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Holy Week - 2020

My baby girl passed away on the Monday, April 5^th, 1982, right after Palm Sunday.  Her death, funeral visitation, and burial happen during Holy Week.  

Thirty-Eight years ago, I buried my youngest daughter, and I had zero input in that decision.  She was snatched from me at a very young age by a heart condition that today is quickly fixed with surgery right after babies are born.  Sadly, back in 1981, the technology had not been developed yet to help my baby.

In moments that you’re missing me

In memories that you keep

In days that you are struggling

At night when you’re asleep

Sitting here thinking about the state of the world right now, my boy, my blessings & these two!!  Being my husband & stepdaughter has not been an easy task after losing Brian. But, they love me, support me & forgive me for the short comings I had as a wife & stepmom after we all lost him. That’s the true testament of family, isn’t it? It’s not only being there when you’re spot on as mom, wife & stepmom, which I always took great pride in. It’s being there when things fall apart. Crash all the way down.

Skin Hunger Can Be a By-Product of Widowhood. It's not often discussed, but it's true. One of the nicest benefits of an intimate relationship is the physical contact that comes with them. While that includes sexual contact, that's not what I'm talking about here. Maybe a topic for another day. No, what I mean is the ordinary touches and connections that are an integral part of close family and housemate relationships.

FROM THE GRIEVING HEART:

I feel frozen. Stuck. Paralyzed.

The world is moving, but I’m not. I’m going through the motions. I walk in a daze. I find myself staring at walls.

I can’t move. It’s like my heart has been anesthetized.

Excerpted from DEATH IS BUT A DREAM by Christopher Kerr, MD, PhD and Carine Mardorossian, PhD. Published on February 11, 2020 by Avery, and imprint of Penguin Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Random House, LLC.

My daughter’s final resting place was in a section of Union Cemetery in Columbus, Ohio they call Baby Land. I haven’t gone back to visit my daughter’s grave site very often. I believe that she isn’t really there. I don’t know, maybe I don’t fully understand the significance of cemeteries.

The few times I have visited Union Cemetery, I would watch my wife carefully wipe away any remnants Mother Nature may have left behind on Lindsay’s headstone. Then she carefully arranges some flowers using those same gentle hands that had held Lindsay so sweetly while she was alive.