A Decade Later, A Decade Lost
Published 5 months, 2 weeks pastI woke up this morning about an hour ahead of my alarm, the sky already light, birds calling. After a few minutes, a brief patter of rain swept across the roof and moved on.
I just lay there, not really thinking. Feeling. Remembering.
Almost sixteen years to the minute before I awoke, my second daughter was born. Almost ten years to the same minute before, she’d turned six years old, already semi-unconscious, and died not quite twelve hours later.
So she won’t be taking her first solo car drive today. She won’t be celebrating with dinner at her favorite restaurant in the whole world. She won’t kiss her niece good night or affectionately rag on her siblings.
Or maybe she wouldn’t have done any of those things anyway, after a decade of growth and changes and paths taken. What would she really be like, at sixteen?
We will never know. We can’t even guess. All of that, everything she might have been, is lost.
This afternoon, we’ll visit Rebecca’s grave, and then go to hear her name read in remembrance at one of her very happiest places, Anshe Chesed Fairmount Temple, for the last time. At the end of the month, the temple will close as part of a merger. Another loss.
A decade ago, I said that I felt the weight of all the years she would never have, and that they might crush me. Over time, I have come to realize all the things she never saw or did adds to that weight. Even though it seems like it should be the same weight. Somehow, it isn’t.
I was talking about all of this with a therapist a few days ago, about the time and the losses and their accumulated weight. I said, “I don’t know how to be okay when I failed my child in the most fundamental way possible.”
“You didn’t fail her,” they said gently.
“I know that,” I replied. “But I don’t feel it.”
A decade, it turns out, does not change that. I’m not sure now that any stretch of time ever could.
Comments (13)
My youngest son when he turned 14 went through a dark spot in his life and got involved with drugs. By the time he was 20 he had stopped using drugs and by the time he was 23 he started talking like a normal person.
On April 10, 2016 he died just before his birthday on May 5, 2016 when he would’ve turned 24. I still miss him and it’s only been eight years.
I’m so sorry for your lost.
May her memory be a blessing. :(
I am very sorry for your loss, Eric.
Sending love your way.
Thank you for sharing you grief. I hope you find a way to let the weight go, and give yourself the freedom you deserve <3
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Eric,
having seen two people die in the past few months I wish I could tell you not to feel as if you failed your daughter. I know that even if the dying are not conscious any more we still reach them and we are around to help them master the transgression they know will come and is inevitable.
Still, they are gone, and we miss them and we grieve. And sometimes I think I hear their voices telling me to be ok.
Maybe you can hear Rebecca’s voice from time to time to comfort you a little…
an online hug from Brazil.
this is the worst thing that could happen to a father and i’m so afraid of it (got a newborn girl and an 2y boy).
cried with your post.
I lost the love of my life ten years ago the 18th. I happened upon your writing as my six-year-old runs around the house with his same-aged cousin. The coincidence is not lost on me, and though it seemed impossible to treasure his mere existence even more than I already did, after reading your testimony, I do.
Hi,
I’ve never had any kids so I won’t pretend that I understand your grief and what you’re going through. However, I found this post after reading about the new CSS logo and the rebeccapurple color, and when you wrote
It reminded me of my failure and resonated with me, and I wanted to share my thoughts with you. I won’t elaborate much about the details because my loss was just a pet, which is not comparable to losing a child. So to keep it short, I overlooked something, and as a result, my dog died.
It’s been a few years, and I’m still upset at myself. I honestly doubt I’ll ever truly get over it, but I have found some peace. The peace I found comes from remembering the effort I put into my dog before he was gone, and the continued effort I put into him and myself even though he’s physically gone.
I know you feel like a failure; just know that I don’t think you acted like a failure. Despite your grief and the unfairness of life, you’ve continued to push and help Rebecca live on in an emotional sense. Even though Rebecca is no longer physically with us, I, a total stranger, still learned about her and her stories due to your continued effort. While you didn’t quite move on since you keep coming back to this (plus, how do you really “move on” from something like this?), you certainly did not stop.
I hope you keep going until you can’t anymore. Keep telling us about Rebecca, keep living life with her by your heart, keep dreaming of her and the possibilities, and keep her alive in some ways for as long as you can. I’m sure none of this is better than just having Rebecca around, but I do think it’s better than her just disappearing forever. I hope you find peace, even if it’s fleeting and surrounded by grief. Please take care of yourself so Rebecca can live on. This is wishful thinking on my part, but I imagine Rebecca would be happier knowing you have some peace. I also imagine her being proud of how much you love her and how hard you work to keep her memory alive.
Sincerely
My brother passed when I was fifteen. I don’t think I really understood what it must have done to my mom and still does. She has dementia now and doesn’t remember his face. I wonder how that pain changes over time. I’m sorry for what you lost and keep losing.
I have found out about the story behind
rebeccapurpleyesterday and landed here.It costed me a great deal of sorrow and tears to read through the posts, but I am extremely grateful that you have decided to share your experience and grief. I hope to never have to come back to reread these, but I find comfort in the thought that they are here.
I hope that in whatever challenging situation I’ll find myself with my daughter, I’ll manage to muster a fraction of the strength that you demonstrated in your path.
Thanks again, and sorry for your loss.