A Crown of Beauty for Ashes

It was a normal day, when the news started to spread across our office. A co-worker, a friend, her daughter, only 8, gone. We gathered, a room full of mothers, in shock. How? Why? Each taking a deep breath as the story was repeated over and over again. I couldn’t find the tears as I stood there confused, staring out the window. I did what I do when the world starts to crumble, I held my breath. Because sometimes, not breathing makes things move slower. Every breath after the first means that I am still here but I really wish that time could freeze.


Just breathe, Melanie – those words echo loudly in my head from years ago, just breathe.


The following days were filled with funerals, sadness, stories, pain. I couldn’t bring myself to attend her services. I am petrified of funerals like a person is petrified to fly. I have the same level of panic. My heart races. I get dizzy. I feel as if the walls are caving in on me. I want to run, to flee, to scream. I can’t, just can’t do it. Images stay in my mind like a broken record that runs non stop. I absorb pain like bread sopping up liquid.


Just breathe. Just breathe.


I thought long and hard about what I could do. A necklace, a keepsake, something new, yet meaningful to bring some comfort. I know anniversaries are the worst and I wanted her to have something on the one month. During my deepest grief, I remember counting the days, first Wednesdays, then months, then years. Dates are the worst. The calendar becomes an enemy. Its only purpose is to provide bitter reminders.


I stopped at the card store to pick up a card for the “gift.” Each card threw me into a tizzy. There is no card that makes sense in this situation. There are not words that can express the anguish that I feel for her or that has the ability to bring comfort. I thought about all the cards that she probably had received. I wondered if she sometimes want to rip them into little pieces with their cliche sympathies.  I was angry at the cards, angry that I had to buy one for her.


Just breathe, I have to tell myself. Just breathe.


Our visit was hard, a tad awkward. We aren’t friends like that. I wanted to say things, to ask questions but honestly I didn’t know what, or how to even start. The casual conversations were helpful but I really wanted to tell her to tell me about her. To breathe out her stories, their stories, so that they come to life again. Honestly, I was surprised at how composed she was. If I were her, I would probably be sitting in a pile of dirty laundry, trying to remember her smell. I definitely could not entertain visitors.


I wanted to say things that are the opposite of things that people say. I wanted to tell her that I know there is no better place than her mother’s arms. That even though I know heaven is beautiful, the only right place for a child is here on earth. I wanted to tell her that I don’t think that a mother ever recovers from losing her child. That she eventually might pick up and move on but there is never a “better” day because everyday without her will some how feel empty. 


Those are not the right things one says in these situations but they are the ones that I feel in my heart. Maybe the ones she would want to hear. Maybe she needs someone just to be broken with her, instead of trying to put on a smile all the time. To walk beside her, praying, weeping, fighting, falling and getting back up again.


I also wanted to tell her that I think that she is an amazing mother. How I had always envied her devotion to her girls and all their activities. I wanted to tell her that this sucks and it is not right or fair.


But I didn’t. Because I was still trying just to breathe.