Good Grief, take 2.

Today is 7 years since I lost my little girl and almost my life.

That is such a sucky sentence to write!

I wrote about what happened 2 years ago, here.

I wrote about the art of grieving 1 year ago, here.

This year…what. What to say?

I know what not to say. Time heals all wounds. I hate when people say that. Time doesn’t make it better or easier. I find it insulting to imply otherwise…like, the love and connection you had for another human being, which in turn makes the grief that much harder, will at some point simply fade away taking the grief with it. No thanks. I’d rather love fully and grieve deeply than that alternative.

What time does do is give me a chance to come to an acceptance that I will, in fact, miss someone that I love for the rest of my life. Talk about humbling. The one thing I want most will never happen.

If I could go back and change everything to have her here, I totally would. But since I can’t, then I guess I can find peace with it. The paradigm shift that happened after almost dying, and losing a child, has created a life for me and my family that is infinitely better than what we had before. To me, the realization that I am on borrowed time…that my children aren’t exclusively mine but can be removed from my life in a heartbeat…has only enforced my resolve to make this one life that we all share the most kick ass life it can be.

Facing what my legacy would be not at 90 but at 29, on my deathbed in a hospital, changed me fundamentally.

When all is said and done, whether I live for 50 more years or die tomorrow, I want my kids to say only one thing about me. And it’s not, “She really taught me to have good dental hygiene 3 times a day” or “I can really follow a bedtime routine!” or “I’m an excellent cleaner thanks to her example”. I want them to say, “My mom taught me how to live a life full of joy and meaning, no matter what I’m doing or where I am or what’s happening around me.”

So, I’m off to spend the day with the rest of the family, enjoying our time together. Eating angel food cake (ha!) and releasing ladybugs into our garden. Of course a balloon will be sent up with scribbled love notes to Baby Rose. Maybe we’ll all pile into our bed at night and fall asleep together…family. Maybe tears, definately laughter, lots of love.

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14 Responses

  1. Much peace to you. The thought of losing a child literally takes my breath away. I can’t imagine the pain of that. Even the thought of it reminds me to be a little bit kinder, a little more patient, and appreciate who they are, today.

  2. Your ways of honoring your daughter are touching and so full of love. You’re a shining example of how to live- thank you for sharing your feelings so openly and for spreading your joy so often.

  3. What a beautiful post. I cannot imagine the pain of losing a child, it was hard enough when we lost our little baby niece 3 years ago.

    Happy birthday Baby Rose..

  4. I can only imagine how your heart changes after losing a child. Yours seems to have grown stronger and more full, as you honor her and your family with fully embracing life.

  5. It shows so much courage that you not only make the most of your grief by allowing it to motivate you in positive ways but also that you so honestly and eloquently share it with the world.

    Bless you all.

  6. Thanks for sharing your story today; the good and the bad. I hope you feel peace and love with your family as you honor Rose. Now I am off to give my boy an extra squeeze.

  7. I’m so sorry about this, and so appreciate your sharing this celebration and wisdom and bravery and faith. I too can attest that it’s sometimes the worst things in life that bring us to the surest truths.

  8. Happy birthday, Rose. I love you,your brother & sisters & mom & dad!

  9. Thanks, everyone, for your kind and encouraging comments. 🙂

  10. so incredibly sorry for your loss. i had preeclampsia with taylor my first i almost stroked out, so i am familiar with the terror birth can hold. but in no ways familiar with the pain of your loss. you are a tribute to her every day in how you live life to the fullest with joy and fun and curiosity. that shows. she is proud.

  11. i didn’t know this about your life. wow. for you to take this sad event, keep it with you, in honor of the sweet little girl, and make something better of the days you have is incredible. my thoughts are with you, your family, and little miss rose.

  12. It breaks my heart to learn of what you survived and are surviving through still. Much love to you and your family.

    I have chills because I have pictures I took on July 19th of a Mylar balloon flying through the sky. I was not sure what it was and zoomed it in on my camera to show my daughter. She felt bad for the child who lost their balloon then tears filled my eyes. I said a prayer for the mother that may have lost a child as I do every time I see a balloon flying through the sky. A beautiful tribute and tradition.

    Karen (bluebee)

  13. […] learned to value quality time with my kids the hard way, after experiencing not only a loss of a daughter but also a close call with my own life. It was a transforming experience. Suddenly I didn’t see life in terms of school and grades […]

  14. […] learned to value quality time with my kids the hard way, after experiencing not only a loss of a daughter but also a close call with my own life. It was a transforming experience. Suddenly I didn’t see life in terms of school and grades […]

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