Mother Mary Came to Me

I have been struggling to write anything since my daughter died. Maybe because I can’t focus long enough. Or because I don’t have the words…I’m not sure I have any words. And maybe it’s fear. Fear that if I’m vulnerable with my writing, I’ll cause myself, or others, even more pain…and I feel so raw already. It’s like I have a gaping chest wound that is continually ripped open…by a picture, a memory, a thought…anything really. Sometimes my tears are gentle…quiet. Sometimes not so much. I watched a video of Jessica and couldn’t stop crying. I’m not sure I’ve ever felt this depth of grief before…grief isn’t a big enough word for how I feel. Anguish. I think that’s it…” a deep, intense state beyond simple sadness, involving helplessness, despair, and sometimes, agony, severe distress.” Those words come close to describing how I feel. When I think about Jessica being gone and not seeing her anymore, I want to scream and rip my hair out. I can’t cry hard enough to get the pain out. I want to wail and scream and break shit. It feels too big…too powerful…too consuming.

When my kids were babies, and when the grandkids were babies, I’d hold them when they were sleeping. There are few things as wonderful as holding a sleeping baby. I’d recline with them and they’d lay on my chest. We’d stay that way for however long they napped…both of us content…not needing anything. I treasure those memories. The day before Jessica died, I was with her in the hospital. She was agitated and restless. She couldn’t get comfortable. I stood by her bed talking to her and rubbing her back, but she just couldn’t be still. Then suddenly she sat up, tucked her hands next to her cheek and laid her head on my chest, and went to sleep…just like when she was a baby. It was a precious moment that I won’t ever forget. She didn’t rest long but I was grateful that for a few moments she was content…she was content with me. She needed her mom and I was there. She let me be there for her.

I was with my daughter when she died. She had been sleeping and was not opening her eyes anymore. So, I was surprised when she looked at me. We held each others gaze and I told her how much I loved her. Then her breathing changed dramatically and she died a couple minutes later. I think she opened her eyes to say goodbye…and opened her eyes so we could say “I love you.”

As I was trying to sleep that night, I found myself thinking “Mary would know how I feel.” Mary as in mother of Jesus Mary. Now if you’re surprised by that, I bet you aren’t as surprised as I was. I do not generally find myself thinking about Mary. The image that came to mind was the Pieta in St. Peter’s Basilica in Vatican City. Mary cradles the lifeless body of Jesus on her lap…I’m sure much like when he was a baby.

I was drawn to Mary because she was a mom and her baby died too. She knew what it felt like to see your child lifeless in front of you. She understood the urge to scream and yell and demand that they breathe again. The hope that what you see is not real. Because how can she be gone? And then the torture of leaving them because there is nothing more you can do…and you aren’t allowed in the morgue even if it’s just because you don’t want her to be alone.

Those were the worst moments of my life. I felt desperate to have my little girl back. Maybe in my hour of darkness, Mary came to stand beside me…to help me bear the unbearable. Maybe to be a witness because she understood…and I was desperate for someone who knew how I felt. And her words of wisdom? Perhaps that I wasn’t alone. And the anguish, the sadness, the despair…let it be.