Seven years

It has been seven years since that awful, awful day, when Emma was killed and an emotional nuclear bomb blew up our family. I still vividly remember everything about getting that phone call - the shock  and devastation are burned into my brain. Thinking about the ensuing months when we were all sad and wrung out and gritting our teeth, just trying to get through it, still gives me a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach.

Time does make it easier - the grief is not as raw, not as close to the surface. But it settles in and just becomes a part of you. It affects your attitudes, the way you interact with the world, how you look at your life. 

Though I am loathe to ever acknowledge anything about her death as a "positive," I do think that going through that grief has made me stronger. Kinder. More patient. A greater sense of perspective. 

I thought it would make me more fearful as a parent - that I would want to cover my kids in bubble wrap so that nothing would ever happen to them. Actually, the opposite is true. I want them to take chances and have adventures and experience everything. 

But I remind them of what it would do to me and their father and everyone else if they died. 

When we were at the beach, Zeke was swimming in the pool and a lightening storm was rolling in. I told him to get out of the pool, and he was resistant.

"Mom, it'll be fine. Nothing's going to happen. The odds of anything bad happening are so low."

"That may be true," I responded, "but it's not a big deal to get out of the pool for 20 minutes while you wait for a storm to pass. You know that I am not a fearful person and that I generally play the odds when it comes to risk assessment, but if something awful were to happen, I couldn't deal with the fact that it was 100% preventable. This family cannot handle another dead child."

When I said those words, he understood me. He nodded quietly, got out of the pool, and gave me a hug. 

Josh called me the other day just to talk. The time leading up to the anniversary is anxiety producing for everyone, but for him most of all (obviously). We talked about life, which is pretty good for both of us. We talked about our children, who are beautiful and wonderful and thriving. We talked about what everyone experienced in the aftermath of Emma's death and then Lori's death, and how it shaped them. 

I still can't fathom how he found the strength to keep going - not just keep going, but to really live. To experience happiness and love and satisfaction in the trajectory of his life. 

A couple of weeks ago the kids and I went to a local lake to have an end of summer beach day. I was sitting in the chair under the canopy and looked at Josie, who was eating garbage-y snacks and being sassy and joking around. She is funny and sweet and gorgeous - tan, taller than I am, beautiful long legs. 

I was immediately hit with the thought of, "what if I were to lose her, the way Josh lost Emma?" My chest tightened and I inhaled sharply as tears filled my eyes. It's incomprehensible. 

But I don't let that kind of thinking consume me. I can't. It's bad for me and it's bad for them. They need to feel free to go out into the world without being afraid. 

 She would be 24 now.  A fully formed adult. What would she be like? What would she be doing? 

In two weeks, we'll do the yahrtzeit climb, honoring her and so many others. I love the ritual that it has become. 

Tomorrow I am climbing the via ferrata along the east wall of Arapahoe Basin (again). Greg and I climbed it last month, and it was amazing. Seriously so much fun. But we had had to turn back half-way because of storms in the area. They gave us rainchecks, so we're doing it again tomorrow. 

I will say the Kaddish at the summit, for her and also for everyone lost on 9/11. There's something wonderful and moving about being on top of the world and sending blessings out into the universe. 

But today, I will mourn and weep and miss her.