Category: My Grief and Growth

If you look at me, you may not see my wounds. I have all my fingers, arms, and legs that I was born with.

When a mother loses a child, there’s a feeling that is similar, I suppose, to that of one who loses a limb.

As the date of her death is approaching, I’m feeling afraid. I’m afraid of the pain. The memory of that day, weeks afterward.

Does time heal all wounds? No, I’m afraid it doesn’t. Not this.

Once a child is gone, what is left? Memories, remanents of clothes, and pictures. A person who loses a leg, can get a prosthetic leg and learn to walk again, but what can a mother do?

A mother can keep walking forward, but there’s always the pain. There’s always an ache and a limp that only another mother who lost a child can recognize.

A person who loses a limb sometimes reaches out to touch the phantom limb when the ache overcomes them. Similarly, a mother reaches out.

The advice I give myself is to keep walking, even if it hurts, keep going on.

I read the following from Space.com’s article, “Quantum Entanglement: Love on a Subatomic Scale,”

The basic idea of quantum entanglement is that two particles can be intimately linked to each other even if separated by billions of light-years of space; a change induced in one will affect the other.

Jesse Emspak (2016)

In order to process our thoughts and feelings about death, we try to understand it in terms we know. For me, it’s through my understanding of time and distance that I try to understand her death.

Rebecca was with me and now she is not.

Time: May 18, 2019, was the last time I held her in my arms. 287 days. 2 hours and 5 minutes.

Distance: Close and far.

As we go about life, we’re leaving impressions and memories. There are echos of ourselves that we leave as we move about during our days on this earth. People perceive us and the impressions of our voice, smile, temper, thoughts, touch and so on–their sensory receptors collecting each particle of what makes us–us.

Memories are created by cellular activity. Cells are made of trillions of atoms. Atoms never die.

I wrote a poem many years ago, “How to Make a Memory.” It was about my brother, John.

Before my brother died, on his deathbed, I held his hand and tried to memorize every detail.

The whorl of his fingerprint. The unusual shape of his thumb.

His face and strong chin. The freckles had a sheen of sweat. His sandy brown hair and the scar from his surgery that went from one ear all the way over his head to the other ear.

I put his right hand to the right side of my cheek and I breathed in. The impression of him is in my head. The molecular makeup of John impressed into my brain, heart, and soul.

The echoes of Beck float around me. I breathe in and out and she is with me. Quantum Entanglement–she is a particle that is connected to me and I with her.

Atoms never die.

Do you ever stare into space and see the sights before you, but you’re really not focused on anything in particular. Your brain is quiet for a few brief moments.

I’ve found that when I stare off into nothing, I can imagine Beck’s face, hair, smile better than when I don’t.

I don’t know why that happens, but it’s a lovely place to visit if only for a few seconds.

Quotes on Silence

Many years ago, a family friend asked me to help her in the delivery room when she gave birth to her daughter. In the middle of her labor, she decided she was giving up. She refused to push. The nurses and doctor tried everything to get her to push, but she just wouldn’t do it.

So I climbed in the bed behind her, grabbed her legs and held them in position and spoke words of encouragement in her ear. The nurses said they never saw anything like it.

I don’t know why I did it. I didn’t even think about it–I just did it. Upon reflection, a woman helping another woman during birth is primal–it’s what we do.

That’s a natural thing to do–helping a woman give birth, but what about when a mother loses a child?

When a mother loses a child, there’s no one who jumps in and whispers words of encouragement. There’s no one to sit for hours through the pain. People are more willing to sit and wait on the brink of a joyful event, but not when there’s emptiness.

My mom lost my brother when he was 16, and I would imagine she would offer advice, but there is none. She is still dealing with the pain of losing John and now a grand-daughter, and there’s only so much she can give.

There are moments that I want to talk, ask questions, hear words that will show me the way. And then, I think, no one can possibly imagine the loss I feel because they didn’t lose Rebecca. I did. I’m the one who carried her for 9 months, gave birth and cared for her. I’m her mom. How can someone share their experience with me when each pain, each loss, is unique.

There’s no insight in this post. There’s only the acknowledgment that losing a child is a lonely walk. I can talk about her with people who loved her–and some greatly–but no one was her mom–just me.

Labor is labor. Pain is pain. I’m a good coach, so I will talk myself through this. I feel that the payoff will be a feeling of closeness and peace with my girl, my baby.

I can’t skip Double Dutch. I never could. There’s a rhythm to it. You have to know how to jump in, and avoid getting slapped in the face with the thin, plastic rope and get laughed at by the kids on the playground.

I’ve watched others keep time with their bodies–slightly keeping time with the ropes and then just jump in at the right time. I can’t do that, so I never learned how.

I’ve been avoiding places and experiences where Beck was–or where we were with her.

I didn’t vote last week. Voting was something we did as a family. Since Christina was a baby, I made it a point to bring my kids to vote, but last week, I couldn’t physically make my body go. I couldn’t text my kids and organize them so we could all go together.

There’s a rhythm to this. This movement of jumping into a space where she once was. I don’t know how to walk through the door of our voting place. I can’t go and not see us together.

I feel the hesitation, the uncertainty and the fear of pain.

There are so many places where we’ve been. Now, there are so many moments of trepidation.

I recently read a letter from the poet Rainer Maria Rilke (1875 -1926) in the Paris Review (9/6/2018) where he offers consolation and advice to a friend who lost her brother.

Rilke Letters on Grief

Grand Hôtel, August 1^st, 1913

My Dear Sidie,

Your letter really touches my heart. On the one hand, I want to encourage you in your pain so that you will completely experience it in all its fullness, because as the experience of a new intensity it is a great life experience and leads everything back again to life, like everything that reaches a certain degree of greatest strength. But on the other hand, I am very concerned when I imagine how strangled and cut off you currently live, afraid of touching anything that is filled with memories (and what is not filled with memories?). You will freeze in place if you remain this way. You must not, dear. You have to move. You have to return to his things. You have to touch with your hands his things, which through their manifold relations and attraction are after all also yours. You must, Sidie, (this is the task that this incomprehensible fate imposes upon you), you must continue his life inside of yours insofar as it has been unfinished; his life has now passed onto yours. You, who quite truly knew him, can quite truly continue in his spirit and on his path. Make it the task of your mourning to explore what he had expected of you, had hoped for you, had wished to happen to you. If I could just convince you, my dear friend, that his influence has not vanished from your existence (how much more reliably I feel my father to be effective and helpful in me since he no longer dwells among us). Just think how much in our daily lives misleads and troubles us, and renders another person’s love imprecise for us. But now he is definitely here, now he is completely free to be here and we are completely free to feel him … Haven’t you felt your father’s influence and compassion a thousand times from the universe where all, truly all, Sidie, is beyond loss? Don’t believe that something that belongs to our pure realities could drop away and simply cease. Whatever had such steady influence on us had already been a reality independent of all the circumstances familiar to us here. This is precisely why we experienced it as something so different and independent of an actual need: because from the very beginning, it had no longer been aimed at and determined by our existence here. All of our true relationships, all of our enduring experiences touch upon and pass through everything, Sidie, through life and death. We must live in both, be intimately at home in both. I know individuals who already face the one and the other without fear and with the same love—for is life really more demystified and safely entrusted to us than that other condition? Are not both conditions in a place namelessly beyond us, out of reach? We are true and pure only in our willingness to the whole, the undecided, the great, to the greatest. Alas, if I could tell you just how I know it, then deep within your mourning, a tiny kernel of dark joy would take shape. Make it your ambition to take heart. Start doing so this very evening by playing Beethoven; he also was committed to the whole.

Yours, Rainer

The greatest fear a mother has is losing her child. When you lose a child, you lose the emotion that anchors you to this world.

List of things I’m not afraid of:

• Dying
• Telling my truth
• Being poor
• Losing my job
• Failing
• Saying goodbye
• Getting lost
• Speaking in front of large groups
• Trying new things
• Talking to anyone regardless of position or title

Did I lose my fear or am I getting strength from Beck, my ancestors, God, Angels, and Mary?

Maybe 25% of the mental torment I’m feeling is the question, “Will I see Rebecca again?” Yes, I believe in God. I believe in Heaven. But I still wonder and worry.

I wrote the following for my sister-in-law, Sonia. I read it at her funeral. She died a few years ago. She was a remarkable woman. I admired her greatly.

I re-read the following recently. I believe what I wrote is true.

What can I tell you about Sonia. She was the wheel within the wheel for her family. The Home that everyone gravitated to. I think that happens with a force of a woman-good energy draws people-also good food will do that too.

I’ve always admired her. I think I’m an average mom with some strengths and weaknesses. My area of weakness is physical affection and gentleness. I’m a drill sergeant mom to a certain degree-a drill sergeant who gives hugs from time to time, I guess. I never met her mom, Concepcion. I’ve asked Mando about her, and he’d described a mom that I wish I could have been. I could see Concepcion through Sonia-a woman who drew her family together, fed them, loved them, guided them.

So when I say that I’m grateful for Sonia, I don’t think that fully describes what l’m feeling. She was easy to talk with. A genuine soul-a really, real person. She took care of Danny from when he was 12 weeks old-till last Friday. Let me tell you about Friday. Normally after work, I call up and tell her I’m about 2 min away. She’d tell him to get ready, walk him to the door and wave good-bye. On Friday, I called and there was no answer, so I went inside. On Friday, we chatted while Danny got ready, she walked me to her back door by the kitchen, laughed at Danny for trying to walk out without his shoes. I said, “Thank you. Thank you.” In my head, I thought I was being weird for saying it twice-maybe three times, but I know I wanted to make sure she heard me. So let me tell you how I think God works. I think I was meant to get out of the car, walk into the house, and thank the woman who spent about 10,080 hours taking care of my boy. 10,080 hours.

Love is like food; it feeds the mind, body and soul. Danny never met his grandmother, Concepcion, but her brand of Love flowed through Sonia. He’ll carry different languages of Love in him. The language I speak and the language of Concepcion and Sonia. With this brand of Love, this language of Love, Danny will give and receive love with fluency and beauty that will make Concepcion and Sonia proud.

Let me tell you something that I believe. I believe that our bodies are just houses for our souls and spirits. Our soul belongs to God-pure and simple. We return to the Source who created us. Our spirits are different. Our spirits remain behind. I see my grandfather’s spirit in me and my children. I see Concepcion in her children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren—as clear as if she was here. Our ancestor’s spirits whisper to us when we’re lonely-in a voice that speaks in our heart, guiding us, reminding us who we are.

Sonia will always be with us as long as we follow what she believed-family, love, and togetherness. Carry this on, and she’ll live for generations. I also believe that a second in heaven is a thousand years on earth. When she left us, she opened her eyes and saw God first-she saw her mom right after, and when she turns around she’ll see us walking toward her-with Squiggles barking at pretty much nothing.

I shared these feelings with Mando. He said that I can be all these things too. I think I can—if even partially. I’m going to try. I told Danny to do the things that would make her proud.

We should do this. We should try to practice her brand of Love. Be that Home that people gravitate to. When she left her home on Sunday, I said to Mando, it’s strange how this home became just a house without her. I know that when Concepcion died, she left a Grand Canyon size scar on their world. How did they go on? Filling the Grand Canyon with an ocean of Love doesn’t make the canyon go away, but it does fill it. Fill her Home-your Home with Love, Forgiveness and Peace. Let go of negative emotions-release it. Breathe in love and exhale the pain.

I’m writing this for Danny who feels her loss deeply. He’s afraid of going to her house and not seeing her there. When we do go to her house, I’m going to hold his hand, sit out on her front porch, and ask him what Sonia would want him to do and feel. After 10,080 hours of time spent with her, l’m sure he’ll hear her voice inside his little head, and he’ll know what to do.

Even though Beck had her own apartment, she would be here most of her time off from work. When she would take a shower, she’d leave hair on the shower wall.

It’s the little stuff that drives a person crazy–pans crashing when I would try to sleep, door slamming late at night.

When she died, I found a red sweater with a Target name tag sticker on it. I pulled the tag off, and I found a strand of hair stuck to the tag. I pulled on the hair and wrapped it around my finger. I sat in my car just looking at the hair, and I cried. I kissed the hair and tucked it into my sun visor clip. The edge of the hair poked on the side. Every morning I looked up at that single strand.

Some day, the doors will stop slamming. The pans will stop making noise. The hair, that you swore would drive you over the edge of sanity, will be gone.

I’m not saying that we let everything slide. I guess just put things into proportion. I still get irritated, but now I think about my reaction and my words. It’s a complete understatement to say that I’m a different person now. I may look the same, but I’m thinking differently in many ways.

During the El Paso memorials for the shooting victims, a mariachi played the Amor Eterno for the crowd. I remember seeing the face of a young musician that you see below playing and crying at the same time. Music can help us feel and heal.

Amor Eterno is a song that perfectly describes a deep love via the pain of loss. I thought I understood the lyrics to this song, but not really. Now, I feel the words deep within my core.

Eternal Love

You are the sadness in my eyes
That weep in silence for you love
I look at myself in the mirror and see my face
The time I’ve suffered because of your goodbye
I force my thought to forget you
Because I’m always thinking of yesterday
I’d rather be sleeping than awake
Because of how much it hurts that you are not here

How I wish, ay*, that you lived
That your little eyes never had closed
And to be looking at them

Love eternal and unforgettable
Sooner or later I will be with you
To continue loving each other

I have suffered so much due to your absence
Since that day up to today, I’m not happy
And even though tranquil is my conscience
I know that I could have done more for you

Dark solitude I am living,
The same solitude of your grave
You are the love of which I have
The saddest memory in Acapulco

How I wish, ay*, that you lived
That your little eyes never had closed
And to be looking at them

Love eternal and unforgettable
Sooner or later I will be with you
To continue loving each other

Amor Eterno

[Verso 1]
Tu eres la tristeza de mis ojos
Que lloran en silencio por tu amor
Me miro en el espejo y veo en mi rostro
El tiempo que he sufrido por tu adi

I was an English teacher for 17 years. In my early years of teaching, I made it a requirement that each student memorizes a poem. When we analyzed John Donne’s Holy Sonnet X, Death Be Not Proud, I told them this would be a poem they would remember and draw upon when they need it. I inserted this poem into Rebecca’s funeral program because I needed it.

Holy Sonnet X: Death Be Not Proud

Death be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadfull, for, thou art not soe,
For, those, whom thou think