Mourning Has Broken

by Erin Davis

  If you’re like us, the days that will be harder than any are the anniversaries. Some call it their child’s “angel day”; we don’t. May 11 is a tremendously hard day in our lives, although I have found, personally, that the days leading up to it are more emotionally gruelling than the actual day itself. The entire month of May is pretty miserable, given that Mother’s Day comes within a few days of the anniversary of our daughter’s passing. And, of course, there is always the echo of the sad fact that it was her first and last celebration of that special occasion.

  So you’ll understand why it is difficult for me to get my head around the thought process that some well-meaning people go through when they wish me a Happy Mother’s Day or send virtual flowers via social media, emails and so on. Yes, I am—or was—a mother, but am I still? My only child, our daughter, is gone. I have no one to mother. No one calls me “Mom” (or, in moments of exasperation, “Muh-thurrrrr”). Conjuring happy memories of that day can only bring pain, as I know from going through every card she wrote a note in or made for me by hand in honour of the holiday. It will never ever again be happy. So then, why, I wonder? Why are people who know about Lauren’s death still wishing me a good Mother’s Day?

  One year, when I was feeling especially raw, a little message showed up on a public Facebook page. I didn’t know the sender, but she included a little animation with the words “I Nominate You for Best Mom Ever!” with flowers and little sparkles. It sat there for a few days before I screwed up my courage and wrote to this nice lady and asked her to please take it down. I told her that it was just too hard for me to see, and that I didn’t feel I was a mom at all now. I didn’t mean to make her feel bad, but I just had to say something to someone. She apologized profusely and said she’d just wanted to do something nice for me. You can probably never understand unless you’ve gone through it, and I pray you don’t. I guess I’m asking a lot for people to try to take that extra step to imagine how things like the “mom” stuff can hurt.

  As you can easily imagine, the first year is, by far, the hardest. If you’re lucky, like we were, you have a thin shell of shock to provide protection from so many of the harsh realities of what has happened to your life. But still, the Big Days carry an awful weight.

  Leading up to the first anniversary of Lauren’s death, I thought I was going to be all right. Boy, did I get that one wrong! My plans to soldier through it all on sheer willpower from my comfort (and comforting) zone on the radio were derailed starting on Mother’s Day, which fell upon May 8 that year. Rob and I had agreed to go to brunch with a dear friend and his elderly mother, but when I awoke that morning, I found I couldn’t even get out of bed. I had never experienced a migraine before, but everything I’d ever heard or read about them seemed to be happening to me: blinding pain, nausea and an inability to move or even speak more than a few words. So much for the brunch plans!

  Knowing that the other emotional shoe was soon to drop right on me, I didn’t go to work the following three days. We lay low at the cottage, going out on May 11 to a park about an hour’s drive from us. There, we visited a tree that had been planted by a wonderfully thoughtful radio listener in our daughter’s memory, near to the one in memory of her own son. We left a small dragonfly keychain on it—a symbol of the afterlife that was handmade by a fellow bereaved mother—as well as a personalized guitar pick from Lauren and Phil’s wedding. We also left a small bouquet, its stems held in a white silk bag, accompanied by a blackbird feather we’d found on our dog walk that morning. Always on the lookout for signs from Lauren (including that oriole we spotted), we felt she was with us through that awful first anniversary day.

  Experts suggest that some of the feelings we may notice on special days include confusion, sadness, longing, irritability, worry and frustration. But they also remind us that mourning takes a lot of time, and grief never entirely dissipates. We have to be patient, as do those around us who wonder why we’re not dressing in bright colours yet or why we aren’t diving back into our lives.

  The heaviness of the loss of our child returns on her wedding day, although more so for me than for Rob. I invested a lot of emotional energy into planning Lauren’s wedding, putting on the event that I wished I’d had. On somewhat of a shoestring budget, Rob and I had thrown a wedding in 1988 that I’d always wanted a chance to improve upon. In 2013, with Lauren, we got that chance. After a small country-church wedding (so small that, because of space constraints, a string quartet had to be whittled down to a duo that played—of course—Beatles selections), the reception was held at a local historic inn. The decor was gorgeous (thanks to our good friend Allan Bell) and the dinner carefully planned, and the event went off without a hitch. Even with sweltering June heat and the threat of rain, the day could not have been more perfect.

  Lauren invited both Rob and me to accompany her down the aisle, an honour I cherish as much now as the day she asked us. But rather than choose the professional emcee (that would be me), Lauren and Phil requested that their fathers share the duties at the reception, which worked out beautifully. And how could I possibly be offended? Too often in our lives, Lauren had sat on the sidelines while I was in the spotlight. There was no way on earth I wanted to share even a sliver of it on that day. Despite the Beatles-soaked sweetness of the wedding ceremony and a beautiful list of heartfelt speeches from friends and family alike, the emotional highlight of the day and evening for Rob and me was the daddy/daughter dance. We had been planning for that moment for almost her entire life.

  Lauren’s favourite song as a toddler was “Itsy Bitsy Spider” from the Carly Simon album Coming Around Again. Carly and her children sang a version of “Spider” that ran seamlessly into and around her hit song that shared the album’s title. In 1992, I ran the video recorder after Lauren requested and then, in her daddy’s arms, danced to that song. And when the camera stopped, I said to Rob, “We’re going to play that at her wedding.” And we did. Rob put together an amazing audio-visual presentation that began with the old video of the two of them dancing and went into a series of photos of Lauren growing up. It was projected onto a screen behind the father and bride as they danced together to that same wonderful song. Far away from the centre of attention, I stood tucked into an alcove by the kitchen door of that rural hotel ballroom and wept. It was truly the moment we’d planned for her whole life, and I promise you, although I was crying harder, there were very few dry eyes at the reception at that moment. It was pure magic.

  Beginning to end—from the sleepover with our girl and her bridesmaids the night before to preparing her hair and makeup in our little naturally lit boathouse on the lake—it was all so wonderful. And that’s why the day holds such great sadness for me. It was supposed to be the beginning of her new life. But not even two years later, that life—so filled with happiness with her handsome new groom and the promise of their lives together—would be over.

  Other days that carry heaviness are, of course, all of our birthdays (especially hers), and Mother’s and Father’s Day: all of those events where we’d shared special memories. Rob doesn’t want a card or acknowledgement or anything other than quiet on Father’s Day. I know I said that I was grateful that her passing came in the spring rather than the sad season of fall, but it makes for a very hard March through June. Perhaps the weight of those dates, those months, will lessen with time. That is our hope, our aim.

  And then there’s Christmas. How lucky we were as a family to have shared her last Christmas together. Even my elderly father and one of my sisters and her husband had come in from across the country. We were joined by her cousin Meaghan, who was close to Lauren and had recently had a baby as well. What a joyful, boisterous gathering it was! The tree was fourteen feet tall, we took the time to pose and shoot special family pictures together, and I will cherish that memory forever. I’m glad that what I consider to be our last family Christmas—the last holiday not coloured by sadness and regret—was just as special as it could have been.

  Durin
g the first holiday season we spent without our daughter, we quite literally ran away from home again. Through my hairdresser (where all of the best information is shared), I found a fellow Canadian who rented out his house on the island of Sint Maarten in the Caribbean. We booked it and stayed for two weeks.

  We spent Christmas Eve 2015 watching episodes of Homeland that we had downloaded onto our computer. Christmas Day we went to a nearby hotel and had massages; we did our best to avoid anything the least bit forced or festive. New Year’s Eve was shared with Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman as we immersed ourselves in episodes of Sherlock. Our days were spent outside watching hummingbirds build a nest far too close to the ground but that afforded us the rare luxury of spying on the two Tic Tac–sized eggs therein. We did our best to pull ourselves out of our deep blue mood by playing the silly app game Heads Up. We’d start our day in a sad state and end up laughing at our own stupidity while trying to guess, give or act out clues for this charades/Password-type game. We did whatever we could to get ourselves through that awful, awful season.

  Which brings us to our next perspective check and something that is, like the “at leasts,” only ours to say out loud: someone always has it worse. Although we have confessed to wondering (albeit unfairly) how anyone could suffer as much as we have, when many bereaved parents have other children on whom they can focus their hopes and dreams and futures, we acknowledge that we have a grandson. And that we lost only one child.

  In 2016, I was called upon to emcee a gala in honour of the incredible Malala Yousafzai, the youngest Nobel Prize Laureate, who was shot by a Taliban gunman. Malala’s father and mother were in attendance at the Toronto event, staged as a fundraiser for the Daughters for Life Foundation. This foundation was started by Dr. Izzeldin Abuelaish, a Palestinian obstetrician and gynecologist who lost three of his daughters and a niece in one horrific moment, when an Israeli tank launched several shells at his apartment during the Gaza War of 2008 and 2009. His call for peace has resonated across many continents, even from his new home in Canada. And I was humbled not only to be in the presence of Malala’s parents, but also to witness for myself the incredible power of forgiveness and the strength that comes with a message of peace.

  Dr. Abuelaish is an associate professor of global health at the University of Toronto. He has written the remarkable book I Shall Not Hate: A Gaza Doctor’s Journey on the Road to Peace and Human Dignity, which was effective in reminding Rob and me of the suffering that goes on around the world, far beyond our borders, our walls, our own hearts. In meeting Dr. Abuelaish and his family and hearing their story, we were witnesses to the power that comes from accepting what fate has offered and then making the very best of what has been given to you. We have never lost sight of the fact that we are extremely blessed to live in a country so bountiful and beautiful, almost completely untouched by fear and unrest. Although I go to sleep each night saying a silent prayer that our daughter will visit me in my dreams, I am always aware of the fact that I am on soft sheets in a warm bed, under a strong roof and in a peaceful country. So many of our fellow travellers in this journey have lives that are filled with such misery that they have little hope for security or even the simplest joys. We will never take for granted what has been left for us. Still, in the words of a friend’s mother who lost sight in one eye and was told to be grateful she wasn’t rendered completely blind: “It’s bad enough.”

  Until you are in a situation where you suddenly find yourself (or already are) childless, you probably don’t realize how often the question “So, do you have any kids?” arises. It is an ice-breaker, a conversation starter, a nice way to get to know someone on a bit of a personal level without going, you know, too deep. That is, 9,999 times out of 10,000, when the answer is a simple yes or no. Except when it is, “Well . . . we had a daughter. . . .”

  When I blogged about “the question,” one woman wrote to tell me of her sister-in-law, a nun, who begins almost every exchange with someone she meets with the words, “Do you have a family?” Even though my correspondent found the query mortifying, perhaps for the friendly nun it’s a trusty ice-breaker. And she’s certainly not alone in using an otherwise innocent question about kids as a conversation starter.

  The quandary is when to be honest and when to tell a white lie. In the split second between the FAQ and the answer, there’s a list of questions we ask ourselves: Will we ever see this person again and, if not, is there any reason to share our painful story? If we do tell them about our daughter’s death, who is it for—this public declaration of grief and loss—us or them? And once we’ve told our awful truth, then what? As you can well imagine, that litany of questions means a lot of filters to run though in a split second—an explanation espresso, if you will. In time, you learn to see the question coming and prepare your response, but early on in the grieving process, you can get blindsided.

  Sometimes, if you let your guard down, you can even blindside yourself.

  Right after Lauren died, Rob and I were at an airport. We’d just gone through security, and while I was awaiting Rob’s possessions on the conveyor belt, I struck up a conversation with a woman who appeared to be Lauren’s age carrying a baby Colin’s age and size. For reasons I still cannot fathom, I blurted, “He’s so beautiful. Our daughter died when her son was his age.” The harried mother, whose circles under her eyes matched her dark ponytailed hair, looked at me—this woman who’d started a conversation at the airport security line—in what I can only imagine was disbelief. She offered her condolences and asked unobtrusive questions about our daughter’s passing, but I’ve kicked myself a hundred times since that inexplicable breach of discretion and wondered: Did I intentionally want to scare this woman into appreciating every moment with her baby (as if that’s even possible), or was I simply comparing her to my own beloved, exhausted daughter and wishing she was there in that lineup with me? I don’t know. But I’ve wished more times than I can count that I hadn’t seemingly grabbed that passerby’s ankle when I was sinking in my quicksand of grief that day.

  Someone said that “manners mean not making others feel uncomfortable,” and I’ve always been someone who appreciates them (that airport exchange notwithstanding)—and no more so than when the subject of whether we have children arises. Sometimes my husband and I will obfuscate: “Our daughter’s family lives in Ottawa.” That’s vague enough. But the trick is finding a way to word one’s answer so that it doesn’t invite a follow-up, of which there are plenty. Is she in radio like you? How often do you get to see her? Does she come and visit regularly? The follow-ups are where we find ourselves having to stammer through a white lie (I’ve more tells than a dog’s tail at a poker game) or do our best White House press secretary imitation. The alternative is just to find a way to say “she died . . .” without making the person who asked such an innocent question in the first place want to sink into the floor. Even as a professional communicator, that’s been a challenge.

  We’ve come up with a near-Twitter-length version that succinctly tells the story of Lauren’s death: “Our daughter died in 2015 after her heart stopped in her sleep, leaving behind a husband and a seven-month-old son.” That statement is usually met by a bit of silence: a moment of remembrance, perhaps, for the light-hearted chat that has just come to a sudden end. We usually thank them for asking, relieving them of the need to say more. We’re not always successful in terminating the conversation—and, to be clear, sometimes we don’t want to—but just as carefully as we choose our words, we also need to choose the setting for our openness.

  For example, if there’s alcohol around, we’re likely to start seeing eyes well up with tears (which is sweet), or mouths outrunning brains (which can be laughable, if you just take it the right way). One woman we met at a cocktail reception, having overheard us talking to another couple, said, “Well, at least she went quickly.” Full stop. That’s where a waiter should’ve dropped a tray, the music should have ceased playing and everyone should have turned wi
th open mouths to look at this woman. Of course, that sitcom kind of reaction happened only in our heads. In real life, we just agreed with her and changed the subject. What else can you do, really, besides pointing out that right there on those shoulders of hers is a head that could use a really good shaking? Nah, not worth it. As my husband is fond of saying, “Don’t confuse thoughtlessness with malice.” (He really did come up with that. I try to live by those words. Mostly.)

  For reasons exemplified by the well-intentioned woman at the bar, we are judicious with whom we share our parental status—which is, to borrow from the performers’ union to which I peripherally belong, “membership withdrawn in good standing.” People who have entered our lives in the third act, the one after childhood/adolescence and marriage/parenthood, may not be aware of our loss. As much as we feel as if we’re missing a limb or have a face tattoo, our grief doesn’t show. They enter our house and see pictures of a smiling teen holding her cello, a sparkling bride flanked by her beaming parents, or a painting of our daughter embracing her sleeping baby. The obvious conclusion is that we have a child and a grandchild, and they ask about them.

  About two years after losing Lauren, we met new neighbours who had no idea about our family’s story. They came to our home and asked if we had children, and immediately the “filter questions” clicked into place. Were we going to see these people again? If we told them the Ottawa Little White Lie (“Yes; she has a family in Ottawa”), would they talk with other neighbours who know the story and wonder why we weren’t truthful?

  For people like my sister Leslie, it is probably easier to be almost truthful and say, “I have two children.” Yes, she had four, but unless she wants to disclose the facts, she doesn’t have to. Someone we spoke with said they say they have “two children here and one in heaven.” I’ll never play the “heaven” card, so that’s out. But it works for her and that is truly the most important thing. Leslie would even have to say, “I have two here and two in heaven,” given that she suffered the loss of her first baby during pregnancy and then lost an adult son as well. Just how honest do we have to be here, anyway? Is it a case of people asking how you are and not really wanting to know? Because that happens a lot too. There are so many things to consider when deciding how open to be about something as enormous as the loss of a loved one.