Guest post by Jess McCormack
I watch you on your tiptoes, arms outstretched, spinning in delicate little circles beside our Christmas tree. The twinkling lights are dancing on your special Christmas dress, red with a big bow at the back, your tights silver and sparkly, your dark curls bouncing as your giggles accompany the festive tunes playing on the radio. You crouch down to gently squeeze the presents under the tree. “This one’s mine,” you look up to tell me proudly, grinning with excitement, anticipation. There is such wonder in your bright eyes.
I reach down to scoop you up into my arms but you fade away, your image dissolves, and I am left staring at the Christmas tree, my arms empty. The familiar wave of heavy sadness consumes me. How can I miss so intensely someone who never got to be? I feel as if I know you, the two-and-three-quarters you. I know you as if you have been with me each and every day since your birth, growing and changing as all little girls are supposed to do. You are so real to me, forever a part of me. And yet every time I reach for you, you are gone, and I am left quaking in the memory of your loss, and the harsh reality of your absence.
I wish I had a river I could skate away on. I would teach my feet to fly to you Maeve, to where you are, to where I can hold you again. I wish I could share a Christmas with you in more ways than just an ornament on a tree, the bauble that nobody mentions, even though it’s impossible to miss. Maybe it’s easier to say nothing. This is supposed to be a joyful time of year after all, no one wants to be reminded of tragedy, no one wants to be sad. But it makes me feel like I am drowning in the sorrow of missing you, in the desperate loneliness of grief.
I wish I could take your hands and spin in little circles with you in the light of our Christmas tree.
I will do so in my mind.
It will never be enough, but I will love it as I do you, wholly, unashamedly, forever.
Thank you to Joni Mitchell, for the beautiful words to one of my favourite songs.
Jess McCormack became both a mother and a bereaved mother in April 2013,
That is beautiful beyond words! I feel so blessed to have had my daughter for 25 years (I lost her on 6/3/15) she was 28, but I adopted her when she was 5). Every feeling you shared is exactly how I am feeling too! The only thing that keeps me somewhat grounded is that I know we will eventually be re-united and what a joyous day that will be! Bless you for sharing your story with us!
I am so sorry that you lost your daughter. Me, too. I lost my Heather on Aug. 10, 2014. I feel more heartbroken ow, than ever before. I always say, I need to run far away. however; that would not work. She never leaves my heart and I never got to say goodbye.
My daughter passed away May 16, 2013 for stage four lung cancer. She was my only child and I raised her alone since I was 19 years old. She was my best friend. Every day is hard because I miss her so much. Christmas is especially hard because if all the families get together with their children. My faith gets me thru but my emptiness in my heart is filled with such sadness.
Oh Donna, You are so brave! I send you a big Heart-filled Hug! I’ll send a prayer for you. More Love and Hugs.
Alice Charland
My heart cries for you. The pain is so very intense.
I’ve been listening to this song all week this week – a song I have never listened to before. And to stumble on this post tonight felt so right. My oldest son would have been 12 last month. I’ve never stopped wishing for that river… thank you for a beautiful connection and a beautiful song. <3
Tears well up in my eyes just reading your beautiful posts and bleeds for all of you in describing losing your precious children. I too, lost my precious daughter in 1997, when she died suddenly in her sleep from undiagnosed Congenital Long QT Syndrome at the tender age of 22. Long QT Syndrome is an electrical conduction defect of the heart and can also be acquired from certain medications, and can cause sudden cardiac arrest. In our case it was genetic. My husband & I each have a gene for CLQTS, as do our two living adult children and now also our granddaughter. I describe life now as a new “normal” and whatever is happening–no matter how happy–is never quite the same as before losing Emilie. A piece of our hearts will be missing forever. We have to believe we will meet again someday. That’s why I love the song by Faith Hill, “There Will Come A Day” on You Tube. God Bless & Comfort You All! Hugs!