The Climb

Why?
How?
Why our beautiful daughter?
And again…how? How is it possible that she’s gone?

4 months

I remember each and every detail of that day…right up until a specific point and then I remember very little – just snippets of the horror. A combination of shock, disbelief and the meds the doctor literally rammed down my throat.

I don’t recall much about the days following either. I remember people coming and going. I know that family and friends arrived from all over the world but I have no recollection as to when or in what order. I don’t even remember my Dad, stepmom and brothers arriving. Tess was here too but how she found out or when she arrived is a mystery to me. I held on to their presence like a drowning person to a life raft.

After a few weeks everyone left and for a while I withdrew - into a bewildering and debilitating existence. I do remember that intense pain. The longing to be gone from this world. The constant questioning…where is she? Where is my baby girl?

I remember trying so hard to be there for Jem. For weeks she slept with me while our house was full of people I love. I held her tight every night, not wanting to let her go. Never wanting to let her go. But not wanting to be in this world either. And eventually realising that I just couldn't let her go, that I couldn't leave, because as much as I believed she needed only her Dad, I knew she needed me too.

I remember the constant stream of people. The team from church arriving to hold us, and pray for us. Some people sat and spoke, some people sat and didn’t speak at all. Neither of those was wrong. They were there for us. They were shocked and overwhelmed and grieving for Ella too. Her friends, her teachers. Jemma’s friends and teachers. New friends, old friends, strangers who had heard.

And gifts…groceries, ready-cooked meals, flowers, letters, cards, poems, gifts for all of us and for our littlest girl too. Because what else do you do when a child goes? What do you say to the grieving family, the parents especially?

I live on the surface of my existence – wading through a thick layer of fog, too scared to go deeper into the forest in case I can’t find my way out. I can see photos of Ella but I can’t really look at them. I can’t watch videos of her or go through her clothes. I can’t allow myself to try to hear her voice, or the softness of her long hair, or the tightness of her hugs – those things are all there, because I don’t want to lose them, but I can’t really delve into them. My mind goes so far and then no further. And I sure as hell can’t go anywhere near that frikkin' horse – although I know that one day I will have to.

I do allow myself to feel the intense waves of emotion, I allow the pain in because it’s become a part of my life. It’s there and it has to be felt. Somewhere, sometime, someday the healing has to begin – it has begun – but I believe that the pain has to be there too. It’s not about not allowing myself to feel the pain or the badness so that it doesn’t attract more pain or badness, it’s about losing my child. The longing, the missing, the disbelief. The reality.

I can’t drink alcohol, not that I ever really drank much but I haven't touched it since that day. I try extremely hard to stay in a good space as much as possible. I’ll sit in my car and cry, or spend the day in bed, because I know that the wave will calm eventually, but I’m scared that if I have a drink…and then another…and another that I will end up with a hangover so bad it will push me to a place I can’t leave. This surface living terrifies me. It’s like I’m still waiting to wake up from the worst nightmare ever. But what if I wake up and it is real? The pain will be worse than anything I’ve felt before…ever. I don’t think it can get worse than it already has, but what if it does?

4 months feels like 400 years, but then people say. “It’s only been 4 months” and that’s so true. A short moment in time. I can see the changes. Nothing…nothing is the same. My personality has changed, my body has changed. My outlook on life has changed. My relationships, even that with my little Jem, are different. My pain has changed. Not every moment of every day is unbearable…because who can live like that? And the reality is that we have to keep on living. I get out of bed. I’ve smiled, I’ve laughed, I’ve joked around. I lose myself in my work, or a book, or a movie whenever I can. And I try to put it all aside for a bit while I play with Jemma, because she’s just 7 and all she wants to do is have fun – play tag, play hide and seek, and act silly.

People have remembered what today is for me. I’ve received messages and love and even a surprise visit this evening – a friend who arrived just at the right time. Another friend sent a message that read as follows;

“Thinking of you so much. You are climbing up mount Everest. Climb it slowly, you have your whole life to climb it. Rather take one steady foot in one day than to rush going and then sliding back down. This is your mountain that you have to climb. This is not a mountain that you return back down instead it is a mountain you will climb for the rest of your life. Try notice the growth and the beauty of life that are gowing between the dry rough surfaced rocks. You need that to hold on to. Turn around look back when you need to. You have foot prints behind you. You are not alone. Take a breath and tell her that you love her and miss her. She will hear you. This is your journey up your mountain. How you climb it is up to you. We can carry you a little, when you get tired just call out and you will get the help you need. Today may need a little bit of carrying or just resting. Thinking of you”  

While reading this, with tears pouring down my cheeks, I was reminded of one of the school plays the girls and I went to see, and a song called ‘The Climb’. I remember downloading it and listening to it with Ella. It’s so true for us, as we climb this great big mountain, but right now all I want to do is reach out and touch her and bring her home :-(

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NG2zyeVRcbs