To the Boy Who Has My Daughter’s Heart

To the Boy Who Has My Daughter’s Heart

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The day after my four-year-old daughter died in 2009, we received a call asking if we would be willing to donate her heart valves and corneas. Being believers in the benefits of organ donation for years, we agreed. I was told that day that while the corneas would only be viable for a short amount of time, the heart valves would be frozen and kept for two years. During the call, I asked to be notified if and when any were used.

We hoped her donation would help give another child a second chance at life.

Over the next few years, we received occasional grief support letters and cards from the transplant organization. But we never received any word that Margareta’s heart valves had been transplanted into someone else.

As the end of the two year time frame neared, I decided to email the organization. I wanted confirmation that there was no longer any chance her heart valves would be used. That way I could stop wondering about it. This was a week or so before Thanksgiving in 2011.

The day before Thanksgiving, I received a call from Maggie, who was in charge of donor relations. She apologized, saying that it was not noted in our file that we had requested notification of transplants.

What she said next took my breath away.

One of Margareta’s heart valves had been sent to New Mexico, but had not been a perfect fit and sent back. After that, one of her valves had been sent to California (the state we live in) and had been transplanted into a six-month-old baby boy. We have no other details, and were told that it is entirely up to the recipient’s family to initiate any contact between them and our family. I immediately started crying.

I don’t know who this boy is or if we’ll ever meet him. All I know is that a piece of Margareta’s heart has helped give him a chance to live the full life that she didn’t get. I’m quite certain that this boy and his family are thankful every day for this gift of a second chance at life.

I’d like to tell him a little bit about the girl who literally gave a piece of her heart to him.

Hello,

We don’t know each other, but our lives are now forever intertwined. When you were six months old, you received one of our daughter’s heart valves. I can only imagine it gave you a renewed chance at a long life. The heart valve belonged to our daughter, Margareta, who died shortly after her fourth birthday. While we miss her terribly and always will, we are able to find some solace that she was able to grant you the gift of a healthier, longer life. There are a few things you should know about Margareta, and my hope is that they will inspire you in some way.

In her four short years, Margareta lived life to the fullest. While she loved dressing up and embracing her inner princess and diva, she wasn’t afraid to play rough, get dirty and scrape her knees if it meant having a good time. She was game for just about any adventure and wasn’t afraid to try new things. While she never had the chance to grow up and follow her dreams, I hope you will always follow yours. I want you to know that whatever life throws your way, you will always have all the strength and courage you need to follow your heart and reach for your dreams. Even if you get a few scraped knees on the way.

Margareta also danced to her own beat. She wasn’t one to conform to what she was “supposed to be” based on society’s rules. Her creativity and talents led her to explore life from new perspectives and we encouraged her to do so. She was quiet and observant when she wanted to learn, and she was loud and outspoken when she wanted to lead. She seemed to understand life is a continual balance of opposing forces. There was a wisdom in her of someone who had learned the lessons of a lifetime. I hope that you keep your heart and mind open to all of life’s possibilities and ideas. The love of learning and ability to look at problems from a new perspective can only improve your experience.

There are many more things I could tell you about Margareta, and I’ll always be happy to tell more stories or answer any questions you may have. I would love to think that in some way she helps inspire you to fully embrace this gift and the life you have and to live without regret. My hope for you is that you live a life filled with gratitude, compassion, kindness, and happiness. I wish you the wisdom to recognize that relationships with those you love matter more than anything else. And that you always take advantage of the opportunities to let those you love know how much you care.

I encourage you to always listen to your heart, and know that a vibrant, beautiful soul once shared a part of it.

Wishing you a long, healthy life,
Maria (Margareta’s mother)

Gifts From My Daughter on Her Birthday

Gifts From My Daughter on Her Birthday

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Today is my daughter’s birthday.

If she were still alive, Margareta would have been 10-years-old. This is the sixth bittersweet celebration of a life that was over after four short years. Four years of blissful ignorance of the impending tragedy that took her life. Our hearts will ache because she is not physically here with us to blow out the candles on her cake. But today, we choose to remember all the love she brought into our lives during those four short years. We will celebrate her continued daily presence in our hearts and minds.

I can no longer buy presents for my daughter on her birthday. Instead, I’d like to share with you a few of the gifts she has given me. Not hand-written cards or tokens of her love during those four years, but gifts of wisdom she has brought into my life.

The gift of acceptance.

Most of my life, I struggled to try to change things that were not mine to change. I tried changing others. Their behaviors, their thoughts, and their reactions. Only to be disappointed every time. I tried changing the past by rewriting it in my head. I tried changing a future that hadn’t occurred yet.

Basically, if it didn’t bring me a sense of security…I tried changing it.

Margareta’s death helped me truly understand that most of what happens to us in this life is not ours to control. Only when we accept what we cannot change (and what is not our part of our responsibility anyway) can we find happiness and contentment.

The gift of appreciation.

I used to think I was an appreciative person. But then I lost one of the most important people in my life and realized just how unappreciative I had been. I understand now that embracing the little things we usually take for granted makes all the difference in the world.

Savoring that kind word or hug a little longer. Noticing a smile on a stranger’s face. Knowing that every day could be our last makes it that much more meaningful and important. I now better appreciate what I have versus always wanting something else; something more. This level of appreciation brings with it a sense of inner peace I always craved but never knew how to achieve.

The gift of courage.

For the longest time, I never felt strong. I didn’t feel strong enough to stand up for myself or leave toxic situations and relationships. I felt I was a victim and learned to play that role really well.

But when the worst actually happens to you – and you survive it – you discover a source of strength within you that you never knew existed.

In my journey of grief, I have begun to discover my courage. Courage to believe my needs matter just as much as anyone else’s. Courage to try to always speak my mind even if I fear the reaction it may cause. Most of all, the courage to learn accept myself for who I am instead of trying to become the person I thought others wanted me to be. I’ll never be perfect. I’ll always be a work in progress. But my daughter’s life – and death – has taught me that life is too short to try to be anything other than who you are at this moment. It has given me the freedom and courage to do what it takes to follow my dreams.

While my dream of watching my beautiful daughter grow will never come true, I will continue to create new dreams that are inspired by all the gifts she has given me.

Happy birthday, sweet girl. Words cannot convey how much we miss you.

Anticipation of a Difficult Day is Always Worse than the Day Itself

Anticipation of a Difficult Day is Always Worse than the Day Itself

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Starting this week, there is a rapid succession of difficult days ahead. That is…I anticipate they’ll be difficult.

This week my youngest son will start Kindergarten. It’s something his older sister dreamed of doing, but didn’t live long enough to do. Next week we will celebrate another of her birthdays without her. She would have been 10. Four weeks after that marks the anniversary of her death at the tender age of four. In the days that follow, I’ll be expected to celebrate my birthday, which fell on the day before her memorial service the year she died.

All of these days carry with them the anticipation of being a grief trigger.  Anticipation can work one of two ways. It can imagine the best-case scenario, or it can imagine the worst.

So when we anticipate a difficult grief trigger, it brings up all the worst-case scenarios our imaginative minds can conjure up.

The first year after losing someone is the hardest. It was for me. It’s hard because your mind has no point of reference to compare to. The first holidays, birthdays, and anniversary of their death (angel-versary, devastation day…whatever you prefer to call it). They’re all anticipated as so painful, you can’t imagine how you’ll survive them.

So let’s get this straight: your anticipation of a grief trigger causes your mind to imagine a worst-case scenario. And since it doesn’t have a reference point to compare to, it compares it to the actual event that is causing the trigger. Your mind tells you the trigger will likely bring you right back to the pain you experienced on the day you lost your loved one. So you find yourself in an anticipatory panic even though you’ve already survived the worst pain imaginable.

In reality, our minds are our own worst enemies. So what do we do about it?

That first year, I felt like cancelling all holidays in an attempt to avoid the pain I knew they’d bring. We couldn’t because we had other young children who expected and deserved the celebrations. So we attempted to change tradition just enough to make them feel different.

For example, for that first Thanksgiving we accepted my brother’s dinner invitation, but requested a few simple things. First, we asked to keep the invite list as small as possible (his family and ours). Second, I requested to sit at the end of the table so that if I felt like I was about to burst into tears, I could easily excuse myself and quickly slip out of the room to be alone. Third, we requested to skip the “what are we thankful for” question tradition. Just thinking of that question that first year made my blood boil with anger.

For the first Christmas after her death, we opted for an artificial tree. It still looked like a normal Christmas for our young kids, but in my mind it was different. While we didn’t buy presents for Margareta to place under the tree, we did buy a wind chime to place in her stocking and then hung it at the cemetery later in the day. We kept to ourselves that year; just a small normal dinner at home. The day was filled with difficult emotions and we thought it best to keep to ourselves and focus all our attention and energy on our kids.

We had more options on Margareta’s birthday and the first anniversary of her death. I scheduled vacation days from work on both those days because I couldn’t imagine being able to function in any meaningful way. For months in advance, I agonized over what to actually do on those days.

I didn’t know what to do to make the horrible pain I imagined any easier. Every time I thought of it, I felt overwhelmed.

How do you “celebrate” a birthday of someone who isn’t there to celebrate it?  You can’t ignore it. After all, you want to acknowledge the birthday of one of the most important people in your life. Do you buy presents and then donate them? Do you make a cake?

And then one sleepless night a few weeks before her birthday, it came to me. Margareta loved ladybugs. I would buy live ladybugs and we would release them at her grave on her birthday. So we did. Seeing the chaos of hundreds of ladybugs escaping the confines of the container they had been held in and exploring their new home injected some needed lightness and smiles into a heavy day that was full of sadness. Releasing ladybugs has become a yearly tradition on Margareta’s birthday. One that will continue for the rest of my life…and perhaps her brothers’ lives too.

As for the anniversary of her death – a vivid reminder of the worst day of my life – I planned to do nothing. And nothing was what pretty much what I did that day. It was an uneventful day. And, of course, wasn’t nearly as painful as I anticipated.

Since that first year, my anticipation of the pain that will be triggered on these difficult days has softened.

Each year I have a larger cache of reference points my mind can compare them to. And each year, the level of pain I anticipate lessens. That is not to say I don’t still feel pain and sadness on these days. But I know that pain pales in comparison to what I felt at her death and in that first year after. And I know that I have survived the worst pain I ever could have imagined. So pretty much anything else is manageable in comparison, right?

I will continue to make taking care of myself a priority on these trigger days that lay ahead of me.

With years of reference points to draw from, I’m better able to steer my mind away from imagining the worst-case scenario, and instead try to visualize the best-case scenario.

For example, I know I’ll feel sorrow on the first day of Kindergarten because my beautiful daughter never got to experience its excitement and joy. But in the meantime, I’m imagining those same feelings for my son, and anticipate being able to share in his happiness.

As for the upcoming anniversary of her death, I still plan to take that day off. These last few years we have consciously decided to do something that we think Margareta would have enjoyed. We do this in an attempt to shift the focus from the pain of her death to the joy she brought us while she was here. I also anticipate knowing that whatever feelings come my way that day, I’ll deal with them the best I can.

Regardless of how new your loss is…just keep reminding yourself that anticipation of a difficult day is always worse than the day itself.

The Big Lie of Happily Ever After

The Big Lie of Happily Ever After

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We first hear it as little kids in our bedtime stories. When we’re older, we see it repeated again and again in countless movies. We’re even told we can buy it in endless advertisements. But it isn’t real. It’s all a big, perverse lie that can do real damage in real lives.

What is it, you ask? It’s the human fantasy of “happily ever after.”

The idea is so alluring we quickly get sucked into its web of deceit and empty promises. Little girls are particularly vulnerable to its grasp. They meticulously plan for Prince Charming’s arrival — as we have been promised in Disney movies.

We know the perfect job is just around the corner. The one where we’re paid handsomely for doing what we love for people we respect — and who respect us. We look for our soulmate knowing they’re out there waiting for us. Our happy little family living in our dream house is on the horizon. No fights or arguments. Everything is effortless. Just pure bliss and ease.

We sit and wait. We wait a lot longer than we expected to. But we don’t give up hope. Day after day; year after year. We are secretly convinced that happily ever after is a real place that we can get to. And will get to. It motivates us and picks us up when we’re down. It gives us a reason to keep moving forward through the murkiness of life.

Until one day the fantasy blows up in our faces and reveals the devastating truth. There is no happily ever after.

For many of us, this ugly truth is revealed when we lose someone who meant more to us than life itself. Someone you cannot imagine living without — and who is never coming back. In my case, that dark day of realization came crashing down on me the day my 4-year-old daughter, Margareta, died.

It came without warning. It was accompanied by a scream of sirens and frantic attempts to save her. We tried to beat it back to the depths it came from, but it came nonetheless. And in a matter of hours – after more than three decades of waiting for it – the certainty of happily ever after disintegrated before my eyes.

It was like that scene in the Wizard of Oz. The curtain had been pulled back to reveal that the great and powerful “happily ever after” is just a construct of ordinary people who live lives that often feel difficult and painful. And they dream of turning fantasy into reality.

Our realization that happily ever after is never going to happen leads to anger.

The grief of losing someone – and losing all our hopes and dreams that came with them – is compounded by the anger we begin to feel from being lied to our whole lives. And lied to we certainly were. Not just by others; we lied to ourselves too.

For some, this anger can all but consume us. We rail against the unfairness of it all. Not only are we feeling the impossible pain of losing someone we can’t imagine living without, we are enraged at the realization of all the time we wasted on that stupid fantasy. Angry that we could have been focused on what mattered most: time spent with our loved ones.

We think of all those extra hours we wasted at the office trying to get that promotion or raise. When we could have been spending time with our family. That is time we will never get back. We think of all those moments where we felt stuck waiting for a better life.

All the while, we could have been happy appreciating what we already had…before we lost it all.

Eventually, the anger will subside. It may take more time than you’d like. Months or years; not days or weeks. It may feel like you’ll never get there. But you will. You will eventually give yourself permission to shift your focus away from the anger of being lied to toward all the love that still resides in your heart and in your mind.

After suffering a loss of this kind, we tend to see the world in a new light. Things we used to think were once so important no longer seem worth our time and energy. The drama and frivolity that used to occupy so much of our life is now seen as a useless waste of time.

Others who didn’t suffer this type of loss may not understand our new perspective. They may resent us for it and tell us to move on with our lives. They may distance themselves from us. But their issues are out of our hands; we simply no longer have the energy to spare on it.

Without happily ever after to focus on, we can finally see what really matters to us.

We can simplify our life and readjust our goals. We can focus our energy on what matters most. Right now that is probably limited to one basic thing: surviving. But eventually, it will lead to a life worth living once again. And that is no lie.

Lost in the Forest of Grief

Lost in the Forest of Grief

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There is a common expression, “You can’t see the forest for the trees.”

It means you can get so caught up in focusing on what is right in front of your face, you lose sight of the bigger picture or perspective. It is very easy to do.

Every day we must react to the multitude of things that are thrown our way. Things from our job or many other responsibilities. If you’re anything like me, your mind is almost constantly churning. I often feel overwhelmed by all the different things that seemingly need my attention every minute of the day.

It’s easy to get stuck living moment to moment, seeing only the “trees” that represent the immediate activities and emotions of your life. It’s often hard to view the entire forest that represents your overall life.

We can lose sight of the path we have taken so far, and the direction we want to head in the future. And we can unexpectedly be thrust into a life we didn’t plan for…or want.

My 4-year-old daughter, Margareta, died suddenly in 2009. And I found myself transplanted into a thick grove of new, unfamiliar “trees” in the forest that is my life.

These trees were big and scary. They grew so thick and tight, they blocked out any trace of the light from the sky. While I had some sense of direction in the previous area of the forest I inhabited, this grove of trees filled me with an indescribable pain and left me groping in the dark. I desperately tried to find a way out and back to the area I was before. But I could find none. I was lost in the forest, overwhelmed with grief.

Each humongous tree that surrounded me represented a painful feeling or emotion that I was forced to grapple with.

These trees signified feelings of guilt, helplessness, hopelessness, isolation, disbelief, despair, torment. And too many more to list. Every time I tried to force my way out of this grove of trees, I was just left bruised and battered and stuck. It exhausted me to the point where I would just fall down and sleep for long periods of time.

After remaining in this grove for quite a while, my eyes adjusted to the darkness. Now, when I looked, I could make out the trees in the distance that once surrounded me. But they were out of reach. There was no path I could find to go back. It was all irrevocably blocked by the horrible reality of Margareta’s death.

I resentfully resigned myself to the understanding that I was stuck in this grove of darkness and despair. I tearfully understood that the life I once led would never come back. Once you feel this level of pain, it is like innocence lost forever to the harsh realities of life.

Then a strange, unexpected thing happened.

Instead of fighting to escape these trees of grief by squeezing my way out, I forced myself to accept them.

I embraced them as a representation of how much love I still have for my daughter. In doing this, I discovered I could climb these trees; grasping each limb on their thick trunks. I worked to express my feelings about those trees in counseling, support groups, and writing about it. Each time I did, I could climb a bit higher to where the branches thinned out and let light and fresh air in.

Over the course of several long years, I climbed all the way to the top of that grove of trees. And from that vantage point, I could see that all hope was not lost.

I could see the forest of my life. The path I had taken to get here and different ways I could move forward and out of this thick grove of grief trees. But it would take work and dedication. It would take a new perspective on the meaning and purpose of my life. And a willingness to accept that it will never be the path I intended to take.

I slowly climbed down the outer branches of that grove, trusting that they would not break and let me fall. I climbed down with a new understanding. While all of these trees in my forest of life appear to be separate from above the ground, their roots are forever intertwined below it. These intertwining roots of good and bad, love and pain, happiness and despair strengthen my forest and keep it alive and thriving. We cannot truly understand and appreciate each of these feelings without having experienced their opposite.

So as I continue to make my way through my forest of life, I find that I experience things on a deeper level than before.

I choose to focus my attention on the trees that bring the most meaning to my life. These trees usually represent relationships, passions, and feelings of purpose.

I no longer am certain of the path my life will take, but I know that no matter what happens there will always be a way forward. And if I get lost among unfamiliar trees, I will once again embrace and climb them to remind myself of where I came from, where I am now, and where I can go from here.

And you can too.