Category: Grief

Today is a day we set aside to honor and remember those who have died in service to this country of ours, our beautiful and deeply flawed America.  I don’t really think of myself as coming from a military family, but just a moment’s reflection proves me wrong.  My Dad served in the Army.  My nephew recently served in Afghanistan with the Marines.  Two uncles and a cousin were naval officers, another uncle a sailor.  And a couple of cousins proudly served in the Air Force.

None of my relatives have died in service, which are those folks we honor today.  We have been lucky when others have not.

Driving through the small town of Cary to visit our daughter’s grave this afternoon, we passed a field of flags, flapping in the wind.  It was a beautiful sight, honestly, reminding me of the significance this day holds for so many other grieving mothers.  I made a mental note as we passed, that perhaps we could spend a few moments there on our return trip home, introduce our boys to the significance of the day.

What a glorious day it was.  Warm, bright, crisp light, big puffy clouds.  My heart felt full, both from being with our girl, and seeing that rolling field of flags, dancing in the wind.  I have some fairly complicated feelings about America these days, but seeing those flags didn’t feel complicated at all.

Walking in between the rows, I noticed that each flag had a tag. When you turned it around, it carried a name, age, hometown, branch of service, and date of death.  That peaceful field of flags instantly became more potent to me.  I should have realized, of course, that an installation of flags on Memorial Day would honor those who have died, but something about seeing the names and ages of so many young men was visceral.

Their dates of death were not so long ago — 2008, 2009, 2010.  All of these young men from Illinois towns like Skokie, Crystal Lake, West Chicago, Effingham.  You look at a tag, then look up to see this sea of flags, each with their own tag, their own soldier or Marine, their own date of death, their own sorrow.

I noticed a man walking through the rows, looking at the tags, photographing some of them.  We criss-crossed a couple of times until we were on the same row, me just a flag ahead of him.  I stepped aside so he could pass me, and he apologized, saying he would get out of my way.  We smiled.

As we walked along, I think I said something about the tags.  The man told me that he was taking photos of the soldiers he knew.  Ouch.  He went on to say that he was a biker and volunteered to meet and handle the caskets when they are flown in to the local airport, be with the families as their sons, husbands, fathers, brothers, return home in a casket.

I paused, listening, and my eyes welled up.  The man paused too, his eyes welled up, and he said, “I’m a biker and we give hugs.  Can I give you a hug?”  Yes, please, kind stranger.  I thanked him for being there for these men and their families in that way.  Not everyone could do that.  He told me his friends called him “Matter.”  I heard “Madder,” which kind of made sense, for a biker who honors lost soldiers, but he kindly corrected me.

In just a few minutes, Matter and I connected.  I shared that as a young woman I had trained at Chicago’s VA hospital, in their PTSD Clinic, listening to stories of Vietnam veterans who survived, but were deeply troubled, that woke me up and humbled me.  While I don’t connect frequently with military culture, I maintain a deep respect for what men and women in the military provide, their service and sacrifice.

Matter told me a little bit more about his volunteering and the flags themselves.  They are raised in the spot every Memorial Day, as a remembrance of those veterans killed in the “War on Global Terrorism” as he called it, and honor the 300+ Illinois soldiers and Marines who have been killed in Iraq and Afghanistan.  Matter told me that five have been added this year.

“Did you know that soldiers who die in service die twice?,” Matter asked.  “They die once on the field, but they die a second time when people stop saying their name.  That’s why we’re here, why we do this.”  He went on to tell me that every hour, the names of the dead are read and a bell is rung for each veteran.

I know how important it is to keep saying the name of those who go before us.  Feeling close to him, I shared with Matter that we had just visited the grave of our girl, that I know the importance of saying the names, and offered up Donna’s name.  He said it back to me and we shared another tear and another hug.

Tonight I feel grateful for folks like Matter.  And I can’t tell you how good it felt to connect with another American who very possibly embraces politics that are different from my own, but has shared values and humanity.

Matter showed me what matters this Memorial Day.

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The group that Matter volunteers with is the Veterans Network Committee of  Northern Illinois.  You can visit their website or donate to their efforts to bring “vintage veterans” to Washington, D.C. HERE.

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Addendum:  Matter reached out to me after this was published to clarify that he was not a veteran himself, as I had written.  All apologies on my behalf to Matter — I made an assumption.  He calls himself a patriot and works to improve the lives of veterans and their families.

The definition of skeptical is, “1) not easily convinced; having doubts or reservations.  2) relating to the theory that certain knowledge is impossible.” Skeptical pretty much sums up how I feel about the idea of an afterlife.  But I can’t claim atheism, because just as I can’t say God exists, I can’t say He doesn’t either.  And I’m certain enough of my uncertainty, that I still capitalize the “H” in He. Respect, yo.  I may be a cynic, but I’m an optimistic cynic.

My beliefs, or lack thereof, are a challenge when it comes to having a dead daughter.  So many of my friends who are in the bereaved parent boat with me have the comfort of faith that acts as an oar or a life preserver, whatever is needed at the moment.  Faith can help you get to where you want or need to be, like an oar, and it can help keep you afloat when you are sinking, like a life preserver.

I have had enough conversations over the years to understand that those bereaved parents I know with faith find tremendous comfort in the idea of being reunited with their child after their own death.  Being certain in the idea of an afterlife can act as both the oar and life preserver in the choppy waters of grief.

The way I think about Donna in her death fluctuates.  In some moments, I feel certain that our time together, precious and sacred as it was, was finite. When we are done, we are done.  In other moments, I feel her presence and feel with the same certainty that we are connected outside of time and place.  Perhaps, maybe, possibly, we will be with one another again, in some way or another.

Acorns are our bond, the physical manifestation of our connection, despite not being together.  I wrote about them HERE.  Starting on her fifth birthday, the first birthday after her death, acorns started popping up in connection to our girl.  I feel the presence of acorns in my life as a sign from Donna.

They come to me, most especially, in moments when I feel anxious or fearful or vulnerable.  Seeing an acorn in those moments, as I often do, feels like a very real confirmation that my girl is reaching out.  But how is that possible for someone like myself who doesn’t believe in an afterlife with any certainty or conviction?

I don’t know.

There was that day we adopted our son.  Out of nowhere, friends and family started sending me photos of acorns.  They were coming via text and Facebook and email.  Random photos of acorns from about 8-10 people, all within a day.  That day just happened to be one of extreme anxiety and vulnerability for us.  Our son’s Birth Mother had given birth two days before and that day was the day where she would or would not choose to entrust him to us.

The thing is, no one knew this.  We did not tell folks that this beautiful baby had been born, for a host of reasons.  Adoption is tricky and a full third of them fall through in the last moments.  We hoped, but we were realistic. Those hours in between when his Birth Mother left the hospital holding her son and when she signed the paperwork to make her son ours were pretty damn heavy.

I remember sitting at the Walgreen’s, dispatched to wait for a prescription, fairly crawling out of my skin wondering if we would leave Texas as the parents of this beautiful boy, or leave Texas without him.  Either scenario seemed possible.  Just in that time at the Walgreen’s, three images of acorns were sent to me from friends who had no connection to one another and who had no idea where I was.

Donna was with me in those moments, I have no doubt, providing hope and reassurance by sending me acorns.  Everything would be okay.

The acorns found me again today.  After a few weeks of fear and uncertainty, I found myself at a medical appointment for one of my boys. The details are immaterial because, well, privacy, but what is pertinent is that I have been anxious and on edge about one of the boys for a few weeks now.  Was he okay?  Was there merit to the concerns that have been floating about?  What news would we learn?

Then in the middle of the appointment, I looked down and saw this:

An acorn.  Of course.  In the middle of a treatment room at a hospital.  An acorn that had absolutely no context.  I mean, think about it, how often have you looked down at a medical appointment and found a random small plastic acorn in the room?  It defies logic.  But I looked down and I saw that acorn and I knew — everything was going to be okay.  Donna was there to tell me even before the medical professionals did.  And she was right.

So here I am, hours later, still comforted by Donna’s presence today.  And I don’t even really believe in an afterlife.  Except I do believe, fully and completely, that Donna was there with me in those moments, providing hope and reassurance in the form of an acorn.  It is a conundrum.

The cynic in me shakes her head and says, “Yeah, well, you say you find those acorns when you are anxious and afraid and vulnerable. Maybe you’re just looking for them in those moments.”  The optimistic cynic in me counters with, “Yeah, well, who the hell thinks of or looks for small plastic acorns in the middle of a hospital appointment?!”

If anything, the gift is that I see the acorns when they present themselves.  I am open to the acorns when they find me.  If those acorns do happen to be a sign from our girl, wherever she may be, she can be confident that I receive every single one of them with wonder and gratitude and deep, profound joy.  We’ll meet you there, girl, and I bet there will be acorns everywhere.

Last week marked the ten year anniversary of our daughter’s cancer diagnosis.  Ten years is a long time.  And yet, somehow, I can transport myself to Donna’s bedside at the hospital the morning we got the diagnosis, as if it were only a few days ago.  The fear and dread and helplessness and growing pit in my stomach, knowing and feeling that something was not right.

With Donna’s diagnosis, my life became divisible by before and after. “Before,” I was a young, happy mama, naive, busy, focused on my life as mother, balancing a changing career (I had gotten a promotion just a few weeks earlier), with raising our girl.  I had one hell of a great life, when I think about it.  I worked three days a week, then home for four.  My Dad always said I was away from Donna just enough to truly appreciate her when I was home.  Wise man.

The “after” part of my life feels so much more complicated.  I feel old, sad, tired, unmoored, cynical more often than I care to admit. The career I was so committed to and identified with for twelve years is a thing in my past.  I think of myself as a social worker, still, and the values that drew me to social work are as present today as they ever were, but I haven’t truly worked in the field for a decade.  These days, I say I am a writer, but am I really?

And I am the mom to two boys!  How in the Sam Hill did that happen?  I was the mother of a daughter.  I should be navigating a life of tween drama and mean girl nonsense.  Instead, I am scrubbing pee out of grout on the regular.  There is simply a disconnect between the life I have and the life I had.

And then, of course, there is the guilt.  Guilt is a heavy burden.  Gratefully, I don’t feel guilt about Donna.  That beautiful girl received the best of care and was treated by a team of professionals that did their best to give her the life we all hoped for.

My guilt stems from other things related to Donna’s cancer.  The thank yous I never wrote, the frustration I feel with her brothers when they misbehave, the very real fact that there are children I still get to raise.  Most days I feel I am doing it wrong, “it” being life. Because I know, truly and deeply, just how precious life is, there is a sense that I should be doing it better.  Eating better, working harder, planning more fully, not wasting a single second. Sigh.

Milestones make me reflective, and this one is no different.  I am choosing to wallow in it, if only just a bit.  The actual anniversary was last Thursday.  I went to the grocery store, cleaned the house, folded laundry.  More than once, I felt hot tears in my eyes because I know that the ability to do simple tasks like shopping and cleaning and folding were things I was not able to do easily while we were caring for our girl.  The ordinariness of all of it made me feel mournful.

Ten years ago I gained a wisdom and perspective I would not wish on anybody.  Those things don’t go away or erode with time.  They inform all of my days, whether I want them to or not.  I am so chock full of wisdom and perspective that I am fairly certain that is what I sweat out in the dog days of summer.

At the heart of all of this is Donna.  Still gone.  Still buried.  She dances through my thoughts every day.  The beautiful girl with her big blue knowing eyes.  Time is a funny concept.  Ten years ago Donna was diagnosed. That is more than two of her lifetimes.  It feels like never and it feels like fifteen minutes.  Fuck cancer.