If I Only Had a Brain

If I Only Had a Brain

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Ever since she was born, I sang songs to my daughter, Margareta. I had my short list of favorites, and would sing them usually to get her settled down to sleep, but over time I would sing to her throughout the day whenever the moment struck me. I even added my own lyrics to the french song “Alouette” that I had learned as a child to make a song about how much I loved her.

As soon as she could talk, Margareta loved to sing herself. She had a knack for memorizing lyrics, even at the tender ages of two and three. In the car, we would sing songs together, and the second a song was over she would ask for me to sing another one. She did this so often, I even came up with a song called “One more song, Mama”.

Margareta’s older brother, Andrew, also loves to sing. He too had started singing from a very young age. Starting in third grade, Andrew began performing in musicals – either through summer camps or at school. As a result, he would be practicing his songs at home and Margareta would do her best to learn them as well. Because she couldn’t read, this meant just listening to him sing over and over and memorizing what she heard. It led to some funny interpretations sometimes.

The songs she learned from her brother that stick out in my memory are “Iowa Stubborn” and “Gary, Indiana” from The Music Man, and later on “If I Only Had a Brain” from the Wizard of Oz. Of course, she only learned parts of the songs, but the parts she sang, she sang with purpose and gusto – as if she were going to be up on that stage herself.

The song she learned from her brother the best was “If I Only Had a Brain”. She memorized three quarters of the song and sang it over and over again. In perfect pitch, I might add. It became her favorite song. We often talked of Margareta and Andrew ending up singing in a band together. A dream that can never come true.

Andrew sang “If I Only Had a Brain” for his sister at her memorial service with tears in his eyes. It will now forever be the song that reminds me of my little girl who loved to sing.

Submitted by Maria Kubitz in loving memory of her daughter, Margareta.

The Ultimate Gift

The Ultimate Gift

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When our daughter died, there was no warning or opportunity to say goodbye. In a matter of hours on a Wednesday afternoon in September, we were completely and utterly devastated. Actually, there are no words that can adequately describe how the horror of that day felt.

After a long, sleepless night, the next morning we oscillated between crying hysterically and sitting quietly in disbelief. We just wanted the nightmare to end and find our daughter still alive. But of course, it didn’t and the phone started ringing as the news of her death began to spread.

One was a call from an organ donation organization. My husband handed me the phone and said whatever my decision was, he was okay with it. At the time of the call, I had been in the state of quiet disbelief. And this call was all too real.

The woman started off by saying how sorry she was that our daughter had died, and then asked if we would consider donating her heart valves and corneas.

My first question was whether this decision could wait. If I still couldn’t really comprehend what had happened the day before, how could I make a decision like this? She said unfortunately no, it could not wait. If we were to agree to the donation, the procedure to remove them from her body would have to be performed that day or the next — as soon as the autopsy was finished.

Ever since I had understood what being an organ donor meant, I had decided to be one. My driver’s license has always had the donor sticker on it. But choosing for yourself is an entirely different matter than choosing for someone else. Especially someone who was not supposed to die. Someone who was supposed to outlive me by half a lifetime.

Ultimately, I decided to allow the donations. If anyone had a chance to benefit from my daughter’s death, I’d rather it be this way.

The woman on the other end of the phone led me through a series of questions she was obligated to ask. Though most of them were written for adults rather than a four-year-old girl. At the end of the questions, she asked if we would like to be notified if my daughter’s heart valves or corneas were used. I said yes, absolutely. Then I asked how much time they had to use them. She said the corneas would have to be transplanted within a few weeks, but the heart valves could be frozen for up to two years.

Over the next few years, we got occasional mail from the organ tissue donation organization. The mailings ranged from information on how to cope with grief to heartfelt hand written notes on her birthday and anniversary. They were greatly appreciated.

And yet, there was never any word that anything had been transplanted.

At the second anniversary of her death we got a written notice that we would no longer receive the letters and cards. But it said if we needed any support we could always reach out to them. A few weeks later, I decided to call the woman, Maggie, who had written the birthday and anniversary notes just to ask one last time whether anything had been used. It was now the end of the two years of viability of her heart valves. In the conversation, Maggie informed me that heart valves could be frozen up to five years (not two). She said she would research our daughter’s records and get back to me.

A few weeks later — shortly before Thanksgiving — I got a call back from Maggie. She informed me that one of our daughter’s heart valves had been sent to a recipient, but there was no record of it being used. She said the fit has to be exact, so sometimes they are requested but not used.

Maggie then told me that one of her heart valves had, in fact, been transplanted into a 6-month old boy in California, our home state.

My eyes filled with tears. I choked up as I asked if the transplant had been successful and if the little baby had lived? Was there any way to find out who the family was? She said unfortunately we could not get the information due to privacy rules. If the family of the baby boy wanted to reach out to the donor family, they could, but it didn’t work the other way. I thanked her and hung up the phone in disbelief.

I’ll probably never know who this little boy is or whether he survived. But I am filled with gratitude that our daughter was able to give someone else the ultimate gift: a second chance at life. I choose to believe this beautiful little boy will live a long, strong, and healthy life. And I choose to believe he will live it with a deep appreciation of life, love, and the kindness of strangers. I know our daughter would have wanted it that way.

My Friend Forever

My Friend Forever

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I met Sue when I interviewed her as a potential daycare provider for my son. She was a larger than life personality, but at the same time, gentle and loving. She had a special way with children that was clear from that very first interaction with my son. I recall her telling me years later that she actually preferred interacting with children to adults because children were authentic and honest beings. They say what they feel and live in the moment – which is exactly what Sue was like.

It took me a while to get really close to her. Having been a shy, quiet person all my life, I gravitated towards these loud, outspoken, energetic people, but I often just lived in their shadow. One morning when I was dropping my son off at her daycare during an extremely difficult situation in my life, Sue simply asked me, “Are you OK?” It was if the flood gates crashed open. I poured my heart out to her, letting her see every ounce of vulnerability in me. Sue did exactly what I needed most: listened intently, didn’t judge, didn’t offer advice. She was just a loving, safe shoulder for me to cry on. From that moment, my most important friendship was born.

Sue and I were different in a lot of ways, but emotionally, we were very similar. We both trusted each other enough that we could be 100% honest and say anything without fear of judgement. It was my first real understanding of what unconditional love felt like with someone other than my children. For that, I am truly grateful.

Often, I would take extended lunches from work and go sit with Sue in her living room while the children in her daycare napped, and we would just talk and enjoy each others company. We would act as sounding boards to whatever was going on in our lives. No topic was off limits, and even if we disagreed about something, we both knew that either of us would support the other no matter what.

Unfortunately, some years later I was laid off from my job. After that I lived and worked too far away to see her very often. But the distance did not lessen the importance of her friendship. I still considered her my best friend.

When my daughter died, Sue was the second person I called. She dropped everything and she and her husband came to stay in a hotel in our town for a number of days. I hadn’t asked her to do this, she just did. She was with me every step of the way in those horrible first few days. She took charge of making those impossible arrangements: mortuary, cemetery, location for the memorial, etc. She made sure I ate when I had no appetite. She took my hand and led me to my room when she saw I needed to collapse and get away from everyone. She even insisted to the staff at the mortuary that she be the one to comb my daughter’s hair and get her dressed for the viewing and memorial service so that it was done by someone who loved her. To this day, words could never adequately express my appreciation and love for Sue.

After battling heart issues for years, Sue passed away in her sleep at home several days before the first anniversary of my daughter’s death. It hit me like a ton of bricks. She was too young to die. Too full of life. I didn’t want to believe it. But as I’ve learned all too well, life is precious, unpredictable, and whether we like it or not, comes to an end at some point.

The morning after I heard that Sue died, I saw the most amazing sunrise. Tears rolled down my cheeks as I smiled, remembering what a wonderful friend she was and how I had become a better person through knowing her. My friendship with Sue will remain one of the most important relationships of my life. I miss her with all my heart.

Submitted by Maria Kubitz in loving memory of her friend, Susan Coronado.

Just Let Me Be Sad

Just Let Me Be Sad

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We live in a world where – if you have the means – pain and suffering are to be avoided at all costs. People are always looking for the next “quick fix” to alleviate discomfort. Preferably with the least amount of effort required. In many cases, this means treating the symptoms while ignoring the root cause of the problem.

Our society is so uncomfortable with emotional pain that when someone dies, the outward mourning period is expected to end once the funeral is over.

When the bereaved do not cooperate with these prescribed time tables, they are often accused of “wallowing” in their grief. They are indignantly told to “move on” and “get over it.”

But is prolonged outward grief is a sign of weakness? Or maybe self-pity? Do they think the bereaved secretly enjoy the pain and the attention it brings? For those of us who have lost someone dear to us, we know none of this could not be further from the truth. If we could, we would give ANYTHING to not feel this pain.

The problem is our outward projection of sadness is an unwelcome reminder.

It represents all the negative emotions they’ve managed to stuff deep inside until the pain is suppressed. 

So which is healthier? Suppressing grief, only to have it lie dormant until some tragedy unearths it again – but this time stronger and more painful? Or to acknowledge there is no quick fix to alleviate the overwhelming pain of losing someone you have built your life – and in some cases, your identity – around?

Suppressing grief is like following the latest fad diet.

Everyone wants to lose weight quickly without exercising or changing  eating habits. Maybe you’ll pop some appetite suppressing pills and lose weight in the short term. But the chances of you keeping the weight off are slim. The reality is that the next time you try to lose weight, it will likely be harder than the time before.

The alternative means facing the harsh reality that transforming your body to a stable, healthy weight is challenging. It requires permanently changing your eating habits and amount of regular exercise. You likely need to readjust your expectations of what your ideal body should look like. Sadly, most of us will never look like supermodels or pro athletes. In other words, the second option is HARD WORK, but it has the greatest likelihood of becoming a permanent reality.

But if I’m being honest here, I have to admit that given the opportunity, I would have gladly chosen to bury the overwhelming pain when my daughter died. Suppressing pain and emotions is what I had done my whole life until that point.

The fact is the pain of losing someone I loved MORE than my own life was too much to bury.

I reluctantly – and resentfully – took on more pain than I could bear. I did so because I had no other choice.

For the first time in my life, I learned how to slowly take small steps with that unbearable load on my back. In support groups and counseling, I learned sharing my story and my pain reduced the load. Even if it was only a very slight amount each time.  

By reducing the load over months and then years, it became easier to carry. I have since come to understand that the load will never fully go away, but I have learned how to balance it with the rest of my life. And as time goes on, the balance will become easier still.

That is not to say that occasionally, the load won’t suddenly feel nearly as heavy as it did when my grief was new. And when it does, I’ll remember how to go back to taking small, careful steps until it feels lighter again.

To all those who cringe in discomfort when they see me experiencing outward emotional pain, I say this: just let me be sad.

My intention is not to make you feel uncomfortable. I don’t expect – or want – you to follow in my footsteps. But I do expect you to respect the path I have been forced to take on my journey through life. I truly hope you never have to carry this load yourself.

In the Garden

In the Garden

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During her visit in late spring of 2009, our sister Patsy planted a wonderful vegetable garden on the side of our house with the help of our kids. We had been wanting a garden for a while, so we watered and cared for the garden in anticipation of the carrots, tomatoes, cucumbers, zucchini, and other wonderful vegetables that would come.

The garden started producing its bounty in the summer, and we enjoyed fresh vegetables with most of our meals.

One afternoon, our daughter, Margareta, decided she was going to water the garden. In true Margareta fashion, she used her quirky sense of style and imagination. Dressed only in underwear (a common sight in our home), shoes, and a red super hero cape, she went out to water the garden with a water gun we had just gotten.  After seeing her head out the kitchen door in this getup, I followed her with the camera to see what she was up to with a smile on my face. Here is what I saw:

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I miss my beautiful girl with her vivid imagination and sense of whimsy. I think of these pictures often.

Submitted by Maria Kubitz in loving memory of her daughter, Margareta Kubitz.