Writing to grieve.

"The meaning of the the word memory for me is enriched when I see that its tangled Indo-European roots run through the Latin memor (mindful); the Greek martus (witness), which became martyr; as well as the Germanic and Old English murnam (to grive). We write to bring things in mind, to witness, and eventually, to grive."
                                   -Julia Kasdorf, Writing Like a Mennonite

I discovered Julia Kasdorf's Writing Like a Mennonite last semester in a Women's Studies class, but it resurfaced again recently because I'm taking a Mennonite Literature class this semester. Julia is a Goshen grad and has gone on to write incredible poetry and nationally-recognized books.

I grieve in writing, and I always have, even since elementary school when I would journal my little dramas of the day. When Micah and I started dating, I wrote about him and the many stories we formed. I even have little stories involving him and other friends from middle school.

The night of the accident I sat in my bed and journaled that I wanted an adventure in my life and that I wanted to feel 100% alive. Ironically, the next time I opened my journal was two days later in the hospital, scribbling that Micah had been in an accident, and begging God to keep him alive. The next day he died--an adventure? Yes. Did I feel 100% alive? Yes. But in a way I wanted, through death? No. My journal entry that day is only several words, but the pain they hold seeps from the pages.

Unfortunately I haven't been able to publicly write as much as I wished this year---it's been a crazy semester full of many involvements. But I am grateful for the writing I've been able to do these past two years. I am grateful for the many people that have felt benefited from my words, those who have experienced loss and the cases of other girlfriends who have lost their boyfriends and discovered these chronicled two years. What is the future of this blog? Maybe one day it will be more officially published, who knows. But as of now I still appreciate being able to write, grieve, and bear witness. Again, thank you deeply to my family, friends, and readers of this blog. Just by listening you have helped me greatly.

Two years ago tonight, my dad answered the phone and woke me up with the news. I remember sitting up and immediately clutching his arms. It was surreal and awful, but reflecting on it now I'm more able to see the beauty of that moment. Those first several minutes spent hugging while the rest of the house peacefully slept are something only my dad and I will ever know, but I find peace that we shared it together.

I am trying to not think too much about the details of what happened tonight two years ago, as they are painful to comprehend, even though I don't exactly know what happened during the accident. Yet still, memories of a hospital seep into my consciousness and will continue to tomorrow.

Several weeks after the accident my dad wrote this poem. I share it because it is beatifully written and speaks memories that are now on my mind.


I don’t want to tell you

I don’t need to tell you

Oh young daughter of mine,

Of the thrill of new found love,

Of the maturation of well grounded friendship,

And the pleasure of balanced partnership.

I don’t want to wake you,

Oh beautiful daughter of mine,

From the sleep of recently whispered love,

From the slumber of contented relationship,

And the dreams of life milestones yet to come.

I don’t want to tell you,

Oh innocent daughter of mine,

Of collisions and twisted metal,

Of broken flesh and shattered bones,

Of collapsed lungs and cerebral oxygen levels.

I want to protect you

Oh beloved daughter of mine,

From endless unknowing emergency room hours,

From clutching hugs and somber conversations,

And hesitant visits to critical care rooms.

I don’t want you to have to see,

Oh sweet daughter of mine,

The quiet form of your beloved,

Artificially maintained by IVs and tubes,

Gently marking time with rhythmic mechanical breaths.

How I long to spare you,

Oh wonderful daughter of mine,

From the premature grief of lost love

From the instant insertion into the adult world,

And the incapacitating emptiness of absent companionship.

My whole parental being cries out,

Oh dear daughter of mine,

Against your precocious introduction to death,

Against this gut wrenching soul depleting loss,

And the life long fallout of this moment.

But, at one o’clock AM on a Tuesday morning

Oh sleeping daughter of mine,

I can do none of these.

My parental bag of tricks is empty,

And I can only approach your bedside as a fellow mortal.

Becca, can you wake up?

-6/17/09

This week.

Next week marks 2 years since Micah's accident, with Wednesday being the night of the crash and Friday the evening Micah died.

Gratefully my mom has room and time in her schedule to drive to Goshen to be with me. It will be great to have her present and hopefully will alleviate some of the weirdness of not being home. Last year was so nice in that I was able to be in my own space and have my feelings link to the literal places they stem from. This year, however, I'm away from home and only have my memories to connect me to two years ago, not the places. All in all, it'll be very different, but hopefully still meaningful.

I don't know what to be more shocked at---that this year flew by so quickly, or that it's been an entire two years since the accident. Both feel unbelievable. I can so clearly remember sitting alone in my room several days after the accident, thinking to myself, "I can't do this. I can't possibly live a month or a year or a lifetime with Micah and with all of this."

Fast-forward two years, and somehow I've made it through...with meaning and learning along the way. For this there is celebration, my therapist reminded me this week. And so I anticipate leaving room for not just grief this year, but celebration...celebration where I've found growth in my own life these two years.

Yet still, I dread hate kick scream punch detest this week. My entire being mourns and misses and cries. Feelings already begin to swell, and I know all I can do is step into their stream, let them take me, and float.