Mourning Has Broken

by Erin Davis

  CHAPTER 7

  Soul Survivors

  Phil and Colin, summer 2017

  Brooke Shirakawa

  IN THAT DARK, BLURRY HOUR AFTER WE LEARNED of our daughter’s death some three thousand kilometres away, I encountered the first of many well-meaning people trying to console me with their own faith and beliefs. As Rob and I stumbled back through the hotel hallway in the pre-dawn hours, we noticed that a staff member was just about to enter our room to tidy it.

  We surprised her with our return, as she had been told we’d be occupied with the broadcast until 9 a.m.; part of our arrangement with the hotel was that the radio station team would have our rooms tidied extra early, so that we could rest during the day without interruptions. We told her there had been a change of plans, and that we would be leaving later in the day: our daughter had just died at home, and we were going to fly back to be with her husband and baby son.

  “Oh my,” she said, shaking her head. “God is great, God is great.”

  I responded in a way that, for me, was uncharacteristically unfiltered (and definitely not “on my best”), but that I simply couldn’t hold in. I said evenly and in a voice thick with pain, “Well, I can’t agree with you right now.” Rob and I passed her to enter our room and then closed the door to hold each other, cry and begin to make those horrible calls to our loved ones. God is great, she said?

  In a very short time, I put the filter back on and learned to nod and be thankful for whatever kind words people said or sent, and to be mindful that it is, truly, “the thought that counts.” I know that when something as senseless as the death of a seemingly healthy person occurs—especially when it upsets the natural order of parents preceding their children to the grave—it can leave a person without the right words.

  That is perfectly okay. It is all right not to have the words. And what could I expect, having blindsided this nice lady who was just doing her job in the quiet pre-dawn hours? It’s not as if she had time to come up with a poem.

  Most people, if they are fortunate, will never begin to fathom the pain that accompanies a loss like this. That’s why the appropriate thing to say is often elusive, if not impossible. Even my own father, widowed just three years earlier, was only able to express himself to us in an email later that day.

  It is with boundless sorrow that I’m writing this note to you and Rob in the loss of your only child, on my behalf, my sister Marion and brother Andy and express our sincere shock and sadness that such an extreme event could even happen in this day and age to those just out of teenage years!!

  Just heard a wonderful and appropriate piece of music that brought on the cheek water, and goes thusly: “When at last my life on earth is through, I will spend eternity with you” . . . so meaningful for me (still) and now you. . . .

  I smile a little picturing Phil getting the holding and feeding routine together with a little weenie that hasn’t experienced anything but a 37°C degree milk supply . . . but I’m sure he will cope.

  Finally, she was a darling granddaughter to me, and I’m into full “poor me” mode yet again so soon after losing Maureen. I can only give all the moral support I can. I expect to see you sooner rather than later when appropriate arrangements are made. Keep your strength up and God Bless. . . . Love, Dad.

  One of the best cards I ever found, and wisely purchased in case the need for it arises, is one that says, “Sorry I wasn’t in touch sooner. I didn’t know what to say.” How perfect is that? Whenever someone would tell me, “I don’t have the words . . .,” I would respond, “That’s okay—there are none.” And it is the truth. We seem to feel a need to fill each void, every moment of silence, with heartfelt words or comforting sentiments when, truthfully, the whole event is so obscene that the only way to sum it up would be to open your mouth and scream until your throat is raw. There are no words. So don’t feel you need to find any if you are unable. And for the love of whatever God you worship, please don’t ever—and I repeat EVER—use the words “at least.” Those two syllables carry such immense, debilitating power that they completely erase every good intention to which they may be attached (however tenuously).

  “At least you have a grandchild.”

  “At least she didn’t suffer.”

  “At least you didn’t have to watch her die.”

  “At least you still have a husband.”

  “At least you had twenty-four years with her.”

  We heard all of these. Every “at least” minimized our grief, as though meant to remind us that it could have been worse. By the time the shock had worn off and the words that were being said actually sank in, I had to bite my tongue not to respond sharply. I just said “thank you,” all the while thinking, You have no idea.

  We knew it could have been worse—it can always be worse—but that is our call to make! At least we have a grandchild? Yes, and thank goodness for that, but that child will never know the amazing woman who gave birth to him. And, as delighted as we are that Colin has a new mommy who loves him fiercely, we’ll never know how her son would have grown up guided by Lauren. At least she didn’t suffer? That’s correct—as far as we know. But her death was so sudden that none of us got to say goodbye to her. Is that fair? At least I still have a husband? Yes, I do. And I know that because he’s beside me, suffering every day just as I do. At least we had twenty-four years with her? Yes—twenty-four years, one month and eighteen days. Eight thousand, eight hundred and fifteen days in all, if you count the morning on which her heart stopped. And every single year, every day, was a gift. But those days, those years together, were supposed to end when we died, not when she did. No one should die at twenty-four, when life is truly just starting to show the full payoff of all of those early years of growth and promise. So please, please, please—no “at leasts.” Not ever.

  Those two words are for us to say, and we did:

  At least she wasn’t driving a car when her heart stopped.

  At least she wasn’t carrying Colin on the stairs in their house when her life ended.

  At least we had no regrets and held back nothing from her.

  At least she knew how much she was loved.

  We said all of those things at Lauren’s memorials. When you lose a child, you are the only one who has the right to say “at least.” Here are more “at leasts” we’ve thought of in the ensuing years. They wouldn’t have been appropriate at a memorial but have certainly occurred to us:

  At least she wasn’t brutally murdered or killed by a drunk driver.

  At least we didn’t have to live with the agony of her having taken her own life.

  At least we didn’t suffer through years of watching her lose her health, or spend those years worrying that a disease might return and take her from us.

  At least, at least, at least. But with not a small amount of guilt, I confess to you a thought that would frequently cross my mind when I heard from or met another bereaved parent. I will ask your forgiveness, and I need you to know that I am aware of just how wrong it was to have this thought—regardless of whether I actually articulated it—especially as it pertains to those two words that I have just professed to hate so much. And here it is:

  “At least you have another child.”

  When Lauren died, Rob and I lost everything that mattered most to us, except each other and, at arm’s length, our grandson and our own families. And even though we were still together and clinging to each other, we lost who we were as a couple: a joyful and passionately engaged pair who were starting to connect even more strongly on every level and to look forward to a promising future that held the fulfillment of dreams we’d built through nearly thirty years of marriage. Yes, “at least” we were left with a grandson. But every day, when I look at my hands, I see rings that should have one day gone to Lauren. I look around at anything material that we hold precious and ask myself which niece or nephew might care about it, or if perhaps Colin will one day. With the exception of Rob’s guitars, I can come up with precious fe
w items a young man might ever want. I ask and search and come up with few answers, eventually arriving at the conclusion that we might as well just cash it all in—not that there’s a king’s ransom—and divide the money before we go. The whole prospect of having your family blueprints curl up in flames is so all-encompassing that it is impossible to take in or measure. But every day there’s a different little bit of reality that pokes at you and reminds you that this branch of the family tree, at least, has been cut short by a woodsman crueller than any the Brothers Grimm could have created.

  So then, how do you let go of the deeply felt puzzlement and bitterness that accompany the question, “How can you possibly be suffering as much as I, when you have other children to love and watch grow?” I’ll tell you: you talk openly and honestly to someone who has lost a child, that’s how. If you think that it might be appropriate, you ask them about their grief instead of only dwelling upon yours. When I asked Ellen Hinkley—whose son Christopher was brutally murdered and whose story will be told more fully later in this book—if she could express how it felt to lose one child but still have another, her daughter Taryn, here is how she responded:

  I think that this has been a tremendous burden on my daughter, as the sole surviving child . . . and couple our loss with her father leaving me . . . she felt an incredible overwhelming need to take care of me. I tried to tell her it wasn’t necessary, but it was. One of her friends, when catching Taryn texting on where she was, said, “You know, you will never be able to be late or go somewhere unannounced again.” I hope she doesn’t still feel like that, but we are a very strong little unit now. And I just love her so much that she would be so kind.

  So yes, I have Taryn and she is more than enough, she is the best. She is the sun. She is the stars. But if I still had Christopher, my universe would be overflowing.

  I wept when I read Ellen’s response and was grateful to her for taking the time to explain and not minding the question in the first place. It helped Rob and me to understand a little better.

  We are fully aware that there are countless parents who are not as fortunate as Rob and I, in that we have been left a part of our child through a grandchild. We see in Colin so many of his mother’s attributes, and, although the boy’s eyes have changed from Lauren’s blue to Phil’s hazel, when our grandson smiles and they sparkle, we cannot help but see Lauren looking out at us, just a bit. She is not with him, but she is within him. And that is a thought we will hold close as we watch him grow into a man who would make her so proud.

  I’m no psychologist (although I have certainly spent enough time in their offices), but I believe it is simply human nature to compare ourselves to others. The entire advertising industry has been built on that impulse, for heaven’s sake! But it isn’t necessarily a case of keeping up with the Joneses; we watch our children to see if they’re as tall as other kids, or if they’re talking at the same rate or age. When a house on the street goes up for sale, we check to see what it’s worth. We wonder what people in similar jobs are making for the same work. We compare tires and airlines, resorts and wines.

  But there is no comparing grief. Never, ever, ever. Grief is as unique as our fingerprints; few of us manage it in the same way or at the same time.

  I once asked an acquaintance who’d suffered the loss of a dear pet six months earlier if he and his partner could ever imagine opening their hearts to another dog. His response was to snap back, “Are you going to have another child ?”

  I’m not sure he knew it was in that moment that our burgeoning friendship ended; perhaps it is even possible (although I find it hard to imagine) that he was as hurt and taken aback by my question as I was by his. But no matter how wounded I was by the very deliberate sharpness of his response, I learned from it. To some, perhaps the loss of a dog is perceived as the same as the loss of a child (he had none). I didn’t take the time to explain that when you bring most pets into your life, you expect to outlive them, and that you don’t build a whole house of dreams—like a wedding and grandchildren—around that beloved animal. I didn’t think it was worth the effort. Instead, I replied, “If I could, I would. Absolutely. In a heartbeat.”

  I bet they get another dog.

  And how I wish I had a thousand more chances to answer that question without the slack-jawed shock it invoked in me.

  Never mind comparing our grief with that of others; even within ourselves, the wavelengths are longer, deeper, shorter, faster or stronger from one hour to another, from one day to the next. And so it stands to reason that no two people grieve the same—nor should we expect to. It is a huge mistake to feel that you’re “doing it wrong” if you aren’t through the worst of it by a certain time. I’ve learned through personal experience in this journey of grief that when you think you’ve cleared a hurdle, another one will appear as if out of nowhere, and you find yourself unprepared. It doesn’t matter if you’re in a crowd or lying in bed; you’re never completely inured to those moments.

  One of them happened to me in a theatre in a popular tourist town southwest of Toronto called Niagara-on-the-Lake. Almost exactly a year after losing Lauren, Rob and I were invited to the opening weekend of a play at the Shaw Festival, an annual tradition highlighting the best drama and musicals either by George Bernard Shaw or set in the time of his life. And so we found ourselves taking in Thornton Wilder’s classic Our Town. (If you remember the plot of this play, you’ve probably just thought, Uh-oh.)

  I’m not sure how Rob and I got to the ages we are without having seen this oft-staged Pulitzer Prize–winning drama, but when a central figure, Emily—a girl the audience has watched grow up, fall in love and then marry—dies in childbirth, we both felt ourselves sinking into our seats. (Do you know that your blood can feel as if it really is running cold in a moment like that?) As I began to cry, I quietly put my right hand to my eye, allowing the tears to roll down the back of my hand and my arm and off my elbow. When the play ended, Rob guided me by that same soggy arm to the sidewalk, crowded with high-spirited theatregoers. I kept my head down as he quickly ushered me to a side street in the small, mercifully dimly lit town, where I had to grab onto a lamppost to stay upright. I was gasping for air and sobbing. How could we not have known? How could we have been so blindsided?

  Another year passed and Rob and I found ourselves escaping an unusually sullen early spring by flying to Las Vegas. On his birthday, I promised we could do whatever he wanted, and he chose to go to a small neighbourhood casino. As we sat there, two of about twenty people in the entire place, sipping our coffee and playing our nickel video poker, we both stopped dead when we heard what was playing over the casino sound system. It was the last few tracks from side two of the Beatles’ Abbey Road, led off by the song Dan Clancy had sung at Lauren’s Toronto memorial, “Golden Slumbers,” and followed by “Carry That Weight” and “The End.” The only time we’ve ever heard these songs together (besides when the Beatles satellite channel plays them) was on Rob’s birthday in that little casino. I have no doubt that if anyone was watching the surveillance video, they’d have had a hard time figuring out why a woman with twenty dollars in a poker machine was wiping her eyes with a napkin while looking off into the distance. Then again, I suppose that, as for so many within those same walls, it was all about the loss.

  I’ll see a mother with a stroller and think of me, think of Lauren. I see a father playing with his daughter and my thoughts turn to Rob and Lauren; a father and son and I think of Colin and his dad. We’ll never be able to watch Toy Story again (the third one had us dissolved in tears as we watched it in the theatre with our daughter, who was moving out to go to college, just as Andy Davis was in the movie), and we still have to be in just the right mood to listen to any Beatles at all. I struggle with Disney movie trailers, as so many of them have such strong associations. I revel in being around Lauren’s cousins and their young children, and I’m gradually no longer being visited by the nagging thought that she should be here too, just as they are. I hear
people complain about the demands of their children, the fatigue that they feel, and their difficulty in spending long periods of time with them and their spouses. And I just want them to stop and think of how damned lucky they are. Of course, that’s not human nature: we are never quite so aware that we appreciate every single thing that is happening all of the time. I wish I knew who said it, but it is oh-so-true: “Right now someone is praying for the things you take for granted.”

  Not all of the moments in our lives trigger sad memories; far from it. Often, we’ll see something that reminds us of our daughter and makes us laugh, because there was so very much joy in our lives. And in those moments, we strive to remember the things that made us happy and that made those twenty-four years so very full. On our second Christmas Eve without our daughter, I reached my hand down the side of a leather recliner and pulled up a small butterfly hair clip. I knew that it was Lauren’s, and I held on to a fantasy that perhaps she made certain I found it to be assured that she was with us on an evening that had, for more than two decades, held so many truly wonderful moments.

  We experienced the same feelings again on an anniversary of her passing, when a deer meandered sweetly up to our open car windows at the dead end of a road. Its tiny fawn ducked low in the tall grasses until only its comically oversized ears were visible, twitching and waving our way. And nearby we saw—as if our Beatles-crazy daughter had wished it—a life-sized submarine, painted bright yellow, inexplicably parked at the end of a driveway. Okay, what? It felt as if our Lauren was calling out “hello!” with a belly laugh, making sure we knew she was—and is—with us.