The journey I’ve been on for the last two years is not one I’d wish on anyone. I’d like to say I’m a better person for having gone through it, but I’m not. What I am is thankful for having survived it.
We lost our daughter in 2018. As that year came to an end, I was a shell of myself. From the outside it may not have been as obvious because I was pretty good at going through the motions. Each day I’d put one foot in front of the other in an effort to check a few things off my to-do list before I allowed myself to pull the covers back over my head for another sleepless night. But inside, I remember feeling very little beyond profound heartbreak. The horrors of Stephanie’s death were winning; the agony of losing her erasing memories of our happier times. I hadn’t just lost her; I lost an entire lifetime. Continue reading “It’s Easier Than You Think to Die Before You’re Dead”
Early yesterday Stephanie was freed from the wicked diseases that had ravaged her body and spirit over the previous 164 days. All I know in this moment is that I’m completely exhausted and too sad for words, but mostly I’m relieved that the cruel nightmare she endured is finally over.
They say there are five stages of grief. I suppose there’s science behind it and the framework holds true for many people, but I’ve only known one stage since we first learned four months ago that Stephanie’s life would be cut short… heartbreak. It’s what I immediately felt on that cold Sunday morning in late January when we learned she had a rare liver disease, Primary Sclerosing Cholangitis. 
When I woke up on January 26, 2018 it never occurred to me that within a few hours I would discover my daughter was sick, and after thirty years of amazingly good health, she would never be well again.
From the beginning, I was adamant that fishing was not my thing. Despite repeated attempts by my six-year-old grandson to entice me to join in his new passion, I was steadfast in my refusal to even pick up a rod. I’m sure Caleb thought it odd, since I’d always been such a willing sidekick to every adventure he cooked up; all he had to do was mention it, and I was game. But not this time; not fishing. I encouraged him to seek involvement from others, as I was sitting this one out. 
Every baby has a birth story. And so, do their moms and dads. For some, the story is nine months in the making. The luckiest parents cruise through an uneventful pregnancy with only the typical discomforts. For others, the journey starts with years of struggle… to get pregnant… to stay pregnant… and they pray every day that they will make it to that blessed event so many seem to achieve without extraordinary effort. Whatever path brought them to the big moment, when the time comes, they all share one desire… a healthy baby. 
Every summer has a beat. It varies from year to year, but once it kicks in we all march to it. Some years I pick it up by Memorial Day, other years it takes a little longer to resonate. To most casual observers and our Facebook friends I’m sure each of our summers appear the same: weekend gatherings of our summertime family joined by an interesting array of guests with a backdrop of water, sun, boats, food, drinks, laughter, music, hugs, and smiles… Good times always rule, but trust me, each year has a distinct beat all its own. 
This trip was years in the making and like most weekend jaunts, just as we picked up the pulse of the city it was over. But then I never have enough time in New York City. Fortunately for my daughter, Stephanie, it was everything she had dreamed it would be and since this getaway had one specific purpose – to celebrate her thirtieth birthday – having it live up to her expectations was all that mattered. 
“Hey, Mom. You got a minute?” That’s how most of our conversations started. Maybe it was incredibly good timing all those years, but I never remember her saying she’d have to call me back. I always had the same mental image of her topping off her coffee and settling in at the kitchen table as she replied, “Of course I do, honey. I’m glad you called.” I can remember her words so precisely, but sadly I can no longer hear the sound of her voice saying them. I’m not sure when it happened, but my vivid memories have become a silent film and I’d give anything to hear her answer that phone one more time.