After all, when a stone is dropped into a pond,
the water continues quivering, even after
the stone has sunk to the bottom.
Arthur Golden
Dissociative Amnesia. PTSD. I've been diagnosed with both. Call it what you will. I call it hell.
I knew they were there...silently lurking in the deepest, darkest crevices of my mind. I mean, where else would they have gone? After all, I was there, wasn't I...even if I don't remember most of it? It's like a portion of my brain was totally erased. But I was there. Of course I was there...apparently creating unwanted and unknown memories. Details I have suppressed for nearly fifty months now...(Saturday, the 13th, to be exact). A baleful giant, patiently waiting for its opportunity to ambush me. And it did...leaving me with memories I know are real... leaving me crushed beneath a mound of debilitating images I will never be able to erase. Ever.
I haven't shared this particular story with anyone but my husband. I'm not even sure why I'm telling it now. I guess I just need to let it out. I also feel the need to let you know that, on my side of the computer, there is a mother who is not always the epitome of strength her words make her out to be. There is a mother who still stumbles and falls. There is a mother who still shuts herself away in the darkness of her room, refusing to get out of bed. There is a mother who still grieves. Throughout this journey, despite some of my most painful posts, my faith has always been the foundation of my entries, even if it isn't always blatantly obvious. And, rest assured, after reading what you are about to read, my faith is still the foundation of this journey...the foundation of my life. But sometimes, the enemy invades...
Over the past fifty months, I've learned that...in my world, anyway...grief is not mappable; its progress, or lack thereof, not trackable or chartable. It is elusive and surreptitious. It is an unstable beast. Sometimes it seems quiet and tame...until it's not. Sometimes it lets you catch your breath...until it decides to choke you. It isn't 'one step forward, two steps back.' It's a slippery slope that you're constantly struggling to conquer. I was forced to embark upon this journey just over four years ago, and it has been anything but consistent. Yes, I take steps. Maybe they're forward, maybe they're not, or maybe I'm simply running in circles, chasing my own tail. And then, sometimes, I simply find myself sitting still, watching the world go by, quickly and carelessly. And now, I've reached a point in my Quest For a New Normal that I hoped would never come. The emergence of memories I've blacked out for over four years.
What I'm about to share with you is extremely painful and raw. I could barely type the words through my flood of tears. You also need to know that some of the following may be unpleasant for you to read due to the acute details of my flashbacks.
It happened in a dream not long ago. But it wasn't a dream. It was real...to the point of near tangibility. It was a flashback of events I had hoped I would remain oblivious to forever. And now that I've been thrust back in time, the sleeping giant having reared its ugly head, I, too, have been awakened to things I'll never be able to forget...because I remembered. I saw. I was there.
I was sitting in my high back chair at Brittany's visitation, positioned so closely to her that my hand was constantly touching her, or I was draped over her like a blanket. I do remember bits and pieces of that. But in this flashback, I SAW her. I mean, really SAW her. Her outfit that I purchased. I had forgotten what I bought. It was wrong. They dressed her all wrong. Her face. It was all wrong.That wasn't my daughter's face, was it? Her hair was wrong. Her makeup was wrong. But I saw her. Not the gregarious girl who always had a smile on her face, her stunning ocean blue eyes, framed by butterfly lashes, glittering like the sun on a bright summer's day. This couldn't be Brittany. She wasn't moving. She wasn't smiling. She wasn't laughing. But I saw her. And what I saw was not the way I have always remembered her...animated...full of such vigor...and life. But now I remember being there. I remember how she really looked that day. And now that image of my beautiful baby girl haunts me day and night. Even when I pore over the thousands of pictures I have of her, trying desperately to erase those horrific images, all I see is my little girl, who doesn't look like my little girl, lying in that shiny, white casket...trimmed in pink. "THAT ISN'T MY BEAUTIFUL BRITTANY!" I wanted to scream. But it was.
And now I'm afraid some kind of portal has been opened. I'm scared to close my eyes at night. I'm like a child, afraid of what scary monster might be hiding underneath my bed, because other small memories have since emerged. And just so you know, I haven't shared the following with anyone. Absolutely no one. Not even my family. And as painful as it is for me to do so, I think it's important. That's what this blog is all about, after all. My grief journey. And this is part of it.
I remember most of my time at the hospital, practically glued to Brittany's bedside. Some things are a bit hazy, but, for the most part, I remember it. But after that horrific flashback, another followed. This one came to me in broad daylight...out of nowhere. This wasn't a sucker punch. This was an outright emotional assault.
I remember sitting on her hospital bed, kissing her beautiful face, whispering to her and stroking her hair. And then I felt them. Knots and tangles and tiny shards of glass. Why hadn't they cleaned her? Was it because they knew she was going to die and they thought it pointless? Anyone who knew Brittany knows that her hair was always perfect...even when she'd get up in the morning...or afternoon. (She's like me. We're so not morning people!). It made me sick. So, I summoned a nurse and asked if they had a portable salon-like basin so I could wash her hair. Not long after that request, the kind nurse appeared with an inflatable basin that she carefully placed under Brittany's neck. I gently washed my baby's hair...something I hadn't done since she was a little girl. And then I remembered. I saw it so clearly, it could have been sitting right in front of me. The color of the water. It was all wrong. I remembered it going from clear to a rust-like hue. The stench of dried blood was almost palpable. And the glass. The tiny shards of glass they left to dry in her tangled hair. The more I washed, the worse it became...the blood, the glass, the smell. My hands, stained with her blood. And with that, I ran to the bathroom and got sick. This flashback was different. I was fully awake. I could feel it. I could smell it. And I remember doing it.
Like mine, Brittany's hair was extremely thick. Think horse tail, only soft and shiny. Her knots and tangles were horrendous, almost to the point of being unmanageable. But, if you know anything about horses, the trick is to start at the bottom of the tail and slowly work your way up. So I did. It took hours. And despite my effort to wash her hair...to make it clean and shiny...the more I worked my way up, the more I found myself still picking out shards of glass, my hands still stained with her blood. I mentally cursed those responsible for neglecting Brittany's beautiful hair. Sometimes, I would simply sit in silence as I went about grooming my baby girl, and sometimes I would jokingly scold Brittany for letting her hair get into such a frightful state. I played her music and sang along...much to her dismay, I'm sure. A gentle memory like that? I think I am strong enough now to manage. But being blindsided by the other details...the blood, the glass, the odor...that, I'm definitely not strong enough to bear...nor will I ever be. In fact, at times, I swear I can still smell the blood when I'm washing my own hair. I wash and rewash. I painfully scrub my scalp just to make it go away. It doesn't.
So where does that leave me? To be honest with you, I don't know. This, however, is what I do know:
For I am the Lord your God Who holds your right hand, and Who says to you, 'Do not be afraid. I will help you.'
~
I knew they were there...silently lurking in the deepest, darkest crevices of my mind. I mean, where else would they have gone? After all, I was there, wasn't I...even if I don't remember most of it? It's like a portion of my brain was totally erased. But I was there. Of course I was there...apparently creating unwanted and unknown memories. Details I have suppressed for nearly fifty months now...(Saturday, the 13th, to be exact). A baleful giant, patiently waiting for its opportunity to ambush me. And it did...leaving me with memories I know are real... leaving me crushed beneath a mound of debilitating images I will never be able to erase. Ever.
I haven't shared this particular story with anyone but my husband. I'm not even sure why I'm telling it now. I guess I just need to let it out. I also feel the need to let you know that, on my side of the computer, there is a mother who is not always the epitome of strength her words make her out to be. There is a mother who still stumbles and falls. There is a mother who still shuts herself away in the darkness of her room, refusing to get out of bed. There is a mother who still grieves. Throughout this journey, despite some of my most painful posts, my faith has always been the foundation of my entries, even if it isn't always blatantly obvious. And, rest assured, after reading what you are about to read, my faith is still the foundation of this journey...the foundation of my life. But sometimes, the enemy invades...
Over the past fifty months, I've learned that...in my world, anyway...grief is not mappable; its progress, or lack thereof, not trackable or chartable. It is elusive and surreptitious. It is an unstable beast. Sometimes it seems quiet and tame...until it's not. Sometimes it lets you catch your breath...until it decides to choke you. It isn't 'one step forward, two steps back.' It's a slippery slope that you're constantly struggling to conquer. I was forced to embark upon this journey just over four years ago, and it has been anything but consistent. Yes, I take steps. Maybe they're forward, maybe they're not, or maybe I'm simply running in circles, chasing my own tail. And then, sometimes, I simply find myself sitting still, watching the world go by, quickly and carelessly. And now, I've reached a point in my Quest For a New Normal that I hoped would never come. The emergence of memories I've blacked out for over four years.
What I'm about to share with you is extremely painful and raw. I could barely type the words through my flood of tears. You also need to know that some of the following may be unpleasant for you to read due to the acute details of my flashbacks.
It happened in a dream not long ago. But it wasn't a dream. It was real...to the point of near tangibility. It was a flashback of events I had hoped I would remain oblivious to forever. And now that I've been thrust back in time, the sleeping giant having reared its ugly head, I, too, have been awakened to things I'll never be able to forget...because I remembered. I saw. I was there.
I was sitting in my high back chair at Brittany's visitation, positioned so closely to her that my hand was constantly touching her, or I was draped over her like a blanket. I do remember bits and pieces of that. But in this flashback, I SAW her. I mean, really SAW her. Her outfit that I purchased. I had forgotten what I bought. It was wrong. They dressed her all wrong. Her face. It was all wrong.That wasn't my daughter's face, was it? Her hair was wrong. Her makeup was wrong. But I saw her. Not the gregarious girl who always had a smile on her face, her stunning ocean blue eyes, framed by butterfly lashes, glittering like the sun on a bright summer's day. This couldn't be Brittany. She wasn't moving. She wasn't smiling. She wasn't laughing. But I saw her. And what I saw was not the way I have always remembered her...animated...full of such vigor...and life. But now I remember being there. I remember how she really looked that day. And now that image of my beautiful baby girl haunts me day and night. Even when I pore over the thousands of pictures I have of her, trying desperately to erase those horrific images, all I see is my little girl, who doesn't look like my little girl, lying in that shiny, white casket...trimmed in pink. "THAT ISN'T MY BEAUTIFUL BRITTANY!" I wanted to scream. But it was.
And now I'm afraid some kind of portal has been opened. I'm scared to close my eyes at night. I'm like a child, afraid of what scary monster might be hiding underneath my bed, because other small memories have since emerged. And just so you know, I haven't shared the following with anyone. Absolutely no one. Not even my family. And as painful as it is for me to do so, I think it's important. That's what this blog is all about, after all. My grief journey. And this is part of it.
I remember most of my time at the hospital, practically glued to Brittany's bedside. Some things are a bit hazy, but, for the most part, I remember it. But after that horrific flashback, another followed. This one came to me in broad daylight...out of nowhere. This wasn't a sucker punch. This was an outright emotional assault.
I remember sitting on her hospital bed, kissing her beautiful face, whispering to her and stroking her hair. And then I felt them. Knots and tangles and tiny shards of glass. Why hadn't they cleaned her? Was it because they knew she was going to die and they thought it pointless? Anyone who knew Brittany knows that her hair was always perfect...even when she'd get up in the morning...or afternoon. (She's like me. We're so not morning people!). It made me sick. So, I summoned a nurse and asked if they had a portable salon-like basin so I could wash her hair. Not long after that request, the kind nurse appeared with an inflatable basin that she carefully placed under Brittany's neck. I gently washed my baby's hair...something I hadn't done since she was a little girl. And then I remembered. I saw it so clearly, it could have been sitting right in front of me. The color of the water. It was all wrong. I remembered it going from clear to a rust-like hue. The stench of dried blood was almost palpable. And the glass. The tiny shards of glass they left to dry in her tangled hair. The more I washed, the worse it became...the blood, the glass, the smell. My hands, stained with her blood. And with that, I ran to the bathroom and got sick. This flashback was different. I was fully awake. I could feel it. I could smell it. And I remember doing it.
Like mine, Brittany's hair was extremely thick. Think horse tail, only soft and shiny. Her knots and tangles were horrendous, almost to the point of being unmanageable. But, if you know anything about horses, the trick is to start at the bottom of the tail and slowly work your way up. So I did. It took hours. And despite my effort to wash her hair...to make it clean and shiny...the more I worked my way up, the more I found myself still picking out shards of glass, my hands still stained with her blood. I mentally cursed those responsible for neglecting Brittany's beautiful hair. Sometimes, I would simply sit in silence as I went about grooming my baby girl, and sometimes I would jokingly scold Brittany for letting her hair get into such a frightful state. I played her music and sang along...much to her dismay, I'm sure. A gentle memory like that? I think I am strong enough now to manage. But being blindsided by the other details...the blood, the glass, the odor...that, I'm definitely not strong enough to bear...nor will I ever be. In fact, at times, I swear I can still smell the blood when I'm washing my own hair. I wash and rewash. I painfully scrub my scalp just to make it go away. It doesn't.
So where does that leave me? To be honest with you, I don't know. This, however, is what I do know:
For I am the Lord your God Who holds your right hand, and Who says to you, 'Do not be afraid. I will help you.'
Isaiah 41:13 (NLV)
I love you Brittany Erin <3
