"I am listening in vain for my kids to call out my name and I don't hear them. I don't have anyone left to call me mom."
Emily was two and a half years old. She was a beautiful blonde toddler with a shy and quiet nature. For most of her life we lived in Niger. I always thought (and I still do) that it was a wonderful place for our children to grow up. I look back on the nine years we spent in Niger as among the happiest years of my life. I vividly remember the afternoon we spent relaxing at the pool of the old French club. Emily was full of life -- jumping and splashing in the pool with all the others. We went to church on the Sunday evening in a nearby village the night before she died.
“There isn’t a single day where I’m not thinking of her.”
Unlike most emotional injuries, the core and source of the pain never changes at all -- I can go right back to December 5, 2006 literally in a heartbeat. I try not to do that, and therein lies one of the fundamental truths of the matter. Even I thought that by now I'd be free of the worst effects of my experience, I've come to realize that that sort of wishful thinking doesn't ring true.
I am grateful that my husband lived a long and productive life. So, please do not tell me how to grieve. Spare me the euphemisms. My husband did not "pass." He died. I have not "lost" him: I know exactly where his body is, and his spirit is with me. And. Do. Not. Speak. To. Me. Of. Closure. What a hideous word. Bring me acceptance but, never, closure.