Three years, and Rowan's new grief

I vividly recall how three years ago today, December 18, 2011, Rowan wanted to sleep with me that night. It was only a few short hours after learning of Aimee's death, and although I normally had a policy of not allowing Rowan to sleep with us - I mean me - I didn't hesitate to let that slide on that terrible night.

Our Christmas tree

In the days and weeks following, I noticed that Rowan showed very few moments visible grief. There were triggers sometimes, but for the most part, she seemed OK. However, I knew this was due to her developmental stage, and not that she was unaffected by Aimee's sudden and tragic death. 

During my own counseling and Rowan's I spoke with them about how Rowan's grief would evolve as she grew older. How as she grew in the ways she saw the world and related to people around her, her view of her mother's death would also change. Her grief would change, return, take on new forms. In some cases, she would process parts of her mom's death possibly even decades from now, parts that I processed in the months immediately after.

Well, a new phase has arrived this year. As adults, we frequently associate significant events to the time of year in which they happen. In fact, it had been happening to Aimee in the months leading up to her death, as she remembered the passing of her father the year before. For me, the Christmas season, always one of my greatest joys in life, will be associated with Aimee's death.

And now it is for Rowan, too.

Up to this point she'd never made the connection, for which I was grateful. I took great pains to make Christmas as joyous a season for her as I could, and I hoped (and still hope) that she will grow to love Christmas as much as I do.

But over the last several days, she's been moody, sad, and very clear that right now she's missing her mommy. And as her father, it's hard for me to see her in pain, especially as it amplifies my own on-the-surface-this-time-of-year pain. Additionally, Rowan seems to be distancing herself from Sarah, although I truly believe this is temporary and simply part of how Rowan is coping with her grief.

So here's the bottom line in all this: Although the events of December 2011 are pretty much behind us, the lawsuits all settled or dismissed, a new wife and mother is in our lives, as is a new house and an overall concerted effort to move on, Rowan will be processing this grief for many, many years. Aimee's death has left a scar on her that will never go away, never fully heal, and that will affect so many (as of yet unknown) things about her life.

All for a few lousy dollars to fix a damn boat properly. 

What I have that Rowan doesn't

As Christmas approached, I began to realize that watching Rowan open her presents without someone to share that joy with was going to be pretty sad for me. Fortunately, my mom had anticipated that and let me know that she wanted to be at my house for Christmas Eve and Christmas morning. The closer it got, the more glad I was.

On Christmas Eve, after Rowan went to bed (and finally fell asleep), I started wrapping the last of the presents, stuffing the stocking, and eating Santa's cookies (I'm sure this tradition was started by a parent with a sweet tooth as an excuse to get more cookies - I must thank them). All the while my mom sat and talked with me about anything and everything, like we have since as long as I can remember.

On Christmas morning we watched Rowan together as she opened up all of her gifts, delighted over and over again at the wonderful surprises she found in each package. And I thought more than once that this is the sort of thing Aimee loved most - seeing Rowan in her joy and delight was Aimee's greatest joy and delight. I miss Aimee most in those moments, largely because I can't share them with her.

But at least this time, I was able to share the moment with my mom.

As I reflected on this later, I realized this it is in times like these we need our moms the most. Not just the boo-boos and scraped knees of our childhood, or the excitement of scoring soccer goals or piano recitals, or even the pain of navigating high school dating or the excitement of getting our driver's license. It's also when we're adults, with families of our own, and life comes along and deals us a nasty blow, and that inner child in us longs to have our mommy there to comfort us.

My mommy is still here, and when I need her, she's there for me.

Rowan's isn't.

This put Rowan's loss in such a greater scale than I'd ever seen it before. I mean, I know that once you have children you're a parent for life. But the full scope of how important that is didn't really hit me until I noticed how grateful I was to my own mother for being there on Christmas morning. Rowan will have people that love her, but no one loves you like your mother, and Rowan will never have that again. Not through the scrapes, recitals, dating pains, or significant blows dealt by life. I'll be there as long as God allows, and I know that will be good for Rowan, but it won't be the same.

This is the magnitude of the loss suffered on that terrible day.

Countdown to disaster: T minus 9 days

This post is part of a series that reflects on what we were doing, what I was thinking and feeling, and what this time last year was like.

It's Saturday, December 10, 2011
Tonight is one of two night a year that Rowan's preschool offers a "Date Night" for the parents. For $10, they keep the kids for about five hours, feed them dinner, and show a movie. Aimee and I jump at the chance for such cheap and reliable childcare.

My Facebook post from that night

After dropping Rowan off, we drive up to downtown Seattle and get dinner at Rock Bottom Brewery. It's a busy holiday Saturday night, and we have to wait for a table, but we're blissfully happy to be out on the town on a Saturday night, just the two of us, and not spending a fortune for a sitter. Despite the winter chill, it is otherwise a pretty nice evening.

After dinner we walk down 5th Avenue, and stop in a couple of stores for some Christmas shopping. We end up at a shopping center called the Westlake Center, which on its third floor has a balcony that overlooks a plaza, which is decked out for Christmas. There's a beautiful tree, tons of holiday lights, and a massive star lit up store an a nearby store. We each take the other's picture - I with my phone and Aimee with her camera. Sadly, we fail to get one together. I always hated getting my picture taken, and she gave me a bad time about getting photos together. I guess now I do wish I'd been more cooperative about that.

The conversation is both sweet and excited, because tomorrow we'll be leaving for eight days in the Florida Keys. We can't wait for the sunshine and warmth.

We get some more shopping done, including Adele's CD "21" for Aimee, and Aimee picking out a present that she plans to have Rowan give me. I would end up forgetting all about it until I stumbled across it a couple of weeks after Christmas had passed. That would end up being a very sad moment.

We wrapped up our date and headed back to pick Rowan up. Although we were actually a few minutes ahead of schedule, I was still characteristically impatient with slow drivers on the freeway. Aimee remarked that I was the only person she knew that could be mad because I was only going to be a little early instead of a lot early.

December 10, 2011 was a really good day.

Extremely pissed

OK, I have to let this out...

One subject I have stayed away from on this blog (for several reasons) is the "WHY" behind Aimee's death. Or maybe the HOW, as it were. And I have sure stayed the hell away from talking about the WHO. I have tried to stay out of a lot of anger, and kept the focus on more positive things. Most of the time that works. But let's face facts here, people.

Aimee's death did not need to happen.

Her death was not caused by some freak accident or act of God.

Rowan & Aimee test train whistles
the morning of Christmas, 2010

It was caused by a series of decisions made by other people. Some of those decisions, from my perspective, appear to have been sheer stupidity. Others were reckless, and the risks of those decisions known by those that made them.

Aimee was an innocent victim.

And she wasn't the only one.

As Christmas approaches, I can't help but wondering what this season is like for those people. I'll bet none of them are sad and depressed about a loved one they recently lost at someone else's hand. I'll bet they aren't consoling a small child missing her mommy in the midst of what should be one of the most fun, happy times of the year for a four year old. I'll bet they aren't staring at a stocking hung by the fireplace that is empty, and forever will be, because the person it belongs to is dead.

They're lucky. They're lucky they don't have to deal with the death of a wife/mother/daughter/sister/friend. And they're lucky that for various reasons, I have chosen not to dwell on them and what they did, and rather focus on where Aimee is now and how to be the best father I can to our daughter.

They're really damn lucky.

This month, they're probably going to holiday parties, and doing gift or ornament exchanges, and eating great food and spending time with family and friends. Maybe they'll sit by a fireplace and open presents from under a Christmas tree. They'll laugh, they'll have fun.

They'll enjoy the company of their loved ones.

Well, we're doing those things to. But we can't stop the tears from frequently coming when we remember that one of our loved ones is gone.

They screwed up, we're the ones being punished. They made the mistakes, we're the ones suffering the loss. We're told from an early age that life isn't fair. Well, it's not. Sometimes it's a downright bitch.

Have a merry fucking Christmas, you bastards.

_____________________________________________________________________
I'd like to say more about how Aimee died, what happened, what caused it, and so on. But I can't. After almost a year, the final report from the Coast Guard is still not public, at least not last time I checked (about 6-8 weeks ago). Furthermore, I'm assuming (hoping) some sort of legal action is likely still pending, though I don't know for sure. Either way, I am simply not in a position to talk more about what happened out on that boat that day. As soon as I can, I will.

The season catches up with Rowan

It was bound to happen, wasn't it?

I know some people close to Aimee have been struggling with her death more lately, due to the nearness of the one year anniversary, but Rowan initially seemed unaffected. She was excited about Christmas, loved helping me decorate, and we've talked (a lot!) about what she was going to ask Santa for. I was holding on to a secret hope that she'd make it through unscathed.

Wrong.

Yesterday morning, while getting ready to leave for school, Rowan started to get fussy. When I asked her what was wrong, she said in a small, sad voice, "I don't know. I'm just not feeling like myself today." Besides seeming like a big thing to say for such a young kid, I probed a little deeper, and got to this: she's suddenly hit by the connection between Christmas and her mommy's death.

"Rowan, are you sad?"
Nod.
"Are you sad about mommy?"
Another nod.
"Are you remembering Christmas last year without her here."
Rowan: "Yeah, I was just looking at mommy's stocking and I'm sad because she I miss her."

Sigh.

So the trigger this morning was the stocking. We all have one - even the dog - and Rowan had asked that we hang Aimee's up when we were decorating the house last weekend. No big deal, I figured. So I hung it up. But Rowan apparently was looking at it this morning and was remembering Christmas last year, and it hit her all at once.

I'm not surprised this is happening. Like I said, it's happening to a lot of people. I was talking to my therapist on Monday about my overly heightened memory of what I was doing this time last year, and we talked about how normal that is when approaching a traumatic anniversary. It only makes sense that it would happen for Rowan too. but I had hoped somehow that maybe as young as she was that maybe she'd get by with more of the joy of the season and less of the sadness of her mom's death. but it looks like that's not to be.

Well, we'll deal with this like we've dealt with the rest of it. We'll talk about our feelings. We'll make sure that Rowan knows this is normal for someone who's gone through what she has, and let her know that we can talk anytime she wants. Then we'll talk about good memories of Aimee, and of Christmas, and I'll do my best to guide Rowan in how to move on while honoring and remembering her mother's memory.

And we will do our absolute best to have a Merry Christmas.

Christmas without Aimee

The holidays are now past, but last night I was reflecting on what this last Christmas was like without Aimee in it.

Rowan opening presents

In the days leading up to Christmas, things were a blur. Aimee and I had done a little bit of shopping for Rowan before we left for Florida, but left most of it for the four days between our return and Christmas itself. With her death, that left it up to me to get Christmas ready while also planning the memorial.

I spoke with Donna, Justin and Caroline a few days before Christmas, and I candidly told them this: "I'd really like to have you there on Christmas morning when Rowan opens her presents, but only if we can keep the focus on her and the fun of the Christmas morning experience. If there's going to be a lot of tears about Aimee not being here, than please don't come over. I know we don't want to hide our grief, but for just a few hours I want Rowan to just have fun and not have such strong reminders about her mommy not being there. This is the second Christmas in a row in her young life that we mourn the loss of a family member, and I want to do everything I can to keep Christmas from becoming associated with grief and loss for her." I was relieved when all three of them agreed with me on this.

Sure enough, Christmas morning came and all three of them came to my house to watch Rowan open her presents. And as I hoped, Rowan had fun, very few tears were shed during that window, and in fact I think we all got some joy from Rowan's excitement. It helped that Rowan LOVED so many of her presents, especially the new scooter Justin and Caroline got her and the huge dollhouse Donna got her. Rowan's joy was worth the effort it took to maintain composure.

We all sat down and watched a movie after the presents, and then Aimee's family went back to Donna's house, leaving Rowan and I alone. Soon after, Rowan noticed a stocking still hanging by the fireplace that no one had pulled down.

It was Aimee's.

I had asked a good friend of hers to pick up a few things for Aimee's stocking, really for Rowan's benefit (I guess I was afraid that if Aimee's stocking stayed empty, that might upset Rowan, but she didn't even notice it until this moment). Anyway, Aimee's friend Nancy bought a few things that were actually related to things Aimee and Rowan did together (such as beads, which they used to make stuff with), plus a stuffed dragon, who I had put into the stocking so that his head was poking out of the top. She and I quietly opened up mommy's stocking together, and I explained that Santa left these small gifts as if they were FROM mommy to Rowan.

Christmas was really hard without Aimee, but I felt like everyone stepped up and gave Rowan the best Christmas possible under the circumstances. Aimee's family is taking this pretty hard, obviously, but they're handling it with incredible grace and strength. Christmas morning was a great example of that.