"Lost"

"Our parting is not the end of our relationship, only an interruption. We have not "lost" them, because we know where they are." (Randy Alcorn, Heaven)

"I'm sorry for your loss." It's a condolence that countless people offered me after Brittany died, and I can say without a shadow of a doubt that before this nightmare, I, too, said it to others when their loved one had died. Not anymore. The more I heard it, the more upset I became...not at the person who spoke the words, but at the word "loss" itself. My daughter wasn't...isn't..."lost." I know where she is....Heaven. Eventually...and politely...I would point that out. I would (and still) simply say, "Thank you, but Brittany isn't lost. She died...and now she's in Heaven." Sometimes people look at me like I'm crazy...or rude. I'm neither. I'm only stating what I believe to be fact. And one day, my little girl and I will be together again.

People often ask me if I'm angry at God. Sometimes. Ok, maybe a lot of the time...but not enough to make me turn away from my faith. Has it been shaken? Absolutely. Have I rejected it? Absolutely not. And while it may seem a bit contradictory, in many ways my faith has been strengthened...maybe even renewed. Let me try and explain why. 

Like I've said before, right after Brittany died I would spend every single day with her at the cemetery (I hate that word). I would scream out loud to God...throw childish tantrums, actually...demanding an explanation. I never got one. Then I resorted to begging and pleading on my hands and knees. I wanted to know...I needed to know...that she was ok. God had inexplicably ripped my world apart...ripped the heart out of my very chest. Didn't I deserve to know that she was ok? Didn't I, at the very least, deserve that small comfort and not be endlessly tormented wondering where she was? I couldn't stand it. It was destroying me mentally and physically and I was on the verge of a mental breakdown...literally. Then He answered...in a dream.

Brittany was holding me. I could even feel her bony arms wrapped around me. She had her chin resting on my forehead and she was smiling. I didn't feel sadness in this dream because she was so happy and peaceful. It was almost tangible. I remember wanting to ask her if she had been in pain after the accident...if she had been scared...but I was unable to speak the words. Then, as if reading my very thoughts, she simply said, "Mom, I just remember my head hurting really bad." She then said "I love you," smiled down at me and kissed my forehead...a wet kiss...not a peck. And it was over. I woke up crying, covered in goose bumps. My forehead wasn't wet from this kiss, but it was slightly cold and tingly. To this day I can touch the very spot where her lips touched me. This dream happened on Tuesday, July 27...exactly two weeks to the day after she died. I immediately woke Brett and told him what happened. He held me and cried, too. "God gave you your answer, honey." He had indeed. 

While I'm still upset with God for taking my little girl away from me...and while I will never understand why...I'm more thankful for the blessings He granted me. He didn't let her die at the scene of the accident. He kept her perfect and beautiful, despite the devastation of the wreck. He gave Brittany the strength to hold on for 5 days. He gave me time to hold her...to tell her how much I love her...and to say goodbye. And He gave me that dream...comforting me with the knowledge that she is safe and happy with Him... patiently waiting for me. 

I am still broken and crippled beyond words. I still question God's decision to take my precious daughter from me. And sometimes I still yell. But at least I know where she is. She isn't lost.

Reflections

When a parent dies, you lose your past. When a child dies, you lose your future.

I reflected on the profoundness of that phrase last Sunday. The weather was nearly perfect and I was able to spend much of the afternoon with Brittany...something that has been very difficult for me to do lately because of this nasty winter. I spread out my Green Bay Packers blanket (I'm an avid fan and Brittany made it for me a few years ago) and brought along my little broom and towel so I could clean off her area and polish her picture. I should explain that I had a large color picture of my daughter placed on her stone so I could see her beautiful face each time I visit. Her blues eyes are particularly brilliant in this photo and when I look at it, I get the overwhelming sensation that she's right there with me, gazing back into my eyes...holding on to me just as tightly as I'm holding on to her. Once everything was perfect, I laid directly on her stone and cradled her picture in my arms. While some people may interpret this as a form of desecration, it is anything but. I am her mother and she is my little girl and this is as close to holding her as I'll ever get again. I feel connected to her there. 

As always, I sobbed...a lot...and whispered in her ear. I told her over and over again how much I miss her and how much I love her. I told her that no matter how much she might want me to be happy...to smile and laugh...I can't. I told her she was wrong thinking I was strong enough to endure this. I rambled on about the unfairness and cruelty of the hand we have been dealt...and then I laid in silence...reflecting: When a parent dies, you lose your past. When a child dies, you lose your future. It cut me like a knife. I was forced to accept the painful reality of the countless things I will never get to share with Brittany. I won't see the elation in her eyes when she gets engaged; I won't share the excitement with her as we sit in a bridal shop trying on outrageously expensive dresses; I won't see my beautiful little girl walk down the aisle into the arms of her Prince Charming; I won't see her experience the miracle of childbirth; and I'll never know the indescribable joy of watching her children grow...little golden hair, blue eyed perfections created by the beauty of my daughter. I have been robbed of all of that...and more.

So as I cradled my little girl in my arms and gently kissed her picture, I closed my eyes and listened to the wind chimes sing softly in the breeze. I could almost hear her voice whisper in my ear, "I love you, Momma." I love you, too pretty girl. Forever and always...

Change

"A wife who loses a husband is called a widow. A husband who loses a wife is called a widower. A child who loses his parents is called an orphan. But...there is no word for a parent who loses a child. That's how awful the loss is." (Neugeboren 1976, 154).


I have changed. It was inevitable, I suppose, but I've also realized that many of those around me have changed, too. That's something I wasn't expecting. Very few people mention Brittany's name in my presence which makes me fear that she's been forgotten. "April isn't crying today. It must be a good day. Let's not talk about Brittany." Or, "April is crying again today. It must be a bad day. Let's not talk about Brittany." The truth of the matter is though, I want to talk about Brittany. Hearing her name is like music to my ears. Will it make me cry? Probably. But it might also make me smile. Say her name. I want to hear it. Tell me stories. I want to hear them. But don't be afraid. Don't be afraid of saying the wrong thing. Sometimes your ear or your shoulder is all I need...not words. No one in my immediate circle has ever lost a child. For that matter, most people outside my circle haven't lost a child, either. It's a learning process for everyone and I understand that. What I don't understand, however, is the isolation I often feel. I think people are scared to be around me...scared of making me cry...scared of making me remember...scared of being happy in their own lives. It's ok to be happy around me. It's ok to smile and laugh.

To be fair, I believe my isolation is mostly self-inflicted...maybe because, subconsciously, I try and spare people of that perceived awkwardness by keeping to myself. But more than that, I keep to myself because that's where I am right now. I don't like being out in public...I don't like being in large groups...and I don't like being in malls anymore (gasp!). I can even go days without speaking a single word to anyone besides my husband and son. But my lack of social interaction and voluntary seclusion aren't necessarily indicative of my state of mind that day. It doesn't mean I'm hiding under the covers with a box of tissues crying myself sick (although I still have plenty of days like that). I guess I've become selfish with my grief. That's really the only way I know how to define it. As a result, I have inadvertently shut many people out of my life. My silence has been mistaken for insolence and standoffishness. Please know that is never my intent.

Yes, my heart is broken and I am suffering. Yes, I have changed...but please don't change who you are to me.

My Forever Valentine

Yesterday, February 13, was another of my "reminder" dates. This particular date was reminding me that it has been 7 months since Brittany died...at 5:10pm to be exact. And, like my other reminder dates (8 & 19), I sat with my little girl. Yesterday was different, though and I'm not sure I can articulate why.  

Despite it being rather windy in Effingham, the afternoon was actually quite pleasant. The sun was shining, the birds were singing and most importantly, the ice was melting! I couldn't stand it covering her up. It further broke my already broken heart. So, I spread out my thick blanket and got to work cleaning her up. There is a color photograph of Brittany on her stone and by the time I was finished, her blue eyes were smiling up at me as if to say, "Thanks Momma!" On most occasions when I sit with Brittany, I sob inconsolably...and yesterday was no different (the Kleenex company loves me). But after my crying ceased, instead of talking or yelling...I sat...in silence. I listened to the sound of the breeze through her wind chimes, imagining she was playing them for me. I listened to the birds happily chirping and reflected on the crackling sounds of melting, dripping snow. I stared down at her picture glimmering in the sunlight and imagined her sitting there next to me. I could almost hear her laugh. In a bittersweet gesture, I also adorned her with Valentine balloons and flowers. Brittany's heart was beautiful, selfless and loving and these tokens represent that.  My heart may be irrevocably shattered, but it will always be filled with endless love for my daughter. She's my Valentine everyday for the rest of my life...and no time or distance can sever that bond. 

Happy Valentine's Day Brittany Erin <3 I love you...forever and always...

Reminders

Brittany's accident was seven months ago today...on July 8 at 12:20pm. That's also the time her boyfriend and his dad were killed...the time her Guardian Angel appeared...and the time my world turned upside down. How can so much time have passed already when my life is still on pause, stuck in July 2010? How can the world pass by so quickly when each breath I take is still so painfully challenging? It hurts to smile and laughing is foreign. I've heard countless people tell me that "Brittany would want you to smile. Brittany would want you to laugh and be happy." I know they all mean well when suggesting these sentiments, but the truth of the matter is, even if the skies would open up and Brittany, herself would say, "Mom! Come on! It's OK to be happy!"...nothing would change. I would still be heartbroken...and smiling and laughing would still be forced...and many times, even faked.

People tell me how strong I am, but I don't feel strong. I wonder if they would say the same thing if they could see me on the days when I can't get out of bed? On the days when I can't catch my breath because the moment I opened my eyes that morning, the wind is knocked out of me all over again? What does it mean to be "strong," anyway? Please don't misunderstand. I'm touched when people say those words to me. I guess I feel like a fraud, though, because on the inside I'm shattered beyond repair. There is not a single second of any day when Brittany isn't on my mind. She's there constantly. When I'm brushing my teethe...she's there. When I'm doing laundry...she's there. Watching TV, helping my son with homework, going to the post office, getting gas...whatever I'm doing...she's always in my thoughts. There is no "getting my mind off of things," despite some great efforts by many dear friends to do just that...but I love them for trying.

Three numbers are engraved in my mind forever: 8, 13, & 19. The 8th was her accident, the 13th she died, and the 19th I buried her. Someone recently told me that these aren't "anniversary dates"...they're just "days." (I know this person was only trying to be encouraging and I truly appreciate the gesture). Maybe they aren't "anniversaries" in the true sense of the word, but they will always be painful reminders...regardless of the month or year the calendar indicates. They serve as reminders of the few short days I had left with her...reminders of how I had to let her go...reminders that I will never again see her brilliant smile or stunning blue eyes...reminders that I will never again hear her infectious laugh or cradle her in my arms...and reminders of why I was forced upon this quest for a "new normal."  

Coming Home

Few people understand my overwhelming need to move back to Illinois and that's ok...they don't have to. I understand it. This is where Brittany is...to me, anyway. However, I have been frequently reminded that "Brittany isn't really here anymore." Yes, I know that. I know exactly where she is. She's in Heaven. But the thought of being 800 miles away from her was too much for me to bear. Even now, nearly seven months later, that need is still just as urgent as my need is to breathe. That's how I grieve. It's how I still grieve.

Brett was incredibly supportive of my request to move back. I don't know many husbands who would do that and I hope he knows how much I love him for it. In fact, he never even tried to persuade me otherwise. He was witnessing my pain firsthand and he could probably see the desperation in my eyes. So, we left everything behind...jobs, my son's school and friends, our beautiful home near the ocean, sunny skies...a world I didn't belong in anymore. I belong here...with my little girl. My life in Florida seems like a distant memory to me now, albeit a much warmer one.

Every single day after Brittany died I would spend hours sitting with her at Arborcrest...even on the days when the heat index was 112. I was oblivious to it. I always took a blanket and often layed beside her. I cried...a lot...talked to her, played her favorite music she has on her iPhone, finished reading a book aloud to her that she was never able to complete. I yelled out loud to God...screamed, actually...begging and pleading Him to give her back to me. Rationally, I knew that wasn't likely, but I was desperate...and anything but rational. The two weeks it took us to get back up to Illinois (yes, we moved that quickly) were extremely agonizing. I felt like I had abandoned her. What if she thought I wasn't coming back? I couldn't breathe. Sometimes, even though I knew it wasn't real, I could hear Brittany call out for me. I wasn't hearing voices and I'm not crazy. I was fully cognizant of the fact that it was just my need to be with her and not some dillusional reality I had created for myself. In fact, even now, I can sometimes still hear her crying out for me...and I'm not ashamed to admit it. She's my little girl and I wasn't able to protect her from this horrific accident. Isn't it every parent's need and want to protect their children, even when the circumstances are completely beyond their control?

To this day...rain, shine, blistering heat, sleet, snow or "snowpocalypse"...I make my weekly drive to Effingham to visit her...and once summer comes and my son is out of school, those visits will be much more frequent. It's what I need. It's how I grieve. It's where I feel I belong. It's where I feel most connected to her...regardless of what others may think or fail to understand.

Mental Hiatus

I have very little memory of what happened before, during and directly after Brittany's services. Some say it was shock...my doctor says it was Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder...I simply call it overwhelming grief and my inability to cope with the circumstances. To be honest, though, a large part of me is relieved I can't remember much. I don't want to relive it. Sometimes, I even send myself into panic mode because I'm afraid I will remember and that makes me nervous. Other times, I send myself into panic mode because I'm afraid I won't remember...and that makes me nervous, too. It's quite the emotional paradox I have raging in my head. And let me tell you...it can be exhausting.

I remember just hours after Brittany died I came to the realization that I had no clue what to do about her services. Where would I have them? Who would do it? Where would she be laid to rest? Who plans ahead for something like this when it's your 21-year old child? Cue panic attack. The person I immediately thought of to do her service was my brother, Bill. He's a pastor at New Hope Church in Effingham. It wasn't fair of me to put him in that position. His boys and Brittany are all about the same age and he had watched her grow up. She's his only niece and his little sister's baby girl. It wasn't an easy decision for him, but after much prayer, he agreed. This just hours after Brittany died. I remember him telling me that he would have to pause a lot because of the sheer emotionality of it. I told him that was fine. He could pause over my wailing. I think he knows, but I will say it again...it is the most amazing gift he will ever give me. There is not one single person I would have trusted more to do this than him. And I was right. From what everyone tells me, the service was one of the most beautiful they have ever seen. I don't remember anything. I'm told I was present, though...front and center. Everyone at New Hope Church, where Brittany's services were held, was amazing. All I did was show up (I think) and they did everything else...and I mean everything. I hope they know how eternally grateful I am to them. God has truly blessed that church and its members.

There was only one place I wanted my daughter to be buried (since I had been forced into making the decision in the first place. Again...hadn't really planned ahead for this one): Arborcrest Memorial Park. It's where most of my family is or will be someday. My parents took me out there on July 14, 2010...the day after Brittany died...to scout out locations. But nothing was available near my family's area and that drove me into panic mode again. I couldn't stand the thought of her being stuck out there somewhere alone...with no one she knows around her. I dropped to my knees in the sweltering heat and bawled. My parents (who purchased their plots years ago) held me and said they would move their plots next to Brittany so she wouldn't be alone. I know that makes Brittany happy because she was extremely close to my mom and dad. She was almost a second daughter to them...a mini April. My dad...being the consummate joker that he is...said on his decision to move their spots: "I just hope God knows where to find us!"  Thanks for the smile, Dad, but I think God has a pretty reliable GPS in Heaven.

I know this particular blog may seem a little disjointed and I apologize for that. It's just really hard writing coherently about something that isn't very intelligible to begin with. It's almost as if I have fuzzy flashes of someone else's distant life. My amazing husband was...and still is...very patient with his sometimes mentally absent wife. In fact, it wasn't until December 13, 2010...5 months to the day of her death...that I realized just how "absent" I truly was. It was very late at night and I couldn't sleep so I nervously decided to look at the guestbook people had signed at her services. It was the first time I had seen it...and the last. I was completely taken aback as I turned page after page after page...hundreds upon hundreds upon hundreds of people...some traveling hours to get there...had all come to see my little girl. As I read through the pages of names, I realized that I didn't recall hardly any of them. Did I ignore them? I felt terrible. I asked Brett about it the next morning and he said "No, honey. You spoke to all of them. They hugged you and many of them talked to you for quite some time." My brain must have been on hiatus.

We stayed in Illinois until the beginning of August. We had been away from our home in Florida for almost a month and it was time to return. Our house was there, our jobs, Bryson's friends and school. But it made me sick just thinking about leaving. I felt like I was deserting Brittany. Florida wasn't "home" anymore. "Home" is where my daughter is...in Illinois. So "home" is where we would soon be headed...