Four years ago, I got out of bed–not having slept much the night before–with the realization I had to take the puppies outside. I didn’t know how to walk, or take a step forward.
Where are my sandals? I have to feed my son, but I can’t eat. How can I be so selfish, as to eat when my daughter couldn’t eat? I’m dead or dying. I don’t know which, but how I hate god and me.
These thoughts came to mind, as I took Hayes and Corrie’s four month old puppies outside, only Rosie didn’t have her Corrie anymore. I didn’t have my baby; my precious and sassy little girl, who only days ago I had thanked God for. I’d said on Memorial Day 2020 that I think I’m okay with the two children I have because they’re so beautiful together and balanced one another so well.
Then, then …
She was gone.
It is hard for me to relate to the mother and woman, whose mourning seemed to flood the world, and whose writing was raw.
It is just as difficult for me to identify her, as it is to find the woman that I was before May 27, 2020 at 4:30 p.m.
In the four years since Corrie’s sudden death, I’ve had to overcome battles I’ve never wanted. I had a miscarriage ten months after her death, and then John battled cancer. I endured some who judged and spoke of me, despite my post traumatic stress disorder, depression, and early stages of grief. I broke off those friendships that were mere apples fallen to the ground on an October afternoon, and devoured by the worms.
Please tell me
how to hold
my head up again,
and keep a bad day
from turning into a
bad week. I want to
hear the sermon of
how to raise my head
from my child's death.
~ Excerpt from "Easy As," a poem from the When We Danced in the Rain collection, July 2020. (I wrote this poem as a snap back at someone, who I thought was a friend, telling me "not to make the rest of the day a bad day" within weeks of my daughter's funeral.
I wondered about the importance of any disagreement, why it mattered, why I still worked as a teacher, but especially why I still existed.
For almost three years after Corrie graduated to heaven, I wanted to die. I didn’t think there was anything I had left to contribute. With time, I grew into a mask, while I often dreamt of my ashes being buried with Corrie because, after all, I, her mother, should’ve spotted the problem sooner and saved her. I would’ve offered god my life in place of our dearest, darling daughter, but I wasn’t given the choice.
Corrie was going to be an investor, or doctor, or C.E.O, or some other great profession. She sometimes said, “Mommy, I want to be a teacher like you.” With my awareness of the teaching profession, I said, “No, you don’t. You and Hayes can be anything else in the world, but you don’t want to be a teacher.” (For clarification, I enjoy teaching eighth grade, but not all the scrutiny we face, and felt my children deserved better.)
We may turn into nothing but
specks of dust in all the cosmos,
and our history becomes nothing
more than the algebraic formula
you forget after the test. But
know I love my daughter
more than all the time
we forget and will be forgotten.
~ Excerpt from the poem, "In All the Worlds" in the When We Danced in the Rain collection, 2020
I write all of this in a practical state of mind, a reflection, much different than the mind of a mourner because grief is a journey. Grief never disappears because our love for our lost one is always there. The medication I take daily almost makes me seem indifferent or ambivalent; sometimes I’m fail to feel joy or sadness, but it keeps me going.
But we are not forever lost to the tides when the storms hit the coast, unless we stop seeking refuge.
I write, share videos and pictures of Corrie, and excerpts from her poems; not to forever revisit or stay in the darkness, but we must remember my family and I had to–and sometimes still–travel through this heartbreak and hardship to reach some new light. I love my son just as much as I do Corrie, and I live for him, just as much as I did for her.
Son,
your sun will rise again.
Perhaps not in the way of
a boy in a legend who hurries
to battle and swings his sword,
or a hero in another
galaxy where they fight for
justice with laser beams.
Son,
in every way, your sister was
your best match. She'd steal
that million dollar T-rex
with a paleontologist's
approved design, and hide it in a
unicorn backpack, or bury it
beneath her dress up shoes.
~ From "Your Sun Will Rise Again" from When We Danced in the Rain, written for my son Hayes only days after Corrie's death.
I chose August by Taylor Swift for Corrie’s Anniversary Day TikTok video because, one, Corrie was a little Swifty, and two, the song speaks of something so momentary and beautiful before it is lost.
While Memorial Day marks the sacrifice of many brave service members, including my great uncle, this date is fixed upon when my little girl ascended to heaven on May 27, 2020. The date of Memorial Day changes based on the last Monday of each May, but my daughter’s Angel Anniversary never changes.
When I went to one of my two favorite garden nurseries on Saturday to select perennial choices for the Anniversary Garden, the woman who is a part owner said, “We love to hear success stories.” She’d examined all the perennials in my chart.
While many are meant for the second section of Arendelle where I’ve been focused since April, I bought enough choices for John and Hayes to choose which plants to go in the Anniversary Garden this year.
A light bulb went off when the woman said, “We love to hear success stories.” She’d mentioned that she’d want to see pictures because she thought with the plants I already have, surely I was running out of room. Not with ten acres.
The reality is many people go to the garden nurseries, spend money, and plants die. Between 95 to 96 percent of the plants I’ve planted, bought, or propagated have not only survived, but thrive. I have blamed myself for a long time over Corrie’s death, so to know I have done a good job with her gardens means more than words can express.
There are so many ways to celebrate Corrie’s life. Hayes reminded me this morning that she’d want us to celebrate rather than feel sad. I read a post of another bereaved mother where she wrote things to do to honor or celebrate her son. There are so many ways whether it’s:
donate money or toys to Levine Children’s Hospital or a local preschool
dance to your favorite Taylor Swift song
sing Let it Go at the top of your lungs, even if I’m not ready for that yet.
Plant a garden because she so wanted one.
Rescue a kitten because Corrie always dreamed of having one.
Eat a zebra or other Little Debbie cake because she thought that they were perfectly fine for breakfast.
When you make an omlette or scrambled eggs, say you’re “breaking up the sunshines,” as she would.
Say her name out loud today, so we know she still matters in this world.
Finally, when it rains, go outside, and dance in the rain.
Photos, videos, and words by R.A. Bridges, Corrie’s Mom
Corrie's Season 