At a Loss for Words

It must be the heat. It is Day 3 of near and spot-on three-digit readings on the Fahrenheit scale. I do believe these insane temperatures have fried my brain.
I am usually brimming with unwritten text that topples out of me whenever my fingertips touch a keyboard, but these days I am truly at a loss. It is just so uncomfortably hot out that I feel drained without doing much of anything at all. I am in air-conditioning right now, but my back is to a huge window and the heat is beating down a hole in my back. Mind you it is not even 9 a.m. and already 93 degrees! This would not be so disturbing if this were, say, August 5th or something. But for goodness sake it is still early June and not yet summer, on the calendar at least!

June is officially no longer a good month for me. This past Sunday, June 8th, we marked two years since my mother’s passing. It was not any easier the second time around. It reminded me of an article I read days before we crossed her first year gone.

Patti Davis, Ronald Reagan’s daughter, wrote it. The piece was about the importance of that second year, as her father’s passing on June 5, 2004, was approaching its second observance. Davis wrote that in the first year we are still numb from our loss and we don’t really feel its magnitude, though we think we are experiencing the pain at its fullest. In the second, however, the reality and finality of it takes on a newer, bitterer stance and we revisit the moment with even greater disdain, anger and disgust because we were convinced we were closer to healing and realize we are not. A lot of people talk about and remember that first year, she said, but how come after that it isn’t as important. She wanted to make a point about looking at that second year and giving it the recognition it deserved.

Davis made many valid points in her piece and I interpreted them in my own way. In the second year, you give yourself the permission to move forward to a degree and to try living again. In doing so, you mask whatever pain still lingers and whatever pain you know always will. You convince yourself that the healing has begun and that it might all be fine in the end. Then, the anniversary of the death nears again and – and you gasp for air – you find that it can all come back in the blink of an eye. You catch your breath throughout the day and think: “She was my mom! I will never have another mom. My mom is gone. My mom is not coming back! I will never see her again in my lifetime. How long can I live without seeing her?” All of these self-spoken statements are final and brutally raw. Now you think you have failed at recovering, but you have not failed, you are just in denial. You cannot quite comprehend the denial because you know that a part of you has experienced acceptance. So then, if that is true, how can you explain all of this new pain when the date rolls around again? I explain it in a word: Finality. The finality of the situation hurts.

Another interesting piece in Davis’s article is that she mentions a habit she has of acknowledging the dates of death for loved ones as prominently as the birth dates. She states that we are always so ready to celebrate a birthday and yes, that is an important thing to commemorate. However, she adds that a death is as important, if not more. A death is the sum of someone’s whole life and worthy of acknowledgement. And while one day brings total joy and the other total sadness, both are integral parts of the circle of life. As such, both should be given respect in the grander scheme of our lives.

Davis keeps a small book of dates for all of her surviving friends and families who have lost loved ones. Just as you would call to wish someone a happy birthday, she calls the surviving person to let them know that someone else is remembering their pain and loss and, more importantly, their loved one. It does not sound like a big thing, but people are usually so grateful that you too remember.

What if we all did that?

Instead of ignoring the date, because you think you might open up old wounds, or because it hurts to remember, or because you think that it’s better to forget - why not call that person and say: “Hey, I know this is a hard day for you. I just wanted you to know that I was thinking of you and your mom, your sister, your friend, your dog, your child, your grandfather….”

What do you think will happen? The person will probably be touched and thankful. It seemed like such a wonderful idea to me. On the day of my Mom’s death and in the days that followed, everyone gathered around us to support us in our grief. Everyone cried. Everyone shared. But what about going forward? How long before everyone forgets completely? How long before you never hear anyone remembering her aloud? I hope the day never comes when my mother’s time on this earth and her last day become part of a past no one cares to recall. I know that won’t be me because even now the smallest memory, object, place, program, scent, taste, song or statement will trigger something in me and the floodgates will open and the tears will flow and the pain will be as it was on the first day, but worse because remembering only verifies the truth of her absence.

She was a huge part of my world and that part is lost and without direction now. You do not just forget and you wish others did not as well. Granted people die all the time, but when the person you lost belongs deep in your heart, it is hard to just move forward.

Patti Davis had a rough relationship with her Dad. Oftentimes, they did not see eye to eye. The media liked to feed on this like vultures and we the public ate it all up. More often than not, dad and daughter were not speaking to one another. Each person’s argument seemed monumental at the time. Each person thought he or she was right all the time. Yet, when the time came and our former president was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease, the Davis-Reagan family rallied round to support each other. When they came face to face with the reality of Reagan’s fragility, his impending dementia, and his dwindling time on this earth, the scars of the past, the anger of days gone by and the ever-important disagreements fell like shedding old skin. It was time to acknowledge a life well lived. It was time to realize that she had wasted precious time with her Dad and that it was almost too late to make up for it. It was time to accept that someone’s mistakes did not total the person, but only made them more human. It was time to let it go.

Patti Davis let it go. In his final days she did all she could to love her father and make him comfortable and care for his needs and ask for forgiveness, whether his condition let him understand her or not. She did what she could and now he is gone and years have gone by. But you can bet that each year on June 5th someone Patti knows will call her up and say: “Hey, I know today is hard for you. I just wanted you to know that I am thinking about you.”

I should be so lucky!