The Light

A daughter is a little girl who grows up to be a friend~


The last time I saw Brittany was a year ago...March 2010...4 months before her accident. She had come down to see us in Panama City Beach over her Spring Break. How was I to know that would be the last time I would see her smile? See her beautiful blue eyes? Cuddle with her as we laughed over some silly movie? And how was I to know it would be the last time I would hold her in my arms? Would I have done anything differently? Did I say something I shouldn't have or neglected to say something I should have? Did she truly know with all of her heart how much I missed seeing her everyday? How deeply and unconditionally I love her? I drive myself crazy sometimes reliving that visit...every word...every touch...every second I was with her. Was she happy?

I have survived two more of my "reminder" dates. Eight months ago on March 13, Brittany died...and 8 months ago yesterday I had to escort Brittany to her new "earthly home." As always, I made my trip to Effingham so I could sit with my little girl. The night of the 12th, I decided to drive out to where she is and just sit for a few minutes and tell her goodnight and that I would be back the next day...the 13th. Brittany's area is surrounded by a beautiful handcrafted arbor and many solar lights, including a beautiful large cross. In short, she's tastefully "blinged" out. As I was driving however, I knew the lights wouldn't be on. The day had been too cloudy and there hadn't been any sunlight to power them. I was right. As I drove up the road near the entrance, I looked out my window and saw nothing but darkness. I felt sad, hopeless and dejected. Not one single light was on anywhere. It looked so forsaken. I pulled up next to Brittany and broke down. I screamed out her name...over and over again. I needed to say it...to hear it. I wanted her to hear it...to hear her mom call out for her. I told her I was frightened and angry. I told her how much I miss her and how much pain I'm in. I told her I was worried about her and begged her to please let me know she's ok. I screamed louder and louder. And then, in the complete darkness, her cross lit up like a beacon. In the complete darkness...her light shined. It stayed on for several seconds and then, like a light switch, it went off again. "I'm ok, Momma. I'm right here. Don't worry." That's what I believe she was saying to me with that lighted cross. Through the grace of God, He allowed Brittany to reach out to her hurting mother. And through my tears, I smiled...and rejoiced...thankful for the miracle...for the comforting embrace. 

My pain hasn't subsided...and I know it never will. But for that brief moment, my baby girl and I sat side by side...hand in hand...two hearts joined together once again.

The Gift of Hope

• More than 110,000 people nationwide are waiting for lifesaving organ transplants
• Nearly 5 thousand in Illinois are waiting
• Every 10 minutes, a new person is added to the national waiting list
• An average of 18 people die each day while waiting

8 months ago yesterday my daughter died...but 8 months ago yesterday 4 people lived...because of her...

• A 22-year old woman from Virginia received Brittany's heart. The woman waited six months for her gift of hope. The transplant was a success and Brittany's heart started beating again right away. This young woman has been given the priceless gift of life...and spending each day with her little boy.
• A 17-year old boy from Indiana received a kidney...a gift of hope that gives him the promise of a long and happy future.
• A 56-year old man from Illinois received her other kidney and her pancreas. His gift of hope is allowing him to enjoy life with his wife and family.
• A 60-year old man from Wisconsin received Brittany's liver...another gift of hope that is allowing him more time with his wife and family.

It's taken me a long time, but I've finally gone through the necessary channels and requested the privilege of meeting those individuals whose lives have been saved through my daughter's gift. It wasn't an easy thing for me to do. I had very mixed emotions about it. I still do, actually. I'm sad, confused, conflicted, inspired...but also a little jealous. Pieces of my little girl are living in other people. A part of her still carries on...but she had to lose her life in order for others to get second chances at theirs. I am inexpressibly proud of Brittany and truly thankful that she was able to offer this extraordinary gift. I mean no disrespect, but is it wrong for me to want a "gift" in return? Is it wrong for me to want the opportunity to meet the people in whom Brittany still lives on?

While I have never had any experience with organ donation...that is, until my daughter died...I believe I might understand the hesitancy of the recipients to meet me. Maybe they feel guilty because, in order for them to get a second chance at life, someone else had to lose theirs...my daughter. I won't pretend to know how they feel. All I know is how I feel. All I know is the the most priceless gift I could be given is the chance to hear my little girl's heart beat again...because a piece of that heart is mine.

Brittany is a hero. She's my hero...and she is the hero of the 4 people whose lives she saved...or at least she should be. I pray her death wasn't in vain. I pray her gift of hope wasn't in vain. But most of all, I pray that these individuals will someday give me the gift of meeting them. I need that...probably more than they know. Right or wrong, I think I deserve at least that much. 

Haunting Fears

"No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear." C. S. Lewis


I am afraid. Afraid of how quickly time is passing. Afraid I will forget the way Brittany's laugh sounded. Afraid I will forget the way her blue eyes sparkled like the ocean. Afraid I will forget the way she twirled her hair when she was tired or upset. Afraid I will never stop crying. Afraid that I will stop crying. And I'm afraid of the past, the present...and mostly the future.

In addition to those fears, there are several specific words that scare me, too and I have fought hard (with much success) not to speak over the past 8 months. And when others say them so effortlessly...so naturally...I cringe. I want to childishly plug my ears and start humming to block out the sound. What are these taboo words? It's probably not hard to guess but for the sake of clarification I'll make an exception...albeit a timid one...and share them with you:

• Funeral/visitation (I simply say "services")
• Buried/burial (it's hard to get around this one but sometimes I'll say "when we took Brittany out there" or "when she moved there")
• Cemetery (I say "where Brittany is" or "where she resides." I don't even like saying the name of the cemetery, although I reluctantly do at times)
• Grave ("location" or "area")
• Headstone/gravestone ("memorial" or "marker"...and I don't even like that)
• Casket (the "thing" she's in)
• Tomb (NEVER say that around me. It's creepy and frightening)

Crazy? Maybe. Juvenile? To some, perhaps. A form of denial? Unlikely since I'm painfully aware of my reality. Denial might be a lot less tormenting, though. Sometimes I wonder if people are aware of my intended avoidance of such rhetoric.

My mind is also constantly haunted with so many other fears, too...all of the predictable "what ifs." What if I wasn't a good mother? What if she never forgave me for some argument we had? What if she would have postponed her trip by one second, one minute, one hour, one day? The most haunting fear of all though? What if she was afraid when the accident was happening? What if she saw the semi heading straight for them? What if she was in pain? What if she cried out for me and I wasn't there to protect her...to comfort her...to hold her and let her know it would be alright? I'm afraid I will forever be persecuted by these fears and never find peace. 

And I'm afraid of the unknown...

Half Alive

Two halves of a whole...two hearts made from one...

My heart is heavy today and I'm not sure why. Well of course I know why, but today it's like a heavy cloak suffocating me. Maybe it's the weather...or maybe it's the fact my "reminder" dates are once again bearing down on me. Or maybe it's because I caught myself yesterday referring to Brittany in the past tense. I make a conscious effort not to do that if possible. Brittany "IS" not "WAS." I felt the overwhelming sadness begin to consume me late last night and I fought hard...unsuccessfully...to stay awake, knowing all to well what would greet me this morning if I opened my eyes. And I was right. I couldn't breathe. I shut me eyes again and buried my head. Please don't let this be real, I begged. Please don't let her be gone. Sometimes I even try to fool myself into believing she's just really busy and has forgotten to call...and sometimes I still find myself instinctively reaching for the phone to call her or text her...to scold her for not letting me know she's alright. There are absolutely no words to describe the emptiness I feel...the hollowness...the excruciating pain and anguish that sucks the very breath from my lungs.

In many ways, Brittany and I grew up together. I wasn't much older than she is when I had her and I was a single parent for several years. It was the two of us against the world. We were best friends...and no matter where she is, she will always be my best friend and soul mate. We've always had a strange but special bond between us...almost like a "twin" connection surpassing any normal mother/daughter bond...two hearts made from one. It was almost like we were the same person...and now I'm only half alive.

I've heard so many people say that it gets easier with time...that you never "forget" but it becomes more "tolerable."  For me though, the void only deepens and the pain becomes more intolerable. It's cruel. No parent should ever have to endure such anguish. No parent should ever have to be forced to look for a "new normal." I was perfectly content with my old one. And today I'm angry...and in pain...and I can't breathe.

I miss you painfully pretty girl. We'll always be two halves of a whole...two hearts made from one. I love you Brittany Erin...forever and always.

Through the Eyes of a Child

"There is no relationship like that of parent and child. It is unique and special...the bond between parent and child is so powerful that its strength endures time, distance and strife..."


As challenging as it is sometimes, I try to swallow down my grief and tears and not breakdown until I'm alone (when Bryson is at school and/or late at night when he's sleeping). Unfortunately, this isn't always possible. On more than one occasion, I've locked myself in the bathroom, turned the water on full blast and cried. Why? I guess I'm trying to protect my little boy from seeing his mother fall apart on a daily basis. I worry about what kind of message I'm sending him. His dad and I have let him know that it's ok to be sad...it's ok to cry. But how much is too much for him to witness? Late one night, not long ago, I was in bed sobbing quietly (or so I thought). Bryson came to me and gently placed his little hand on my face. "Are you sad again, Mom?" "Yes, honey, I am. I'm sorry I woke you," I replied. "That's ok, Mom." He brought me some tissues and said, "Please just try and not cry so much that you throw up. I love you, Mom." He sweetly kissed me and went back to sleep.

I didn't realize Bryson was aware of the fact that much of the time, that's exactly what happens...I cry to and beyond the point of physical illness. I worry about the kind of impact this may have on him emotionally. I'm terrified that he'll begin to think I don't love him as much as I do Brittany....that somehow he'll begin to think he's not enough. Of course he is. And while half of my heart died with Brittany, the other half belongs to my son...and that half beats strong. But have I distanced myself so much emotionally from my family that I'm no longer able to nurture them? If so, how do I bridge that distance with so much brokenness in my life?

My precious little boy is suffering, too...probably more than I truly know. I mean, if I struggle on a daily basis trying to process this nightmare, how does an 11-year child do it? I painfully remember when Brittany was in the hospital, we struggled with the decision of whether or not to let Bryson see her in that condition. But, once we realized our miracle wouldn't happen, we decided Bryson deserved the right to say goodbye, too. He idolized his big sister. He still does. The hospital's social worker helped us prepare Bryson for what he would see...and although he put on a brave face...I could tell he was scared. He was afraid to touch her at first, but after we assured him it was ok, he wrapped his little hand around hers and stroked her arm. "When will she wake up?" he asked me. "I don't know, baby," I said. "She's very badly injured, but the doctors are doing everything they can. It's up to God now." "Can she hear me, Mommy?" he asked. "Of course she can, honey," I said. "Brittany just can't talk to you because of the tube in her mouth. You can talk to her as much as you want." And he did. Bryson even wrote her a poem and read it aloud to her. He told Brittany she is "prettier than a rose" and that he loves her "bigger than the universe." Along with a few other tokens of our love, that poem is with Brittany today. The social worker even helped Bryson put Brittany's painted hand print on a canvas. Watching him touch her with such sweetness...such gentleness...was both heartwarming and heartbreaking. I had to witness firsthand a little boy trying to let go of his big sister.  

Lately, Bryson has become much more comfortable talking about Brittany...and less afraid of making me cry if he does. In fact, on the way home from school today...out of nowhere...he said, "Mom, you're beautiful just like Brittany." My heart melted. I just smiled at him in awe and silently thanked God for blessing me with this amazing little boy...my earthly angel. And, if you were to ask Bryson where his big sister is now...without hesitation...he would proudly say, "Heaven! Brittany's my angel and she's always with me!" She is, indeed.