The Stormy Beach

The Stormy Beach

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I thought of this story because I was talking about protecting Philip, and because of how deeply we’re affected by the vulnerability we share with our kids. Because we do share it. I might be the one who’s supposed to be doing the protecting, but look at the price I pay if I can’t.

The summer when Philip was four or five and Natalie was two or three, we stayed overnight in Point Pleasant, NJ, with Janine and her son Jake. It was hot and sunny and sticky and when we got to the beach, it was closed. If there was such a thing as a triple-X red flag, it would’ve been flying. I’ve never seen a beach this way. The water was hurling itself at the shore, right up to the boardwalk. In fact, there was no shore; just a boardwalk and lots of hysterical water.

Do Not Enter or not, the beach wasn’t roped off, so we went down the boardwalk stairs just to gape. I’m a weather girl. Not as in, oh, it’s warm and sunny so we should get our asses out and do something. I mean as in ice storms, snowstorms (which my town has decided to call “snow events,” leaving me to wonder just what it is our Town Officials spend the better part of their time – and our money – doing), rainstorms, thunderstorms, storms of any kind. The more nature misbehaves, the better. Of course, all I know is the NY Metro area kind of weather, not the Storm-Chaser, Dorothy’s-house-flying-through-the-air kind. The ocean that day might not be classified as “weather,” but it was Nature being Really Exciting.

The five of us stood just under the boardwalk, Janine and I holding our kids’ hands. No one else was there because really, no sane person would’ve been. You could see what was going on from the top of the boardwalk; no need go down those stairs to get under it. But we did, and the panorama of that unobstructed wild ocean letting its white, foamy hair down and shaking it out with a vengeance was mesmerizing.

Possessed, I took Philip’s still-chubby four-(or five)-year-old hand and walked deeper into that maniacal frothing sea. I was both thrilled and terrified; for God’s sake, I wouldn’t know how to float in a bathtub, never mind do a free-stroke or a backstroke or any other stroke that was supposed to keep my head above more than about four feet of water; what the hell was I doing tempting fate?

Correction. What was I doing tempting fate with my child?

I’d say it was a modified version of that thrill-seeking thing that makes people jump out of airplanes or climb big, scary mountains. And I think that attraction, dangerous as it is, is the pull of life. It’s the need to have all your senses mobilized and attentive, so there isn’t you and the ocean or the sky or the mountain because you are the ocean and the sky and the mountain. I mean, you’re not thinking about anything except what you’re doing, and how peaceful is it not to have to listen to the damn whining voices in your head. It’s what I’d thought meditation was about, but I hadn’t the patience to get there by sitting around and trying not to think. And here was an unsought opportunity to shock myself awake.

We didn’t walk far. We couldn’t. The water rushed at us, smacking my shins and splashing up my thighs, then rushed back on itself, trying to take us with it. It was gorgeously, savagely, beautiful; it was The Call of the Wild that I wanted to answer, but I didn’t know how.

So I turned to go back to the boardwalk, and a few steps later I realized I’d let go of Philip’s hand. I had stood there marveling at the ferocity and velocity of that ocean and then I dropped my son’s hand. I don’t remember doing it, I just remember spinning around in shock and dread, to see that Philip had been knocked down to his hands and knees, and some woman was helping him to get up.

What followed was some eerie dream-like sequence where I moved toward her and she gave Philip’s hand to me and I took it, unable to see what I’m sure were her accusing eyes behind her sunglasses, unable to say anything because the enormity of what I’d done was already taking hold, because the roaring of the ocean wouldn’t have allowed me to be heard anyway. Then somehow I was back at the boardwalk, back to Janine, who hadn’t seen any of it. I didn’t tell her. If I had, I would have had to say, “I think I almost let my child die.” That he didn’t die didn’t change my carelessness. It wasn’t because of me that he didn’t die. It was because of that woman, whoever she was, wherever she came from. As far as I was concerned, she saved his life.

For years, right up until Philip died, I’d get slightly sick and slightly dizzy when I thought about that day. For just a second my stomach would lurch. I told Philip about it once, but he just shrugged it off. What did it matter to him? He didn’t even remember it.

But after Philip died, the truth of that day hit me, and it knocked me over like one of those big old waves did to him. My son wasn’t saved that day; I was. Because if he would have died then, I don’t know what shell of a person I would have become and what Natalie would have had to suffer because of it. Look; Philip was a young man on his own, and I couldn’t protect him from the choices he made, or the body he was given. But he is my son. He was vulnerable and I was helpless. That I can work through; and to a degree, I have. But if I’d lost him then? If he had died because of my carelessness when I was supposed to be taking care of him?

My heart is on its knees in gratitude. I was graced that day, and I understand the difference between the way it happened and what it would have been like if it had happened then. It’s a nightmarish way to get perspective. But if my son had to die, better it be with my conscience clear.

Submitted by Denise Smyth in loving memory of her son, Philip.

You can find out more about Denise Smyth and her son Philip on her blog, forphilip.com.

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.

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.

Fancy Girl

Fancy Girl

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We try to go to parades throughout the year, and many of them result in a collection of colorful mardi gras beads. Our daughter, Margareta, loved to wear them, as it brought out the “girly” side of her dual tomboy/girly girl personality.

Not satisfied with just wearing them around her neck, she would take her shirt off and put them across her back and around her arms, as if she had put on the straps of a backpack. When she started wearing the beads, we would remark how fancy she looked. She liked hearing it much, she started calling them “fancy beads”.

She would insist on collecting any strand of fancy beads she found in the house and hoarding them in her room. She loved them so much, she was buried with some of those beads so she could stay looking fancy forever. I keep some hanging around my rear-view mirror in memory of my fancy girl in her fancy beads.

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

The Fear of Forgetting a Loved One

The Fear of Forgetting a Loved One

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My daughter died just after turning four years old. One of my biggest fears has been that she will be forgotten. But what does that fear actually mean? What exactly am I really scared of? And how do I combat the fear?

The idea that she will be forgotten is actually two separate fears.

The first fear is that friends and even family will stop thinking of her and, in essence, “forget her”.

In reality, this is the natural course of life. I have beloved relatives and dear friends who have passed and yet I rarely think of them. Does it mean they didn’t exist or have any less impact on my life? No. Nor does it mean I love them any less. What it does represent is that life goes on and current matters occupy our minds.

When family and friends stopped talking about my daughter it felt like they no longer thought of her. And though it’s been years since she died, my daily thoughts are still filled with memories and longing for her. In the first few years of my grief, this disconnect made me feel even more isolated from the “normal” world.

Our society tends to not want to talk about grief or the lingering pain of loss after the funeral is over. So I and many other grieving people go about our business and lead two lives. We have the “normal” life that goes about trying to live and act the way we did before they died. Then we have our “private” life where we still struggle to figure out how to work through the pain of grief. We must learn how to once again embrace the love, joy, and adventures that surround us.

The second part of my fear has to do with me and my memory.

With every passing day, and with all the new information coming in, memories of my daughter tend to get crowded out and forgotten.

All those everyday moments that I took for granted at the time have already faded into the abyss of memories lost to time. With my daughter no longer physically here, memories of her have become precious commodities. Those few memories of specific moments captured in time allow me to momentarily remember not just who she was, but remember life before the pain of her death forever changed me and my world.

It makes me sad that her older brothers say that they have very few specific memories of her. It makes me sadder that her baby brother never had the chance to meet her. He will have to rely on our stories and descriptions of her if he ever wants to get to know her.

To combat this fear, I have tried to write down as many memories as I can – even if they are mundane.

I keep them in a journal, and some I post to www.aliveinmemory.org to share them with others. This way I can refer back to them and share them with whoever is interested in reading them. Her brothers can read these memories and share them with their eventual families.

But I wonder, is my fear of forgetting my memories really necessary? Does it make me a bad mother that I can’t remember more moments I shared with her? Of course not. Does it mean my love for her will fade with the memories? Absolutely not.

I wish I could remember more specific memories of the time we shared with her. But I will try to be content knowing that I will never forget how much I love my daughter or how much she means to me. I will never forget her personality quirks, her vivid imagination, and endless creativity. And I will never forget how her life – and her death – have helped me grow tremendously in my understanding of this life and how best to live it.