The dog decided 5:30AM was absolutely time for breakfast. I
plodded downstairs to feed her and let her out. She ate and went right back
upstairs to bed. Me? Not so much. It was early on Valentine’s Day and there was
no sleep left for me.
Valentine’s Day is not a happy day in this house. It used to
be, but not anymore.
It has been four years since that other Valentine’s Day
morning. Maggie loved every holiday, regardless of the theme. Any cause for
celebration was a good thing to that girl. The Valentine’s for her teachers and
classmates were all ready. Her red outfit was all laid out. Maggie would be her
resplendent self. But it was not to be.
It was very early in the morning that the nurse started
yelling that something was wrong. I was down there in a flash but Maggie wasn’t
breathing and none of my remedies were working. Steve called 911 and the
firemen arrived quickly and worked feverishly. It took a while – too long
really – to get her heart started again. We knew before we left for the
hospital that this was very very bad. Maggie never regained consciousness and
died the next day. So while the anniversary is technically February 15th,
it will always be a sad Valentine’s Day tale for us.
From that day to this I have been awash in grief. It is
always there. Always.
After four years I have learned a little about grief, very
little really because my experience is just that- my experience. It is a deeply personal thing
and everyone has a different way of dealing with it. Still, here is what I’ve
learned:
I learned that the stages of grief are
ridiculous and do not apply to a loss as great as this. Perhaps they are more
applicable to a romantic breakup where one often emerges stronger after getting
over the loss. The stages of grief suggest some sort of resolution that simply
doesn’t exist for me or I suspect for many others. Do I experience those stages? Yes. Sometimes
several a day and in no particular order. Do I feel any sort of closure? Never. Yes, I
accept the fact that she is gone; I really don’t have any choice in that but
the loss is as real and fresh today as it was 4 years ago. It’s not the raw sadness that it was at
first, but it is no less present than it ever was.
I also learned that grief and sadness are two different things.
Certainly there are times I am very sad, but I experience the whole range of
emotions and the grief is still present. It is okay to be happy. It is ok to be
excited. It is ok to be angry. The grief is there no matter what because it is
a part of me. I am 5’6’, I have brown eyes and I am grieving.
I learned pretty quickly that the rest of the world thinks
you have moved on – or that you should. People do not want to be reminded of
the loss, perhaps because they can’t imagine the depth. Every minute of every
day there is a piece of you missing, but when people inquire how you are, you
dutifully answer “Fine.” You can’t
explain it, they don’t want to hear it, so you just push on. This only feeds the misperception that I have "moved on", but it’s just easier. And easier
is ok.
I learned too that because it is always present and because
people don’t want to be reminded of it, it becomes almost sacred. It is a part
of me I don’t share with anyone except my immediate family. It’s like having a
secret from everyone. While the secret may not be something folks want to
share, there is a certain amount of privilege to be able to experience this so
deeply and so privately.
Maggie changed my life when she was born, and she changed my
life when she died. Every day she was alive was a joyful (but sometimes scary, often exhausting and exasperating)
learning experience and I miss her every single day since she’s has been gone. Everything reminds me of her and brings either a smile or a tear, depending on the day and my emotions and any number of other factors. Missing
her is part of the grief, but so is remembering her.
My grief is one of my strongest connections to Maggie. And for
that I am grateful.
Maggie McDonald
March 1994 - February 2014
