Fun with Coloring

Fun with Coloring

Even from a young age, Margareta could keep herself occupied for long periods of time. Whether playing with toys or using her imagination, she would often just sit intently and concentrate on whatever it was she was doing. I appreciated this time, as it allowed me to get things done, whether it be working from home for my job or doing chores. I remember one particular time when she was 1-1/2 years old that had a funny result.

Margareta was sitting in the living room/dining room combo and occupying herself with a toy, sitting on a chest that had the kids’ art supplies in it. I was busy doing chores nearby. The chest is on the other side of a half wall separating the kitchen and dining room, so I couldn’t see exactly what she was doing, but was close enough to keep an eye and ear on her. After a little while of silence, I checked in on her and found the following:

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What impressed me the most was how detailed she had been…even getting the bottom of her feet:

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Miss you sweet girl!

Submitted by Maria Kubitz in loving memory of her daughter, Margareta Kubitz.

How Are You? A Silent Signpost for the Bereaved

How Are You? A Silent Signpost for the Bereaved

“How are you?”

The question is seemingly so simple and benign. So often it is just a polite, meaningless pleasantry. Just as often, those who answer the question would never think to respond with anything other than the implicitly expected “I’m fine” or “Good. How are you?” Even if everything wasn’t fine.

Unfortunately, for people struggling with overwhelming grief, the simple phrase, “How are you?” reinforces a deep isolation from the rest of society.

For someone who has recently lost a loved one, it is a silent signpost marking the moment they must take two simultaneous paths. The path visible to the outside world puts on a show that everything is “okay.” The veiled, lonely path is created when society quickly tires of their ongoing pain.

I spoke with a mother who had lost her son a short time before. She talked about the incredible support she received from her family, religion, and friends. It helped her handle her overwhelming grief. But more recently, she sensed their supportive tone was beginning to change when they asked, “How are you?” She said the question was being asked in a way that implied they were ready for her response to return to the standard, “I’m fine.” They were ready for her to move on with her life.

It reminded me of my return to work a month after the death of my daughter. While some people welcome the return to work in an effort to distract themselves from the pain, I returned only because I needed the income. The first day back I made a beeline to my desk, desperately avoiding eye contact with everyone.

I dreaded the inevitable question, “How are you?”

And yet, it came. Many people did their best to avoid me just as I avoided them. But some stopped by my desk to offer their condolences and ask how I was. If I was being honest with them, my response may have sounded something like this:

How am I? I’m completely devastated. The skin around my eyes is raw and hurts from crying so much. Yes – even a month after her death. And there’s no sign of it stopping any time soon.

I’m completely exhausted – physically and emotionally. It took all my energy just to get out of bed this morning. It seemed almost impossible to get in the shower, dress, and drive to work. On the drive it was hard to see through my tears. Several times I felt like steering my car off the road and into a telephone pole, but thankfully I didn’t.

In addition to a constant feeling of pain and nausea in my stomach, I’m angry when I look around and see that everything is “business as usual” around here. I can’t understand how the world continues to march on without my daughter in it. The sound of laughter makes me want to scream. How could anyone be happy right now?

I don’t care at all about my job or what needs to be done. But seeing as how I need the money, I’m just going to put my head down and immerse myself in work. Hopefully it will mean that for a few hours today I’ll be distracted from the overwhelming pain I feel. Yet every time someone comes up to ask me how I am, I’ll be dragged back to into reality and the nightmare I find myself in.

So, while I appreciate that you care, I’d rather you not ask. Maybe you could just tell me you’re sorry, or even give me a silent hug…and then walk away. I simply don’t have the energy right now to pretend that I’m fine.

But, of course, I wasn’t honest. My answer depended on how the question was worded.

If they asked, “How are you?” I replied, “Fine.” If they asked, “How are you doing?” I answered “I’m doing.” Both were spoken in a flat tone of voice that implied I was not fine. It was intended to discourage them from continuing the conversation. This may sound mean, but it took a lot of energy to keep myself from bursting into tears and telling them how I really was.

Because if I really was “fine,” what would that say about how I felt about my daughter? In my mind, “fine” implied that somehow it was okay that my daughter died. It made me feel guilty and angry at the same time.

Over time, answering that question got easier and felt less of a betrayal to my daughter.

Eventually, I could answer “I’m fine” or even “I’m good” and truly mean it. But it took time and a lot of work. It took going to support groups where I could give an honest answer of how I was doing and no one would try to stop me. Everyone there would understand and encourage me to let it out.

Over the years, I learned how to acknowledge and express my grief when I need to. Because when you keep it inside, it simmers and grows. I’ve learned to accept that I have both good and bad days. Over time, the good began to outnumber the bad. I’ve learned to not let the guilt and pain associated with the bad days keep me from enjoying and appreciating my life.

How am I doing now? Even though I still miss my daughter terribly, I’m good.

Real Sleeping v. Fake Sleeping

Real Sleeping v. Fake Sleeping

MadSickIn 2010, I had crazy mornings. Getting four kids out of the house by 7:20. But we did it. I’d wake everyone up for a quick bowl of cereal in front of “Full House.” Maddie always asked for “Ciminin toast crunch, no milk” At two and half she had figured that if she skipped the milk part of the cereal, she would be the first to eat. Smart little bugger!

Anyway, once in the car we would drop Anthony and Shannon off at their school. Wait in the car until they were crossed by the crossing guard and then make the u-turn to get the 4 year old Julia off to preschool. Julia had quite the case of separation anxiety and every morning at about this point she would begin crying. Madison and I would do our best to comfort her as I inevitably had to carry her into the school building. All parents know the routine, no lingering, give the child to her teacher and walk away quickly, but Julia would always ask if Madison could stay…”Next year Julia.” Madison would inform her big sister as we were flying out the door.

Maddie was last to be dropped off at the babysitters. Alone in car she would ask me to put on Cornfllake girl (Fornflake girl) by tori amos. And then she would sign along real loud until 2 blocks before the sitters house. At this point she would got completely quiet and put her head on her shoulder. I would turn down the music and get out of the car real quietly and open the back down. While unstrapping her car seat I would ask “are you real sleeping or fake sleeping?” Madison would answer quietly “I’m real sleeping.” I would carry her in my arms like a new born into the house were I would inform the sitter, “Shh, Madison is real sleeping,” as I placed her on the couch. I would whisper my goodbyes as we all played along with game, and finally head off to work.

Submitted by Jill Ritts in loving memory of her daughter, Madison Ritts.

Quiet as a Mouse

Quiet as a Mouse

Margareta’s baby brother, Paxton – who isn’t much of a baby anymore – just started preschool this month. He is about the same age as Margareta was when she started, and he goes to the same preschool she went to. While there are many, many similarities between Margareta and the brother she never met, there are some very distinct differences. Paxton is a very outgoing kid. He often says “Hi” to strangers he sees in the store or on the street. He often introduces himself to other kids on the playground in an effort to play with them. He rarely acts shy. Margareta, on the other hand, was very choosy who she let see her talkative, vibrant side.

While she was loud and boisterous with her family and close friends, strangers would have to earn her trust before they were allowed to see that side of her. Often, she would meet new kids at her brothers’ baseball or soccer games and shadow them quietly, waiting for the right time to inject herself into their play. She would charm adults with her sparkling eyes and coy smiles, but rarely open her mouth around them. And yet, if she were interested in something they had (snacks, shade on a hot day…), she would inevitably, silently get it from them like a snake charmer.

This shy, quiet side of her seemed to be amplified when she first started preschool at the age of three. The first day I dropped her off, she was fine. No tears. She was happy to be there. But on the second day, she saw another girl crying when her dad dropped her off and it occurred to Margareta that she was supposed to do that too. It then took a few weeks – and bribes of chocolate – to get her to stop crying when being dropped off.

About a month after she started, we received an invitation to a classmate’s birthday party. I thought it was a good opportunity to meet some of her classmates and their parents, so Margareta, a couple of her brothers and I went. It was at a local park. We were one of the first guests to arrive and decided to play a game together as we waited for the party to officially start. Margareta was being her normal self – the normal side we were used to. Then I overheard the birthday boy remark to his mom about Margareta, “She can talk?”

I laughed out loud hearing that. And so did her brothers. Boy…if they only knew.

Even though Margareta LOVED preschool and talked about all the wonderful things there, apparently she was still her shy, quiet as a mouse side while she was there. Even a month or so after that when I was dropping her off, I stood by her side while she told her favorite teacher about what she did during spring break, only to hear another girl remark, “That’s what her voice sounds like?”

I do know that Margareta made friends at preschool. She loved Bianca, and talked about her often. I’m not sure why it took her so long to open up to kids at school. Perhaps it was that most of the kids in her class were slightly older than her. I’ll never know. I just know that I miss my loud, talkative, often outrageous girl who could sometimes appear quiet as a mouse to others.

Submitted by Maria Kubitz in loving memory of her daughter, Margareta Kubitz.

Ellie’s Last Sticky Note

Ellie’s Last Sticky Note

Six-year-old Ellie was always watching people. One day, she noticed that I was leaving encouraging sticky notes around the house for Mommy. She informed me “Daddy, where is my note?” She was irresistible! I began to write her notes and leave them where she would find them. I always wrote her one because it made her so happy (even if Mommy didn’t get one sometimes).

Ellie learned and wanted to give back. She began to write notes and cards to everyone. She took it to a whole new level! Her nice words are on all the neighbors’ refrigerators and were delivered to her swim team coaches. She always had time to write a nice note.

One day last year, I came home for lunch. Just before I left, I was walking out of the garage to my car and I saw Ellie run across the driveway as fast as she could. She darted around the back of the house. I walked up to the car and saw her last sticky note to me. It touched my heart and I put it over the tachometer, and that is where it was for the last few days I had with her.

Ellie was killed in a tragic accident. What a wonderful memory for me. I love you too, princess, you are the best daughter ever!

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Submitted by Todd Nigro in loving memory of his daughter, Ellie Ruth Nigro. This was originally published on www.ElliesWay.org/blog.