It’s been almost two years since my 31 year-old daughter died. Two years. In the past, when talking to a grieving parent, I’ve made the mistake of thinking that some kind of healing has taken place at the two year mark. I was wrong.
For me, now, the grief has begun in earnest.
A few months ago I became aware that I was coming out of the fog and the flip side of that are the feelings that follow. Instead of trauma, I miss her. The shape of her mouth, the mole on the left side of her nose, her delicate hand; I yearn for her.
These past two weeks, watching the outpouring of public grief for Cory Monteith, a 31 year-old that was born in Calgary and who died in Vancouver (as opposed to my 31 year-old who was born in Vancouver and died in Calgary) has been agonizing. It opened me up beyond the blur of internal trauma and put me in touch with the true lifelong loss of my May baby.
I know his mother’s pain.
Learning to live like this is the ultimate challenge. As a mother who nurtured this life inside of me, I am missing a literal part of myself. I seek her. How, then, to make the remaining years useful? What will move me once again? Will I find relief from the ever-present thrum of grey?
Making meaning in my life has different corners to it now. The shape of the world has changed and it’s not something I recognize. I’m not sure where I fit in this new place.
And so I wait.
I wait for a sign. I wait for the tumblers to fall into place and show me the direction I should take. Mostly, though, I wait for her.
© Kim Reynolds 2013