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The week is dragging on and the ninth anniversary of Kitty's death feels different from past years. I feel as though I've reached a turning point in my grief journey. And I don't think it's just me experiencing this change.
On the past eight anniversaries, as a family, we've spent a week in mourning and remembrance, with emphasis on the day of the accident, Kitty's official date of death and the days of her visitation and funeral. This year, there was the usual focus on the day that the family car went through the ice, but the rest of the week seems to have waned. Or maybe we're just not talking about it. I know that I am remembering details from every day that week, but I feel like I'm grieving internally and alone. It's taken nine years for us to reach this point. Is this normal? Is it a longer or shorter amount of time from what others experience? I don't know. I believe in the uniqueness of everyone's personal grief, but I don't like this sense of fading ... the feeling that others are forgetting or caring less. I'm not comfortable with this shift in our normal pattern of memorialization and remembrance. Although it's not even remotely possible, I think I'm afraid that we're eventually going to stop remembering completely. For example: At the beginning of 'Kitty Week', we all change our Facebook profile and cover photos to pictures of either her or images that remind us of her. After changing my picture to one of my favorite shots of Kitty, a friend private messaged me, asking who the baby is in my profile picture. She is very familiar with what happened nine years ago, but she forgot and later apologized for making me re-tell her about the accident. One of my closest friends calls every year to express her sympathy and to let me know that she's thinking of my family during the week. This year, she called on Kitty's official date of death. We chatted for quite some time about many different things and just before hanging up, she quickly commented that she'd been thinking about us - an afterthought? When I thanked her and mentioned what day it was, she seemed almost surprised. She had forgotten the day. Is nine years a magic turning point for everyone? Every day, I learn more about grief - specifically my own - and how others view my time of mourning. Am I supposed to be 'over it' by now? What will be like for me, for my family, a year from now or farther in the future? I have no idea. What is important: that I never forget my granddaughter and my memories of her and that I cherish the time we spent together. It shouldn't matter whether or not family members talk to me about her or that friends don't remember dates ... or even the entire accident. I simply need to hold Kitty and our memories together close to my heart. Year number nine marks a shift - a change in how we memorialize Kitty as a family. Remembrance is now internal, belonging to each of us alone. The grief path is quiet this year and I am focused on my own week-long walk. I'm not used to going it alone, but I'll adjust, I'll welcome a more personal remembrance and I'll learn to appreciate the quiet time.
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 A favorite tradition in my family is that when we gather together, we take a 'cousin picture'. My sister and I started snapping photos 42 years ago when her daughter was four years old and my son was born. As my siblings and I added to our families, we continued to press the shutters until our children scattered across cities and - eventually - states. It's rare to have the original generation of cousins in one place these days, but my own three kids have carried the tradition on with their kiddos, my grandchildren.
Over the past few years, I've noticed that whenever a cousin picture is taken, there tends to be a space, a gap, room enough for another child to be positioned in the photo: a spot reserved for Kitty. It continues to be an amazing occurrence. When I first noticed Kitty's open spot in the pictures, I was rather taken back. I interpreted the curiosity as a sign or message telling me, 'Look at this ... this is where Kitty would be if she was still alive. This is where she would fit in.' Snapshots from the past several holidays and birthday parties have continued to leave me staring at the days' memories thinking, 'Wow, there's where she'd be placed in this one.' Except, she isn't. Realistically, I understand that Kitty is exactly where she is meant to be, where God intended her to exist: in our hearts, on our minds, with Jesus, watching over us. In past posts, I've noted how Kitty's death brought healing to our family, how it saved her dad from his own destructive lifestyle. For almost nine years, I've clung to the belief that in Kitty's short life, God's plan for her was fulfilled. Moments ago, as I was looking at one of the cousin pictures and preparing to write this, I recalled a recent message published in my church bulletin. Our deacon wrote: "It is so important for us to take time to drink in all that God gives us. Each day the Lord sends blessings into our lives. Some are evident, like winning the lottery! Others are more subtle, like a cool breeze in the evening or finding an extra cookie in the cookie jar." ... "There are so many ways that God is communicating his love to us in our day to day lives. There are little moments—little miracles—that we witness each day, if we open our eyes to see them." Our family tradition has become one these blessings, a little miracle that I gaze upon daily in the pictures that hang on my walls. Whenever I go upstairs and through the hallway, I am blessed by the memory of my grandchild and the reminder of how she healed our family. Praise the Lord for all of those cousin pictures that appear to be incomplete!! Along the stairway there are also nine black and white 8x10 photos in silver frames, one for each of my grandchildren, taken at the age of two-weeks. The portraits are hung in birth order with the first-born at the bottom of the stairs, winding to the top and descending back down to the youngest. As I make my way up- or downstairs, I am reminded that Kitty is truly the heart, the center, of our family. Her image is hung directly in the center of all of the cousins, with two wooden hearts above her photo. Those hearts were cut by her dad and painted by Kitty's little sister, the Dasher. So appropriate, so perfect, so very blessed.  oday marks the eighth anniversary of my granddaughter's funeral. Our annual week of painful memories will wind down this evening after I recall details of the luncheon and the multiple vehicles it took to get floral arrangements out of the church.
I know that it has been months since my last entry here and it's not because I haven't had time to update or that there's been a lack of inspiration. Anyone who knows me is well aware that I always have an idea and something to say! The other day I realized exactly why I haven't posted: I simply have not wanted to. I wanted it all to myself for awhile. It's quite strange for me and I can only blame it on yet another phase of my grief process. "Social Distancing". "Shelter-in-Place". "Stay home." This is our reality as we start the spring season. We've survived the long, cold winter months and are now ready to break out of our homes, get out and about with neighbors, friends and family, but we cannot, should not. We are threatened as COVID-19 spreads across our country and across the globe. Repercussions from the risk of socializing are not worth the cost.
These are difficult days. The other morning, I was awakened from a deep sleep to a memory from Kitty's funeral: my daughter, Mandy, standing at the ambo, delivering the eulogy with no sign of wavering, no indication that she would break down. She wore her carnation pink suit and led everyone seated in the pews in singing "Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star." We all sang, we all cried. Mandy held herself together.
The priest presiding at the Mass didn't think she could do it, but promised her that if she was able to get through a practice run for him, he would allow her to memorialize her child during the funeral. And so, she did. I was proud of Mandy that day and I will never forget her courage and strength. But what made me recall that moment as I woke the other day? Why did it rouse me out of such a deep sleep? Christmas day is a mere five days away and I'm feeling really good about the progress that's been made in preparation for my family celebration. Cards and packages have been mailed, wrapping of gifts is well underway. Three out of four varieties of cookies are baked, frosted and frozen. Tree and decorations? Check. There is, however, one thing that I'm struggling to get done - one thing I simply cannot make myself do. It's neither physically demanding nor time consuming, but emotionally it's extremely difficult.
It's no secret and you've most likely noticed: I've been on hiatus. It was a bit longer than planned, but was definitely not without thoughts of Kitty Rose. In fact, most of the time that I've been away from the blog was spent in her memory - remembering, writing, talking about and honoring her.
This past week, I had the chance to spend some time with the grandchildren I see the least - my son’s daughters, N, J & G. Because their dad is out of town on business and their mom wanted to go listen to a speaker talk about education for gifted students (N fits the description well), I was more than happy to spend an evening with the girls.
For those of you who have not read back in my story, J & G are identical twin girls, born just two weeks after Kitty Rose. They are now seven years old and I think about Kitty whenever we are together. How could I not?  Kitty would be seven years old today. Instead, she remains an almost-nine-month-old in our hearts and in our memories. I would love nothing more than to say that after six years, it doesn't hurt anymore. But, it still does and my heart has ached for the past week.
Easter should have been - quite simply - happy. Isn't that how we greet one another, 'Happy Easter'? On a better day, I would have quipped, 'Hoppy Easter!' and then chuckled at my own play on words. I was supposed to joyfully celebrate the resurrection of Jesus and the promise of life eternal. On Sunday night, at the end of an exhausting day, I should have plopped myself on the couch and declared that it was the perfect day, the best possible ending to a glorious, wonderful and - yes - happy Triduum and Easter weekend. This year, however, was not joyful, wonderful or happy. It definitely was not perfect. There were far too many reminders. Kitty's upcoming birthday loomed large on my internal calendar. She has been consistently on my mind since I mentally flipped the page from March to April. The below words and my reactions to them only intensified my yearning for Kitty Rose. * On Good Friday, Mandy wrote on her Facebook page, "During the Stations of the Cross, the priest says, "Tears are on her cheeks." The congregation responds with, "And there is none to comfort her." This year during Holy Week, I find my mind has been focused on Mary and the loss of her son. I find myself being able to relate to the words spoken in the Stations of the Cross. A vision and memory of a mom who has lost a child, standing with tears rolling down her face and, even if surrounded by people, feeling so alone." Reading those words, I became overwhelmingly sad for my daughter. I will never be able to console her in this grief. * At church later that evening, the homily focused on forgiveness. Jesus died for us, for our sins. Our merciful God forgives us, we must forgive ourselves. As our deacon spoke, all I could think about was son-in-law. Was the accident that took Kitty from us his fault? Yes, definitely. But there was never a doubt that we all forgave him. Yet he cannot - and probably never will - forgive himself. Could I? Could you? Pardon the pun, it's a very sobering thought. * Easter Sunday arrived. 'Alleluia! He is risen! … Indeed, He is risen!' Oh, Kitty, why am I not comforted in knowing that one day we will be reunited? I watched as J and G - my twin granddaughters, the two surviving members of the 'triplet cousins' - hunted eggs in the yard. If only Kitty were here. Would she be laughing and running with them in search of the coveted golden egg? Or would she be helping the Dasher and the Basher fill their baskets? Would she still be taller than her cousins who were born less than two weeks after her? Or had they caught up - maybe even surpassed her - in height? I missed Kitty this Easter more than ever. It's fair to say that this year, Easter could have been much more celebratory for me. It does not mean, however, that I missed the meaning and the message of the holiest of days. Christ died for us, for the redemption of our sins. He rose to give us the promise of eternal life. As Christians, this is where we find hope and joy. It is why we do not fear death. May the blessings of this Easter season live within us. We grieve with hope … 1 Thessalonians 4:13. Happy Birthday, Kitty Rose! Grandma loves you. I overheard my daughter tell someone that every decision she and her family make is because of and centered around Kitty Rose and her death. At the time, I thought that was a bit exaggerated … Really? Every decision? Ever since, I have been mulling over Mandy’s statement and its meaning, not only for her and her family, but also for me personally and for the extended family. Just yesterday, I had that ‘aha’ moment – I think I finally understand.
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