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“Some things cannot be fixed; they can only be carried. Grief like yours, love like yours, can only be carried.”
Illustration by Drew Shannon
I read this astonishing quote in Megan Devine’s book It’s OK that you’re not OK many years after my daughter Ashley died. It resonated so much, I wish I’d read it earlier because when the second year after her death came around, I didn’t feel better at all.
Books I’d read on suicide (and they were the only books I read) warned me this was the case. How could that be? Had I not grieved enough? I was half expecting a reprieve to come galloping in, but it never came.
Once when I thought I spotted my daughter in a crowd, I thought I’d gone crazy. When it happened a second time I thought, was it her? Of course, it wasn’t. I dreamt about my daughter so often, it felt pathological. I dreaded falling asleep. In my dreams, she was always showing me things and taking me places. She was so happy and well. In every dream, I’d end up unable to keep following her on account of some physical obstruction; a tunnel narrowing, a stairway ending, a road disappearing, water rushing in. I’d have to stop and could only watch her keep going without me: “Don’t go.”
Throughout these dreams, she was always smiling, full of life, encouraging me to keep up: “C’mon Mom!” Then I’d wake up and cry my heart out all over again. I didn’t sleep properly for two years. I never felt rested and I was beginning to think there was something seriously wrong with me and I’d probably die soon anyway.
Exhausted, unrecovered and still living in sad-land, I returned to work after a long absence. While work was the last place I wanted to be, my therapist said that regular human contact was a good idea, and I reluctantly agreed. Colleagues hadn’t seen me in months. “Oh, I was so sorry to hear …” greeted me in corridors, elevators and meeting rooms. In the beginning, it was every day, then weekly, then once a month, then never again. I’d politely say thank you and quickly retreat back to my office to close the door and cry, wipe my face, breathe and put on my “I’m fine” face for the remainder of the working day.
But I was not fine. I avoided people on purpose because I couldn’t manage a simple interaction without feeling emotionally extinguished. At the end of each day, I’d be back on the Metro, my head down avoiding eye contact focused on getting home so I could close the door and cry in peace again. I was in the wrong place, in the wrong job, in the wrong city. I needed out.
Two-and-a-half years later after that bitterly cold February eve when we learned Ashley had died by suicide, I sold everything I owned, packed up the car and the dog, said my goodbyes and drove 3,000 miles across the country. I wanted to be in a place where I knew no one; I had no job, no friends, no therapist, no plans. I could start over there.
I felt had to go where ghosts weren’t on every corner and the ground didn’t freeze up for months on end. I was convinced that if I didn’t leave, I would just continue to sink further and further into that deep dark well of sadness I was already drowning in. It took five days to drive from Montreal to Vancouver Island and once I started driving, my mood began to change. I believed for the first time in two-and-a-half years that I was going to be okay.
It’s been 12 years since I left the home where my son and grandchildren still live. Ashley’s 14th anniversary came and went, and we are all okay. I’m not the person I was when she died and never will be again. I’ve evolved and grown in unexpected ways. I’ve healed my heart and mind. Time has a way of softening the edges and clearing perspective.
It wasn’t easy to resettle in an unfamiliar place where I knew no one. I’m grateful for my dog and the many miles of walking and hiking and running. I needed time to sort out my heartache and alleviate the sad. It took many years to be able to talk about my daughter’s suicide and that long, dark period without stopping to sob. I could never get past the middle of the story. But then one day I could.
My daughter’s death taught me a lot about love and loss, the long arc of grief and the enduring sorrow. Once I learned to live with it, I was able move on with my life. When the anniversary of Ashley’s death comes around now, I look through all the photos of a beautiful young woman who will never grow old. It’s then that I remember how much I loved her, how I’ll always miss her and how lucky I was to have been her mother. I survived. I’m okay.
Caroline Donelle now lives on the East Coast of Canada.
