A dream or a premonition?

One night in 2007, I had one of those dreams, the vivid kind you can’t shake. In the dream, I was the front passenger in a car and my daughter Aly was sitting behind the driver. Suddenly, the car missed a curve in the road and flew off into a lake. The driver and I managed to escape the submerged car as it sank, but Aly did not. Desperately flailing through the deep murky water to find my daughter, I failed. She was gone. Aly was gone. The only relic left behind was an open book floating on the water’s surface in the exact spot where my beloved daughter disappeared.

The dream shook me up so much I sought out a psychic to put my fear to rest. And she did, for she didn't see the dream as a premonition or a heads-up from God. To her credit, I believe that she wasn't supposed to see the truth, because I would have quit living right then and there. 

Come 2009, Aly knew something was about to happen. Over that spring and summer, she repeatedly asked me, "Mama, we're always going to be together, right?" I never told her about the dream, but she was very concerned that somehow we would become separated. "Yes, Lovey. We will always be together," I reassured her each time, reveling in the love from my teenage daughter.

On August 5, 2009, my daughter, my third born child, died at age fifteen as a backseat passenger in a car accident. Two years after having that terrible nightmare, it had become my reality.

This summer marks the seventh year without our beloved daughter. But I've never forgotten that dream. But now, because of the book floating on the water's surface over where Aly disappeared, I now believe the dream was a glimpse into a divine plan, something bigger than myself. 

For you see, one morning last summer I woke with the idea of creating a book series for people in need of comfort. Not inspiration. Not instructions. Comfort.  

Not one book, but an entire series sharing peoples stories. 

Not just any stories; their sacred stories sharing the hardest moments of their life. 

Because I need to know others are out there, even if I can't see them.

And thus, this is how the Grief Diaries book series began. 

My idea didn't begin because of an open book floating on the surface where my daughter sank. No. It began following a convention where the power of people sharing their heartfelt losses with one another left me wondering what to do with such sacred stories.

Each story was so powerful, so heartfelt. Imagine what an entire series exploring such journeys would do for those in search of others who wear the same shoes? Yes, that's how Grief Diaries began as a book series. 

But the dream will always stay rooted in my heart. For now I truly believe it was a divine glimpse into something bigger than myself. 

I would give anything to go back in time and hold my beautiful daughter once again, but I cannot. She left this realm and moved on to heaven in order for us to fulfill our part. 

Honestly, some days I still struggle mightily with my loss. But it comforts me greatly to be surrounded by all the Grief Diaries stories. And I find solace in knowing that there is a purpose. A divine plan.  

A plan linking together the hearts of the heartbroken. Including mine.

The Life of a Grieving Mother

The warm summer day started out just like any other. I was busy organizing the kids, planning dinner, making a mental note to fill the car with gas and pick up a gallon of milk on my way home. Suddenly without warning, I was engulfed by a raging fire. I suffered third degree burns over my entire body—not an inch of me was spared.

People rushed to my side to help but there was nothing they could do to ease the excruciating pain. Medical resources were limited in the face of such devastation. Even their best medications did little to ease the agony. I wasn't sure I could survive such intense suffering. Worse, nobody could tell me how long the agony would last.

The medical community gently advised me that although my physical self would heal, the disfigurement would remain for life. My family, friends, and coworkers no longer recognized me. I no longer recognized myself. Mirrors were to be avoided at all costs.

At first doing little things like sitting up in bed or standing were so excruciating,  they took my breath away. The mere thought of eating, bathing, and dressing left me feeling nauseated, helpless and hopeless.

Pity and sadness were apparent in the eyes of everyone who came to visit. I understood the sadness, but I hated the pity. Why on God's green earth was I spared the peace of death?

Learning to live with complete disfigurement and extreme pain is overwhelming. It is excruciating, slow, and exhausting. Years of great effort is spent trying to master even basic activities. Some days I hurt too bad to even try.

Other days, when out in public, I pretend to be normal so as to ease the discomfort readily apparent in the eyes of those who are brave enough to glance my direction. Some avoid me altogether, adding further angst to my broken spirit. Pretending to be normal is exhausting, and quickly depletes all my reserves. By the time I finish errands and return home, I'm utterly spent.

Worst of all, there is absolutely nothing that I—nor anyone else—can do about it.

For you see, that complete disfigurement and intolerable pain described above is on the inside of my body. The pain is unchanged, the disfigurement is still complete and the scars are permanent. The new life that was thrust upon me that day when my child died caused a firestorm that engulfed every part of my life. The only differences between me and the patient who suffered third degree burns over her entire body is that I lived. And my pain is invisible to the world.

Welcome to the life of a grieving mother.