Sunday, September 30, 2012

You Never Get Over It

How do you get over the loss of a daughter?

You don't.  Plain and simple. You try to find ways to cope.  You have good days, but you never get over it.  You go on with life, and you try to learn to live differently, but it's always there.

I get up in the morning with her on my mind, and I go to bed with thoughts of her and wishes that she'll come to me in my dreams.  She has, but only once.  I pray for more, for there I get a glimpse of her as she once once, alive, full of life, in 3-D.  It's not much, but it's something.  It's comforting.

In the one dream I had so far, she was dancing.  I like to imagine that she still dances a lot.

These last two months really don't seem real to me yet.  A constant fog shrouds my life. I get through the day, but I have great difficultly remembering to do things, or remembering what I have done.  There are so many things I want to do, especially things for Kelci, but focusing on them is nearly impossible right now.  I'll remember at the end of the day that I forgot to do what I wanted to do, but then in the morning I forget what it was I wanted to remember.

I'm hoping this eventually lifts.  There are a lot of important things I want to do.  I'm thinking I need to bring the notebook back out, the notebook I carried around with me everywhere in the days right after Kelci's accident, so I can write things down so they won't be lost forever.

Then there are times I think I might not want it to lift ever.  I think it might be easier to live in this little bubble I have created.  I know it appears at times that I am living large, stepping outside my box, but I really don't think I am.  I've created a nice comfort zone though, and for that I am grateful.

This comfort zone includes my family, of course, my office co-workers (we're mostly removed from the rest of the campus, so it's almost like a safe haven at work, almost), and a lot of old friends. 

It's good to go back to the things that made you smile and feel good.  Going way back, to the old high school gang, brings and unexpected level of comfort, because it takes you back to simpler times when life, although you didn't think so at the time, was relatively easy.  I am so grateful that even though many years have passed, and there have been periods we weren't in touch, that the friends I made way back when still have my back when it is needed most.  I have been blessed with some really amazing lifetime friends. 

It's still a bit overwhelming to face people (especially many at once) and new situations are often daunting, so I tend to cling to what I know or knew.  Old friends bring me much needed comfort.  It's hard not to stick with that, but I try to be open to new things and people.  I think you have to be when faced with something like this.  Nothing is ordinary anymore.  Nothing is normal or really in your comfort zone, so being willing to let go of the old and let new people and experiences in can offer unexpected helpful insight.  It has for me anyway.

Kelci left a little note in my office one day when she came to visit.  She did that often, left little drawings or quotes around, and they always brought me a smile.  They still do.  This one, from Bob Marley said: "Don't you know when when door closes another one is open."

The full lyrics  from Coming in From the Cold, really resonates with me these days, "Why do you look so sad and forsaken? When one door is closed, don't you know another is open?"

I try to remember that when I'm feeling really bad.  It's hard though, because I'm having a lot of trouble accepting why this particular door had to close, but still, I focus on looking forward, looking for the open doors and opportunities that await me, that await all of us. 

They certainly aren't what I expected.  No one expects this, but I'm learning to put this in a category of "it is what it is."  It's one of those things that I cannot change, so I have to accept it and move on with it, like it or not.

Give me grace to accept with serenity
the things that cannot be changed,
Courage to change the things
which should be changed,
and the Wisdom to distinguish
the one from the other.

Accepting hardship as a pathway to peace,
Living one day at a time,
Enjoying one moment at a time,
Taking, this world as it is,
Not as I would have it,
Trusting that all things will be made right,
If I surrender,
So that I may be reasonably happy in this life,
And supremely happy forever in the next.

Reinhold Niebuhr (This is the original version, slightly altered by me to be more inclusive, of what is commonly known as the Serenity Prayer adopted by Alcoholics Anonymous.  I found this one and like it quite a bit better.)

Tuesday, September 25, 2012

We're Different

Originally posted by me on Facebook:

Kelci and Michelle, Binghamton, NY
Leave it to a daughter of mine to put things in perspective for me. I have great daughters. They have taught me so much. They have always seen beauty where others see none, and their perspective on life, like mine, often seems very different than everyone else’s perspective. Sometimes, I question that. It's normal to question things when you feel like you are the minority.

These last two months I've heard so often that from people that I'm so strong and that they could never have the strength that I have, or that my family has, that I've often wondered if I'm doing something wrong. Honestly, I have no idea where the strength comes from, and I didn't really imagine that this would ever be how I would be if I lost a child. I assumed I'd die right along with them, because I assumed that I would not be able to handle it. When that didn’t happen, I was left wondering exactly what it was I was supposed to do.

I guess instinct kicked in and who I am took over. Instead of finding only negative, I chose to seek the positive, instead of looking for ugly, I found beauty, and instead of sinking into despair, I cling to hope. I could solely focus on all that went wrong with my life, but instead I choose to focus on all that is still right with my life. I count and appreciate my blessings even more. In spite of the most horrific loss imaginable, I still have a whole lot to live for, and I try every day to see that. Is that wrong?
I'll be honest, sometimes it feels wrong. Sometimes when I let what society thinks is right dictate my thoughts, it feels wrong. I am so grateful that I don't let that happen too often. I am even more grateful that I have someone like my daughter, Michelle, in my life to remind me that we are different.

Yes, we are different, but I think different in the best way. We find beauty in ugly, hope in despair, rainbows in storm clouds, and goodness in everything. When I see my daughter find pure joy in watching ducks play in the rain, and I hear her say, "Mom, I don't know how people can't appreciate life," when she has every reason not to, I know that I did something right. I know that I am blessed, and I know that this beauty and love that surrounds me is what will sustain me. It's what will keep me strong, us strong. It is what will comfort me when I’m crying, weak and missing my beautiful, Kelci.

It is what can give anyone strength when they need it if they choose to accept it’s there and call upon it.

Sunday, September 23, 2012

That Knock on the Door

I am not certain why I feel today is the day I need to tell the story of the night they came to tell us of the accident.  Maybe it's because I either dreamt about it last night, or imagined another knock on the door like that one, and have spent too much of the day reliving it.  Maybe it's because I need to write it down and write it out.  I hope this works.

Kelci, June 2012, Lake Tahoe, NV
July 24, 2012.  By all accounts, a normal day.  As I was leaving for work, Toby, one of the beagles, began to bark hysterically because a woman walked past our house with her two extraordinarily large dogs.  The other dogs, Barney, the other beagle, and Lucky, the Chihuahua, chimed in. The chorus of frenzied, barking, howling dogs woke Kelci up.

I felt really bad, because on her days off she liked to sleep in. She came down and I said, "I'm really sorry about that." 

I thought she'd be upset, but she was pleasant, and said "It's OK, I wanted to get up early.  What were they barking about anyway?"

"Someone walked by with two giant dogs, and I think Toby thought they were bears."

She giggled at this, and it made me smile.  Then we had a short pleasant conversation, and as was always the case when we parted, we both said, "I love you."

That was the last thing I ever said to her, and the last time I would ever see her.

Sometime around 10 pm I went to bed. I hadn't heard from Kelci all day, but that was typical on her day off. I knew she had planned to go swimming, and I assumed she'd be hope in a little bit. 

I drifted off and was woken up by booming knocks on our front door.  Looking back, it was the worst noise I have ever heard in my life.  That's when time stopped.

I remember feeling panic.  I knew instinctively that something was wrong, but even then I didn't expect it to be what it was.

The dogs were barking hysterically.  Ray got up too, and  we both went to the living room to find out who was at the door.  I think he answered the door.  I remember seeing three men.  Two were in uniform.  My first thought was she's in trouble.  I didn't know what kind of trouble, but I never expected them to say what they said next.

It's all very hazy here.  I know they came inside, and I just remember hearing, "She's gone." 
This new world of ours is all quite a blur.
I started to shake uncontrollably.  I think everything went blank.  I must have walked across the room because I was standing looking down at the white couch, my arms bracing me from falling.  My legs were shaking so bad I could hardly stand.

I turned around when I heard Ray say, "No, she's at work.  She'll be home soon."  They were telling us where the accident happened, and Ray was insisting it could not be her because she was not there.

I said, "No.  She went swimming."  I knew it was her, I didn't have to hear that it was a little white car, a Subaru. 

I don't really have much recall on what all happened then.  I remember Brian, my son, being there.  I'm not sure when he came upstairs.  The look on his face told me he heard.  The dogs were still barking hysterically, locked in the bedroom.

I remember asking the three men, two state police officers and the coroner, their names, because it was important. They tried to tell me Trooper so-and-so, but I said no, "What is your first name?" Daniel, he was the coroner,  Patrick, and Tom. I might always remember those names.   I kept saying them over and over. Daniel. Partick. Tom.  I told them how sorry I was that they had to do this, to tell us this. I genuinely felt bad for them. It's an awful job.

I remember taking Kelci's picture off the wall and just holding it, and asking the three men,  what I needed to do, and being told "just be with your family.  There is nothing you need to do."

I asked them over and over, and even tried to write it down, but there was nothing to write down.  Be with your family, there is nothing you can do.  Nothing.  There has to be something I can do. But, there was nothing I could do...

I don't remember them leaving. I remember Ray, Brian and I were left there, screaming, crying, wondering what to do.

Before they left, I did tell them I had to find Michelle.  I knew I had to find Michelle.  I knew I had to be the one to tell her.  I couldn't imagine her finding out from anyone else.  You have to find Michelle.  It took me hours to do that, several agonizing, excruciating hours.  There were moments in those hours that I was so scared something had happened to her too. 

My life ended the second I heard those booming knocks on the door.  My different life, my life without Kelci here, began as we tried to figure out what we needed to do.  The worst day of both my lives, July 24, 2012, began with that knock on the door. 

Wednesday, September 19, 2012

There's No Right or Wrong Way to Grieve

There is no right or wrong way to grieve. Don't let anyone try to tell you differerent.  One book or website will tell you one thing, and another will tell you something else.  There are guidelines, but nothing is definitive.  This I know.

According to "the experts", and I've heard these for years, so there must be some truth to it, there are 5 stages of grief, denial, anger, barganing, depression, acceptance.  I've been through them all, I think, but I circle back a lot. 
 
Sometimes, I think I'm handling it too good, because other people seem to think I am, but then again, they don't see me in the darkest moments.  I have only let a few people into that circle.


Life is forever changed.  You are learning how to appect it,
and learning a different way to live.
I wonder if how I feel is normal, because many things contradict what the books say.  For one thing, I've heard that many people no longer see beauty in things and they have to relearn to appreciate the colors of a rainbow or things like that.  For me, that's been so opposite.  I see more beauty in nature and all around me than I ever did. 

There are times things, like the simple movement of the clouds, are so beautiful to me that I want to just stop where I am and look at them for hours, or spend the day in one spot just photographing it to show others just how beautiful such simple things can be.  I notice the little things that many others take for granted.  I always did before, but now it is profoundly enhanced.  In some ways, my perspective is so utterly altered for the better.  That is one thing I hope  never changes, but it does make me question if I'm grieving properly.
 
Society leads you to believe that you are supposed to grieve or feel a certain way when you lose a child.  I'm here to tell you that, for me, and my husband too (we've talked about this), it is NOTHING like what you think or expect it should be like.  We both thought that if we  lost one of our children that there is no possible way we could survive.  I truely thought I'd die right along with her, so did Ray, or that we'd be so consumed with grief we would likely take our own life or not be able to function. That didn't happen, and we were left to figure out why and how we were now supposed to deal and go on.
 
Very strange things happened instead.  One of the strangest is how I felt in the days right after the accident. As odd as this sounds, there were times I had an oddly euphoric feeling about everything that was going on around me. That rocked me at my core. How could I be feeling this way at the same time my heart was aching so badly for my daughter? I don't know for sure what it was or is, and I don't really have a way to explain it, but at times I thought that maybe I got a glimpse of the mystery of the universe. That I had these good feelings because, even though I had such overwhelming saddness, I also had an incredible sense that my daughter was OK, better than OK. She was free. 
It's hard to put into words, and even harder to accept, because it is so contradictory.  I don't want this.  I didn't choose this, yet here I am in an unwanted club trying to make sense of the senseless and cling to the fact that nothing is right or wrong with how I feel or deal, or how anyone else feels or deals.  It is what it is.  That is all.
 
The thing that strikes me most is that I can be going along relatively OK, be having an OK day, and get hit with a wave a grief out of no where that nearly knocks me to my knees and sets me crying all over again.  This is normal, or so I'm gathering, because everyone I've encounted who is going through this has had this happen.  I'm certain that no matter how much time passes, we will never be fully OK (how could we?  we are forever changed), so I know this is just something I will learn to live with. I will, like I'm doing with everyhing else, embrace this bad moments, live in them until they pass and move on when I'm ready.  I embrace the good moments the same way.

There are many, many things that I will have to learn to live with as I learn to live without Kelci.  It's hard, very hard, but as I have said over and over, I know that Kelci would want me to find a way to be OK, really OK (not just the pretend version that I'm sometime in), and to live well, to be happy and to have fun. From the beginning, I have known this and I try very hard, everyday to keep my promises to her, for her and for everyone else around me now.  Sometimes, this is more diffucult than you can imagine, especially on the days that Ray, Brian and Michelle aren't doing so good.  I question if I have a right to be "happy" and pursuing this in the most positive way possible.  Then, I listen to my own advice, yes, I have the right, because there is no wrong or right way to do this. 

Through this, I have found that there are some things that seem to help me more than others.  They might not have one bit of impact on anyone else,  but they help me and I only offer them up as suggestions.
 
Journaling and writing.  I bought a beautiful little journal and I write to Kelci.  It's very raw there sometimes, and I spill wout whatever is on my mind when I pick it up.  I cry there. I laugh there. I write plans there for how I want to go on for her.  I get angry there, and I work through things there. It's just for me, to her.  I also write here, obviously.  This is harder, because I want to be a honest as possible, but I might edit myself at times.  I try not to, but it happens.  I also write on Facebook.  I do think I edit myself the most there, but I have been inspired by the interaction and support I recieve there.  It is really nice to know that people care.

So far, as of today (Sept. 18, 2012), I've kept this blog private.  It's up for the public, but I haven't really told anyone about it.  I don't know if I ever will.  I suppose that someday, someone who needs it might stumble across it, maybe read it, and maybe something I've written here will resonate with them and perhaps help in someway.  I don't know.  I know that I have come across some things that other parents who have lost a child have written and they've helped me. 

I don't write this for anyone but me, but I know, through reading about other parents going through similar grief that some of my experiences are the same.  Nature of the beast I guess.  I've also read some things that I haven't experienced.  Maybe I will eventually, maybe I won't.  Each person's grieving process is unique to them, and I would never tell anyone that anything I've been going through or how I've been dealing with or coping with things is the right way for them.  It doesn't work that way.  I'm just writing down my experience and what I observe in those close to me.  I share what helps me.  To my family members, I offer suggestions, but I know that what works for me might not have any affect on them at all.  It's just the way this is.

Exercise.  I was a runner before the accident, and I've tried to continue, mostly for Kelci, because I know she would want me to.  She was proud of me for what I have been accomplishing with it.  I feel a normalness when I run or do any other physical activity, like biking or swimming, that I rarely get anywhere else.  I think it's because running (and exercise in general) is so raw, primative.  It's very much you and your thoughts.  The moments I have felt the most connected to Kelci have been when I've been running and swimming, so I like to do these often.  It might even be obsessive, but there are worst obsessions one can have dealing with this. Running also shows me how limited my body is here, and I often sense that Kelci isn't feeling those limitations where she is now.  I know everyone doesn't buy into that, but it is comforting to me.  I don't have all the answers,but I'm open minded and respectful of others beliefs.

There is also the whole scientific thing with endorphin release and all that.  I can only speak for myself on this, I just feel better after I exercise in general.  I feel happier, more focused, more productive, more inspired and just overall feel better about myself.  My immeadiate family seems to get the same effects, and all of us are trying to stay active.  It works.  I don't know why, but it does.

Living Well.  This ties into the exercising, and what I spoke of before about the promises I made to Kelci. Even though this is the most devasting thing that I can ever imagine happening to me or anyone else, succumbing to the despair wouldn't help me or anyone around me.  It just makes sense to try to be as positive as possible, to try to live a good life, to continue to have fun, to be happy in spite of it and to do things you love.  On the days I can't do it for myself, I do it for Kelci, because I know it's what she would want. 

People are trying to help. 
They need to help.  Let them when you can.
For me this has included reaching out to friends and letting them reach out to me.  In the beginning you seem to be surrounded by people, but that slowly goes away. My suggestion is to embrace it when it's there and take up every offer and oppurtunity when you can.  I go out to dinner, go on bike rides, go for walks, whatever is suggested I do.  Somedays, I'm not sure that I want to, but I do it anyway because I know I just might find exactly what I need by being open to new things. It's out of my comfort zone, but hell, everything is out of my comfort zone, so I just go for it.  So far it's worked out well for me.  People are trying to help, so why not let them. 

Having Purpose. I've spoke of this before, but it really has become my life mission now.  I have this unquenchable need to make sure something good comes out of this horrible tragedy.  That for me is still undefined, but I know it involves memorializing Kelci with charity work.  On the days I focus on this, I feel hope.  Hope is something you can't live without when your dreams and life expectations are suddenly crushed.

Another thing that I found helps me is helping others.  Reaching out to others who are going through something similar and trying to ease their pain brings me strength and comfort.  I didn't ask for this path, who would, but sometimes, for whatever reason you are chosen for a journey you didn't expect.  The only thing I can try to do is do the best I can with what I've been given, and if that includes helping others find their way, so be it.  In the process it helps me, and that's all I can ask for.


Thursday, September 13, 2012

Peace, Love, and Simple Things

Since Kelci's accident, I now have an overwhelming need to live a life of purpose.  I always did, but now it has an intensity and urgency that gnaws at me, pushes me forward and also frustrates me to the core.  I cling to the love, peace and togetherness that surround us in the days and weeks after the accident and have a near frantic urge to keep it burning for Kelci.  I am so afraid that if it slips away, then Kelci slips away a little more.

I'm also frustrated, because I have so many ideas churring about what I'd like to do in her honor, but I don't have a clue how to set them into action.

I constantly have to remind myself that everything doesn't have to be done now, things can wait, and it's best to just let things happen as they will instead of forcing them to happen.  It's hard to be patient.

I plan to create a charity in her honor.  I envision it being called Peace, Love and Simple Things, and any funds raised will go toward helping others in small ways.  I see donations being used to cover things like the cost of school lunches for kids who fall through the cracks or school supplies for those who might not be able to afford them. Maybe sponsoring a child at the school Santa's workshop, or sponsor a youth soccer team in Kelci's name.  There's always small needs somewhere, and I know that Kelci would just want me to do it without fanfare.  I, however, have a need to memorialize her name.  I know she will understand.

I have other ideas for using funds as well.  Kelci was unique.  She did not follow the straight path that society often deems normal.  She tried college, that was not exactly for her, yet.  She thought about going back, when and if she felt the need or if the right career path came to her.  I don't want to do a typical scholarship, but rather one that would have inspired her.

One idea is to fund travel for service trips abroad.  Kelci met a dear friend, Yao, during her one semester at Cazenovia College.  Yao came from Ghana to study in the United States and he created a foundation to help educate the youth of his village.  Kelci was entralled with his project, and even years after they went on their seperate paths she spoke of it with me.  She never gave up hope of traveling there and helping out.  I'm hoping to carry on where she left off. 

I'm planning to establish a memorial charity run in her honor as one way to raise funds.  This year, because planning something big is out of the question, we are starting with a "Team Kelci" and taking part in another run for another young woman who was taken far to soon.  It will just be a way to get together and perhaps will be a jump off point to get the ball rolling for what I would like to do next year, and every year after that, a run for her in October, Halloween themed, because she adored it.  I think she would approve.

I just have to figure out a way to make things happen. They will. I am determined that the message she spread on this planet will carry on through my lifetime.  She was kind.  She was special.  She deserves to be remembered and honored in a very special way.  I don't know that I will every understand why her stay here was so brief, but I know that the only way I will survive is to find meaning and purpose while I'm still here.

Tuesday, September 11, 2012

Crash and Burn

Tonight sucks.

There will be days like this, many of them I'm told, but it's hard to prepare yourself for them. 

It was a good night.  A night of good food, good friends, and OK wine (I'm not a wine connoisseur, but it was OK in my book), and I was surprised at how quickly it turned.  Wine, I think, toomuch of it anyway, will do that to you.

It was a night, I believe, I needed, but a night I didn't want.  Sometimes, though, you have to let it go, work through it.  Let it out.  Deal with it. 

This post won't be pretty.  If you are expecting something uplifting and positive from me right now, you'll need to turn the other way.  Sometimes, this "poster child for the optimist club" wears a different set of horns. 

I lost my child.  This sucks.  That's about all I've got.

Tune in tomorrow to see if I work though this shit.  I probably will.  This is how I know you can too.

It's funny though, how everyone wants to be in on it, whatever it is, when you are "handling things well" or a role model for all things positive.  They love it when you are stong. They can deal with that.  They can't deal with this.  They can't deal with anger, and I can't say that I blame them. This, however, is reality.  It will get dark some days.  It will get ugly.  It is now that you have to dig deeper, much deeper, and hope that you find that strength that has been keeping you going again.

For Kelci, as always, I know I will find a way.

Sunday, September 9, 2012

It won't get easier, don't lie

I'm not a harsh person. I try to keep the peace and find a way to make everyone happy.  I am also pretty agreeable, but on this point I will argue.  Here anyway.  I doubt I will ever tell anyone this to their face: No matter what you say, this is not going to get easier.  That's not an arguement.  I am certain it's a fact.  The pain of losing my daughter is not going to get easier.  EVER.

Coping might get easier.  Getting through a day, might get easier.  Laugther might come easier. Day to day task might get easier too.  Living without her, will never be easy.  EVER.

How do I know this?  How do I know the sun will come up tomorrow?  I just do.

How do I know this?  Because every single parent I have talked to who has lost a child says the same thing:  This never gets easier.  I've heard, "It's been 8 years, and for the most part, I'm doing OK, but there are still days when I cannot even manage to get out of bed."

"It's been 9 years, and I'm not going to lie to you, there are good days, and well, there are some very bad ones."

"It's been 3 years, and when I see a car like the one he drove, I still get taken aback.  I still cry.  I always will.  It doesn't get easier."

"She has been gone for 17 years, and I still have bad days.  You will always have bad days.  It's especially bad when I'm alone. I cry all the way to work somedays.  It never gets easier.  It's always here. You get through the day. You do what you have to, but it never gets easier."

And on, and on and on.  Every single parent who lost a child, no matter how old that child was, says the same thing.  It does not get easier.  EVER.

Will I learn how to function better?  Of course.  Will the pain subside?  I suspect it will, some day, but I also suspect there will be days it will come back full throttle and feel exactly like it did the moment I found out that I would never have my baby, my Kelci, in my life the same way again.

No, it will not get easier.  I am forever changed.  I now carry a profound saddness that will never go away.  Yes, I can still be positive.  Yes, I can still carry on a fairly normal life.  Yes, I have a strengh in me that I never in all my life thought I would actually have to call upon.  Yes, I am brave. 

There are some wounds that no amount of time on Earth will ever heal.  Don't lie to me.  It does not get easier.  EVER.

Friday, September 7, 2012

Living in the Glass House

Living with this loss is very strange.  Some people don't know how to treat you.  They aren't sure if they should talk to you. They're afraid to say the wrong thing, so they turn their eyes down and avoid your gaze. 

Sometimes I feel like I have a disease that nobody wants to catch.  Can't blame them, I sure as hell wouldn't want this either, but here I am with it an I don't know what to do myself.

Photo by Kelci Gibbons
I also feel like maybe I am wearing a scarlet letter, what letter that is I don't know.  D for death seems really harsh.  We don't like that word, and rarely use it.  K for Kelci.  Yes, that might be it.  I walk around with my Scarlet K that I'm not used to wearing yet.  Everyone knows why I wear it, but a lot of people don't want to talk about it.  They don't want to look at it. They are afraid of it.  They know it's very bad that we have it and they feel sorry for us.  They pity us.  They have no idea what to do with us. 

So here's what I imagine they do with us:  they put us up on a hill in a glass house and let us live there.

We are all part of the same community.  We can all see each other, but we stay where we are, and they stay where they are. Everyone knows what's wrong with us, of course, but no one knows how to help us.  They feel very bad for us, and they want to help us very badly.  They just dont know what to do.  We can see them looking at us, and we want to ask for help, we want to let them in, but we don't know what to ask them for or what we need either. We go about our life the best we can, and they just watch us, to make sure we are OK.

We're OK.  Well, we seem OK anyway.  I say I'm OK all the time.  This must mean I'm OK, right?  Acutally, I'd like to scream sometimes, "Do you want to know what OK really means?  It means that I have no idea how I am. It means I go through the motions and through the day, and it's much too hard to tell you anything other than 'I'm OK'." 

This glass home of ours is very uncomfortable.  There is nothing I like about living here.  There is nothing I can do to get out, so I try to be as positive as possible, becasue I know everyone is watching. I wonder what they'll all do when everything just cracks and the glass just shatters around us?

Monday, September 3, 2012

Getting by with a little (a lot) of help from my friends

In the hours after Kelci's accident the one thing I demanded was that NO ONE be allowed to come to my house to see me.  I did not want to talk to anyone, to see anyone, to have to hear "I'm sorry." I begged my mother to keep everyone away from me, because I couldn't bear it.  I couldn't see them cry, because I sure as hell couldn't console them.  I didn't want anyone to touch me.  I don't even know why, but the thought of someone hugging me put me into a panic.  For the first day, everyone did a great job of keeping people away from me.

There were a few people that I did let in that first day though, two imparticular.  They had lost their daugter too, also a twin, a few weeks before Kelci.  They had all gone to school together, had known each other since elememtary school.  Two sets of twins from the same town, from the same graduating class, now without a match.  Yes, I let those parents in.

Mom came first, she was one of the first people at our door.  When I looked at her, and she looked at me, we understood without words.  She understood like no one else could.  We had lost our daughters.  She took me in her arms and said, "I had to come."

I said, "I know.  I am so sorry," and then I just cried. 

I asked her how she was making it through a day, a minute, a second.  I didn't know how I was even breathing. If I didn't remind myself, I might have stopped.  I remember her telling me that she was getting through because she knew without doubt that her daughter was fine, that she had not been taken, but recieved. She was home and all doubts that C.C. ever had about what was next were now gone.  She was the lucky one to now know and have it, and she was certain C.C. didn't want to come back.  She was happy.  She was free.  She was home.  She was also certain that C.C. had welcomed Kelci too.  That, I believed. 

I was awed at how in control she was, and amazed at how she was handling her loss.  I heard her words and they helped so much.  I wanted to believe her, but in those first hours and days, there was no way I could believe that I could be that strong, positive or together.  In the weeks that followed, I surpised myself.

Later in the day, she returned with her surviving twin daughter.  I didn't even know she was there, she just brought Courtney for Michelle.  She knew what we needed and I don't know if I can ever explain to her how much I appreciated and was helped by her that day.

At the end of the first full day without Kelci, when I could no longer function or even try, when I fell to the couch and could only scream in pain and cry, one more visitor came. This time, it was C.C.'s dad.  I let him in, and he just held me for awhile and let me cry.  He too knew my pain like no one else could.  We had lost our daughters.  I asked him how he did it.  How he got through a second, a minute, a day, and he told me it was with the help of people.  He told me to let them in, and I told him I didn't think I could.

Then, he told this. He said on the first night after his daughter's accident, he had came home to a full house of people and he couldn't bear to see anyone either.  He sat in his driveway for a long time.  He didn't want to go into the house, he didn't want to talk to anyone.  He knew how I felt. He finally forced himself to go in, and he told me that as he made his way through to everyone, as he talked to people and let them embrace him, he felt a relief.  It helped him feel a little better.  Nothing would take the hurt away, but people helped he said. 

In that moment, right then and there, I decided that is what we would do to.  The next day, I let people in, and people just kept coming.   I let them hold me.  I let them comfort me.  I let them tell me stories about Kelci.  I let them bring us what we needed.  I embraced them.  We embraced them.  They helped us more than we can ever say, and we helped them.  We cried together.  We laughed together.  We shared our sorrow.

I knew this was never going to be easy.  I knew that with certainty.  I knew that this was never going away or going to leave me.  I also knew that we were going to have to find a new way to live, and I knew that if I was going to survive, if I had any chance at all of possibly dealing with this that was going to have to open myself up and keep letting people in.  I had to let them help me.  And help me they did.  I know it's a two way street.  I know I need to lean on people, and I know they need to lean on me. 

I know there are no standards to this.  I know I will continue to do the best I can with what I've been given.  I'll have bad days, and good days.  I'll be strong and I'll need help.  I also know that I have to try to find the positive as I always have with my life before. It's not always easy, some days I have to fight like hell, but to honor Kelci's spirit, I'll find harder than I have ever had to before.