Serpents and Anniversaries

Here is the beginning of a poem that is forming in my mind.

I see a serpent forming in the sky.

Clouds converge, stretch, curl.

Bulging jawline and resolute snout

slide more sharply into view.

As do you.

Anything can bring me back to you.

A serpent, even!

It carries me away to hundreds of days and nights

Harry Potter’s adventures unfolding before us

JK’s mind to mine,

My voice to your ears,

(your voice, my ears in later years)

Visions alive in our minds

To our fright and delight.

Together we were - in tears, laughter, love.

If next to me now

In some way that lets me hold your hand,

Tilting our chins to the sky

In unison

I am sure you would see it too.

I share this as I think back on anniversaries because it reminds me that, in some ways, every day has become an anniversary of life with my daughter.

But the First Year…

I remember the line-up of anniversaries and holidays in the first year after my daughter died: July 23, 2006, to July 22, 2007.

First up were BIRTHDAYS, her grandma’s less than two weeks later. This was not possible to acknowledge; I must’ve still been in shock because I don’t remember it. Then there was mine. I turned 34 on September 16, and it mattered less to me than any others before it. I did not want birthday wishes. What could anyone possibly wish for me that day? To turn back time? Like any other day that year, I woke up waiting for nightfall, to count the day successfully passed, and dreading the nightmares that would return when forced to close my eyes again. Day in. Day out. Secretly hoping it was my last.

HALLOWEEN. I could not, would not participate. I could not, would not…eat my green eggs and ham? Ugh. This reminds me of eight Halloweens prior: her Cat in the Hat hat wobbling on her tiny hejkad, her eyes beaming over eyeliner-drawn whiskers. All the other years of dress-up and joy flash across my mind. I think I took a no-holiday vow around this time, staring down the gauntlet of months when I would normally be overdoing my Christmas shopping for her. I couldn’t help myself in all her 11 years, whether I had money or not; I had so loved to hear her squeal in surprise, delight, gratitude. Looking toward the silence ahead of me was almost more unbearable than the echo of my own screams from that day on the river.

THANKSGIVING. We never did celebrate Thanksgiving together. It’s a fucked-up holiday, anyway. That day sucked for me like any other day that year.

I followed Jewish loved ones to Vegas for CHRISTMAS. I spent most of the time alone in a casino bar, drinking coffee then cocktails. I stared at nothing. I felt myself drowning in nothingness. I let tears stream down my cheeks whenever they bubbled up. I caught myself not breathing from time to time. I remember I managed a smile for Moshe when he turned a single quarter into $10,000. Other people’s luck felt cruel.

VALENTINE’S DAY. I remember all her classroom cards, mostly sweetness and a touch of heartache when forgotten by someone. I tried not to think about the partner I also lost when I lost my daughter. Another casualty from her hurricane-force death…but that’s another story for another time.

BIRTHDAYS sprinkled throughout the year; I do not believe I shared any happy wishes. It takes time to reframe what “happy” means. I hope my living loved ones understood; void of any meaning to give it shape, that word wasn’t a sound I could make.

Then there was hers: April 25, the anniversary of her birth since 1995, the most enigmatic of anniversaries. Starting July 23, 2006, every day leading up to it was a day leading up to it. Only the Christmas silence could hide the lingering thought for a while. Otherwise, it was present, always, in the periphery of my mind. Driving down the road on the way to anywhere, each block was another block closer to her birthday. Buying groceries…will I make a cake? Every day, every action taken and passed lost its 3rd dimension, flattened and stacked up like a deck of cards, which I fully expected to be flung back in my face like a game of 52-card pick-up. 277-card pick-up. 4,102-card pick-up. 1-card pick-up.

I wanted to celebrate her. Cried instead. And struggled to breathe. For days. Her birthday was in there somewhere.

After birthday tears dried up, I began the slow march to the anniversary of her death, her DEATH DATE, with Mother’s Day a cruel stop on the way. There was nothing confusing about these days. They were all pain, which was freeing in some ways, I suppose. No one expected me to don a brave face, which was good because I didn’t have one on these anniversaries in 2007. The death date added something sickly special too: the memory of the trauma from the accident woven into my muscles, panic attacks overwhelming my consciousness.

And then there was July 23, 2007. It was the day I hadn’t considered before, but when I woke up that day, I was immediately aware: having made it past all the “firsts”, that day was the beginning of forever, endless birthdays and holidays, anniversaries without her. Never again would I see her. NEVER. There was no next, no upcoming…just endless stretches of empty Always. She was…is…gone, forever.

In that way, from that day on, every day became a possible anniversary, a day to remember, sometimes to laugh, sometimes to sob, always to love, though completely unpredictable how love would show itself in any one of them.

In More Recent Years

The best anniversaries are like the one that sparked in the sky this morning, when I took in the clouds and floated through memories of reading every word of the Harry Potter books out loud. In these times, I get to be with her again, not in a way that allows me to hold her hand in mine, but with her anyway. Even if I’m lucky enough to celebrate her life with others, it is this time alone with her that I treasure most, when I am completely relaxed and can let come whatever may be True in those moments.

I thought that was how her birthday was going to be this year. I was even a little excited about it. I took the day off work as usual and had it all planned out, from the day spent luxuriously alone to a special dinner prepared by my partner followed by birthday cake to celebrate her life. First, a little self-care: grounding meditation then a soaking bath. Then, create a Station with many of her favorite artists, the ones we used to sing along with at the top of our lungs while driving down the road or while dancing like banshees around her room. (Banshees…Gawd, I hope we weren’t heralding her death while we were at it!) Next, play said Station and get to work on her birthday cake.

Things went awry while I was making the birthday cake, prompted by the Station. An Avril Lavigne song came on: Head Above Water. The oven was still pre-heating. I was prepping ingredients. Then suddenly, the chorus erupted with its screaming refrain, “Don’t let me drown!” It was as if Jasmine’s spirit rose up and punched me on each side of my jaw, sending me reeling back and forth with each refrain. (If you don’t know already, she died by drowning.) Then the oven alarm screeched, and error codes flashed on every stovetop indicator. (I shit you not.) I fell to my knees and wailed. I was certain it was her telling me it was my fault. She blamed me? In the 15 years since she passed, that had not occurred to me – that she blamed me.

But I would’ve done, would’ve given anything to save her. “I tried to save you!” I yelled into my empty kitchen.

In that moment, I was certain: She was screaming at me through that song and oven malfunction. Plans replaced by complete, nearly catatonic devastation.

Now, and into the Future

I still don’t know what to do with that last birthday, or what the next one will bring.

All I know at this moment is:

• She is part of me, and my love for her is woven into every other part. That will always be true.

• It is not possible to know me without knowing her.

• An anniversary may come and be full of celebration and wonder at her brilliant little life, or it may be a horror show, underscored by grief and trauma. It is not possible to know in advance which it will be.

• There will always be something more to learn – about her, my love for her, my life with her, my life without possibility of holding her hand.

• My feelings will show up no matter what, so I must continue to create space to deal with them in whatever way is manageable for me at that time.

And I know now that, as long as I create the space I need, I can still live this life well. I hope others struggling in similar ways will come to know this too.