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.

Lost in the Forest of Grief

Lost in the Forest of Grief

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There is a common expression, “You can’t see the forest for the trees.”

It means you can get so caught up in focusing on what is right in front of your face, you lose sight of the bigger picture or perspective. It is very easy to do.

Every day we must react to the multitude of things that are thrown our way. Things from our job or many other responsibilities. If you’re anything like me, your mind is almost constantly churning. I often feel overwhelmed by all the different things that seemingly need my attention every minute of the day.

It’s easy to get stuck living moment to moment, seeing only the “trees” that represent the immediate activities and emotions of your life. It’s often hard to view the entire forest that represents your overall life.

We can lose sight of the path we have taken so far, and the direction we want to head in the future. And we can unexpectedly be thrust into a life we didn’t plan for…or want.

My 4-year-old daughter, Margareta, died suddenly in 2009. And I found myself transplanted into a thick grove of new, unfamiliar “trees” in the forest that is my life.

These trees were big and scary. They grew so thick and tight, they blocked out any trace of the light from the sky. While I had some sense of direction in the previous area of the forest I inhabited, this grove of trees filled me with an indescribable pain and left me groping in the dark. I desperately tried to find a way out and back to the area I was before. But I could find none. I was lost in the forest, overwhelmed with grief.

Each humongous tree that surrounded me represented a painful feeling or emotion that I was forced to grapple with.

These trees signified feelings of guilt, helplessness, hopelessness, isolation, disbelief, despair, torment. And too many more to list. Every time I tried to force my way out of this grove of trees, I was just left bruised and battered and stuck. It exhausted me to the point where I would just fall down and sleep for long periods of time.

After remaining in this grove for quite a while, my eyes adjusted to the darkness. Now, when I looked, I could make out the trees in the distance that once surrounded me. But they were out of reach. There was no path I could find to go back. It was all irrevocably blocked by the horrible reality of Margareta’s death.

I resentfully resigned myself to the understanding that I was stuck in this grove of darkness and despair. I tearfully understood that the life I once led would never come back. Once you feel this level of pain, it is like innocence lost forever to the harsh realities of life.

Then a strange, unexpected thing happened.

Instead of fighting to escape these trees of grief by squeezing my way out, I forced myself to accept them.

I embraced them as a representation of how much love I still have for my daughter. In doing this, I discovered I could climb these trees; grasping each limb on their thick trunks. I worked to express my feelings about those trees in counseling, support groups, and writing about it. Each time I did, I could climb a bit higher to where the branches thinned out and let light and fresh air in.

Over the course of several long years, I climbed all the way to the top of that grove of trees. And from that vantage point, I could see that all hope was not lost.

I could see the forest of my life. The path I had taken to get here and different ways I could move forward and out of this thick grove of grief trees. But it would take work and dedication. It would take a new perspective on the meaning and purpose of my life. And a willingness to accept that it will never be the path I intended to take.

I slowly climbed down the outer branches of that grove, trusting that they would not break and let me fall. I climbed down with a new understanding. While all of these trees in my forest of life appear to be separate from above the ground, their roots are forever intertwined below it. These intertwining roots of good and bad, love and pain, happiness and despair strengthen my forest and keep it alive and thriving. We cannot truly understand and appreciate each of these feelings without having experienced their opposite.

So as I continue to make my way through my forest of life, I find that I experience things on a deeper level than before.

I choose to focus my attention on the trees that bring the most meaning to my life. These trees usually represent relationships, passions, and feelings of purpose.

I no longer am certain of the path my life will take, but I know that no matter what happens there will always be a way forward. And if I get lost among unfamiliar trees, I will once again embrace and climb them to remind myself of where I came from, where I am now, and where I can go from here.

And you can too.

Do They Even Remember Your Name?

Do They Even Remember Your Name?

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Margareta.

For the four short years you were in our lives, your name was spoken more times than I could ever possibly count.

Not just by me, your dad and brothers, but by a multitude of family and friends. We spoke it, sang it, and wrote it every day. You corrected people on the pronunciation of your name by emphasizing every syllable. “My name is Mar-Gar-Eh-Tah.” Your name was part of the daily fabric of our lives. And we took it for granted that it always would be.

And then one day…it wasn’t.

On the day you died, a wave of shock and despair hit everyone who knew you. It took our breath away and left us speechless. Nobody seemed to know the right words to say to make sense of this sudden tragedy. But they tried their best to offer us comfort. They showed their support in condolence calls and cards.

Many quoted the bible, and offered us sayings they thought would soothe our broken hearts.

“God needed an angel.”

“She’s at peace in the arms of Jesus.”

Others just spoke their hearts in the simplest way possible.

“I’m so sorry for your loss. I don’t know what to say.”

“I can’t believe she’s dead. I feel sick.”

No matter the words spoken and whether they resonated with me or not, I felt supported. I felt our family wasn’t alone in our horror.

But then the funeral was over and everyone went home to resume their lives. The cards stopped coming. The phone stopped ringing. And yet our grief was just beginning. It didn’t end the day we buried you. It grew.

How could we go back to living our normal lives if you weren’t here to live it with us? And how could the earth keep spinning? How could people keep going about their daily business – laughing and happy – when everything in our life had been ruined? The feeling was maddening.

Occasionally we would get a call to see how we were doing. But it was never about you.

It was always about their concern for us and how they could help support us. They didn’t mention your name. While I was filled with gratitude to know that people still cared, all I wanted to do was talk about you and how your absence in our life was suffocating.

Over time the calls of concern stopped coming and were replaced by invitations to get back to our previous routines. We were invited to parties, dinners, outings, etc. We were encouraged to get back to the land of the living. At first, we often declined, but the invitations kept coming. And your name was virtually never mentioned.

Years after your death, your name is rarely said. Virtually the only way I can still hear your beautiful name – Margareta – is if I say it. I have to bring you up in conversation.

It makes me wonder whether people still think of you. It makes me fear that you are already forgotten.

After all, you were only here for four short years.

I’m not the only one who feels this way. This is a common topic – and source of despair – at grief support groups. Those who are bereaved live in a world where those we love remain at the forefront of our thoughts. This isn’t just in the first few months or years after your death. It is for the rest of our lives.

We may even get chastised from family and friends who want us to get over your death and get back to being the way we were before you died. Like that will ever happen.

I’ve heard many times a few theories of why people never say your name.

First, they think it will remind me of the pain of your death. As if that pain has ever gone away. If they only knew that hearing your name eases the pain…even if just for a brief moment.

Second, they don’t know the “right” words to say. I suppose it is a twisted interpretation of the phrase, “If you don’t have something nice to say don’t say anything at all.” To which I reply, even if they say something that doesn’t come out quite right, at least they’ve shown me that you’re still on their mind.

One of the greatest gifts someone can give to me is the act of saying your name.

Not waiting until I bring you up in conversation. Or only mentioning you on your birthday or the anniversary of your death. But any time they happen to think of you . Even if just for a brief second. I’d love to know that outside of our immediate family, we’re not the only ones who still think of you, love you, and acknowledge that you existed.

Margareta. How I love hearing your name.

Remembering Michaela Noam

Remembering Michaela Noam

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Our oldest daughter, Michaela Noam, was a lively, intelligent, beautiful child who has cerebral palsy. She was thriving despite her physical limitations, and she elevated our existence and gave purpose to our lives. She unexpectedly passed away on May 23, 2009 at age 5 and a half, leaving behind not only her devastated parents, but also two younger sisters.

I had been a devoted special needs mother. I have not returned to writing and much of my non-fiction work — essays, memoir — has been published. It all has to do with Michaela. As well, I continue to fiercely advocate on behalf of the special needs population. You can follow me on Twitter @gabriellaburman.

This is a photo of our gorgeous, beloved, delightful Michaela, age 5.
MichaelaKaplanphoto

 

 

 

Submitted by Gabriella Burman in loving memory of her daughter, Michaela Noam Kaplan.

I Remember You

I Remember You

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I remember you arrived in the aftermath
of hurricane Katrina
You turned my world upside-down
but in the best way possible

I remember you sleeping peacefully
surrounded by many stuffed animals
who would later become
your treasured playmates

I remember your smiles and laughter
intermixed with a quiet seriousness
as if you were contemplating
the mysteries of the universe

I remember how excited I was
when your hair was long enough to put in pigtails and braids
and how you pulled them out
because you preferred your hair free and messy

I remember the many pretty dresses
you loved to wear
and how they showed off your scrapes and bruises
from playing rough and keeping up with the big boys

I remember you asking me to sleep with you
pulling me as close as you could
face to face and noses touching
giving each other eskimo kisses

I remember your intelligence and confidence
as you started to navigate your own way
through this confusing world
and how I wished I could be more like you

I remember the joy
I remember the love
I remember you
every day and
with every breath

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