The Vanishing Email

During the course of a conversation I had the other day with a dear friend and colleague, Kim, she made mention of something I found interesting. She told me that as she was searching her email at work for something specific, she came across the message she had received providing the information for Lauren's funeral. She went on to express how this made her take pause and contemplate the recency of the event.
Our school district's email system eventually erases messages, yet this one was still there. That is because it has only been 4 months. ¨If you feel like it was recent¨ I explained ¨I feel like it just happened yesterday.¨
It has been such a short time and yet life has returned to its normal pace for most. I look at pictures on Facebook of Lauren's friends taking trips to the beach. Or my friends engaged in political debates and posting pictures from summer vacations. All of this makes it abundantly clear that time moves on.
I don't hold any resentment toward everyone getting on with their lives, that is what is expected. I just wish it was as easy for me. I go through the motions, at times appearing at the top of my game. I have conducted meetings this summer with the greatest of ease. I come in, give em my spiel and move on. I sometimes feel like I'm running on auto pilot.
But I suppose this is a blessing, my comfort level with my current job. I probably couldn't handle changes and extra pressure right now. It's a challenge just showing up some days. My motivation to maintain the momentum of my life fluctuates wildly, between enthusiasm and dread.
To express the difficulty a control freak experiences when something out of control occurs, something life altering and devastating, I would need a lot more time than I have available. And even then I am not certain I could find the right words.
So I continue to wake each morning and convince myself to get out of bed. I follow my routines and strive to do what is expected of me. But here's the problem...I'm not sure what is expected. This is the first time my daughter died.

Some Days It's a Struggle

Today is not a very good Lauren day for me. I can't really explain why some days are worse than others, they just are. I suppose it could partly be due to the fact that I am a woman, and therefore wonderfully made up of many things including...hormones. Although I had a hysterectomy many years ago, something I had to remind my mom of when she recently suggested I have a baby, my ovaries are still intact. This means I still go through the delightful "cycle" each month, including the overly emotional time of PMS.
This is yet another item on the long list of things I miss about Lauren. Research has shown that two women, living under the same roof, often become synced up with their menstrual cycles. I honestly believe Lauren and I were in sync. Because it is impossible for me to tell exactly what is going on, I have no "period" anymore, I relied on Lauren's schedule to help me determine if I was indeed PMSing, or just out of control. I would call or text her and ask if she was about to "start". If she said yes, I would reply, "Well that explains it!" Whatever "it" was was irrelevant. My reaction to "it" was obviously in question.
Since her death, I tend to have days where it all just becomes too much. Certain times where the senselessness of it all overwhelms me. For all of my attempts at stoicism, I really just hurt inside most of the time. I just hide it better on some days than others.
Today is not a good day. I can't stop crying and I keep contacting friends to try and make a lunch date in order distract myself. Maybe if I can just do something else it would make me feel better. I can't focus on work. Thinking about school placements for special needs 3 year olds makes my head hurt. Not always, but today. I don't want to call parents and talk to them about their kids. I don't want to hear about everything their child can and can't do developmentally. I just don't.
Now don't panic...these days are very rare and I do love my job, most of the time. Maybe I am moving into the "anger" stage of my grief. Because I am angry. Not a "I'm gonna punch somebody in the face" kind of angry. It's more like a "What the hell? Really, this is my life now?" sort of angry. I'm not angry at anyone, yet angry at everyone. It is so hard to explain.
So I sit in my office and cry. Not non-stop, but about every 15 minutes or so. I look at Lauren's pictures on my wall, or the card she gave me that is pinned to my bulletin board, and I cry. This all just seems so stupid. Stupid and painful and pointless. I realize this rant is quite the contrast to my most recent post. All the more reason for me to assume I am riding the hormone express. So I guess I should spare you all from further rambling. I just really miss my daughter...really.

Why Not Me?

Often times when an unexpected tragedy strikes the first question most are compelled to ask is ¨Why me?¨ Sometimes with balled fists raised to the sky we even challenge God and demand an answer to this question. But I ask...¨Why not me?¨
I look back over my life and find no measure of nobility so great that I should be immune to loss. No altruism that would grant me a guarantee against pain and suffering. I have not done such grand deeds that I should receive an impenetrable shield against devastation and tragedy.
I by no means feel that I deserved to lose my precious daughter. I simply don't think that I am so special that I could avoid what was to be. I have not adopted a victim mentality because frankly, it would prove to be futile. What purpose would it serve to mope around and stammer "Whoa is me"?
I hate that this happened. It makes me angry because I miss my daughter, my friend. I desperately wish I could wake up in the morning to discover this has all been a terrible mistake. Instead I am living a reverse nightmare. Sleep offers respite. It is waking that brings the realization that Lauren is never coming home. Never calling or texting. Never laughing at my jokes....even the ones that are at her expense. Never pitching again or going to school.
See, this didn't happen to me. I must live in the wake produced by the vessel of tragic happenstance. But it did not target me, or Lauren. It just happened.
And it really sucks!
It is so strange to be a member of this club...the club of mother's who have lost their children. Although the club itself is somewhat elite, I feel no prestige from joining. I often walk around looking at people and wondering to myself...¨Is she in the club?¨...¨Or maybe her.¨
See, you can't tell from the outside. We wear no special shirt, or pin, or red hat. We are not distinguishable from anyone else. We look like everyone, and could be anyone. Unfortunately there are way too many of us out there.  Heartbroken warriors forced to continue on without our children.
I have decided to help with one organization where my fellow cub members are identified. I have signed up to start a team to ¨Walk like MADD¨ in Orange Park this fall. Then again in Tampa in March. We walk in order to raise funds for MADD. I received a letter from a victims representative a few weeks after Lauren died. It was only then that I confirmed that the driver who hit her car was indeed drunk.
So I am looking forward to meeting others in the ¨club¨. Ladies I have something in common with, even though it isn't the most positive attribute to share. I'm excited to contribute to MADD's cause as they do awesome work in the community. The only thing missing is Lauren, sure wish she was here to help.

Fingerprint of a Broken Heart

Each broken heart is infinitely unique. The amount of pain an individual suffers when broken hearted is impossible to quantify. No two people have the same broken heart. Each emotional blow to one's heart carries its own exclusive mark...a fingerprint of sorts.
As I watch the loved ones in my life struggle to move on without my daughter Lauren I am startled by the vast range of responses. Some are weepers and the mere mention of my baby girl's name causes them to sob. Others just avoid bringing her up altogether....they're the evaders. The equalizers provide a healthy balance between sentiment and a ¨business as usual¨ attitude.
I have completed a self evaluation and determined after much reflection that I am a separator. I compartmentalize my emotions only allowing them to exist within the time and space I have deemed appropriate. Crying is for private....in the car, in bed when I awake in the morning and as I write posts on this blog. Stories of Lauren saved for group consumption must be humorous and lively....just like they always were before she died. Highly candid conversations are saved for those I am closest to and those are far and few between.
I am not saying this is the best way to deal with the devastation of losing my only child but it is the pattern of coping I perpetually repeat day in and day out. I blog in order to get my thoughts and feelings ¨out¨ therefore having a place to leave them for a time. I can put them there and walk away for a bit. It is not that I ever stop thinking about Lauren and the fact that she is gone but this way I can actually focus on other aspects of my life.
Due to the singularity of each broken heart thus the road to mending is also individualistic. The path each of us must take to heal and reestablish normalcy in our everyday life is our own....alone. No one can dictate what this journey should look like. Of course empathy from those around you, especially those who have suffered similar pain and loss, is essential to aid in the process. Yet even these contributors to your emotional refurbishment cannot possibly understand all of the depth and dimensions of the gaping hole in your heart.
So for now I attempt to make the best of everyday and thank God for my strength through Him. I thank Him for my family and friends who continue to support me. My only option is to press on and do everything within my power to keep Lauren's memory alive and honor her life in every possible way. I truly appreciate all of you who assist me in this endeavor....I couldn't do it without you.