Did you know I had a daughter?
Words cut.
They cut deeper than some of us will ever admit, even after we experience the worst trauma or losses in our lives.
Today’s read is a hard read. Parts of it are raw; somewhat similar to how I wrote after our daughter, Corrie, graduated to heaven. Some is also organized from the calm and collected in me. I hope it heals, and perhaps even helps someone else.
Whatever it is, I need write the words, the poem, and share the corresponding pictures, so I can move forward with upcoming medical treatment, earning my doctorate, and embrace my son’s eighth grade year–his year with me.
I Know What it is to Love a Daughter
Last school year, I tried to not speak as much about Corrie because I didn’t want anyone feeling hurt or misunderstand.
Think about it: I stopped speaking about my daughter thinking it would appease others.
April 2024 changed my mind.
I have two children, and when the time is appropriate, I’ll speak about my daughter’s life, the sound of her laughter, and the fact she’d enter fourth grade this year. I know she’d love Simone Biles, and the fact that when she was two-and-a-half, I pulled both children out of gymnastics because of her behavior–not big brother, Hayes.
Did you know I loved my daughter so much that I did everything I could to find her the blue Sleeping Beauty dress for her Halloween costume when she was three?
I know what it is to love, adore, and even defend my daughter.
Reflection
There is a lot of anger and hurt you can see beneath my words because I questioned my purpose when I took a week off in April after the ensuing incident. I wondered why I teach if I’m seen as person a and not person b. I questioned: How will I ever earn a place with my daughter in heaven if these words were true?
As I’m recommended for newer treatment with increased mental and physical health struggles after the unfortunate event in April, I reflect on where I was, so that I may return to the extraordinary progress I made in 2023 to early 2024.
I will never forget April 2024, just as I will always remember July 31, 2021 when Hayes came down with COVID-19, and I observed the pink color leave his cheeks, just as I did with Corrie.
Two events in the four years, since we suddenly lost Corrie sent my memory back to the moment after Corrie suddenly died on Wednesday, May 27, 2020, from an undiagnosed tumor. The April 2024 incident made everything raw and real again. Only I didn’t have the shock this time to block my emotions.
Trauma isn’t made up anymore that PTSD is scary or imagined. It comes from tragic and sometimes repeated events. Witnessing a child’s death, having a miscarriage, and nearly losing a spouse to cancer will do it.
I remembered carrying my daughter into the doctor’s office. I recalled the smell of rain when a second EMS vehicle arrived on the side of interstate going into Charlotte, North Carolina after I’d failed (my feeling and thoughts) to help the paramedic give my daughter CPR. I remember the last full conversation I had with god as spring rain fell on my forehead and ran down my knees.
April made me feel like I’d failed again. I felt like I’d failed in all the progress I’d made, and cost my daughter her life all over again. The love I’d tried to pour into my students and education seemed nonexistent. It didn’t matter how many people tried telling me how much I meant to them. I was nearly hospitalized, and on the verge of making plans to unalive myself for the first time in two years.
April took me back to then, and when you’re diagnosed with PTSD, depression, and anxiety; you don’t immediately bounce back. I developed almost severe paranoia of being out in public.
I poured the love I possess for Corrie into my students, and I’d hoped it was witnessed by all. I also always tried to protect Hayes, as a young man with high functioning autism and ADHD, while also holding him accountable.
Something different happens to you as a parent when you lose one, and then you miscarry ten months later. Back-to-back trauma changes the brain. The fight-or-flight unit in your mind turns on easily.
I’ve developed panic attacks where my resting heart rate will increase above 100 bpm, and I’m sitting down. I lose the ability to speak clearly. This started in May; not long after the April event.
I’m doing a combination of activities and medication to build myself back up to a stronger version of myself. I am on a specific nutrition plan, working out, and taking my son to work out and do kickboxing. I keep my son’s activities after school close to home, so I’m less likely to experience a panic attack. Corrie’s gardens are perhaps the greatest therapy.
But I have to lay my heartbreak, anger, and disgust down in the hope that, as Jars of Clay once sang, they will “See the art in me.”
I Will
I will
do my best to release
like trees with
leaves turning
amber and flame,
but bit-by-bit;
not in one breeze
of the wind.
the rest have long
since shed their
leaves, felt the
ice upon their bark,
and invite spring
to grow daffodils,
and later lilies,
at their roots.
but my leaves are
still turning colors
after words …
scratch that; lies
were spread at the
time the phlox,
called thrift by
those who still
made biscuits from
scratch, were flushed
in purple, pink, and
candy cane.
to think I could cut,
wound, or more because
i have an unsettled
score with god
who took what
was mine.
I will speak here,
I will write it now,
lay down my truth
real and out loud.
I am not to be
silenced, corrected,
or interrupted.
I remember what it is
to love a daughter
more than any placed
upon the earth.
Nearly everyday
we were
late to school
because she
threw a fit when
I brushed her hair.
I told her she had
"have it out of
your face," and she
said, "But Mommy,
I don't want it that
way. I want it down.
I want Aurora hair."
"No," I said, "because
you're going to run and
play. You'll climb
everything." "Mommy,
I want Elsa hair today."
Obviously, she never watched
Hunger Games, but she
saw pictures of Katniss
and knew she was brave.
"Mommy, I want Katniss
hair today." When I took
her to her special night
at her first preschool,
I'd mastered the Katniss
braid.
My daughter never went
out with a hair out of
place, and she was
one-half of my
everything.
I have loved, and will
love again. All students
who come in or walk
past my room, I adopt
as my own. Even my
son knows I will
adore them as my
own.
Here is my heart.
It is out and bare.
I don't know how
I'm still here and
standing, but I still
walk. I still bleed.
I would've laid my
life down for my
little girl, but wasn't
offered the choice.
I still love, and I will
do my best to release
like trees with leaves
turning amber and flame,
but bit-by-bit;
not in one breeze of the wind.
New Year
I love education because middle schoolers are so much fun. Kids are what makes life full and give it purpose. They calm me. I do my absolute best for them to never see the fears which–left untreated–would consume me.
We will begin again.
by R.A. Bridges
Corrie's Season 