Reality

Camryn's death came as such a shock. I remember going through each day the first couple of weeks with the words, "My daughter died, my daughter died, my daughter died” repeating in my mind. That phrase literally stuck in my head, like a mantra. I even Googled it, desperate for something that I could relate to.

I wanted to say it to strangers near me in the grocery store, or at the gas pump next to me. It was like the suffering was too much to hold inside; the enormity of the loss too much not to mention.

It's a strange phrase to have anything good come from. I realize that now. It is a phrase not many mothers have to even think about saying.

On particularly rough days, the phrase comes back. I don't know why. On these days it feels like thinking these words is much like when I was a child and scared of the dark. I needed to check under the bed before climbing in. Whatever might be under there was hard to face, but somehow facing it and knowing I was courageous enough to look and see that nothing was there was comforting. Other times it works to protect my mind from wandering deeper into the  memories, into the overwhelming sadness and grief. The questions about the life I gave her, the choices she made, and the desperate truth that I wish she was here and I can't do anything about it.

I have noticed that some people don't like the word died. They say the words “passed away” or “went to be with the Lord.” Parents at my grief group will say, “We lost(insert name).” At the hospital they avoided the word, too. Saying things like “There’s nothing else we can do” or “She’s not going to make it.” Some don't even brave saying anything about her actually being dead. They just say they are sorry.
To me the reality of death is important. All of the pain, the shock, the feelings, the enormity, that in this lifetime, I will not see my daughter again. Those things are real, and hard, and make you feel so desperately sad. The reality of its finality deserves to be said.