The One Year Mark…

People think that the first year is the hardest, but I don’t think I agree. 

March 2, 2020 marked the year. One whole year of my youngest daughter having died. 

That morning I woke up thinking, “what the f*ck?!  I made it through a year. How much f*cking longer do I have have to live through this??”  

You see, the first year is fresh, but your body helps you. Adrenaline, shock, anger all act as drugs - creating a fog, a veil, to protect you from reality. 

Eventually the drugs wear off. Sobriety hits, and the awareness filters in. Awareness that this is now your life. Awareness that you have no clue what that first year even consisted of. Awareness that she is really gone. Awareness that you must awaken to this every single day. 

In those last two weeks leading up to March 2, the memories hit, memories of when I last saw her awake. Memories of when I still believed she would come out of it, and she seemed like she would. Memories of when her heart stopped. 

I look back on that time, the time leading up to March 2 and I don’t remember much. But then one day, I was going through my notes and I found this. This note I wrote to Zoey. I don’t remember writing it, it must have been the final remnants of fog, protecting my brain from the pain, the anguish. I don’t remember much, but I do remember that I would have rather been with her. 

• Pam.

March 1, 2020.    7:08pm

It hurts today. It hurts everyday. But today it makes me feel like I’m going to vomit. 

One year ago tonight, we went to dinner to get some air from living in the hospital. We talked about our goals for the year, we felt excited, tired, but hopeful. 

And then we went back to the hospital. And you had an episode. You were struggling. I tried to coax you out of it, I tried to tell you how strong you were and that you could always come out of it, and we were a team, me and you. 

And then I hit a wave of exhaustion unlike any other. I had never, in the whole year of your life, felt like this. Felt this drained. Felt like I had nothing left to give. So I left your father with you, I went home to sleep. 

The call the next morning showed me you felt the same. Shortly after we made it in, you were gone. 

Oh my love. The pain. The void. There are no words. It is constant. It is unending. It will last the rest of my life. 

I am a completely different person now. Never again will life hold the same promise, the same excitement, the same naïveté.  

I no longer fear the things I once did. The thought of death is welcome to me, potentially a chance to see you again. 

Everything is tainted, nothing is purely joyful, because you are missing in all of it. 

_____________________________________