we did have is not forgotten so the possibility for pain is there.

I have struggled more with not having Melinda with me.  The waves of agonizing grief come less often, but when they do come, they are more intense.  The only thing that eases my mind is knowing with absolute certainty that Melinda was spared a difficult life that would have brought her pain.   I know she is safe, but waiting to be with her again is still unbearable.   Living with the pain of not being able to hold my daughter, or talk to her, or hear her voice is not getting easier.

Last night I attempted to go to bed without the aid of my usual sleeping pill.  I put the prescription aside and instead took a milder version of an over the counter sleep aid.  Quiet and dark are not easy for me as my mind has too much room and time to think then, so the pills have been necessary for months.  Last night was my proof that I am not ready to let go of the brain numbing effect the prescription has on me.  As I laid in bed coaxing myself to sleep, I saw only visions of Melinda in the morgue, her faded eyes and the cold of her skin.  I saw only the dashboard of the truck I sat in when we got the phone call.  I saw only the casket sitting closed holding my daughter’s body.   I heard only my husband’s voice during that phone call.  I cried as quietly as I could so as not to wake my husband, but eventually I could stand it no longer and went downstairs to find the little blue pill that would numb me and take those memories away.   I had no idea how it would interact with the non-prescription pill I’d already taken, but I didn’t care.   It was nearly 3 a.m. and I hadn’t been able to shut my eyes for nearly 4 hours.  I was willing to risk a “bad” interaction rather than endure however many more hours of the torture that filled my mind.  There is no easy in this!!!   Every bit of life remains in disarray.  Every bit.

Year two is harder, but in a different way.  There is no shield of fog to protect, but some acceptance has shown up.  As more time goes on, we know that Melinda was spared.  The more certain I am of that, the more willingly I endure the pain of my loss.   I will carry it so she doesn’t have to.  This is not to say I’ve “accepted” that this is how things should be.  I can’t say that, and can’t imagine I ever will.

The 10 Minute Ride

Imagine yourself standing on the platform of the world’s largest roller coaster. Stop and really imagine the sensation. It’s a beautiful sunny day as you stare out to the mountains in the distance. To one side of you are lakes and forests and to the other is a bustling city. From below you hear the soft murmur of voices and happy noises. The sun is shining, birds are singing and the breeze is gentle. You are nervous, excited, and a little afraid as you anticipate the ride, but you are certain it will be a good one; all the others have been.

As you step into the front cart with the world at your feet, someone wraps a blindfold around your head. You have no idea what’s going on or why this is happening, but before you can say anything, the cart jerks into motion and you are now holding on to the sides of the cart as it turns, twists, and circles the loops. You can’t anticipate any of what’s coming, and you know you’re in a turn or a twist only once the cart has jerked into it. The wind whistles past your ears and your heart races while you clutch to anything that seems solid, but nothing is because it’s all speeding over the tracks without an apparent end. After what seems like hours, the cart rolls to a stop at the top platform again. You rip the blindfold off and try to scramble to your feet, but something pushes you down and another blindfold is put on you. The ride resumes. Once again you can’t find your balance; you hold on with all your might and you try to remember the twists and turns from the previous run, but they’re different now. Somehow, during your brief stop, the track was redesigned. There are two loops instead of one; the climbs are longer, and the falls are faster. Your heart is racing; your mind can’t understand what is happening, and you scream.

Again, you come to a stop, but this time there are others on the platform. Some you recognize; others are strangers. The ones you know tell you things will get better; you just need to hold on to hope. They tell you the ride is only about 10 minutes long and you’ll feel better soon, but not one of them gets into the cart with you. As you try to explain your confusion, your fear, that you want the ride to stop, your voice is drowned out. Once again a blindfold is placed over your eyes and the ride begins again, and again the coaster’s formation and design are different. Round and round you go. Each time you stop there are fewer familiar faces there, but the strangers mill about. Some of them get in the cart with you, but can ride only once as they have their own roller coasters to ride. After hours, days, weeks (you can’t tell anymore) you come to another stop and pull off the blindfold once again. This time you have the chance to look around; everything is different, everything.

The mountains are no longer visible because of the grey clouds covering them. The forests are no longer green, and the lakes have a fine layer of silver white on them. The noise from below are no longer happy, and the city is mostly dark as the world is asleep. You wonder how long you’ve been on this ride, but your brain can’t make sense of what’s happened, how long it’s taken, or why you are not allowed off this ride. Just as you begin to catch your breath, another blindfold comes, and another ride begins.

You beg to get off. You promise you will do anything just to get off this ride. You are certain there has been a mistake; you aren’t supposed to be on this ride, not like this. You wonder if you’re being punished. But for what? You can’t recall ever doing anything that would warrant this kind of torture. You run through memories hoping to find an answer, but there isn’t one. Again, you pull to a stop at the platform. Now there are happy noises coming from the city, but you can’t make sense of them. What are they about? It’s been so long since you’ve been part of any of that; it’s unrecognizable now.

You continue to ride the coaster – ten minute rides with rests of 1 to 3 minutes in between. There is no getting out of the cart; you’re not allowed. Besides, where would you go anyway? The people you knew have moved on. They have their lives to live, and they don’t want to hear about the ride you don’t seem to want to get off. They don’t believe you when you say you’ve tried each time to get off, but you can’t, and you don’t understand why this is all happening. Seasons have changed, people have changed, you’ve changed. You’re tired of fighting; you’re exhausted, mind and body, from trying to figure out the pattern of the ever changing coaster. You’re just plain worn out.

Imagine, if you can, that this is what you do every day, every single day, without understanding or reason. You’re trapped, but not of your choice. The blindfolds are endless and the rides continue. Eventually, you learn to stop screaming. You let your body go limp and your mind go blank so you can endure the changing turns, loops, and drops, but the confusion, the fear, the anger remain.

* * * * * * *

This is the best analogy of grief I can give. It’s not a journey because that implies a destination, an end. I will never stop missing Melinda or wanting her back. This is not a path because that implies a peace that doesn’t exist right now. This is not a club because that implies willful engagement with others. No one I’ve met wants to be a part of this. Is this Hell? That I can believe because I can’t imagine a greater pain.

They said year two is harder. They’re right, but only for the grieving. The others have had time to move on. The grievers have had time to absorb the pain more deeply.

The Craft Room Revisited

Nearly 20 years ago, I set up a craft room in the basement of our home.  At first, I shared it with my husband’s computer world, but one weekend when he was away for work, I moved his computer table and electronics into the spare room so I could further spread out my creativity.

That room was my sanctuary, my release from the mundane, and a place to let my imagination run free.  I’d always been a “crafty” person willing to try any form of art or craft at least once.  My passion for paper crafts came about after the birth of my girls.  I would scrapbook their lives, our lives and forever preserve our memories on pages of pictures, stickers, and coloured paper.  It became like an obsession.  Then came the rubber stamps and card making.  Then stamping pretty much anything that would stand still or that I could catch.  Soon there were paperbag albums custom made and handed out as gifts.  I’d spend hours imagining how to wrap a present to make it extraordinary, and then I’d spend hours executing the ideas.  Home décor was the next  fascination.  I would much rather make pretty much anything than buy it.  The fun was in the process, the details, and the satisfaction of accomplishing it myself.

When I was in university, I had several friends encourage me to find an outlet for my creativity since it was obvious it needed to come out.  At that time I was too busy with getting my degree and keeping up a household.  It wasn’t really until the girls were toddlers that I explored that side of me.  I brought the girls along with me on my creative adventures.  There were buckets full of pompoms, pipe cleaners, Styrofoam balls, foam shapes, glues sticks, and glitter.  There was always paint and some brushes to enjoy.  Plastic, paper, wood – the material didn’t matter; the process did.  Although both girls enjoyed the play, neither one of them seemed to love the crafting as I did, and that was okay since it meant I had something that was just mine.

When the girls were little, I found myself spending hours in that room after they went to bed.  It was my calm and something I did for me, the only thing really.   It fed my spirit and brought me joy, and it was all mine.  That all changed a few years ago when Melinda started asking me to help her make something or other.  We redecorated her room, and she made a vision board.  We designed the whole room together, and, for the first time, I could see that she was enjoying the process and sense of accomplishment as well.  As time went on, we spent more time sharing ideas and making them happen.  When she got engaged, her DIY persona kicked in and we began planning the making of everything, absolutely everything.   We were making save the dates, invitations, centre pieces, favours, wine bottle sleeves, her garter, fabric flowers, and so on.  The list of “to do” is still pinned to the cork board just as we left it the last time we were in there together.  Melinda and I spent countless hours creating, cutting, gluing, and laughing, but most importantly, I was spending time sharing a part of myself I’d never fully shared with anyone else.  I have not spent time in that craft room since Melinda’s accident.  It remained filled with fabric, paper, flowers, and our time together, and I wasn’t able to be there.

About 3 months ago, I taught myself to crochet and I’ve been making cranes for others for about as long, but not in the craft room.  Instead, our dining room table is covered – two feet deep – with scarves I’ve made, yarn waiting to be turned into something, and paper for cranes.  Last week I decided I needed my craft space back, but I knew I couldn’t go into that room, not with Melinda’s cake topper and dreams still in there.  Instead, my husband and I rearranged the main room in the basement, pushed the furniture around, and cleaned up what hadn’t been touched since Melinda’s accident.  Honestly, my husband did the heavy lifting, both physically and emotionally while I sat and cried most of the time.

In an attempt to do my part, I went into the craft room to pack up beads, buttons, and pretty things, only to be overcome by all the things I was trying to avoid.  There was the bag filled with hundreds of fabric flowers Melinda and I painstakingly made.  Then there was the pair of socks she’d left on the floor the last time she was in the room.  The worst was the box of scrapbooking supplies and pictures she’d gathered up when she was about 10 so that she could make her own album.  I’d forgotten about that box, and seeing it now was too much.   Before even I knew what was going on,  was on my knees calling out her name and crying like I hadn’t done in months.   I was overcome with sorrow, and I knew it was because I was realizing all I’d lost along with my precious daughter.

I’ve lost a part of my spirit, that part that was fed by the joy of crafting and sharing it with someone I love.  I’ve lost that connection with someone who got as excited as I did about making something pretty with my own hands.  I’ve lost a daughter, a friend, a conspirator, a soul mate who shared my interests and loves.  I’ve lost the joy she brought to everything we did together.   All I could feel was the loss that afternoon.

It’s taken me two and a half days to “recover” from that move.  Even as I write this, I’m crying as I’m reminded of the ache deep in my body when I saw my precious daughter’s things.  I’ve slept for most of the last two and a half days as the exhaustion after a meltdown is all consuming.  I don’t know if anything else will ever move out of that room, but I do know that right now I don’t care.  We moved the furniture that day, but the craft supplies remain in the old craft room.  I was actually feeling good about even wanting to think about creating again, but that’s gone again.  I don’t care if the supplies come out.  I don’t care if I ever touch another piece of paper again.  I still crochet because it keeps me busy and it’s something I didn’t do with Melinda.  It’s busy work, and maybe that’s all it will ever be.

I haven’t “recovered” my joy in or for life.  I have happy moments when I see my oldest daughter smile, when I see her young man take such good care of her, when I see a sparkle in her eye when she talks about her condo, but these are moments and not a lifetime.  The lifetime of happy isn’t there anymore.  Will it come back?  I don’t know, but I doubt it.

It may seem strange to some that  I am “still” grieving so intensely, but I know those who really understand are not surprised.  Right now my focus is to make it through the month of September as Melinda’s birthday approaches in two weeks, as we plan a fundraiser in her memory on that day, and as I keep recouping from each wave of grief that overtakes me.

It’s still surreal.

WTF Happened??????

As I’ve said before, I am seeing a trauma specialist.  I’m now down to twice a month with her, but the weeks in between are covered by a therapist my husband and I see together.   After 30 years of marriage at the time of Melinda’s accident, I don’t know what to say to him.   Being in a room together can be difficult because the pain is never eased.  In the company of others, we have the chance for distraction.  Together, we are beaten about the head with what’s missing.

Earlier this week, as we sat in a session, our therapist asked me how I dealt with the lack of perfection in life before Melinda’s death.   I had no answer, not because I didn’t understand her question, and not because I couldn’t remember.  I had no answer because up until Melinda’s accident, I had never had to deal with anything other than “perfect.”    In my silence she asked another question.  “What did you do when things didn’t go your way?”   Once again I had no answer.  When things didn’t go my way?   That was easy; I reassessed what went wrong and I fixed it, changed course, took steps to make things go my way, and then there was perfection.  I can’t do that with Melinda.

I’d be lying if I said our life was without stress and worry.  I’d be lying if I said we never disagreed, and I’d be lying if I said every dream I had came true.  Far from it.   I grew up in a household most people only see in stories.  My parents were extremely strict to the point that I wasn’t allowed to play on sports teams because the uniforms were too tight and short.  I wasn’t allowed to go to friends’ birthday parties.  Dating was completely out of the question.  They had very traditional conservative European views on what a good girl was.  My relationship with my parents has always been strained as a result of my childhood, so perfect wasn’t always part of my life.

But within my own little family, things were different.  What was most important to me all came true because my husband and I worked to make it come true.   We raised our children to be strong, independent, considerate, loving, giving, compassionate, honest, hard working, and ethical.  We worked hard to make sure they knew they were raised in a safe home where every problem or worry could be faced.  I had a marriage most people envied.  I married my childhood sweetheart, my best friend, and I only loved him more as the years went on.  We had plans, happy plans.  When we ran into roadblocks, and we did, we worked on them together and we worked them out.

There is no working this out!  I can’t take any steps to change the fact that Melinda died and a part of me died with her.   It’s not that I’m not trying, but most days my energy has to go to keeping myself upright.  There isn’t much, or any, left over for anything else like rebuilding a life.   I have to rebuild myself first, and that’s proving harder than I’d ever imagined.   I once considered myself a strong person.  Now I don’t know what that means anymore.  Others tell me I’m strong, but I don’t see it.  WTF happened to my life?

I had the biggest smile, the loudest laugh, and the most social personality in the room.  I was the take charge kind of person who got things done no matter how big or small the task.  I was the organizer, the cleaner, the maker.  Now I sit.  Those parts of me seem to have disappeared.  I prefer to be alone, and I’m getting my wish since most of the people in my life have virtually disappeared.  I don’t like leaving the house.  I can’t make myself care what’s clean or dirty, and I do what I do by rote.   WTF happened to my life?

In case you haven’t noticed, today is not a good day, but many days aren’t.  I miss my daughter more than any words could possibly convey.  I miss my family even though my husband and oldest daughter are physically here.  I miss not reacting to commonly used phrases like “I nearly died laughing” or “worst day ever.”   I miss waking up with a list of “to do” in my head and then getting it done.  I miss caring about life.  I miss being happy, but most of all I miss the part of my heart that died May 18, 2013.

 

They Say Year 2 Is Harder

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.