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

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.

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.

The Caterpillar

The Caterpillar

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It was a morning just like any other. My daughter and I were getting ready for daycare and work. We were doing the regular things we did to get out the door and into the car. As we would leave our shoes outside in the atrium of our house, I opened the door and Margareta waited as I got her Dora the Explorer shoes to put on. After I put them on, she complained that the toes hurt on one of her feet. So I took the shoe off, and stuck my fingers in to see if anything was inside.

When my fingers reached the toe, it was cold and wet and squishy. My first reaction was to get my hand out as quick as possible. As I looked at my fingers when they came out of the shoe, they had greenish goo on them. What the heck was IN there, I thought? I hesitatingly reached back in again to try to get out whatever it was.

Sadly, when I pulled it out, it turned out that a friendly black fuzzy caterpillar had thought that Margareta’s Dora shoe was a nice, warm refuge for the night. Margareta, who loved animals, was very sad that the caterpillar had gotten squished to death. We buried the caterpillar, cleaned her shoe, and then got going once again.

It was probably about a week before Margareta stopped asking me to check her shoes for caterpillars every time we put them on.

Submitted by Maria Kubitz in loving memory of Margareta Kubitz.

An Old Soul

An Old Soul

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The Urban Dictionary definition of “Old Soul” is:

“A spiritual person whom is wise beyond their years; people of strong emotional stability. Basically, someone whom has more understanding of the world around them.”

There was one moment my daughter displayed the wisdom of an old soul that will forever stay with me. She was three years old. I was home by myself with her and her three older brothers on a summer day. Boys being boys, they have a tendency of driving me nuts after being cooped up too long. Long story short, after an extended period of them not listening and causing havoc, I lost my patience. I got angry, yelled, and sent them to their rooms. It left me in an exasperated mood.

Margareta had been coloring on the dining room table while all this happened. She had just went on about her business while her brothers were being dealt with…unlike me as a little girl, who would have gone and hid thinking that the anger would find it’s way to me next. As if fulfilling my childhood expectations, my angry mood turned on Margareta next for no good reason. I snapped at her, telling her to clean up the mess of crayons all over the table. Unlike me as a little girl, who would have burst into tears or cowered in my seat and promptly obeyed, Margareta simply looked at me and said, “Mama, talk nicely to me.”

It took my breath away. This little three year old girl had enough confidence and wisdom that she could calm me down and put me in my  place all at the same time. Those magical words immediately lifted the fog of anger off of me and brought me back down to earth. To the day I die, I will never forget her words of wisdom. I only wish that I can learn to react in the same state of grace as she did when someone loses their temper around me. Or that I can channel that wisdom to avoid losing my temper.

I miss my beautiful daughter, and can only hope that some day, I’ll grow up to be like her.

Submitted by Maria Kubitz in loving memory of Margareta Sol Kubitz.