Bitter Sixteen

Bitter Sixteen

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In a little over a month, it will be the “would have been” 16th birthday of my daughter, Margareta. In other words, it would have been her “Sweet Sixteen”, a milestone birthday to mark the beginning of her transition into womanhood. Except that it is anything but “sweet”.

It is a bitter reminder that I’ll never get to experience seeing my daughter as a woman. Or as a mother herself.

It’s not like we would have thrown a large, extravagant party. We wouldn’t have bought her a new car. She wouldn’t have dressed up in a formal quinceañera-style dress. None of that. But as the only girl in a family of boys, her sweet sixteen birthday would have meant something special.

Instead, it will end up being just another “would have been” birthday she’s not here to celebrate. A day on which we’ll have our annual ritual we’ve created to remember with love the day she came into our life.

The lead up to her birthday each year surfaces much of the sorrow, regret, and pain I place in little compartments inside me throughout the year.

Compartments packed away to process another day as I go about my current day-to-day life. And as the years roll on, the compartments do not get nearly as full and overwhelming as they once did. Margareta was 4-years-old when she died, and I’ve had 12 years since her death to process that reality, learn how to better handle the pain, adjust to a life without her, and learn some positive things about myself and life itself along the way.

But in the month or so before her birthday – which happens to be the same month in which she died – all of those compartments seem to bubble over. Every year like clockwork.

The long simmering feelings that stewed in their own juices for months on end begin to fill me once again with anguish, bitterness, and even anger.

And so at the same time each year, I have the excruciating task of wading through all these pent up, painful emotions in an attempt to finally allow myself to experience and then let them go. Sometimes it feels like my penance for not keeping her safe and alive.

Most of the time when I write about my grief, I try to end it by focusing on how far I’ve come in my journey of healing, all the things I’ve learned, and how much I’ve grown as a person. It serves to reassure myself and anyone reading that with some work and time, it does get easier from those early days of intense grief. It provides hope for those suffering under the weight of their pain.

But each year when I’m caught up in the muck of my overflowing pain and regret, I give myself permission to just feel what I feel. And usually those feelings are angry and resentful. And that’s ok.

It has to be ok, because that’s reality. It’s not some self-pity party. The reality of being a bereaved parent is that these painful feelings will NEVER go away. Our child IS dead. Year after year; decade after decade. It may not be what you want to hear, but it’s the truth. The feelings may morph and soften, but they’ll always be there.

There is no happy ending to my story. At least not the one I want. BUT– that doesn’t keep me from seeking and experiencing happiness, love, and appreciation during the remainder of my story.

I’ll be acknowledging and processing my feelings throughout this next month the best I can. And once that’s done, I can resume the new life I’ve built. One that Margareta would have supported and enjoyed seeing me live. One that may not include her physical presence, but her presence in my thoughts and heart every single day.

Gifts From My Daughter on Her Birthday

Gifts From My Daughter on Her Birthday

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Today is my daughter’s birthday.

If she were still alive, Margareta would have been 10-years-old. This is the sixth bittersweet celebration of a life that was over after four short years. Four years of blissful ignorance of the impending tragedy that took her life. Our hearts will ache because she is not physically here with us to blow out the candles on her cake. But today, we choose to remember all the love she brought into our lives during those four short years. We will celebrate her continued daily presence in our hearts and minds.

I can no longer buy presents for my daughter on her birthday. Instead, I’d like to share with you a few of the gifts she has given me. Not hand-written cards or tokens of her love during those four years, but gifts of wisdom she has brought into my life.

The gift of acceptance.

Most of my life, I struggled to try to change things that were not mine to change. I tried changing others. Their behaviors, their thoughts, and their reactions. Only to be disappointed every time. I tried changing the past by rewriting it in my head. I tried changing a future that hadn’t occurred yet.

Basically, if it didn’t bring me a sense of security…I tried changing it.

Margareta’s death helped me truly understand that most of what happens to us in this life is not ours to control. Only when we accept what we cannot change (and what is not our part of our responsibility anyway) can we find happiness and contentment.

The gift of appreciation.

I used to think I was an appreciative person. But then I lost one of the most important people in my life and realized just how unappreciative I had been. I understand now that embracing the little things we usually take for granted makes all the difference in the world.

Savoring that kind word or hug a little longer. Noticing a smile on a stranger’s face. Knowing that every day could be our last makes it that much more meaningful and important. I now better appreciate what I have versus always wanting something else; something more. This level of appreciation brings with it a sense of inner peace I always craved but never knew how to achieve.

The gift of courage.

For the longest time, I never felt strong. I didn’t feel strong enough to stand up for myself or leave toxic situations and relationships. I felt I was a victim and learned to play that role really well.

But when the worst actually happens to you – and you survive it – you discover a source of strength within you that you never knew existed.

In my journey of grief, I have begun to discover my courage. Courage to believe my needs matter just as much as anyone else’s. Courage to try to always speak my mind even if I fear the reaction it may cause. Most of all, the courage to learn accept myself for who I am instead of trying to become the person I thought others wanted me to be. I’ll never be perfect. I’ll always be a work in progress. But my daughter’s life – and death – has taught me that life is too short to try to be anything other than who you are at this moment. It has given me the freedom and courage to do what it takes to follow my dreams.

While my dream of watching my beautiful daughter grow will never come true, I will continue to create new dreams that are inspired by all the gifts she has given me.

Happy birthday, sweet girl. Words cannot convey how much we miss you.

Forever Four?

Forever Four?

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Next week will mark the day my daughter would have turned nine years old.

She died almost five years ago. But as a mother, I feel the responsibility to always remember how many years it has been since she was born. Just as I know the ages of my other children. I don’t want to have to fumble for the number and do the math in my head. I just want to know it, just as I know the ages of my sons whenever someone asks how old they are.

But, of course, she’s not nine years old. She only lived for four years.

So which is it? Is she forever four? Or was she four when she died and “would have been” nine now?

Whatever the answer, it serves as a painful reminder that I’ve lost the joy of seeing my daughter grow. I’m trapped in a world where I’ll always be wondering what she would have looked like? What would she have been interested in? What sports would she have played? Or would she have hated sports and preferred some artistic pursuit instead? The questions are endless.

Having all boys at home, I have no points of reference for what might have been. I have no close friends with daughters who are nine that I can hang out with and longingly see how they act or what music they’re into or what clothes they wear. 

I get glimpses of girls her “would have been” age every now and again, but they are sparse and intermittent at best.

I’m quite sure I’d be sick of the Frozen soundtrack by now, which most likely would have been on heavy rotation in our house. She would have had her own funky sense of style, and drawers and closets overflowing with a variety of clothes based on her love of them in the four years she lived. I’m quite sure she’d still be driving her brothers nuts, yet endearing herself to them at the same time.

But that’s just it – it is the underlying pain of not knowing.

No matter how far I’ve come in my journey of grief, I will always be left longing for the future I’ll never get; a future that contains all my children. So I’m left with a future that contains five children. Four of whom I’ll get to watch grow and mature, and one who will be four when she died and would have been…

A Letter to My Daughter on Her (Would Have Been) 8th Birthday

A Letter to My Daughter on Her (Would Have Been) 8th Birthday

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Dear Margareta,

On September 1, you would have turned eight years old. It will be the fourth birthday we have to celebrate without you here to celebrate it with us. The fourth time we have to sing “Happy Birthday” while holding back the tears. After this month is over, you will have been gone longer than you were alive.

It wasn’t supposed to be this way. You were supposed to live a long, full life. A life full of adventure. A life full of creativity and quirkiness. You were supposed to continue to surprise us with your choices and path in life. You were supposed to be my best friend and confidant. You were supposed to continue to challenge my status quo and widen my horizons. You were supposed to…

Whatever you were “supposed to do” was lost the day you died. My dreams for you will never come true. I am left sitting here holding my shattered dreams of raising a daughter. I kindly brush off the question, “Are you going to try for a girl?” when some stranger sees or hears I have four boys. I can’t bring myself to prolong the conversation by saying that I already have a daughter…because the pain that comes with that statement still feels like a knife was just stuck in my heart all over again.

Despite my continuing anguish over not having you by my side, you still continue to teach me each and every day. You have taught me a deeper appreciation of life than I could have ever imagined. Everything has more meaning now. The joy I have learned to feel again is that much sweeter. The love I feel is that much more profound. The respect I have for this earth and all its gifts is that much more substantial. I pause longer and savor the beauty around me more than I once did. And while the sadness and violence throughout this world can now be overwhelming and bring tears more easily, I feel more compassion than I did before because I now understand pain that transcends words to describe it.

I am no longer satisfied to just “survive” life as I once did. I am no longer able to just bury painful emotions and pretend that it will magically get better someday. I now truly understand that our lives require a lot of work, and we cannot just sit idly by and blame others and lament that they are not acting or being the way we need them to be. I have fully learned that only I am responsible for my own situation and path in life. That is not to say that I don’t still falter and fall back into old bad habits and thoughts. But now that I have seen this gift that is life so quickly taken away, I am compelled to keep moving forward whenever I stumble.

I look forward to your many signs and whispers to me every day. They not only remind me of your continuing presence and importance in my life; they keep me grounded in the moment. They keep me tuned to love. For if I have learned anything from both your life and your death, it is that love is always within us, around us, and the way through. I often hear other parents faced with the tremendous pain of losing a child ask, “How do I go on?” Many times, both I and others answer, “You just do. One day, or one moment, at a time.” But the real answer is love. Our love is what gets us through the darkest moments.

Margareta, it is through you that I’m able to fulfill a lifelong dream. Since I was a little girl, I’ve known that I want to help people. I’ve never quite known how, but here it is. I’m helping others through their grief by being honest about my own. I’m able to show others there is hope. I do this in your name and in your honor. With only four short years on this earth, you left an indelible mark on the hearts of those who knew you, but you weren’t able to make your mark on the world. Here is your mark. You are helping others make it through their darkest hours. And you’re leaving your mark through love and compassion.

Your light shines on, and it shines ever so brightly as it did while you were here with us. You truly are our sunshine, and I continue to bask in your loving light.

With all my love,
Mama

Written by Maria Kubitz for her daughter, Margareta Kubitz