My daughter died today. My first born. The child that forever changed my life for the better. At 6:56 pm on Friday, July 17th, 2015, I laid in a hospital bed with my daughter Myesha Raven-Symone, wrapped her in my arms just like the day she was born, said my goodbyes with her sister Chloe, and I gave her back to God. Today marks 6 years since I endured what would inevitably be the worst day of my life.
Every year we usually plan some type of commemorative event. But this year the stars aligned us to jump on a flight to San Antonio for the annual HOTWORX convention that starts Monday. So, to wake up today and not be allowed to just be. To be able to just lay in bed and reflect. Reflect on where we are in our lives and where Myesha would fit in, in this world we now live in. I’ve changed. My kids have changed. It’s just us 3 now. The “mother hen” role was thrown at the middle child and the role of being the baby, advanced swiftly into a level of responsibility that most kids don’t have to endure. I carry the guilt as a parent knowing that it takes all of us working together in order to keep our family dynamic functioning in the survival mode that we are constantly working through on a daily basis. We are far from normal. But as much as normal sounds enticing, it’s not the norm for us. We have endured. It’s a daily battle sometimes. Chloe has definitely been my rock through our grief. I am blessed and amazed with her level of maturity throughout the years.
I remember when Myesha was a toddler, I had this horrible dream that she got a hold of a sharp knife and cut her hand off. I woke up to find her sitting on the floor in a pool of her own blood. Knife lying next to her and this blank look on her face. A look of shock. I woke up and ran into her room to find her safely sleeping in her bed. Heart racing still I went to the kitchen and grabbed EVERY sharp knife and put them in a storage container and placed them in the cabinet on the top shelf, out of her reach. To the day, I still keep knives in that same container, in the cabinet, on a high shelf.
Then as Myesha got older and kids became more socially aware of their differences, she was picked on often for being the “big girl”. I did everything I could as a mother to not allow her to let the cruel words of others to dictate who she was and could be.
At the age of 16, Myesha lost her father from a sudden massive heart attack. That was the first day she had to be an adult. The day she had to help plan a funeral for a man that would never see her graduate, get married, have children. She lost so much that day. It changed her. Not even 2 years later the roles reversed, and I had to plan a funeral for Myesha. A child I would never see get married or birth me, what I expected to be my first grandchild.
Here we are 6 years later, and it is more apparent now more than ever that no matter what we do to protect our children, in the end, we truly don’t have control. This is a hard pill to swallow for parents like myself who are overprotective.
When my daughter died, I received a lot of advice. I found people do not know what to say. The advice came from good intentions, but it was hollow. Not at all what I needed in that moment. When someone would tell me it would be OK, I was angry. They would say everything happens for a reason and I should trust God. More anger. Then there was, “Give it time. Time heals all wounds.” It doesn’t. Everything felt like pressure towards a direction someone else thought was best for me.
If you haven’t noticed, there is a lot of anger in grief. It is unavoidable so you should just learn to embrace it early. It made me feel like I was going crazy. Everything made me mad. I hated advice, yet I found myself starting to wonder if I should listen. It didn’t resonate, but I was desperate. So, I started judging my grief. It made me question everything I was doing and feel as if I was doing it all wrong. That made me angrier.
Then I had a breakthrough. A grief breakthrough. I realized that my grief is only about me. The journey I walk is my own. No one can tell me how to do it. I simply have to do whatever I feel is right in the moment for me. It is not my job to help make others feel better. I cannot be concerned for how they are doing. I know it sounds harsh and unfeeling. However, there is an “I” in grief. As there should be! It is the only way because MY daughter died! This was about Myesha and I. No one else.
It seemed so simple. Selfish, but simple.
Since my daughter died, I have changed the way I talk to someone that has experienced loss. I tell them I am thinking about them and sending love. I really am. I feel their pain as if it was my own. If I feel the urge to share advice, I simply tell them their grief is unique to them. They have to do whatever is right for them and not compare themselves to anyone else. Don’t worry about what anyone else tells you. Just follow your gut.
Grief has no expiration date. It never fully goes away. It doesn’t mean we will never be happy again; it just means that we will always have a wound on our hearts. Living with grief is a way of remembering and honoring that person. It is not to be dreaded but embraced. There will always be days that are harder than others. Hell, there are still days I feel like quitting. But there is this tiny voice inside of me, that is not my own, that is not like any I have ever heard before, that reminds me that my life is not over, and my journey is not yet finished.
What I can take away from all of my experiences at this point is that love has no expiration date.
Mommy loves you Myesha. To the Moon and Back Again. Forever In My Heart Friday. FIMHF
