Angels And Miracles

Dangerously close I stood in the park just a block away from the old house; the house I didn’t want to leave, the house in which she took her earth life, the house I clung to until moving to the country where I began to grieve openly and mostly alone.

I felt like I could reach out and touch the house but I dared not drive by in case I would happen to see her car or her…late for work, messy bun, large purse in hand, probably still looking for her keys. I would be racing to park and window down, frantic, “Don’t leave yet!” I jumped out of the car more than once just for a hug and if it was the right time, to help her find her keys. But, she’s not there. I couldn’t bring myself to go there. She’s not coming back.

My mind raced as we drove home in the dark, the tears finally falling, sobs erupting as I pictured all of the moms and daughters I’ve seen graduating, having babies, getting married, I longed for what I will never have with my daughter. But, more than that was my feeling of anger and desperation. Why?

 

 

Not why she took her life. I know and I don’t know. But, why are there everyday miracles, lives saved, some phenomenal occurrence finding a girl in a well or grabbing a little boy before he crosses the street kind of miracle that everyone talks about. The kind of story with the attempted suicide that went rightly wrong and the person who attempted lived to tell about why suicide is never the answer. Why did she not deserve a miracle? Why didn’t she have a guardian angel like I supposedly have surrounding me in my grief? I saw them. I felt her around me after she left. Why wasn’t she told by that one man who mattered, to stay? Why didn’t he tell her he loved her? Why didn’t someone randomly receive a whisper in the ear to go to the house? Why did everyone arrive just minutes too late? Why didn’t I know, thousands of miles from home that the wrongness I felt, “the earth is trembling and I don’t know why,” was her soul calling to me?

Why are there angels now and a god or gods to pray to in my despair, anguish, in my begging for freedom from the burden of coming to the city and remembering all of the restaurants we visited together, all of the shopping, all of the ice cream and playgrounds? Why are there meditations now and crystals and religions? Why am I called to teach people about mental health and about suicide prevention and about Borderline Personality Disorder now? Why couldn’t I have heard the diagnosis in a dream or in passing? Why must I be told I need to be the miracle who can possibly save someone’s life when I wanted to save hers for 22 years?

 

 

Why are there mediums and guides and books and prayers now? I could have taught her meditation, taken her to a church if she would have gone, taught her relaxation exercises. She could have met ANYONE just anyone please anyone to convince her to hold on for one more day, Taylor. Hold on for one more day. I am holding on and I will suffer for the rest of my life without her but she died without an angel, without a miracle, without the only people who mattered to her to tell her to stay. She died thinking she wasn’t worth one more day. Where was the miracle? Where was god, angels, guides, people, where was I? The day before she left the earth, I had no desire whatsoever to participate in a game drive to see elephants that I hungered to see, fought for from home, advocated, spoke, wrote, organized for and experienced a year ago. That year I felt as if I were in heaven, in the presence of God, Mother Nature. This time, something was wrong. I cried that day. I felt immense depression. I tried to call her. I couldn’t get through. The feeling went away as easily as it came. But, damn it, if it was a message I missed it.

And, when I sat up straight in bed 9 hours ahead of her on the bank of the Luangwa River at 4:30am she called me. I couldn’t hear her. I don’t think she was talking. I begged for her to call me right back and she didn’t. I tried a few more times. I took a shower and before I finished packing to fly out of the country, I wanted to try one more time. My call was answered but cancelled. Someone hung up on me. I guess it wasn’t her because she had typed a suicide note to me in that time and I wrote back that I would come home and get well with her. She never received my call or my message. I never spoke to her again.

 

 

Why are angels and miracles saved for anyone except the girl who created miracles for others? Why did she suffer for 22 years in the midst of her fierce loyalty to truth, honor, and compassion for animals and people? Why could she not be spared? Why must I pray now, love now, learn now, heal now, teach now without her?

At 4’11”, with a tiny sundress and long brown hair she looked up at anyone, a perfect stranger and could create a laugh or offer assistance or simply company. With brown and hazel-like eyes, you could see to her soul, you could see the Universe. My chest grew and my chin raised with a mother’s pride and a knowing smile that I could introduce her to anyone and she would at least light up a life, even for a moment. But, she didn’t deserve the grace, the dignity, the miracle, the angel, the god, the hand, the words to keep her from wanting to die?

I am in protest of this nightmare. I can live for my son and my family and fiancé. I can even live for the dogs. I can learn to love her and live for her, in her name…but not now. I am clear. I don’t want to be here without her. I didn’t choose this and if I did choose this with her, as my twin soul who has never left me since she left the earth she knows I fight this decision, this diagnosis delivered oh so poorly, the emotional abuse, the feeling of knowing but not knowing, the absolute that her death brings. No, I will not accept this. Not yet. No, I will not lean on a god or angel or person or miracle that didn’t come for her. You neglect my daughter, you neglect me. I neglected my daughter in her need and I reject all that is and will ever be without her. 

 

Last Hike October 2015

 

I will heal in time. Not in all ways and not on principle and not because people tell me to. I will live for my son and care for him, love him, nurture him and protect him for the rest of my life. I will teach and educate. I will raise funds to identify and cure Borderline Personality Disorder. But, I feel like it will take a miracle, a god, an angel, and abiding love to keep me grounded and above ground when and if I’m ready to accept help that I feel was refused to my girl.