 This has been an anniversary year like no other. I’ve been frustrated all week. Typically, I spend this time in reflection and memorialization, trying to muster up something inspirational, hopeful, promising to share. This year, I have nothing to offer.
Well, that may not be completely true. Since mid-December, things have been amiss. The annual Christmas flower donation to my church in Kitty’s memory was somehow misdirected and went unrecognized. I had recurring memories of the accident, the time at the hospital, the visitation at the funeral home, writing thank you notes. Thoughts – just like the funeral director said about the floral arrangements 11 years ago – “they don’t stop coming”. I mentioned to a friend that I was dreading “Kitty Week” because I was remembering far too soon … it was a month early. I expected a highly charged, emotional anniversary week. But, by the time January 18th – ‘Accident Day’ rolled around, my anticipation couldn’t have been more off the mark. Distractions, needs and outside demands have occupied my time. I’ve been busy with unexpected volunteer commitments, extra grandchildren on babysitting days, the death of a friends’ mother – other people needed me to step up for them. It was impossible to spend ‘Kitty Week’ in the way to which I’ve grown accustomed, focused on my granddaughter. After working my way through the final day of the week, January 25th, the 11th anniversary of Kitty’s funeral and burial, the arrival of all those early memories makes sense. I’d moped around all week, feeling sorry for myself because I wanted time to focus on remembering Kitty. And suddenly I realized that God put all those reminiscences on my mind early because, in His grand scheme of things, He knew my attention was going to be needed elsewhere during the week I typically dedicate to her. The time I spent remembering ahead of time was much preferred to not having it at all. Life doesn’t pause because I want it to …. Everything happens in its time, as we’re reminded in Ecclesiastes 3:1-18: For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven: a time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up what is planted; a time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up; a time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance; a time to throw away stones, and a time to gather stones together; a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing; a time to seek, and a time to lose; a time to keep, and a time to throw away; a time to tear, and a time to sew; a time to keep silence, and a time to speak; a time to love, and a time to hate; a time for war, and a time for peace. [Ecclesiastes 3:1-18; NRSV]
0 Comments
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. The last time I sat down to write, I was starting work on Kitty’s unintentionally forgotten memory book, a task that was entrusted to me not long after Kitty was born. My goal was to complete the book in time to give my daughter on what would be Kitty’s eighth birthday in April. It was a goal I couldn’t meet – craft stores were closed because of the pandemic and online shopping proved frustrating due to sold out pink paper and scrapbooking supplies.
"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.
 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.  Today marks the sixth anniversary of the accident that caused Kitty's death. It has been at the forefront of my thoughts since the start of the new year. This is the first time that the days of the week coincide with that dreadful week six years ago. At this time, on Friday, January 18, 2013, I was on my way to the hospital in Waconia. Beginning right now and over the next week, I will recall and relive every moment with no less pain.
Recently, I was asked to participate in a special grief session designed specifically for grandparents. The invitation came verbally several months ago in a very vague 'would you be willing to ...' manner. Until about one week before the session, I didn't have a clear grasp on either my role or what to expect. When I learned that I was to 'provide a nugget … something newly bereaved grandparents could take away to give them ideas for coping', I dug deep.
I was so tired yesterday ... so very tired. But I didn't know why.
This morning I realized it's because that doggone grief returned with a vengeance. A story was published in the Minneapolis Star Tribune on Sunday about Mandy, son-in-law, my grandchildren, their story of breaking through the ice on Lake Minnetonka and their life together five years after the accident. It was the front page story. No wonder I'm exhausted. I just relived the past five years in one weekend. |
Archives
January 2024
Categories
All
|
RSS Feed