Unedited from 2016
How do you describe what it feels like, the enormity of your
loss when the actual loss of your child isn’t just grief, pain, and misery? Those are words. I can still smell her tiny
little belly the first time I buried my face into her naked little tummy. I
felt her giggle and I took in her scent and felt her tiny socked feet and
chubby legs meet with her tiny hands in my hair to hold me closer. My baby. She
loved to blow bubbles, too. She was a tiny package who needed so much care and
gave it back in shooting stars…I look to the sky for my breath sometimes and wonder at the sheer size of the Universe and where she could be for that moment,
I close my eyes and I feel her next to me under the covers
with her brother, usually after a struggle for “room.” We read every night,
usually 3 books and sometimes the same ones and that, no one can take away from
me. I have that but I can’t explain that as loss because it wasn’t for nothing.
It was for life and that is what we shared. But, it still races through my mind
when someone even hints that I should be okay by now.
How do you describe her feel? Soft cheeks that I kissed,
tall forehead too…The sprints across the house to catch her on her way to work
for a hug. I feel her neck. I feel her hold me. What should I say to you that
will allow those personal and sacred moments be translated into words that I
don’t even care to put together to form a sentence.
I have since been informed that Taylor used to look through
my clothes while I was gone, the same as I do now. They’re folded or hung with
mine but she liked me, she really did. She was so funny sitting on the couch
when I walked through, ready and on time for work or a meeting. She’s say, “Oh,
mom.” Of course I would ask what was wrong with what I was wearing. Sometimes,
it was obvious and sometimes she’d say, “If you can’t figure it out, I’m not
telling you.” I don’t know how many times I grabbed my tummy to laugh at her
little and constant quips.
The truth is that some days are good. And, some days I feel
like I’m walking around the house looking for the trash she left in the living
room and to see if she left for work, yet (late and looking for her keys). Some
days, as our clothes mingle I feel that intimacy of putting makeup on together
or looking at her brush that still has her hair in it. It’s going through
cabinets and finding the kids’ thermometer and taking care of them when they
were sick. They needed me. How do you explain that you’re no longer hearing
your name…needed. She needed me and I wander around reading a book or cleaning
or waiting.
As I write this, I realize that I miss my son at school as
much as I miss my entire family and our lifestyle of swimming, playing,
reading, listening to loud music, taking trips, laughing, arguing, so very
bonded with close friends and other kids we babysat or who just hung out….they
grow up. She was a package deal, you know. She
had it all; a sharp wit, an abundance of compassion and fight for what’s
right, and a laugh that involved a slapped knee, thrown back head, wide open
laughter, and a hand on her belly, too.
Ah, she had a full 22 years. In her physical world she was
fiercely independent and acted with integrity, always knowing what the right
thing to do is…she wouldn’t even let me shortcut. She was so brave and strong
and oddly enough that’s what she’s always said about me. How do you explain
that? I don’t want to be brave and strong and just because I’m not crumbling at
your feet doesn’t mean I’m not screaming inside or laughing at one of our
private jokes. I read to her, bathed her, hauled her brother, friends and her
everywhere and loved and love her with the same fire she chose to extinguish in
herself, asking me in her farewell note to “Go do what you love like I aspired
to do.” Well, I love you Taylor and your brother. I modeled my advocacy work
for you and you followed. I laughed and loved and you loved and laughed and
struggled. I am most floored now when I look back at old letters, papers,
reminders of her struggles. And, I could not save her and she made her choice. I
can’t explain everything that I go through without her. I can only hold onto
the memories and ride these waves, float on, drown a little, and lay in the
sand waiting to take a breath before I have to face the world again and explain
myself.
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