Aug 6

Aug 6 The most precious gift

Saturday night I had the pleasure of attending my brother and his fiancé’s engagement party in our hometown of Omaha, Nebraska. It had been three years since I’d last visited, driving Jackson and Adelaide (by myself - yes, I am crazily stubborn) from Chicago to Omaha to visit my brother for his 30th birthday.

My parents left Omaha in 2013 to retire in North Carolina which uprooted the annual holiday trips back to the Cornhusker state, but really it has been 21 years since I left Omaha at 18 and I never really looked back. I wasn’t thinking about any of this though when I walked into the whiskey bar where they were hosting the party to kick of their year of wedding festivities with family and friends. Had I been, perhaps the emotions of the evening wouldn’t have caught me so off guard.

As their guests rolled in, greeted by the amber glow of the backlit wall of whiskey bottles, I was transported back to my childhood when so many of their faces (minus the whiskey) were part of my weekly life: My brother’s little league teammates that I had equally cheered on and teased from the bleachers, or the parents of friends who had helped raise me and whose houses I could still remember all the best hiding spots. Then there were my parent’s friends and colleagues whose names had filled dinner conversations and who had visited our home for various events or parties. So many faces, so many memories, so much to catch up on; not least of which was the passing of Adelaide.

Perhaps I should have prepared myself for her being a frequent topic of conversation but I was so excited to celebrate the engagement and see family and friends that it never even occurred to me. Each greeting began with a tight hug, often tear-filled eyes and deepest of condolences for our loss. This is how it should be of course - in fact, if people hadn’t mentioned her, if they had skipped over that part, I would have been more upset. I want to talk about her, I want to acknowledge her life and death, but that doesn’t make the pain any less. There have been so many occasions when Miguel and I have seen someone or gotten off a call and looked at each other with shared recognition that Adelaide hadn’t been mentioned. We discuss how no one said anything about her, that it speaks to their uncomfortability with the topic and typically end the conversation with “that was weird, right?”

I guess my point is that there is no good way to navigate the conversation around loss, especially the loss of a child. The whole thing sucks - seriously sucks, like more than you will hopefully ever even possibly imagine. BUT not acknowledging that loss and subsequent grief doesn’t make it magically go away, just like ignoring a suspicious mole on your skin won’t make it go away.

To be fair, these are not typically conversations that you are having over and over and over again in a single night. Unless you are attending your brother’s engagement party in your hometown with people you haven’t seen since the Backstreet Boys and their frosted tips were at their peak. This was a unique circumstance, but perhaps one I have been sheltered from thanks to the pandemic. When you are barely socializing, and certainly not in large groups, these conversations are able to happen sporadically as opposed to being assaulted in an hours long emotional bomb raid.

You know what though? I survived. And after waking up from a benzo induced sleep I was able to recognize that my daughter’s memory was also surviving. Everyone knew her name, they knew about her grueling fight with epilepsy, they knew of her epic warrior strength and the impact she had made on all those she touched, be it in person or through our telling of her story.

There is NOTHING, I repeat, NOTHING, more precious to a parent that has lost a child than for people to acknowledge that they remember their child. That they see the loss and the grief. You can’t give the grieving parent this precious gift if you never say their child’s name or express your condolences for the loss. Yes, it hurts to talk about, but you know what? It hurts regardless of whether you bring it up or not. I will cry at some point today no matter whether you acknowledge she’s gone, but you can always bring me comfort by remembering her. That said, I think I’m good on 20-year reunion parties for a little while if that’s alright with everyone.