The Fading Tapestry of a Life Once Lived

The Fading Tapestry of a Life Once Lived

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On September 30, it will be ten years since you died. Ten years isn’t very long in the grand scheme of things. But considering you died at the tender age of four, it feels like so much more.

Memories of you have already begun to fade. Evidence of your very existence is far and few between. Clothes you wore, things you cherished, and art you created all fit into a few small bins. Bins that have long since been packed away with the rest of the things we rarely use. A few cherished items and photos of you are left out to admire.

But outside of our home—and outside of our hearts and minds—your short life went by unnoticed. Unknown to the world except by the few who knew you during those four short years, and whose hearts you indelibly touched.

Recently, we traveled abroad and visited cities that are centuries or millennia old. We explored ancient ruins that were abandoned long ago by the march of progress. Ruins that were literally buried under countless layers of dirt and modern adaptation. Fragile artifacts have to be painstakingly unearthed and preserved. Each one a small clue of lives that have long been forgotten.

Archeologists are left to look at impossibly small fragments of what once was. They merely guess at the most rudimentary details of people who were once so important to their family and friends. Without much to go on, they can never hope to know these people beyond their age, sex, status in society, and maybe a few more inconsequential facts. They’ll never uncover the beauty these people brought into the hearts and lives of those who loved them.

And when our lives come to an end, what then? When our belongings are rummaged through after we are dead and gone, what will they piece together about your life—so spirited and vibrant—that ended so long ago?

What will a box of favorite outfits, a few pairs of shoes, costumes, and other small trinkets tell them about you? Could these things ever convey your sense of humor and adventure? Will they tell of your guarded shyness around strangers, yet decisive bossiness at home? Could anyone who never met you begin to use these excavated objects as evidence of the depth and boundless imagination that vividly colored the world we shared together?

Unfortunately not.

We’ve tried to write down memories of you, but they can’t ever fully convey the rich tapestry of your brief life.

Memories only highlight fragments of who you were and the impact you had on those who loved you. They lack depth and detail of your complex, unique being.

Over a decade since your death, the brightly colored threads which had weaved together to form the story of your life have significantly faded and worn. And they’ll continue to do so as time ticks by.

While your family lovingly cares for your tapestry in our hearts and thoughts, we cannot stop or slow the continual damage caused by the passing of time. Each birthday and anniversary of your death serves as a harsh, sobering reminder of this reality.

No matter how faded or damaged your life’s tapestry becomes, you are a vibrant, brilliant part of our life tapestries. This is the one thing that will withstand the test of time. For the rest of our lives, you remain a constant presence; a beacon of love and a guiding light of purpose.

Distance in Grief

Distance in Grief

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“Time heals all wounds.”

I’m certain you’ve heard that saying. It’s a nice thought. But the truth is not so simple and clean cut as that. It makes me think whoever coined the phrase hadn’t yet suffered the devastating loss of a loved one that both shatters and redefines the world you live in.

Another new year was ushered in this past week. It will be another year that my daughter did not live to see. An unwelcome reminder that she has been gone for more years than she lived to experience. It takes me further away from her. Further from her birth, her short life, and the impossible moment of her death.

It is distance.

Distance is a difficult concept to grasp or explain in the context of grief.

It is both good and bad at the same time. Both painful and liberating. It can both soften your devastation while solidifying the difficult reality of loss.

It can help close the door to the agony of early grief, just as it unearths new aspects of grief that you hadn’t expected. And weren’t altogether ready for.

I am thankful for the distance between where I am now and the horror of the day my daughter drowned.

I no longer fear that if I close my eyes I might be forced to recall and relive the worst day of my life. I’m no longer a complete wreck who can’t manage basic functions in the world around me. I am no longer at the mercy of uncontrollable waves of emotion that might leave me a crying, angry, trembling mess for the majority of the day.

But it isn’t just distance. It is distance combined with hard work. If I had not acknowledged my grief or faced my emotions head on, I might still be trapped in a web of despair concealed by numbness. I might have completely cut myself off from any meaningful interaction with life. Or swallowed my pain and pushed it so deep that it transformed itself into a devastating and debilitating illness.

Time alone does not heal all wounds. Time just gives you more opportunities to work through your pain…or to find new ways to try to hide from it.

Distance has given me perspective. The perspective that the four years I did get to spend with my daughter is much more than those who are denied the opportunity to have children in the first place. Or those who lose children before they even take their first breath. And while I am forever grateful for having more than a few days, weeks, or months with her, distance also makes me envious of those who got to spend more time – even decades – with their children.

Four years worth of memories of my daughter don’t add up to much. I don’t have a treasure trove of stories to tell. The milestones are limited and weren’t cataloged all that well to begin with. After all, I was expecting a lifetime of them. She didn’t have friends, lovers, or children who will remember her in perpetuity. Her brothers were too young to remember most of the time they spent with her.

All those everyday moments I took for granted are eroding away on the treacherous path of distance. Details are being lost to time. My mind tries to fill in the gaps based on pictures or conjecture, but it only serves to make me question the validity of those memories I once felt so sure of.

When memories are all you have left, distance becomes your enemy…and a new form of grief.

I don’t know what distance has in store for me. Each passing day, week, month and year seem to bring new healing and personal growth. For that I am truly grateful. But it is always with an undertow of longing. I suppose it is representative of life itself. With love comes pain. With pain comes understanding. Understanding leads to growth. Personal growth brings wisdom, purpose, and fulfillment.

I suppose if I am forced to live the rest of my life without watching my daughter grow, I will continue to try to grow and thrive in her honor. From that perspective, I can’t wait to see what the future will bring.