I never thought I would be able to smile and laugh on Lilly's birthday. It seemed so strange to me. Sometimes I still know what it is to feel as if I will never be able to smile again, and yet there I was, enjoying company of good friends, even on her "Heaven Day".
Some will say it is a testament to our strength and heroic courage in handling our grief. I say it is the grace of God with compassion and support from others. When someone genuinely shares our tears, it is like they have stepped into our world of hurt and somehow their strength helps to carry the immense weight of it all.
A week before Lilly's birthday, I was pleasantly surprised by a billing girl in the dentist office. We have had some insurance problems due to policies being wrongfully canceled after Lilly died. Instead of canceling her insurance they canceled all of our plans...
I had to explain that my daughter had died a year ago and why our insurance company still seems to get confused, and then there I was, in the middle of a dentist office with a stranger hugging me and asking to hear my story. I gave her the short version, and she shared about her niece, Mya, whose heart stopped beating just a few days before she was due.
As I looked into this strangers teary eyes, full of compassion and genuine interest, I thought, "she must know my Lord." By the time we said goodbye she had said Lilly's name more than most people I know have in a year. It was heartening that she did not run away or look at me as if she might be able to catch my pain like a disease.
Moments like that begin to restore my faith in humanity and remind me of the things Lilly has taught me. However, like most highs, I should have known a trench was waiting just ahead.
On the way home from this very encounter, I was pulled over in a speed trap, going 45 in a 35. Right in front of the cemetery. The cop was abrupt and rude as I silently handed him my information, and I cursed my absent mind as he went back to his car to write my ticket.
While I waited, a funeral procession went by. Being alone with my thoughts on the best of days can be dangerous, and here I was sitting so close to her little body, reliving her own funeral. Not the best situation for a bereaved mother with an anxiety problem. I took some deep breaths and tried desperately to hold it together just long enough to get my stupid ticket and get home so I could break down there.
When I finally calmed down, probably hours later, to tell Casey what happened, he called it the perfect storm of events. Because it did not stop with the ticket and the funeral procession directly across from the cemetery where my daughter lies. He told me that the court date for the ticket was on February 19th, of all the days in this wretched world....it was her birthday.
I fell completely apart.
I'm sure he thought I was trying to get out of a ticket, but what an actress I would have to be to pull off the crazy, wild sobs rolling from the depths of that hurt. I tried to put up my hand to stop his rambling, I couldn't make out any of it anyway, and I explained; "please sir, I just need a minute, my daughter died last year and that happens to be her birthday". He mumbled something like "sorry about that loss", and continued to spew his superfluous information in a tone soaked with cold indifference.
I don't know if it was the drastic digression in compassion between this encounter and the one I had just had moments ago at the dentist office, or if it was the break of trust in a figure that is supposed to be on my side; but as he tossed my ticket in my passenger window and walked away, leaving me a crumpled mess, I grew hysterical to the point that I knew I could not drive.
How I dialed the phone and communicated my location to Casey, I'm really not sure. I know he couldn't make out anything I said for at least 15 minutes.
The emotional roller coaster between Joy and Sorrow exhausted me. It does most days actually, this just happened to be more than I could physically/emotionally handle. I couldn't stop shaking. The only thing that stifled my wild sobs was my fear of scaring Isaac.
I wish I could say this was a one time thing. But the truth is, it happens more often than you want to know. Less now that I am taking medication, but really that just prolongs the time between episodes.
This separation of parent and child....there is something so unnatural about it, something so wrong it's on the verge of evil. It is like daily torture. Dying little by little, every moment she can't be with me.
Children aren't supposed to die. We are supposed to leave them once we are confident they are comfortable and safe to be left on their own in the world.
I don't have any deep theological wisdom filled thoughts to share...just my daily struggle to keep breathing....to want to keep breathing...without her....
My initial reason for sharing this story was to move others toward compassion rather than judgement or preoccupation with self. You never know what the person behind you at the checkout has been through. Who knows if the woman you complain to about your children is secretly hurting because she can't have her own.
Maybe we should stop and think a little more before we judge. Compassion can go a very long way into the heart of the hurting. But so can negligence and scorn.
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