The Second Year

Many people have said the second year of grief is worse than the first. I haven't lived enough of it yet to figure out if that's true. October 15, 2021 marked one year that I've survived without my daughter.

I think I'm past some of the shock, and I'm beginning to get used to not having her here. But I got used to it when my oldest daughter spent a year in Ireland. I knew she wasn't here, so I didn't expect her to pop in at any moment. But I also knew that, no matter how long it felt, she would still be home at some date in the future.

It's when I realize that Joy isn't coming back, ever, that I feel this upheaval in my gut, as if I might throw up and the wind gets sucked out of my lungs at the same time, and that I can't imagine any way to survive until I see her again, until the end of time. Every time we've traveled since she died, when we drive back into Lansing, it hits me all over again. She made her mark on so many people in this town, with her art, with her performances, with her unconditional friendship. And now, it seems strange for this city to exist without her. More than strange. It seems cruel and bizarre, and just not real, that the place and people that loved her can just go on without her here.

My head knows she's gone but my heart doesn't understand it yet. It's easy enough for my brain to comprehend since I saw her in her room that day. I saw the looks on the faces of the paramedics when they stopped and looked at her and didn't rush into action, as I'd seen them do before. I saw her in the casket where they tried to make her look like herself, but they had no idea what my daughter looked like. I waved farewell as the hearse pulled out of the church parking lot. My husband and I carried her ashes across town to the cemetery where they would transfer her into urn we had chosen. It reminded me of the first time the three of us were in the car together, when we brought her home in a carseat to join her sister, then a family of four instead of three. How sickening it was to think that all we had left twenty years later were ashes.

My brain knows.

But as we know, the head and the heart don't always speak the same language.

My heart continually searches for her. Will I catch a glimpse of her in the sky today? Will a particular bird or stone or gust of wind remind me that she's still part of me? Sometimes I watch a video to hear a clip of her voice or I look at a picture to remember how full of life she was. Where did that life go?

Back in the spring, my two daughters and I were all awake at the same very early hour, a time we wouldn't normally be awake. The oldest was at her own apartment but somehow we were all awake to see the most glorious rainbow I've ever seen, without exaggerating. Clear, crisp colors, stretching from one end of the sky to another, and then we noticed another one! A perfect double rainbow that lasted much longer than the few minutes of color that usually come after a morning rain. We all shared that we said the same thing when we saw it. "Hi, Joy."

A few months ago, I walked into my room late in the evening and I caught a very real glimpse of her face and I heard her giggle, that particular giggle that she would make when she thought I was doing something silly, trying to be relevant in a house full of teens who were living a completely different culture than I understood. It made me sad and happy at the same time. She was still with me, laughing at my antics, but she was so far out of my reach I couldn't stand it. I couldn't summon that moment back. I could only replay it in my head about a thousand times until it started to decay.

I stayed in bed for at least two weeks after the one-year anniversary of her death. The actual day was quite peaceful. Her friends visited, we went to the cemetery, we laughed and cried together, her godparents brought dinner and we reminisced. But after that, I had nothing left. It could also have been due to the fact that we've been working on a house refinance that has been nothing but a headache for months, or the fact that I started a new medication for my rheumatoid arthritis and didn't immediately realize that one of the side effects is fatigue. In any case, I was laid out flat. Not able to do anything, comprehend anything, solve problems or even come up with everyday words. Regardless of what caused those two weeks of absolute desperation, I'm not ashamed to say that's how I dealt with the grief.

We traveled 400 miles north to my parents' house to celebrate Thanksgiving, and I slept a lot there, too. Some recovery, some depression, some medication - it all factored in. I'm feeling a bit more hopeful today after weeks of rest. But I find that I'm searching for purpose.

My husband needs me and will never stop needing me, due to his disability so of course, I intend to be there for him forever. My kids still need me, but they're growing and figuring out many things on their own. It feels like they don't need me as much, but I know they're still hurting and grieving and trying to move on with their lives, and I don't know how to help them. So I still have a purpose in learning to care for my adult and almost-adult children and praying that we all come out of this okay.

But I need someone, something, too. Grief is a lonely place. People tend to disappear in a time like this. I'm not saying this to shame anyone. It's a universal phenomenon for those who have lost loved ones. For the first whole year since Joy's death, I can count on one hand how many people reached out after the funeral and asked, "How are you doing?" Again, no guilt-tripping, but it made me realize that I can do so much better when others need help and hope and reaching out.

And it also made me realize that this is a big part of my therapy that's been missing - writing. I need it. I was created to express myself in words, words for myself and words for others. I haven't been taking the time to do it, and sometimes life robs me of the time to do it, but it's my therapy. And I believe I have a purpose in this, in sharing the most vulnerable moments, in sharing the painful times, and in encouraging every single one of my readers and friends that God is with us even in the darkness.

Because the number one thing I've known since the day my daughter died is the presence of God. Even when I'm lying in bed, not functioning. Even when I'm yelling at my family because I can't handle what life is throwing at me because I'm burned out. Even when I'm crying and gasping for breath.

I do know this, without any doubt, that God is with me. He was with me for the first year. He will be with me in the second year. He will be with me in every year following until I'm home with him in heaven.

I'm trying not to have any expectations for grief. It will be what it will be, and I fully expect to be blindsided from time to time by the pain that will reside in me until the end of time. But I also fully expect that God will meet me in each and every moment.

I miss this kiddo!