After Mali died I could barely remember the last 3 months. I remember bits and pieces of the day she died. My two children Tim and Mandy were there as they were taking Mals out on a stretcher. I remember my Son Christopher being the first one here. He flew in from the west coast.
I remember my crew of women who I love so much, grew up with, all fly into the Midwest within the next day to take care of me.
Our dearest friends from Arkansas dropped what they were doing and drove for 9 hours straight to be here.
My Parents and Brother and Sister in law came in from New Mexico and San Francisco.
My work family banded together to help with food, anything we needed. They were here Amy, Jodi, Jamie, Ross, Julie, Deb, Barb, Bob, Brandon, Camden, John, Amy, Tessa, Sam, Nick, Jason, Scott, Mike, Lana, Emad and Bev.
My church family, Fr. Morgan, Joe, Laura, my confirmation class, their parents, the parishioners. So many people and I only have blips of them coming to the house and services. Autopilot.
I did not plan Mali’s funeral. I couldn’t. I was paralyzed. I couldn’t get out of bed. I don’t remember buying a black dress for the wake, Funeral or Interment. I don’t remember Easter or even Holy Week.
The people above all planned her funeral and took care of all of it.
I can never repay the kindness and love they all showed me and still do to this day.
Fast forward 4.5 months. The thick heavy fog has faded into a thin grey haze. I am still broken. I have a mask I put on at work. It’s a combination of crabbiness and fake smiles I try to show I have it together. I don’t. I am still on autopilot.
I cry everyday. My broken heart is never going to mend. I believe this. You cannot lose one of your children and ever expect anything to be right again.
I long for a reprieve from this excruciating pain.
I made a promise to my Battle Buddy Ginger that I would call her before I did anything stupid I promised Tim I would never check out on him. Making and keeping those promises are the hardest things I have had to do the last 4 months.
There are many times I wish I had something clever to say. Something that would make sense of this. I realized that when your 14 year old daughter completes suicide, there is nothing sensible about it.
i have found out who my real friends are through all of this. They are ones who let me cry, hold me up when I can’t, listen to me endlessly about Mali and haven’t gotten sick of me yet.
To these people I can only say Thank you and I love you very much. God blessed us with you.