Three years, Still Counting

As a person semi-obsessed with controlling as many aspects of my life as possible, probably the most shocking thing that happened to me after Ariana's death (and, boy, were there myriad shocking things) was the utter lack of control I had over any and all events in our family.

While I could control how I reacted to it, I had no control over my own grief journey, nor did I have control over my family's bereavement. I had no control over which days would be good, bad, or in between. I had no control over how disrupted T's life would become as his 3-1/2-year-old brain struggled to cope with the things he had seen. I had no control over the police and their investigation of Ari's "suspicious" death. I had no control over the awkward encounters, or lack thereof, I had with friends, family, and acquaintances.

For the first time since 2011, this year I actually eagerly anticipated our annual Memorial Day festivities without any of the shrinking or dread I had experienced the past two years. I felt that I had moved beyond some of the helpless and hopeless feelings and into a place of peace with my beautiful family. And while we have yet to mark the official 3-year anniversary of Ariana's death on May 31, today is the day after Memorial Day - the day that our family changed forever. And I have struggled today, with all the feelings of helplessness and hopelessness and guilt that I have struggled - lightly and heavily - with over the past three years. (I also feel joy, that our sweet baby is waiting for us with Jesus, and that someday we will all be together again, but on days like today, it's harder to feel grateful and easier to feel cheated.)

We took flowers to Ariana's grave tonight. I'm not sure if I'm in a place where I can say that I enjoyed watching my two surviving children run and frolic around Ari's grave marker, but I'm glad that it's not a traumatic place for them. If I have one piece of advice for someone watching a loved one deal with loss, it's this: Don't let them feel that they are strange, or that any circumstance of their life is being done "wrongly." We laughed at the visitation the night before Ariana's funeral. We told stories about her and we smiled and we watched videos of our precious baby and we laughed until we cried. Some people thought we were in denial, others thought we were incredibly strong, but really, ultimately, all we wanted to do was keep our child close through our wonderful memories. And that's all we've wanted to do since then. We want to talk about her. We want to keep her alive by remembering her, and all the wonderful things about her: the way she snorted when she laughed. How her nose crinkled every time she smiled. How even at 9 months old, she could tease her brother until he cried for help. The way she said "Momma." The smell of her - oh, sweet Ariana, you smelled so wonderful! The way her eyes sparkled. How she rarely, rarely cried. The way she loved her grandparents. Please, please, let us keep talking about her. Let us keep showing you the same old videos. Let us keep poring over old pictures. Let us cry, but let us laugh. Let us mourn, but let us celebrate. Let us question the events of her last day, but let us know with certainty how filled with love her life was, and is.

I've spent so much time in prayer, in superstitious fear, and in praise regarding every last detail of Ariana's life. I've spent so much time questioning what I did and didn't do, how I contributed to her death, how I failed her. I don't want that to be what I think of when I think of my baby. I want to think of all the things that made me smile about her - everything - and I want to imagine what life would be like had we been given the opportunity to raise our angel child. I want to talk to you about how she'd finally have pigtails now, instead of her poor, sad, receding hairline that we covered up with headbands and bows. I want to talk to you about how she'd be enrolled for 4-year-old preschool this year, and how excited she would be to go to school like her big brother. I want to talk to you about the daddy-daughter dance I helped her get ready for and about the time she had to take a time out at Grandma and Grandpa's lake because she didn't listen to the rules.

I'll never stop counting the years and reckoning how old my baby is. For years I looked for my biological mother's face whenever I was in a crowd, picking out any Asian woman about the right age. For the rest of my life, I'll look for my baby in the faces of young women from her generation. I'll never stop marking the date (May 31) and the day (after Memorial Day) that she went to Heaven. I'll never stop dreaming her, and I'll never stop crying for her. I'll never stop smiling when I think of her.

I'll never stop. Won't you please count with me?