You don't see me, but I am here

My heart is filled with peace. This morning I received a lovely message from a newly bereaved mom who bought a copy of Grief Diaries: Surviving Loss of a Child. 

"I am so thankful for it. I'm only half way through but love so very much how every part of the process is broke down with each family." She goes on to say, "I feel like I'm going crazy so much of the time. Just existing, trying to get through the day by staying busy. The nights are the worst." 

It brings me peace to know our books help others, and this mother's words nail it for many of us. When I lost Aly, I felt like I was going certifiably crazy. The nights were the worst because bedtime meant there was nothing left to distract me from pain, allowing sorrow to engulf me like the flames of hell.

But if I can offer one thing to anyone with a hurting heart, it is this: eventually your heart will be able to hold joy at the same time it holds sorrow. True story. Joy doesn't replace the sorrow, but it does help to balance the sadness. Hell doesn't last forever—hard to believe now, I know. But until sanity returns to your world, hold on to the idea that hope can be healed and restored. 

At the back of many of the Grief Diaries books is my chapter on Finding the Sunrise, a how-to of the very steps I took to restore sanity to my world. I didn't want to do them and had to fight hard to find strength, energy, and the courage. But like any exercise routine, practicing those steps will get easier with time. Until then, don't give up! Baby steps will eventually make all the difference. 

In the meantime, please know that although you feel broken and isolated from the rest of the world, you aren't truly alone. You might not see me, but I am here, and so is the rest of the Grief Diaries village. XOXO

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.

Am I Cheating on My Grief When I Dance with Joy?

Dear friends,

As producer of the Grief Diaries Radio show, I was inspired to launch a second radio show that would allow us to unabashedly discuss the authentic side of womanhood. My first guest was a well established Passion Party consultant and our topic was how to bring fun back into our intimate lives.  

The hour flew by quickly, and the broadcast was over before we knew it. Afterwards, I reflected on how many times I had to mute my microphone so I could giggle like a schoolgirl at the

delicate discussion in which I was a willing participant.  But truth be told, as a grieving mother, I felt like I was "cheating" on my grief by allowing myself to have fun. After all, some of my endeavors focus on raising grief awareness. So was I doing us all a disservice by spending the hour enjoying myself?  Would others think I'm "healed" or I've "moved on" when they hear a hearty laugh coming from the same woman who is a member of The Wailing Tent?  Shame on me for having fun after losing my beloved child!  Or not....    

The truth is, we are not "cheating" on our grief when we feel something other than sorrow.  Allowing ourselves to feel joy helps to balance the sadness and recharge our batteries.  And my broadcast featuring….ahem….passion enhancement products, was absolutely divine and it felt GOOD to laugh again.  And it gave me hope for the future.  Yes, I "cheated" on my grief and had a one-night stand with joy.  And I plan to do it again.  

May the new year bring you moments of peace, comfort and yes, even joy.  

Why we need National Grief Awareness Day

Recently while doing some research, I came across the term “Complicated Grief.”  Of course this prompted me to wonder whether I suffered from “complicated grief,” after all it’s been almost five years since Aly, our teenage daughter died, and many days I still certainly suffer profound grief.  But what is “complicated grief” and did I have it?  Why was that term created, and how do they define it?

It’s true that not all grief is alike.  When your beloved cat dies, you experience sadness, loss and, well, grief.  When you suddenly or unexpectedly lose a job, you may experience grief feelings too.  But both of these examples are clearly a different grief from when we lose a child, or a partner, sibling or parent before their time. 

So who, exactly, experiences “complicated grief”?  I plugged the term into my search browser and was rewarded with a plethora of answers….nearly 11 million answers in less than three seconds, to be exact.  I scanned the search results and selected one near the top by Harvard Health Publications.  According to The Harvard Medical School Family Health Guide, “During the first few months after a loss, many signs and symptoms of normal grief are the same as those of complicated grief.  However, while normal grief symptoms gradually start to fade over a few months, those of complicated grief linger or get worse.”  Harvard went on to say “….it can take intense forms that surprise a bereaved person, including forms that in other circumstances would be called a psychiatric disorder.”  And, “But if it's been several months or more since your loss and your emotions remain so intense or debilitating that you have trouble going about your normal routine, talk to your health care provider.”

As a parent who has experienced what I call profound grief, I respectfully question the term “complicated grief.”  And here is why.

When Aly died, I found myself in a fog of shock and horror so thick, I was completely blinded by it for the first three years.  I cried daily, and wailed most nights.  And only now, nearly five years later….not months, but years….has the fog of pain began to lift enough to allow me to start to assemble the jagged pieces of my life that is left in the wake of my broken heart.  Was this abnormal?  It didn’t seem so.  After all, I was a mother who lost my child, not my goldfish.  Yet the signs and symptoms listed by Harvard’s article clearly define me as having “complicated” grief.

I think back to my beloved maternal grandmother, a short, white-haired, bespectacled lady who had an ample bosom always ready for a warm hug.  As a young mother, she not only lost an 8 month-old daughter but a short time later, while pregnant with her fifth child, she lost her young husband.  Despite the agony of her sorrow in the face of widowhood with five small children, my dear sweet grandmother forged on.  It would be terribly shallow to assume she did so unaffected, yet because of how we still view grief in today’s world, I’m almost certain my grandmother experienced the overwhelming anguish in near total silence, the shatter-my-world anguish that only another griever can understand.  Yes, most likely in total silence.  And most probably with a seemingly heartless smile on her trembling lips.  And, I imagine, it was because true grief, noisy grief, was likely viewed as a “nervous breakdown,” a psychiatric disorder….a label that carried with it the threat of removing children from the home.  She had to suffer in silence, for their very existence depended upon it.

Fast forward seventy years later, and people now openly discuss once-taboo subjects with so much more understanding and acceptance than ever.  Except grief.  Grief is still unspoken, it’s deep impact still in the dark ages.  And, with any grief lasting longer than a few months being deemed a possible psychiatric issue, it’s no wonder why.

Friends, my grief is not complicated.  It is profound and raw, but not complicated.  My grief carriers with it signs and symptoms mirroring that of most people who have found themselves in the grips of profound loss.  There is nothing complicated about it.  Misunderstood?  Yes.  But complicated?  In my mind it is painfully simple.  My loved one isn’t here any longer.  And for the rest of my days, I shall painfully miss her.

Honorable Badge of Grief

Profound grief….noisy grief….”complicated” grief is exactly why we are asking National Grief Awareness Day to be legally declared.  Why we have created not our own awareness ribbon but an awareness badge….the Honorable Badge of Grief.  Why we have created a radio talk show about grief.  It’s simple and clear:  the time has come to bring grief out of the dark.  To help us all better understand it.  To honor it instead of shunning it.  Why?  So the path of all future grievers will be better understood.  So their emotions will be honored and handled with tender loving care and dignity, not shame of weakness.  Or a psychiatric label for those grieving longer than three months. 

Thanks to generations of misunderstandings about grief, and new labels applied to the old misunderstandings, the time for grief to come out of the dark ages…to be better understood and maybe even embraced….has finally arrived. 

Am I "cheating" on my grief when I dance with joy?

Dear friends,
I want to share something weighing on my heart.  As producer of the Good GRIEF Talk Show, I was inspired to launch a second radio show that would allow us to unabashedly discuss the authentic side of womanhood.  Called the Wisdom of Women Talk Show, last night was our inaugural episode.  Our guest was a well established Passion Party consultant and our topic was how to bring fun back into our intimate lives.  

The hour flew by quickly, and the broadcast was over before we knew it.  Afterwards, I reflected on how many times I had to mute my microphone so I could giggle like a schoolgirl at the delicate discussion in which I was a willing participant.  But truth be told, as a grieving mother, I felt like I was "cheating" on my grief by allowing

myself to have fun for the hour.  After all, my daily endeavors are all about helping to raise grief awareness.  So was I doing us all a disservice by spending the hour enjoying myself?  Would others think I'm "healed" or I've "moved on" when they hear a hearty laugh coming from the same woman who is a member of the Wailing Tent?  Shame on me for having fun after losing my beloved child!  Or not....    

The truth is, we are not "cheating" on our grief when we feel something other than sorrow.  Allowing ourselves to feel joy helps to balance the sadness and recharge our batteries.  And last night's inaugural episode of the Wisdom of Women Show featuring....ahem....passion enhancement products, was absolutely divine and it felt GOOD to laugh again.  And it gave me hope for the future.  Yes, I "cheated" on my grief last night and had a one-night stand with joy. And I plan to do it again every Thursday.  

This August marks the fifth anniversary of losing our daughter Aly in a car accident, and I'm finally making baby steps that go forward rather than backwards.  Along with this milestone comes the hot flashes and ever deepening wrinkles that announce to the world that I'm no longer a spring chicken, and more like an aged hen.  Yet, I shutter to think of the years that lay ahead unless I allow myself to balance the profound sorrow with joy and laughter.  It doesn't truly matter in what form I find the joy, as long as I partake in it.

So from one griever to another, I wholeheartedly invite you to join me in taking a respite from our grief every Thursday evening on the WoW Talk Show.  Yes our grief unites us, but so does being a woman.  We don't need to roar, we just need to recharge our batteries a little to help us balance the sadness.  And if a sassy new talk show helps us do that, then I'm more than ready.  

Join us every Thursday evening at 7 pm PDT on the Wisdom of Women Talk Show.  Listen live at www.alybluemedia.com/wowshow, or better yet call in to join our sisters in the conversation.  Much light and love to you all.  -Lynda   

Good GRIEF Talk Show with special guest Benjamin Allen 02/26 by AlyBlue Media | Health Podcasts

Good GRIEF Talk Show with special guest Benjamin Allen 02/26 by AlyBlue Media | Health Podcasts

My 10 Rules of Grief

The Wailing Tent

Dear grieving mother,

Welcome to the sisterhood of the wailing tent. With profound condolences, I know this greeting will soon be forgotten, for your heart and soul have sustained a terrible blow. The shock known as "the fog" will accompany you for some time, greatly impacting your memory.  So I offer you this written welcome to refer to when your recollection falters.  

The wailing tent is an honored place where only mothers with a broken spirit can enter. Admittance is gained not with an ID card bearing your name, but with the profound sorrow freshly etched on your heart.  Membership is free, for you have already paid the unfathomable price.  The directions to the wailing tent are secret, available only to mothers who speak our language of everlasting grief.  No rules are posted, no hours are noted.  There is no hierarchy, no governing body.  Your membership has no expiration date, it is lifelong.  The refuge offered within its walls does not judge members based on age, religious belief, or social status.  You can hang your camouflages and mask outside, and if you can't make it past the door, we will surround you with love right where you lay.

The wailing tent is a shelter where mothers shed anguished tears among her newfound sisters. A haven where all forms of wailing are honored, understood, and accepted.  In the beginning, you will be very afraid, and will hate the wailing tent and everything it stands for.  You will flail, thrash about, and spew vile words in protest.  You will fight to be free of the walls, wishing desperately to offer a plea bargain for a different tent, learn a different language.  Those emotions will last for some time. 

Your family and friends cannot accompany you here. The needs of the wailing tent are invisible to them and, though they will try, they simply cannot comprehend the language nor fathom the disembodied, guttural howls heard within.

In the beginning, your stays here will seem endless. Over time, the need for your visits will change and eventually you will observe some mothers talking, even smiling, rather than wailing.  Those are the mothers who have learned to balance profound anguish with moments of peace, though they still need to seek refuge among us from time to time.  Do not judge those mothers as callused or strong, for they have endured profound heartache to attain the peace they have found. Their visits here are greatly valued, for their hard earned wisdom offers hope that we too will learn to balance the sadness in our hearts. 

Lastly, you need not flash your ID card or introduce yourself each time you visit, for we know who you are.  You are one of us, an honorary lifelong sister of the wailing tent.  Welcome, my wailing sister.

Fondly,

The Sisterhood of the Wailing Tent

Ten Tips to Surviving the Holiday Kaleidoscope

Pumpkin spice lattes. Steaming hot cocoa. Storefronts dressed in holiday style.

The holiday season is a time of gaiety filled with Hallmark moments. But for those with a heart full of sorrow, the first pumpkin spice ad can herald a trickle of nostalgia and a torrent of tears with nowhere to escape.

I remember our first year without Aly, our holiday-loving 15-year-old daughter who died in a car accident one summer's end. On top of indescribable grief, the approaching holidays suddenly added a new layer of dread.

Aly and I had always loved the holiday season with unbridled enthusiasm. Unpacking yuletide decorations in October was common. It was simply a passion we shared. Now facing the holidays without her teenage exuberance over Home Alone 2 and Andy Williams, how would our family manage? How would we survive such pain?

I didn't want to face the holidays to find out. I wanted to hit the pause button and skip over the entire next decade. But one look into my young grandson's eyes told me I couldn't. As much as nothing felt normal, normalcy felt like the right thing to do. I had to carry on.

Making the decision to muster forward, I allowed tradition to carry me through. I was in a fog of grief anyway, so allowed autopilot to become my new best friend. When the landscape of landmines elicited visceral reactions, familiarity gave me comfort and guided me through.

With 8 years now under my belt, I can honestly say I no longer dread what was once—and continues to be—my favorite time of year. With the holidays now around the corner, it's important to hold on to the idea that hope is possible. But until that happens, the following tips will help the newly bereaved navigate through the festivities with some assurance that if I can survive, they can too.

1. Maintain your routine. A familiar routine offers a sense of reassurance that at least one thing in life hasn't changed, and the familiarity can help ground us through the holiday hustle. But if the idea of sticking to routine is more than you can bear, then honor your need to break tradition. In short, do what feels most soothing.

2.  Protect your time. Give yourself lots of breathing room, and avoid packing the schedule too full. Grieving is emotionally exhausting; plenty of rest will help minimize raw nerves through the flurry of shopping, school performances, and parties.

3.  Cut some slack and buy store-bought. Since grieving is naturally distracting and the ER isn't a great place to dine, let someone else operate the carving knife. Even the smallest kitchen disaster can quickly deplete coping skills. So if the family expects your legendary dinner rolls, then cheat with gourmet mashed potatoes and gravy from the deli.

4. Treat yourself to TLC, and lots of it. Tenderly soothing individual body parts is an attentive way to honor your emotional pain. Wear an especially soft pair of socks. Ask for whipped cream on your drive-thru mocha. Indulge in aromatherapy soap in the shower. While small gestures do nothing to erase the emotional heartache, they do offer your physical body a reminder that not all pleasure is lost.

5.  Skip the chaos. Take time to create peaceful surroundings. Turn off the computer, light a fragrant candle, grab a soft blanket, and binge-watch a good show.

6.  Feel joy. Without guilt. Go ahead, give yourself permission. If you find yourself humming to holiday music, don’t stop. The heart can feel joy the same time as sorrow, and it helps to balance the sadness. Allow yourself to experience moments of joy without guilt.

7.  Honor the past. Find a way to include your loved one’s memory in the festivities. Hang their stocking and fill it with cat toys or dog treats to share with the family pet on Christmas morning. Visit your loved one’s favorite coffee stand and pay it forward. Buy a small bouquet of balloons in your loved one’s favorite color and leave it in a public spot for a stranger to find on Christmas Eve.

8.  Heal others. Do something in the community that lifts your spirits. It's gratifying to help others, and is a good reminder that we aren’t alone in our struggles. It helps us keep perspective that the holidays can be challenging for many.

9. Hibernate. If you need to hide from the world to recharge your battery, take comfort knowing that many need to hibernate this time of year, and apologize to no one.

10. Cry. Give in to the tears. There is no shortage of raw emotions over the holidays, and crying is how we release intense feelings. Tears are healing—no matter what anyone says.

Even though it comes around like clockwork, the holidays can remain one of the most dreaded times of the year for those with a heart full of sorrow. Allow yourself to try a handful of the suggestions above as you navigate the emotional kaleidoscope that begins with those first pumpkin spice ads. Because if I can survive, then it's survivable.

Just don’t forget the whipped cream.

By the Light of the Full Moon

August 5, 2009, dawned like any other lazy summer morning. The sunrise was quiet and serene, and created little rainbow prisms in the morning dew. Even though it was summer, our 15-year-old daughter Aly rarely slept in. Instead, she rose like clockwork at 5 a.m. for early morning swim practice. Wrapping her favorite fuzzy blue blanket around her small 5’2” frame, she grabbed her bulky swim bag and crept downstairs to wait for her daddy.

The drive into town every morning was a treasured father-daughter time. Classic rock from the truck radio played softly in the background while Aly rested her sleepy head on Lammy, her favorite stuffed animal. On this morning, the 17-minute trip to the pool was nothing out of ordinary. 

“Bye-bye, Daddy. Love you,” Aly murmured softly as she and her bulky swim bag slid out the truck door, leaving Lammy and the fuzzy blue blanket behind. 

"Bye-bye, Lovey. Love you. Have a good day,” my husband tenderly replied. He watched fondly as his youngest daughter made her way through the aquatic center's door. 

My husband, Jamie, usually enjoyed their morning drive to the pool, but as he drove away on this particular morning, a bad feeling swept over him. He couldn't put his finger on it, so he said nothing.

Excitement was in the air. After morning practice, Aly and a handful of senior swimmers planned to carpool to Seattle to watch the U.S. Open, a championship long course meet. Home of the 1990 Goodwill Games, Aly had competed in this pool many times herself. But today, she and her teammates would be spectators watching the nation’s top swimmers compete for a spot in the Olympics, one of Aly’s own goals.

Following practice, the small group stopped for breakfast and then divided into two cars driven by parents before continuing on. It was an exciting day for the kids and I heard from Aly several times, her voice always full of giddy teenage excitement. Although glad the kids enjoyed the field trip, by day's end I was anxious for their return.

As day gave way to evening, and evening to dusk, a brilliant full moon eased its way over the horizon. It hung high and bright in the dark summer sky. Our other kids were out that evening, offering my husband and I rare quiet time. 

With her beloved cousin Jasmine

At 10:20 p.m., Aly called home one final time saying they had just dropped off two swimmers. Aly and two boys, Donovan and Patrick, would continue the final leg home on their own with 18-year-old Donovan at the wheel.

Aly had deep respect for Donovan, a quiet yet popular swimmer with a strong work ethic. Like Aly, he was greatly admired as a powerful athlete. Just weeks away from starting his senior year in high school, he was a solid team leader and respected by all.

Patrick was just a hair younger than Aly, and one of her favorite teammates, both in the pool and out. He and Aly enjoyed a spirited friendship and rather than sitting “shotgun” next to Donovan on that fateful night, Patrick chose to sit next to Aly in the back seat, a move that would save his life. 

In that final phone call, Aly said they were 30 minutes away, and would meet me at the local aquatic center. I told her I loved her and would see her shortly. I hung up the phone, kissed my husband goodbye, and headed out alone into the night. 

Because of the late hour, the drive to the pool was quiet and peaceful. Arriving in the deserted parking lot, I sat in my husband’s truck playing on my cellphone to pass the short time until the swimmers arrived.

As 11 p.m. drew near, the day’s fatigue was setting in and I began to wonder where the kids were. I texted Aly but she didn't reply. I waited a few minutes and then called her phone. She didn’t answer. I waited a few more minutes and then tried again, twice, three times. Still no answer. Assuming her cell battery had died from overuse during the long day, I had no choice but to sit and wait.

Suddenly my phone rang, startling me in the dark. It was from an unknown number.

"Hello?” I answered, wondering who would be calling at that hour. 

“Lynda, this is Sean….Donovan’s dad. There’s been an accident. We are on our way now, 911 is guiding us.” 

I was positive it was nothing more than a minor fender-bender. I didn’t panic as I told Donovan’s dad that I too would make my way to the kids. I drove out of the parking lot and was soon heading south on the freeway towards Burlington, a 30-minute drive away. 

I called my husband, “Honey, the kids have been in an accident. I’m sure it’s nothing, but I’m heading that way now.” Panicked, my husband pleaded with me to come pick him up, but since that was in the opposite direction, it meant a delay of at least 45 minutes. I told him that would take too long and I wanted to get to Aly as soon as possible, but promised to call him as soon as I was by her side. He pleaded again, but not wanting to waste precious time, I held firm and kept driving south.

Playing in the home pool

I tried to call Donovan’s parents to let them know I wasn’t far behind, hoping they could tell me exactly where the accident was, but this time I received no answer. I tried again, and again no answer. I then remembered they had called 911 for directions. I decided to try the same. 

I dialed the number and calmly explained who I was and why I was calling. The dispatcher was hesitant but agreed to give me directions. I asked if she knew which hospital the kids had been transported to, but she offered no further information. 

I reassured myself that the accident was minor, and hospital transport probably wasn’t warranted. The dispatcher then shared that support staff was on the scene. Support staff? How strange. They were called only for fatalities. Why in the world would they be dispatched to a fender-bender? My brain simply didn’t comprehend the possibility of anything worse. 

Despite the bright full moon, I soon got lost on the dark and unfamiliar roads, and once again called 911 for directions. I finally saw the lights of multiple emergency vehicles off in the distance. But this accident was far more serious and didn’t even remotely fit the scenario I envisioned. I assumed I had come upon the wrong accident. Feeling confused and having nowhere to turn my husband's truck around, I approached the scene. 

As I drove slowly up to the emergency roadblock, law enforcement stepped into the road to greet me. From this moment forward I recall the events as if in a dream, like little snapshots of time floating around in a snow globe. 

I rolled down my window but my voice left me as the officer approached the truck. For an awkward moment we just stared at each other. Finally, I manage to utter two tiny words: “My daughter.” 

The words came out in a flat statement, not a question. 

The officer stared at me, hesitant, as his eyes searched mine. 

He then quietly asked, “15?” 

“Yes,” I confirmed. 

“Alyssa Fell?” he continued in our hesitant exchange.  

“Yes,” I mumbled. I stared at him as if pleading to tell me this wasn't really happening.

The officer continued standing outside my window, his eyes piercing mine. He was unsure what to do with me. 

Others approached my window. In that moment—with all those faces gazing at me—I knew. 

My world had suddenly shattered into every parent’s worst nightmare. 

The gathering group grew larger as I quietly mumbled my final query, “She’s here….isn’t she?” 

It was more of a declaration than a question. All those faces continued to stare at me. The night became very quiet, still no one replied. 

“Take me to my daughter,” I softly commanded. 

Not one person moved. They were all frozen in place as they watched my face for signs of hysteria. 

“Take me to my daughter,” I repeated. 

Not waiting for a reply, I opened the truck door, climbed out, and began making my way toward the two crumpled vehicles in the nearby field. I was vaguely aware the group was following me though no one dared stopped me. 

Instinctively, like a wild animal searching for her young, I knew where I would find my youngest daughter.

On the ground next to a rear passenger door, my precious baby girl with the smooth tan skin and long blonde hair, the strong swim shoulders and tiny waist, my stellar student with fierce determination and dedication with eyes on the Olympics, was strapped to a backboard and draped by a stark white sheet.

I knelt beside her as my eyes surveyed the car’s blood-spattered interior. Reaching across her covered body, I searched for her hand under the sheet’s edge. Finding it, I held it as I sat next to my beloved Lovey, too shocked to cry. Her soft skin was still warm and I could feel the random muscle twitches of dying nerve cells. I fought the urge to lift the white sheet from her sweet face for fear of seeing disfigurement I would never forget. 

Behind me stood a growing group of officers and responders, hushed respectfully as they took in the scene. As I held Aly’s small hand in mine, I could feel the powerful and raw compassion from those standing behind me. 

And then, for no particular reason, I looked up into the dark field that stretched before us, and that is when I saw her: my beloved deceased grandmother had an arm around Aly and was gently leading her away. Aly was looking over her shoulder at me as she walked beside the great-grandmother she never knew. Walking away from me, forever.

The intrusion of my cellphone's ring suddenly pierced the stillness. In shock, my body automatically answered. It was Jamie. He was impatient, wondering why in the world I hadn’t yet called him. In a robotic monotone voice I remember telling him Aly hadn’t made it, that I was with her now, in the field next to the crumpled cars. I don’t remember his reply or the rest of the conversation.

That point forward is a blur, and would remain so for many months. From among the many snapshots floating inside the snow globe, I recall only fragments.

Being led to the hospital by support personnel. 

Jamie arriving at the hospital, driven down by our brother-in-law. 

Sitting together in a small private hospital room, discussing Aly’s organ donations with the coroner. 

Kissing Donovan and Patrick on their foreheads as they lay strapped to ER gurneys, crying.

Telling them both that it will be alright, hoping I could convince myself of the same. 

Of walking out the hospital door at 4 a.m. with an ER full of people watching, my legs threatening to give way as we exited into the night. 

Leaving for home. 

Together. 

Without our precious daughter. 

As the bright full moon gave way to dawn. 

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.